He heard the distant crack of a musket, and saw figures running on to Black Prince's forecastle; he guessed that a marine had just fired on a would-be deserter.

Sedgemore said between his teeth, "I think they got him."

Bolitho looked at him calmly. "Would it not be more useful to put your pickets on the foreshore and catch them if they swim there? A corpse is little use for anything, I'd have thought." It was mildly said, but Jenour saw the first lieutenant wince as if he had been hit in the face.

The next few moments put all else from his mind. The climb up the slippery side, the trill of calls and the stamp and crash of the Royal Marines' guard of honour. Then Keen, his handsome features full of welcome as he stepped forward to greet him.

They shook hands, and Keen guided him aft to the great cabin.

"Well, Val?" Bolitho sat down and looked at his friend. "You will not be hampered by me again just yet."

He watched Keen pouring claret, noting the lines around his mouth. Strain of command. The many, many difficulties of completing a refit and putting right the wounds of battle. Making up a depleted company, storing, taking on powder and shot, preparing new watch-bills to eke out the experienced hands among the volunteers and pressed men. Bolitho had known all these challenges even in his first command, a small sloop-of-war.

"It is good to see you." Keen offered him a goblet. "Your visit sounds something of a mystery." He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

"And how is Zenoria? Missing you, no doubt?"

Keen turned away and fumbled with his keys. "There was a despatch delivered on board this morning, sir. It came by post-horse from the Admiralty." He opened a drawer and took it out. "I forgot, in the excitement of your arrival."

Bolitho took it and glanced at the seal. Something was wrong. Catherine had hinted as much.