Bolitho held up the folded chart and strained his eyes in the faint sunlight. He would have wished to take more time to study it in the security of the schooner's tiny cabin, but every second was precious. It was all happening so swiftly, and when he glanced up again from the tilting compass-box he saw the grand roadstead opening up like some vast amphitheatre. More anchored shipping, the distance making them appear to be huddled together near the central fortress, then the coast itself, with white houses and the beginning of the twisting road which eventually led inland. Each mountain was brushed with sunshine, their blue-grey masses overlapping and reaching away, until they faded into mist and merged with the sky.

He stared for several seconds at the big Spanish ship. In size she matched Hyperion. It must have taken a month or more to load her with the gold and silver which had been brought overland on pack-mules and in wagons, guarded every mile of the way by soldiers.

At any minute now Lieutenant Dalmaine would open fire on the battery, before the sunlight reached out and betrayed Thor at her anchorage.

He tore his eyes away to look along the schooner's deck. Most of the Spica's crew were sitting with their backs against the weather bulwark, their eyes fixed on the British seamen. No wonder they had offered no resistance. By contrast with the neat shirts of the Swedes, Hyperion's men looked like pirates. He saw Dacie the boatswain's mate, his head twisted at an angle so that he could watch his men and the Spica's master at the same time. Dacie wore an eye patch to cover an empty socket; it gave him a villainous appearance. Parris had every right to have such confidence in him. Near the helm, Skilton, one of Hyperion's master's mates, in his familiar coat with the white piping, was the only one who showed any sort of uniformity.

Even Jenour had followed his admiral's example and had discarded his hat and coat. He was carrying a sword which his parents had given him, with a fine blue blade of German steel.

Bolitho tried to relax as he studied the big Spanish ship. It was a far cry from that quiet room at the Admiralty when this plan had been discussed with all the delicacy of a conference at Lloyds.

He looked at Parris, his shirt open to the waist, his dark hair streaming above his eyes in the lively offshore breeze. Was Haven right to suspect him, he wondered? It certainly made sense that any woman might prefer him to his colourless captain.

A gull dived above the topsail yard, its mewing cry merging with the far-off blare of a trumpet. Ashore or at anchor, men were stirring, cooks groping for their pots and pans.

Parris stared at him across the deck and grinned. 'Rude awakening, Sir Richard!'

The crash when it came was still a surprise. It was like a double thunderclap which echoed across the water and then rolled back from the land like a returned salute.

Bolitho caught a sudden picture of Francis Inch when he had been given his first command of a bomb like Imrie's. He could almost hear his voice, as with his horse-face set in a frown of concentration he had walked past his mortars, gauging the bearing and each fall of shot.

'Run the mortar up! Muzzle to the right! Prime! Fire!'

As if responding to the memory both mortars fired again. But it was not Inch. He was gone, with so many others.

The double explosions sighed against the hull, and Bolitho tightened his grip on the hanger as flags broke from the big Spaniard's yards. They were awake now, right enough. 'Make the recognition signal, Mr Hazlewood!' The two flags soared aloft and broke stiffly to the wind. All they needed now was for it to drop and leave them helpless and becalmed.

Parris yelled, 'Jump about, you laggards! Wave your arms and point astern, damn your eyes!' He laughed wildly as some of the seamen capered around the deck.

Bolitho waved. 'Good work! We are supposed to be running from the din of war, eh?'

He snatched up a glass and levelled it towards the anchored ship. Beyond her, about half a cable distant, was a second vessel. Smaller than the one named Ciudad de Sevilla but probably carrying enough booty to finance an army for months.

Parris called, 'She's got boarding nets rigged, Sir Richard!'

He nodded. 'Alter course to cross her bows!' It would appear that they were heading towards the nearest fortress for protection.

'Helm a-lee, sir!'

'Steady as she goes, Nor' east by east!'

Bolitho gripped a stay and watched the sails flapping and banging as the schooner lurched close to the wind; but she answered well. He winced as the mortars fired yet again, and still the shore battery remained silent. It seemed likely that the first shots had done their work, the massive balls falling to explode in a lethal flail of iron fragments and grape.

