Midshipman Martyn Dancer exhaled slowly, and nodded to his friend.

‘Had to go back to the mess, Dick. Forgot my protector, today of all days!’

It was a small, grotesque carving, more like a demon than a symbol of good fortune, but Dancer was never without it. Bolitho had first seen it after his ordeal with the smugglers. Dancer still bore the bruises, but claimed that his ‘protector’ had saved him from far worse.

Verling was saying, ‘I wish you well. We all do. And remember this, the pair of you. You speak for yourselves, but today you represent this ship.’ He permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Go to it!’

‘Boat’s alongside, sir!’

Bolitho grinned at his friend. It was only right that they should be together today, after all that had happened.

Lieutenant Montagu Verling watched them climb down to the launch which had hooked on to the ‘stairs’ beneath the port. Had he ever been like that, he wondered?

‘Cast off! Shove off forrard!’ The boat, caught on the tide, veered away from the big two-decker’s side, oars upright in twin lines, the coxswain gripping the tiller-bar, gauging the moment.

Verling was still watching them. It was not like him, and he was a little surprised by it. The carpenter and the boatswain would be waiting with yet more lists, work to be done, stores or cordage not yet arrived or the wrong sort if they had. For he was the first lieutenant. Right aft, beneath that big ensign curling in a steady south-westerly, the captain was in his quarters, secure in the knowledge that this refit would be completed on time. That would please the admiral, and so on, up the chain of command.

Verling saw the oars fanning out on the launch’s sides, like wings, while the crew leaned aft to take the strain.