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daughters. Then one day the news had been brought to that far-off Surrey house. Captain Segrave had been killed in battle, fighting under Admiral Dundas at Camperdown. His mother had told them, her face sad but composed. By then it was already too late for Roger Segrave. His uncle, a retired flagofficer in Plymouth, had decided to offer him his patronage—for his father’s memory, for the honour of the family. As soon as a ship could be found he was kitted out and packed off to sea. For Segrave it had been three years of hell.
    He looked despairingly at Simcox. His rough kindness had almost finished him. But he would understand no better than Segrave’s lieutenant in the three-decker. What would he say if he knew that Segrave hated the navy, and had never wanted to follow the family tradition. Never.
    He had intended to tell his mother on that last leave, when she had taken him to London to stay with some of her friends. They had clucked over him like hens. So sweet in his uniform as one of them had exclaimed. That had been when he had heard them discussing Nelson and another name, Richard Bolitho.
    Now the unthinkable had happened. Brave Nelson was dead. And the other name was here, with the squadron.
    Before he had left for Portsmouth to take passage to the Mediterranean, he had tried to explain to his mother.
    She had hugged him, and then held him at arm’s length. She had sounded hurt. “After all the Admiral has done for you and the family—” It was strange, but Segrave could never recall his uncle being called by name. He was always the Admiral.
    â€œBe brave, Roger. Make us proud of you!”
    He tensed as the captain turned aft towards him. If only his face were not like that. Segrave was not too immature not to know how Tyacke must hate and loathe his own appearance. And yet he could not stop himself from staring at his disfigurement, even when he was trying to prevent himself from doing so.
    If he passed his examination . . . Segrave ducked as a curtain of spray soaked into him again. If —he would be appointed as a lieutenant, the first real step, to share a wardroom with other officers who would see him as the weak link, a danger whenever they were called to action.
    But suppose—he found he was clenching his fists until they ached—he ended up with a terrible wound like Tyacke? He felt the bile in his throat, choking him.
    Simcox slapped him on the shoulder. “Let her fall off a point. Steer sou’-sou’-west.” He watched as Segrave relayed his order to the helmsman, but saw the senior hand at the tiller glance at him, not the boy, to make certain it was correct.
    â€œDeck thar! She’s standin’ away, sir, an’ makin’ more sail!”
    Tyacke tucked his thumbs into his belt. “So he wants to play games, does he?” He cupped his hands and called, “Would you take a glass aloft, Mr Jay?” As the master’s mate hurried to the shrouds he said, “Hands aloft, and loose tops’l, Ben!” He gave a rare grin. “I’ll wager he’ll not outreach Miranda! ”
    Then he appeared to notice the midshipman for the first time. “Go with him and learn something!” He dismissed him immediately as the topsail suddenly boomed out from its yard and then hardened like a breastplate.
    Simcox eyed the set of the sails. “We must catch him afore dusk. Sir Richard Bolitho’ll not thank us for keepin’ him waiting!”
    Segrave finally reached the top of the quivering ratlines and joined the master’s mate by the foot of the fidded topmast. Heights did not trouble him, and he gazed across the endless dark blue desert with its ranks of yellow-crested waves. The ship was momentarily forgotten; he stared wide-eyed at the spray as it drifted up from the plunging stem, felt the mast shaking and jerking, every brace and shroud catching the wind in a wild chorus which drowned out the men on the deck