Astern there was a lot of smoke, haze too, so that the shallows where they had felt their way into the anchorage had completely vanished. It might delay Thor's entrance, but at least she would be safe from the battery.

He said, 'Keep those other hands out of sight, Mr Parris!'

He saw Jenour watching him, remembering everything and perhaps feeling fear for the first time.

A man yelled, 'Guardboat, starboard bow, sir!'

Bolitho trained his glass and watched the dark shape thrusting around the counter of an anchored merchantman.

Just minutes earlier each man would have been thinking of his bed. Then some wine perhaps in the sunshine before the heat drove them all to their siesta.

He saw the oars, painted bright red, pulling and backing to bring the long hull round in a tight turn.

And far beyond he could make out the shape of a Spanish frigate, her masts like bare poles while she completed a refit, or like the Obdurate, repairs after a violent Caribbean storm.

'Two points to starboard, Mr Parris!' Bolitho tried to steady the glass as the deck tilted yet again. He could hear more trumpet calls, most likely from the new fortress, and could imagine the startled artillerymen running to their stations, still unaware of what was happening.

Explosions maybe, but there was nothing untoward immediately obvious, except for the appearance of the Swedish schooner which was, reasonably, running for shelter. No enemy fleet, no cutting-out raid, and in any case the other fortresses would have taken care of such daring stupidity.

Bolitho watched the jib-boom swinging round until it seemed to impale the treasure-ship's forecastle, although she still stood a cable away. The guardboat was pulling towards them unhurriedly, an officer rising now to peer towards the smoke and haze. Bolitho said, 'Pass the word. The guardboat will stand between us. Make it appear we are shortening sail.' Jenour stared at him. 'Will we, Sir Richard?' Bolitho smiled. 'I think not.'

A sudden gust filled the topsail and a line parted high above the deck like a pistol shot.

Dacie, the formidable boatswain's mate, jabbed a seaman with his fist. 'Aloft with ye, boy! See to it!'

It took just a second and yet as Dacie peered aloft, the Swedish master sprang forward and seized a musket from one of the crouching sailors. He pointed it above the bulwark and fired towards the guardboat. Bolitho saw the musket smoke fan away even as the master hit the deck, felled by one of the boarding party. The guardboat was frantically backing water, her blades churning the sea into a mass of foam. There was no time left.

Bolitho shouted, 'Run her down! Lively!' He forgot the shouts, even the crack of a solitary musket as the schooner tacked round and drove into the guardboat like a Trojan galley.

It felt like hitting a rock, and Bolitho saw oars and pieces of planking surging alongside, men floundering, their cries lost in the rising wind and the boom of canvas.

The treasure-ship seemed to tower above them, individual figures which moments earlier had been staring transfixed towards the explosions, running along the gangways, others pointing and gesticulating as the schooner charged towards them.

'Stand by to board!' Bolitho gripped the hanger and tightened the lanyard around his wrist. He had forgotten the danger, even the fear of his eye's treachery, as the last half-cable fell away.

'Down helm! Take in the tops'l!'

Shots whimpered overhead and one gouged a tall splinter from the deck like a clerk's quill.

'Hold your fire!' Parris strode forward, his eyes narrowed against the glare while he watched his men, as they hunched down close to the point of impact.

Bolitho saw the sagging boarding nets, faces peering through them at the schooner, one solitary figure reloading a musket, his leg wrapped around the foremast shrouds.

Halfway down the Spaniard's side a port-lid rose like an awakened man opening one eye.

Then he saw the gun muzzle lumber into view, and seconds later the livid orange tongue, followed by the savage bang of an explosion. It was a wild gesture and nothing more; the ball eventually hit open water like an enraged dolphin.

As the last of the sails were freed to the wind, the Spica's jib-boom plunged through the Spaniard's larboard rigging and shivered to splinters. Broken cordage and blocks showered down on the forecastle before both ships jarred finally together with a terrible crash. Spica's foretopmast fell like a severed branch, but men ran amongst torn canvas and snakes of useless rigging, oblivious to everything but the need to board the enemy.

