Bolitho stood beside it, and said, ‘Richard Bolitho, midshipman, sir!’ Even his voice sounded unfamiliar.

He thought fleetingly of Dancer. How had he fared at this table? All it needed was the sword lying across it with the point toward him, and it would be more like a courtmartial than an interview that might lead to promotion.

‘Be at your ease, Mr. Bolitho. You are here today because others are prepared to recommend you. Be truthful and frank with us, and my brother officers and I will be likewise.’

Captain Sir William Proby did not trouble to introduce himself; there was no need. An unorthodox, some said eccentric, officer who had distinguished himself in the Seven Years’ War and in two campaigns in the Caribbean, he had served until recently as acting-commodore with the Channel Fleet. It was rumoured that he was next in line for flag rank.

Bolitho had seen him several times when carrying despatches to his present command, the Scylla a seventy-four like Gorgon, but half her age.

The officer sitting on his right he also knew. Captain Robert Maude was comparatively young, with an alert, intelligent face, and he commanded the Condor, a sleek thirty-two gun frigate, and was doubtless envied by many because of it. Condor was rarely at anchor for long; even now Maude was glancing through the adjoining cabin, perhaps at the shadows on the water, or the small boat passing the flagship’s quarter and showing a solitary lantern.

The third member of the Board sat with one elbow on the table, his free hand resting on some certificates. And a midshipman’s log.

My log.

Even if he had never met or spoken with the unknown seaman, he felt he would have recognised Captain John Greville of the Odin. He could still hear the voice. Greville’s bad. Right the way through.