The hull loomed over them, the long bowsprit and jib boom sweeping like a lance. And the figurehead, Poseidon, the god of the sea, resplendent in new gilt paint which alone must have cost a month’s pay. The ‘gilt on the gingerbread’, the sailors called it.

The coxswain called, ‘Stand by! Bows!’

The two bowmen stood and tapped their blades together to signal the crew to be ready. A ship shall be judged by her boats…

There were other boats at the booms or hooked on to the chains. Bolitho saw a lieutenant gesturing to the launch, heard the coxswain mutter, ‘I can see you, sir!’

Martyn touched his sleeve. ‘Here we go, Dick.’ Their eyes met. ‘We’ll show them, eh?’

Like those other times. Not arrogance or conceit. A sort of quiet assurance; he had seen it in the rough and tumble of the midshipmen’s berth, and again in the face of real, chilling danger. All in so short a while, and yet they were like brothers.

‘Boat yer oars!’

The hull lurched against fenders and the coxswain stood by the tiller-bar again, his hat in one hand. He looked at the two midshipmen. One day they’d be like that bloody lieutenant up there at the nettings, waving his arms about.

But he said, ‘Good luck!’

They were on their own.

The officer of the watch checked their names against a well-thumbed list and regarded the newcomers with a cold stare, as if to ensure that they were presentable enough to be allowed further.

He glanced at Dancer’s leather crossbelt. ‘Take in the slack.’ He looked on critically while Dancer tugged the dirk into place and added, ‘This is the flagship, so don’t you forget it.’ He signalled to a young messenger. ‘He’ll take you to the captain’s clerk. Show you where to wait.’

Bolitho said, ‘Are there many here for the Board, sir?’

The lieutenant considered it.

‘They’re not dragging their feet, I’ll say that for them.’ He relented a little. ‘You will be the last today.’ He swung round to beckon to another seaman, and Dancer said quietly, ‘I hope we can get something to eat while we’re waiting!’