'Swivels!' Bolitho dragged the midshipman aside as the nearest swivel jerked back on its mounting and blasted the packed canister across the other ship's beakhead. Men fell kicking into the sea, their screams lost as Parris signalled the six-pounders to add their weight to the attack.

Allday ran, panting at Bolitho's side as he leapt on to the bulwark, the hanger dangling from his wrist. To board her from aft would have been impossible; her high stern, a mass of gilded carving, rose above her reflection like an ornate cliff.

The forecastle was different. Men clambered across the beak-head, hacking aside resistance, while others slashed and cut their way through the nets.

A pike darted through a net like a serpent's tongue and one of Parris's men fell back, clutching his stomach, his eyes horrified as he dropped into the water below.

Another turned to stare after him then gurgled as a pike thrust into him, withdrew and struck again, the point taking him in the throat and reappearing through his neck.

But Dacie and some of the seamen were on deck, pausing to fire into the defenders before slashing aside the remaining nets. Bolitho felt someone seize his wrist and haul him through a hole in the netting. Another toppled against him, his eyes glazing as a ball smashed into his chest like the blow of a hammer.

'To me, Hyperions!' Parris waved his hanger and Bolitho saw it was running with blood. 'Starboard gangway!'

Shots banged and whimpered over their heads, and two more men fell writhing and gasping, their agony marked by the stains across the planking.

Bolitho stared round wildly as some swivels blasted the Spaniard's high poop, cutting down a handful of men who had appeared there as if by magic. Mere seconds, and yet his mind recorded that they were only partly dressed or stark naked; probably some of the ship's officers roused from their sleep by the sudden attack.

Parris's men were on the starboard gangway, where another swivel was seized and depressed towards an open hatch as more faces peered up at them.

The remainder of Parris's boarders were already leaving the little schooner, and Bolitho heard the thud of axes as the Swedes took the opportunity to hack their vessel clear of the treasure-ship, complete with Hyperion's longboats.

Dacie brandished his boarding axe. 'At 'em, you buggers!"

Every man Jack would know now that there was no retreat. It was victory or death. They would receive no quarter from the Spaniards after what they had done.

Bolitho paused on the gangway, his eyes watering from drifting smoke as the scrambling seamen spread out into purposeful patterns. Two to the big double-wheel below the poop, others already swarming aloft to loose the topsails while Dacie rushed forward to cut the huge anchor cable.

Shots cracked from hatchways to be answered instantly by reloaded swivels, the packed canister smashing into the men crammed on the companion ladders and turning them into flailing, bloody gruel One Spaniard appeared from nowhere, his sword cutting down a seaman who crouched on all fours, already badly wounded from the first encounter.

Bolitho saw the little midshipman, Hazlewood, staring at the wild-eyed sailor, his dirk gripped in one hand while the Spaniard charged towards him.

Allday stepped between Bolitho and the enemy and shouted hoarsely, 'Over here, matey!' He could have been calling a pet dog. The Spaniard hesitated, his blade wavering, then saw his danger too late.

Allday's heavy cutlass struck him across the collar-bone with such force it seemed it might sever the head from his body. The man swung round, his sword clattering to the deck below as Allday struck him again.

Allday muttered, 'Get yerself a proper blade, Mr Hazlewood! That bodkin couldn't kill a rat!'

Bolitho hurried aft to the wheel, and watched as the bows appeared to swing towards the nearest fort with the cry, 'Cable's cut''.

'Loose tops'ls! Lively, you scum!' Dacie was peering aloft, his single eye gleaming like a bead in the sunlight.

Parris wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve. 'We're under way! Put your helm down!'

There were unexplained splashes alongside, then Bolitho saw some Spanish seamen swimming away from the hull, or floundering in the current like exhausted fish. They must have clambered from the gun-ports to escape, anything rather than face the onslaught they had heard on deck.

Midshipman Hazlewood walked shakily beside Bolitho, his eyes downcast, fearful of what terrible scene he might witness next. Corpses sprawled in the scuppers who had been caught by the double-shotted six-pounders, and others who had been running to repel boarders when the swivels had scoured the decks with their murderous canister shot.

