He had heard Verling quietly rebuking one of the senior midshipmen, who had since gone to another ship. ‘They are people, flesh and blood. Remember that, will you?’

Bolitho wondered if he had passed or failed at his Board.

The captain said suddenly, ‘A moment,’ and beckoned. ‘Come and see Condor spread her skirts – a sight that never fails to excite any true sailor!’

They followed him into the main cabin where the stern windows reached from quarter to quarter, and the panorama of ships and anchorage shimmered against the salt-smeared glass like some unfinished painting.

And here was the frigate Condor, topsails and fore-courses already set and filling to the wind now shredding the sea mist, her masthead pendant and ensign stiff and bright as metal against the clouds.

Yesterday. Her captain twisting round in his chair aboard the flagship, gauging the sea, the mood of the weather. Impatient to go. And no wonder.

He turned as Conway asked, ‘Do you see yourself in command of a frigate one day, Bolitho?’

‘Given the chance, sir…’ He got no further.

Conway moved closer, watching Condor’s, outline shorten, her yards shifting as she changed tack toward open water and the sea. He said, ‘Don’t wait to be given the chance. Take it. Or others will.’

He turned abruptly and walked across the cabin. Bolitho wanted to hold the moment, cherish it. This was the captain, as he might never see him again. Perhaps older than he had thought, but virile and vigorous, something the streaks of grey at his temples and the crows’ feet around his eyes could not flaw or diminish.

He said, ‘This damned overhaul is all but finished, thank God.’ He looked up and around the cabin, perhaps without seeing it, or seeing it in a way they could not yet understand. ‘This lady will be fit and ready for sea again if I – and the first lieutenant – have any say in the matter. After that -’ He touched the chair that stood squarely facing the constantly changing panorama. ‘Who can say?’