Another climb now, to the impressive expanse of the quarterdeck, where the day seemed startlingly clear and light. Bolitho stared up at the towering mizzen mast and spars, the furled sails, and the ensign he had seen from the launch this morning, still lifting and curling beyond the poop. About seven hours ago, and the ordeal had not even begun. They had talked about it often enough, been warned what to expect, even if they survived the selection process today. Being successful and actually receiving the coveted commission were often two very different matters. A sign of the times, with promotion only for the lucky, and the clouds of war as yet unknown to those of their own age and service.

A tall lieutenant was standing by the hammock nettings, a telescope trained on the shore, and a boatswain’s mate waiting close by. Apart from two seamen polishing the fittings around the compass box and the great double wheel by the poop ladders, the deck was deserted. After the confines of the world below, it seemed an almost sacred place.

Bolitho looked at the land. The hills were edged with copper. Hard to believe it would be dark before long. Perhaps the examination had been postponed. Cancelled.

‘So. The last two.’ The lieutenant had moved, and sounded impatient. ‘You know what to do.’ He hardly spared them a glance. ‘Get along with you.’ He was already striding to the quarterdeck rail, straightening his coat as he went.

Bolitho stared at the fresh gilt paintwork, the scrubbed gratings and perfectly flaked lines and halliards. The empty marines’ mess, the sound of oars alongside, no doubt at the ornate entry port. The admiral was about to go ashore, or visit another ship of the line in his command.