It was now afternoon, and apart from a brief visit by a young midshipman who had hovered half in and half outside the screen door as a seaman had delivered a plate of biscuits and a jug of wine, they had seen nobody. The midshipman, whom Bolitho thought was about twelve years old, seemed almost too frightened to speak, as if he had been ordered not to confide in or converse with anyone waiting to face the Board.

So young. I must have been like that in Manxman. It had been his first ship.

Even now, Poseidon was evoking those memories. Constant movement, like a small town. The click of heels, the thud of bare feet, and the heavier stamp of boots. He cocked his head. The marines must have abandoned their ‘barracks’ to carry out drills on the upper deck, or some special ceremony. This was the flagship, after all.

Dancer was on his feet again, his face almost pressed against the door.

‘I’m beginning to think my father was right, Dick. That I should have followed his advice and stayed on dry land!’

They listened to the rumble of gun trucks, one of the upper deck twelve-pounders being moved. To train a new crew, or for care and maintenance. At least they were doing something.

Dancer sighed and sat down again. ‘I was just thinking about your sister.’ He ran his fingers through his fair hair, a habit Bolitho had come to know and recognise. He was coming to a decision. ‘It was such a pleasure to meet her. Nancy… I could have talked with her for ages. I was wondering…’

They both turned as the door clicked open. Another seaman this time, but the same midshipman hovering at a distance, the white patches on his uniform very clean and bright in the filtered sunlight from a grating above his head.