One jibsail cracked out to the wind and the great ship began to gather way. She appeared to be so loose in stays that she must be fully loaded with her precious cargo, Bolitho thought. What would the fort's battery commander do? Fire on her, or let her steal away under his eyes?

Bolitho saw the second treasure-ship as she appeared to glide towards them. Pin-pricks of light flashed from her tops, but at that range it would need a miracle to hit any of Hyperion's topmen or those around the helm.

Bolitho snapped, 'Hand me the glass!' He saw Hazlewood fumbling with it, his mouth quivering from shock as he stared at the vivid splashes of blood across his breeches. He had been within a hair's breadth of death when Allday's cutlass had hacked the man down.

Bolitho took the glass and levelled it on the other ship. She lay between them and the fort. Once clear of her, every gun on the battery would be brought to bear.

If I were that commander I would shoot. To lose the ship was bad enough. To do nothing to prevent their escape would get little mercy from the Captain-General in Caracas. There was a ragged cheer and Parris exclaimed, 'Here comes Imrie, by God!'

The Thor had spread every stitch of canvas so that her sails seemed to make one great golden pyramid in the early sunlight. All her snub-nosed carronades were run out like shortened teeth along her buff and black hull, and Bolitho saw the paintwork shine even more brightly as the helm went over and she tacked round towards the two treasure-ships. Compared with the Ciudad de Sevilla's slow progress, Thor seemed to be moving like a frigate.

It must have taken everyone in the forts and ashore completely by surprise. First the Swedish schooner, and now a man-of-war, running it would appear from inshore, their own heavily-defended territory. Bolitho thought briefly of Captain Price. This would have been his moment.

'Signal Thor to attack the other treasure-ship.' They had discussed this possibility, even when it was originally intended to be a boat attack. Bolitho glanced at the bloodstained deck, the gaping corpses and moaning wounded. But for falling upon the schooner it now seemed unlikely they would have succeeded.

Bolitho trained the glass again and saw tiny figures stampeding along the other ship's gangways, sunlight flashing on pikes and bayonets. They expected Thor to attempt a second boarding, but this rime they were ready. When they realised what Imrie intended it was already too late. A trumpet blared, and across the water Bolitho heard the shrill of whistles and saw the running figures colliding with each other, like a tide on the turn.

Almost delicately, considering her powerful timbers, Thor tacked around the other ship's stern, and then with a deafening, foreshortened roar so typical of the heavy 'smashers', the carronades fired a slow broadside, gun by gun as Thor crossed the Spaniard's unprotected stern.

The poop and counter seemed to shower gold as the bright carvings splashed into the sea or were hurled high into the air, and when a down-draft of wind carried the smoke clear, Bolitho saw that the whole stern had been blasted open into a gaping black cave.

The heavy grape would have cut through the decks from stern to bow in an iron avalanche, and anyone still below would have been swept away.

Thor was turning, and even as someone managed to cut the stricken ship's cable, she came about and fired another broadside from her opposite battery.

There was smoke everywhere, and the men trapped below Bolitho's feet must have been expecting to share the same fate. The other ship's mizzen and main had fallen in a tangle alongside, and the rigging trailed along the decks and in the water like obscene weed.

Bolitho cleared his throat. It was like a kiln.

'Get the forecourse on her, Mr Parris.' He gripped the midshipman's shoulder and felt him jump as if he had been shot. 'Signal Thor to close on me.' He retained his grip for a few seconds, adding, 'You did well.' He glanced at the staring eyes of the men at the wheel, their smoke-grimed faces and bare feet, the blood still drying on their naked cutlasses. 'You all did!'

The big foresail boomed out and filled to the wind, so that the deck tilted very slightly, and a corpse rolled over in the scuppers as if it had only feigned death.

He saw Jenour on the maindeck where two armed seamen were standing guard over an open hatch, although it was impossible to know how many of the enemy were still aboard. Jenour seemed to sense that he was looking at him, and raised his beautiful sword. It was like a salute. Like the thirteen year-old Hazlewood, it was probably his first blooding.

