Bolitho touched his hat. ‘Aye, sir.’ He was ahead of time, and Verling would expect that. He was tall and thin, with a strong, beaky nose which seemed to guide his pitiless eyes straight to any flaw or misdemeanour in the world around him. His world.

But his appearance now was unexpected, and almost unnerving.

Verling had turned his back on the usual handful of watchkeepers who were always close by the entry port: marine sentries in their scarlet coats and white crossbelts, a boatswain’s mate with his silver call ready to pipe or pass any command immediately when so ordered. The sideboys, smart in their checkered shirts, nimble enough to leap down and assist any boats coming alongside. And the officer of the watch, who was making a point of studying the gangway log and frowning with concentration, for Verling’s benefit no doubt.

Bolitho knew he was being unfair, but could not help it. The lieutenant was new to the ship, and to his rank. He had been a midshipman himself only months ago, but you would never know it from his manner. His name was Egmont, and he was already heartily disliked.

Verling said, ‘Remember what I told you. It is not a contest, nor an official corroboration of your general efficiency. The captain’s report will have dealt with that. It goes deeper, much deeper.’ His eyes moved briefly to Bolitho’s face but seemed to cover him completely. ‘The Board will decide, and that decision is final.’ He almost shrugged. ‘This time, in any case.’

He touched the watch fob that hung from his breeches pocket but did not look at it. He had made his point.

‘So you had not forgotten, Mr. Dancer. I am glad to know it, sir.’

As if in confirmation, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle belfry.

‘Attention on the upper deck! Face aft!’

Calls trilled, and from across the water came the measured blare of a trumpet. Part of life itself. Colours were being hoisted, and there would be several telescopes observing from the shore and the flagship to make certain that no one and no ship was caught unawares.