They were the same age, with only a month between them, and so different. They had joined Gorgon together, Martyn Dancer having been transferred from another ship which, in turn, had been going into dock for a complete refit. About sixteen months ago. Before that, he had by his own admission served ‘only three months and two days’ in His Britannic Majesty’s service.

Bolitho considered his own beginnings. He had entered the navy as a midshipman at the tender age of twelve. He thought of Falmouth, of all the portraits, the faces that watched him on the stairs, or by the study. The Bolitho family’s might have been a history of the Royal Navy itself.

He thought, too, of his brother Hugh, who had been in temporary command of the revenue cutter Avenger. Less than two months ago. He and Martyn had been ordered to join him. An odd and daring experience. He looked over at his friend. That had been unexpected, too. Hugh, his only brother, had been the stranger.

He turned to watch the flagship. Closer now, her reefed topsails and topgallants almost white in the glare, the viceadmiral’s flag streaming from the foremast truck like blood. And she had been Martyn’s last ship. His only ship. Three months and two days. But he was here today for examination. Like me. Bolitho had served for five years. There would be others today, bracing themselves, gauging the odds. Did hardened, seasoned officers like Verling ever look back and have doubts?

He stared up at the towering masts, the tracery of black rigging and shrouds. Close to, she was even more impressive. A second-rate of ninety guns with a company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. A world of its own. Bolitho’s first ship had been a big three-decker also, and even after some four years aboard in that cramped and busy space there were faces he had never seen twice.