'Thor has acknowledged, sir!'

Bolitho made to sheathe his hanger and remembered he had dropped the scabbard before the fight. It was lying in the little schooner which even now was fading in sea-mist, like a memory.

'Steady as she goes, sir! Nor'-east by east!'

The open sea was there, milky-blue in the early light. Men were cheering, dazed, with joy or disbelief.

Bolitho saw Parris grinning broadly, gripping the master's mate's hand and wringing it so hard the man winced.

'She's ours, Mr Skilton! God damn it, we took her from under their noses!'

Skilton grimaced. 'We're not in port yet, sir!'

Bolitho raised the glass yet again; it felt like lead. And yet it had been less than an hour since they had driven into the anchored treasure-ship.

He saw a host of small boats moving out from the land, a brig making sail to join them as they all headed for the shattered treasure-ship. That last broadside must have opened her like a sieve, he thought grimly. Every boat and spare hand would be used to salvage what they could before she keeled over and sank. A worthwhile sacrifice. To try and take two such ships would have meant losing both. The master's mate was right about one thing. They still had a long way to go.

He dropped the hanger to the deck and looked at it. Unused. Like the midshipman's dirk; you never really knew what you could do until called to fight.

He examined his feelings and only glanced up as the main topsail boomed out to the wind.

Death-wish? He had felt no fear. Not for himself. He looked at the sweating seamen as they slid down the backstays and rushed to the next task, where a hundred men should have been ready at halliards and braces.

They trusted him. That was perhaps the greatest victory.

Bolitho picked up a coffee cup and then pushed it away. Empty. Something Ozzard would never allow to happen in these circumstances. Wearily he rubbed his eyes and looked around the ornate cabin, palatial when compared with a man-of-war. He smiled wryly. Even for a vice-admiral.

It was mid-afternoon, and yet he knew that if he had the will to go on deck again and climb to the maintop he would still be able to see the coast of the Main. But in this case speed was as important as distance, and with the wind holding steady from the north-west he intended to use every stitch of canvas the ship would carry. He had had a brief and hostile interview with the ship's captain, an arrogant, bearded man with the face of some ancient conquistador. It was hard to determine which had angered the Spaniard more. To have his ship seized under the guns of the fortress, or to be interrogated by a man who proclaimed himself to be an English flag-officer, yet looked more like a vagrant in his tattered shirt and smoke-blackened breeches. He seemed to regard Bolitho's intention to sail the ship to more friendly waters as absurd. When the reckoning came, he had said in his strangely toneless English, the end would be without mercy. Bolitho had finished the interview right there by saying quietly, 'I would expect none, since you treat your own people like animals.'

Bolitho heard Parris shouting out to someone in the mizzen top. He seemed tireless, and was never too proud to throw his own weight on brace or halliard amongst his men. He had been a good choice.

Thor had placed herself between the ponderous treasure-ship and the shore, probably as astonished as the rest of them by their success. But great though that success had been it was not without cost, or the sadness which followed any fight.

Lieutenant Dalmaine had died even as his men had been hoisted into Thor from the waterlogged lighter. The two mortars had had to be abandoned, and their massive recoil had all but knocked out the lighter's keel. Dalmaine had seen his men to safety and had apparently run back to retrieve something. The lighter had suddenly flooded and taken Dalmaine and his beloved mortars to the bottom.

Four men had died in the attack, three more had been seriously wounded. One of the latter was the seaman named Laker, who had lost an arm and an eye when a musketoon had been discharged at point-blank range. Bolitho had seen Parris kneeling over him and had heard the man croak, 'Better'n bein' flogged, eh, sir?' He had tried to reach out for the lieutenant's hand. 'Never fancied a checkered shirt at th' gangway, 'specially for 'is sake!'

He must have meant Haven. If they met with Hyperion soon, the surgeon might be able to save him.

Bolitho thought of the holds far below his feet. Cases and chests of gold and silver plate. Jewel-encrusted crucifixes and ornaments — it had looked obscene in the light of a lantern held by Allday, who had never left his side.

