The great cabin, divided by white screens from the dining and sleeping quarters, had been freshly painted, and the deck was once more covered by checkered canvas with no hint of the battle scars underneath.

Bolitho had been leaning out of a stern window, and as he turned to greet his friend, Herrick felt relieved that there was apparently no change. His gold-laced rear-admiral’s coat lay carelessly across a chair, and he wore only his shirt and breeches. His black hair, with the one loose lock above his right eye, and his ready smile made him seem more like a lieutenant than a flagofficer.

They held hands momentarily, compressing the memories and the pictures into a few seconds.

Bolitho said, “Some hock, Ozzard.” He pulled a chair for Herrick. “Sit you down, Thomas. It is good to see you.”

His level grey eyes held on to his friend for a moment longer. Herrick was sturdier, his face a mite rounder, but that would be his new wife’s care and cooking. There were a few touches of grey on his brown hair, like frost on a strong bush. But the clear blue eyes which could be so stubborn and so hurt were the same.

They touched their goblets and Bolitho added, “What is your state of readiness, Thomas?”

Herrick almost choked on his wine. Readiness? A month in port, and two of the squadron’s strength lost forever during the battle! Even their smallest two-decker, the sixty-four-gun Odin, under the command of Captain Inch, had barely reached safety at the Nore, so deep by the bows had she been. Here in Plymouth, the Indomitable and the Nicator, seventy-fours like Benbow, were in the throes of repair.

He said carefully, “Nicator will be ready for sea soon, sir. The rest of the squadron should be reporting readiness by September, if we can bribe some help from these dockyard thieves!”

“And Styx, what of her?”