Verling had tugged out his watch.

‘I shall take you aft.’ He faced them again. ‘Several others failed to satisfy the Almighty yesterday.’ He did not smile. ‘Not certain what I would have decided!’

They followed him aft, not quite reassured.

Captain Beves Conway was standing by a small desk fastening the cuff of his shirt. His dress uniform coat hung across the back of a chair, with his hat nearby. He was preparing for the admiral.

They had passed Gorgon’s surgeon as he was leaving, a stooping figure of indeterminate age, with a thin, almost lipless mouth. Bolitho had heard some of the old Jacks say that he would rather bury you than cure you if you ever fell into his hands, but they said that about most surgeons. He wondered what he had been doing for the captain. He had noticed that Conway sometimes held one shoulder stiffly, like now, as he slipped into his coat. A wound he had taken during the Caribbean campaign against the French, he had heard, although others had hinted at a duel fought, of course, over a lady.

He realised that there was another person in the cabin, perched on a chest by the screen, the captain’s coxswain. A big, powerful man, always smart and instantly recognisable in his gilt-buttoned coat and nankeen breeches, he seemed to come and go as he chose. More like a trusted companion than a subordinate.

He was holding a drawn sword now, running a cloth slowly up and down the blade. He glanced briefly at the two midshipmen, but nothing more. He belonged. They were merely visitors.

Conway smiled.

‘You did well, both of you. Full credit to the ship also.’

Verling said, ‘I’ll come aft when you’re ready, sir.’

The screen door closed behind him. He had spoken to the marine sentry by name when they had arrived at the lobby. A gift, or careful training? It was impossible to know, but Bolitho guessed it was rare enough. He had known some officers who had never cared to learn a name and match it to a face.