So much luck, he thought wearily. The Spanish captain had let slip one piece of information. A company of soldiers were to have boarded the ship that morning to guard the treasure until they unloaded it in Spanish waters. A company of disciplined soldiers would have made a mockery of their attack.

He thought of the little schooner, Spica, and her master, who had tried to raise the alarm. Hate, anger at being boarded, fear of reprisal, it was probably a bit of each. But his ship was intact, although it was unlikely that the Spaniards would divert other vessels to convoy him to safer waters as intended. They might even blame him. One thing was certain; he would not want to trade with the enemy again, neutral or not.

Bolitho yawned hugely and massaged the scar beneath his hair. Hyperion's imposing boatswain, Samuel Lintott, would have a few oaths to offer when he discovered the loss of the jolly boat and two cutters. Maybe the chance of prize-money would soften his anger. Bolitho tried to stop his head from lolling. He could not remember when he had last slept undisturbed.

This ship and her rich cargo would make a difference only in the City of London, and of course with His Britannic Majesty. Bolitho smiled to himself. The King who had not even remembered his name when he had lowered the sword to knight him. Perhaps it meant so little to those who had so much.

He knew it was sheer exhaustion which was making his mind wander.

There was more than one way of fighting a war than spilling blood in the cannon's mouth. But it did not feel right, and left him uneasy. Only pride sustained him. In his men, and those like Dalmaine who had put their sailors first. And the one called Laker, who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his friends, simply because it meant far more to him and to them than any flag or the cause.

He allowed his mind to touch on England, and wondered what Belinda was doing with her time in London.

But like a salt-blurred telescope her picture would not settle or form clearly, and he felt a pang of guilt.

He turned his thoughts to Viscount Somervell, although he knew it was a coward's way of opening the door to Catherine. Would they leave the Indies now that the treasure, or a large part of it, was taken?

His head touched his forearm and he jerked up, aware of two things at once. That he had fallen asleep across the table, and that a masthead lookout had pealed down to the deck.

He heard Parris call something and found himself on his feet, his eyes on the cabin skylight as the lookout shouted again. 'Deck there! Two sail to the nor'-west!' Bolitho walked through the unfamiliar doors and stared at the deserted ranks of cabins. With the remaining crew members battened below where they could neither try to retake the ship nor damage her hull without risking their own lives, it was like a phantom vessel. All Hyperion's hands were employed constantly on deck; or high above it amongst the maze of rigging, like insects trapped in a giant web. He noticed a portrait of a Spanish nobleman beside a case of books, and guessed it was the captain's father. Perhaps like the old grey house in Falmouth, he too had many pictures to retell the history of his family.

He found Parris with Jenour and Skilton, the master's mate, grouped by the larboard side, each with a levelled telescope.

Parris saw him and touched his forehead. 'Nothing yet, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho looked at the sky, then at the hard horizon line. Like the top of a dam, beyond which there was nothing.

It would not be dark for hours yet. Too long.

'Hyperion, maybe, Sir Richard?'

Their eyes met. Parris did not believe it either. Bolitho replied, 'I think not. With the wind in our favour we should have made contact by noon.' He ceased thinking out loud. 'Signal Thor. Imrie may not have sighted the ships as yet.' It gave him time to think. To move a few paces this way and that, his chin digging into his stained neckcloth.

The enemy then. He made himself accept it. The Ciudad de Sevilla was no man-of-war, nor did she have the artillery and skills of an Indiaman. The cannons with their ornate mountings and leering bronze faces were impressive, but useless against anything but pirates or some reckless privateer.

He glanced at some of the seamen nearby. The fight had been demanding enough. Friends killed or wounded, but survival and the usual dream of prize-money had left them in high spirits. Now it was changing again. It was a wonder they didn't rush the poop and take all the bullion for themselves. There was precious little Bolitho and his two lieutenants could do to prevent it.

The lookout yelled down, Two frigates, sir! Dons by the cut o' them!'

Bolitho controlled his breathing as some of the others looked at him. Somehow he had known Haven would not make the rendezvous. It was an additional mockery to recall he himself had given him the honourable way out.

