Bolitho turned as Dancer asked, ‘First ship, sir?’

‘Not his first.’ Conway looked at the reflections rippling across the curved deckhead. ‘He has served for two months in Odin, Captain Greville, and before that in the Ramillies, with the Downs Squadron.’

He looked from one to the other. ‘I know, from your behaviour and your reports, and what I have seen for myself, that you are well suited to your profession. Maybe because you come from very different backgrounds, or in spite of it. It might be said that young Andrew Sewell is totally unsuited, a victim of circumstances.’ He shrugged, and Bolitho saw the flicker of pain in his face.

The marine sentry stamped his feet, somewhere beyond the screen. Verling must be back, and was waiting.

Conway said, ‘My old friend is dead. It is the last thing I can do for him, and perhaps the least.’

His coxswain had appeared, his hat beneath his arm, and Conway’s sword in his fist. No words: like an understanding between them.

Dancer offered, ‘My father was firmly against my going to sea, sir.’

Bolitho nodded. ‘And I never had any choice, sir.’

Conway held out his arms as his coxswain deftly clipped the sword into place.

‘So be it, and I thank you. Young Andrew must learn that you do not necessarily have to leave your own deck to confront an enemy.’ He shook hands gravely with both of them. ‘May good fortune go with you.’

He half turned, as if unwilling to leave. His coxswain had already departed, and Verling’s shadow stood across the outer screen.

‘When you return to the ship your new orders may be waiting for you. If not, then be patient.’ He picked up his hat and visibly squared his shoulders. He was in command again.