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yourself?”
    Keen knew he had guessed correctly and saw the shot go home.
    He added, “Being a sea officer is totally different from being an admiral’s aide. You have to be discreet, cautious even, for there will be others who might wish to win a confidence.”
    He wondered if he should go further and decided it was too important to avoid.
    â€œSome may want to harm your uncle. So stay clear of the rights and wrongs of something you cannot alter. Otherwise, hurtful or not, it were better for you to go ashore right now and beg a replacement from the port-admiral at Spithead.”
    Pascoe smiled. “Thank you, sir. I deserved that. But I’d not leave my uncle. Not now. Not ever. He is everything to me.”
    Keen watched the young lieutenant’s unusual display of emotion. He knew most of the story anyway. How Pascoe had been born out of wedlock, the son of Bolitho’s dead brother. Bolitho’s brother had been a renegade, a traitor during the American War, and had commanded an enemy privateer with no less audacity than John Paul Jones. It must have been hard on Bolitho. And on this youthful officer who had been sent to seek out Bolitho by his dying mother as his only hope of a future.
    Keen said quietly, “I understand.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Better than you realise.”
    The midshipman of the watch hurried across the deck and touched his hat nervously.
    Keen looked at him. He was new to the ship as well.
    The boy stammered, “Sir, there is a boat putting off from the yard.”
    Keen shaded his eyes again and stared across the nettings. One of the shipyard’s own boats was already pulling towards the anchored two-decker. Keen saw the sunlight glint on the gold epaulettes and cocked hat and felt something like panic.
    Trust Bolitho not to wait for his barge to be sent across. So he was that eager to get on with the mission, right or wrong.
    He kept his face impassive as he said, “My compliments to the officer of the watch, Mr er . . . er . . .”
    â€œPuxley, sir.”
    â€œWell, Mr Puxley, pipe for the side-party and guard.”
    He stopped the boy as he made to run for the ladder.
    â€œ Walk, Mr Puxley!”
    Pascoe turned aside to hide a smile. Bolitho had probably said as much to Keen when he had been a grubby midshipman. He certainly did to me.
    As the boatswain’s mates ran between decks and their calls shrilled like trapped birds, the marines stamped to the entry port, their scarlet coats and white crossbelts in stark contrast to the bustling seamen.
    Keen beckoned to the officer of the watch and said curtly, “ And Mr Mountsteven, I would trouble you to keep a weather-eye open for your betters in future.”
    Pascoe straightened his hat and tucked some of his rebellious hair beneath it. Bolitho had probably said that too.
    Keen walked to the entry port and looked towards the boat. He could see Bolitho sitting in the sternsheets, that old sword clasped firmly between his knees. To see him join any ship without the family sword would be like sacrilege, he thought.
    There was Allday too, massive and watchful as he eyed the boat’s crew with obvious displeasure. What had Pascoe’s predecessor, the Hon. Oliver Browne, called the squadron? We Happy Few. There were very few of them now. Keen glanced at the big red ensign which flapped only occasionally from the poop. But there were enough.
    Achates ’ first lieutenant, Matthew Quantock, a tall, heavy-jowled Manxman, watched the boat and then said, “All ready, sir.”
    â€œThank you, Mr Quantock.”
    In his few weeks aboard while the overhaul was completed and he had gone through every list, log and book which concerned the ship, Keen had felt his way with care. It was not as if he was new to command. But to this ship’s company he was different. A stranger. Until he had won their respect he would take nothing and nobody for granted.
    The first