Parris said flatly, 'Well, they say the sea is two miles deep under our keel. The Dons'll not get their paws on the gold again, unless they can swim that far down!' Nobody laughed.

Bolitho looked at Parris. The decision is mine. Signal Thor to take them and their Spanish prisoners on board? But with only half their boats available it would take time. Scuttle the great ship and all her wealth, and run, hoping Thor could outsail the frigates, at least until nightfall?

A victory gone sour.

Jenour moved closer. 'Laker just died, sir.'

Bolitho turned towards him, his eyes flashing. 'And for what — is that what you're asking? Must we all die now because of your vice-admiral's arrogance?'

Jenour, surprisingly, stood his ground. 'Then let's fight, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho let his arms fall to his sides. 'In God's name, Stephen, you mean it — don't you?' He smiled gravely, his anger spent. 'But I'll have no more dying.' He looked at the horizon. Is this how he would be remembered? He said, 'Signal Thor to heave-to. Then muster the prisoners on deck.'

The lookout yelled, 'Deck there! Two Spanish frigates an' another sail astern o' them!'

Parris muttered, 'Christ Almighty.' He attempted to smile. 'So, Mr Firebrand, will you still stand and fight the Dons?'

Jenour shrugged, then gripped his beautiful sword. It said more than any words.

Allday watched the officers and tried to fathom out what had gone wrong. It was not just failure which bothered Bolitho, that was as plain as a pikestaff. It was the old Hyperion. She had not come for him. Allday ground his teeth together. If ever he reached port again he would settle that bloody Haven once and for all, and swing for him to boot.

Bolitho must have felt it all the while in his blood. Why he had left the old sword behind. He must have known. Allday felt a chill run down his spine. I should have guessed. God alone knew it had happened to others.

They all stared up as the foremast lookout, forgotten until now, yelled down, 'Sail to the nor'-east, sir!'

Bolitho gripped his fingers together behind him. The newcomer must have run down on them while every eye was on the other strange sails.

He said, 'Get aloft, Stephen! Take a glass!'

Jenour paused just a few seconds as if to fix the importance and the urgency of the moment. Then he was gone, and was soon swarming hand over hand up the foremast shrouds to join the lookout on his precarious perch in the crosstrees.

It felt like an eternity. Other hands had climbed up to the tops or merely clung to the ratlines to stare at the eye-searing horizon." Bolitho felt a lump in his throat. It was not Hyperion. Her masts and yards would be clearly visible by now.

Jenour yelled down, his voice almost lost amongst the clatter of blocks and the slap of canvas.

'She's English, sir! Making her number!'

Parris climbed on to one of the poop ladders and levelled his own glass on the pursuers.

They're fanning out, Sir Richard. They must have seen her too.' He added savagely, 'Not that it matters now, God damn them!'

Jenour called again, 'She's Phaedra, sloop-of-war!'

Bolitho felt Parris turning to watch him. Their missing sloop-of-war had caught up with them at last, only to be a spectator at the end.

Jenour shouted, faltered, then tried again, his voice barely audible. But this time it was not only because of the shipboard sounds.

'Phaedra has hoisted a signal, sir! Enemy in sight!'

Bolitho looked at the deck, at the blackened stain where a Spanish sailor had died.

The signal would be being read and repeated to all the other ships. He could picture his old Hyperion, her men running to quarters, clearing for action again to the beat of the drums.

Parris exclaimed with quiet disbelief, 'The Dons are standing away, Sir Richard.' He wiped his face, and perhaps his eyes. 'God damn it, old lady, don't cut it so fine next time!'

But as the Spanish topsails melted into the sea-mist, and the smart sloop-of-war bore down on the treasure-ship and her sole escort, it soon became obvious that she was quite alone.

The ill-assorted trio rolled in the swell, hove-to as Phaedra's youthful commander was pulled across in his gig. He almost bounded up the high tumblehome, and doffed his hat to Bolitho, barely able to stop himself from grinning.

'There are no others?" Bolitho stared at the young man. 'What of the signal?'

The commander recovered his composure very slightly 'My name is Dunstan, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho nodded. 'And how did you recognise me?

