Verling waved to the boatswain as the cutter finally came to rest on the tier. Even the new paint was unmarked.

He said, ‘The Captain is going over to Poseidon very soon. The admiral has called a conference – all senior captains. Something’s in the wind.’ He gazed critically at the two midshipmen. ‘Under the circumstances, I suppose…’ He left the rest unsaid.

Bolitho thought of the admiral again, the hand on his arm. I have duties to perform. Events are moving once more. Was that the real reason he had interrupted the examination?

Without it, what might have happened? He recalled Greville’s sarcasm, his refusal to shake his hand.

He had mentioned it to Dancer, and he had passed it off by saying, ‘Greville shook my hand, but I could have done without it! I still can’t remember half of what I said to them. I was in a daze!’ It was something shared after that, real. They had hugged one another, each glad for the other.

And now they were to see the captain. After all this time, he remained remote, almost unknown. And yet nothing had any real purpose without him, without his presence. At any ceremonial, or drill with sails and guns, he was always there, usually with Verling nearby, an extension of himself. He was there to announce any achievement by the ship, or even an individual, and to read the Articles of War before awarding punishment.

Bolitho had once heard a friend of his father’s say that when a King’s ship was away from the fleet, and free of the admiral’s apron strings, all that stood between a captain and chaos were the Articles of War and a line of marines across the poop. And he still recalled his father’s quick retort. ‘It would all depend on that captain!’

Only yesterday… and yet he could feel the change in himself, sense the scrutiny of the younger midshipmen. As if he represented something, some possibility no longer beyond their grasp. How does it feel to be one of them? He was still grappling with his own emotions, and the prospect of a new future.