The grin came back like a burst of sunlight.

'I had the honour to serve in Euryalus with you, Sir Richard.' He looked at the others with exclusive pride. 'As a midshipman. I recalled how you had used that deception yourself to confuse the enemy.' His voice trailed away. 'Although I was not sure it might work for me.'

Bolitho gripped his hand and held it for several seconds.

'Now I know we shall win.' He turned away and only Allday saw the emotion in his eyes.

Allday glanced across at the eighteen-gun Phaedra.

Perhaps after this Bolitho would accept what he had done for others. But he doubted it.

The Right Honourable the Viscount Somervell looked up from the pile of ledgers and eyed Bolitho curiously.

'So you accepted Captain Haven's explanation, what?'

Bolitho stood beside a window, his shoulder resting against the cool wall. The air was heavy and humid although the wind which had stayed with them all the way to English Harbour remained quite firm. The small breakers near the harbour were no longer white, but in the sun's glare sighed over the sand like molten bronze.

He could see the great ship clearly from here. After the tumultuous welcome when they had sailed into harbour, the serious work of unloading her rich cargo had begun immediately. Lighters and boats plied back and forth, and Bolitho had never seen so many redcoats as the army guarded the booty every yard of the way, until, as Somervell had explained, it would be transferred and divided amongst several smaller vessels as an extra precaution.

Bolitho half-turned and glanced at him. Somervell had already forgotten his question about Haven. It was only yesterday morning that they had dropped anchor, and for the first time since he had met Somervell, Bolitho had noticed that he still wore the same clothes as when he had come out to the Ciudad de Sevilla. It was as if he could not bear leaving these detailed ledgers even to sleep.

They had met Hyperion and two of the brigs only a day out of Antigua. Bolitho had decided to send for Haven rather than shift to his flagship, where there must have been speculation enough already.

Haven had been strangely confident as he had made his report. He had even presented it in writing to explain fully, if not excuse his action.

Hyperion and the little flotilla had closed with Puerto Cabello, and had even drawn the fire of a coastal battery when it had seemed they were about to force their way into harbour. Haven was certain that the captured frigate Consort was still there, and had sent the brig Vesta under the guns of a battery to investigate. The Spaniards had rigged a long boom from one of the fortresses and Vesta had run afoul of it. In minutes one of the batteries, using heated shot, had found Vesta's range, and the helpless onlookers had seen her burst into flames before being engulfed in one devastating explosion.

Haven had said in his unemotional voice, 'Other enemy ships were heading towards us. I used my discretion,' his eyes had watched Bolitho without a flicker, 'as so ordered by you, Sir Richard, and withdrew. I considered that you would have succeeded or pulled back by that time, as I had offered the diversion required, with some risk to my command.'

After what they had done in taking the rich prize it was like a personal loss instead of a victory.

Haven could not be blamed. The presence of a boom might be expected or it might not. As he had said, he had used his discretion.

Tetrarch, another of the brigs, had risked sharing the same fate to sail amongst the smoke and falling shot to rescue some of her companion's people. One of the survivors had been her captain, Commander Murray. He was in an adjoining building with Hyperion's wounded from the boarding party, and the remainder of the brig's company who had been plucked from the sea and the flames, a sailor's two worst enemies.

He said, 'For the moment, my lord.'

Somervell smiled as he turned over another leaf; he was gloating. 'Hell's teeth, even His Majesty will be satisfied with this!' He looked up, his eyes opaque. 'I know you grieve for the brig; so may the navy. But set against all this it will be seen as a noble sacrifice.'

Bolitho shrugged. 'By those who do not have to risk their precious skins. In truth I'd rather have cut out Consort, damn them!'

Somervell folded his arms reluctantly. 'You have been lucky. But unless you contain your anger or direct it elsewhere, I fear that same luck will desert you.' He put his head on one side. Like a sleek, fastidious bird. 'So make the most of it, eh?'

The door opened an inch and Bolitho saw Jenour peering in at him. Bolitho began, 'Excuse me, my lord. I left word with —' He turned away. Somervell had not heard; he was back again in the world of gold and silver.

Jenour whispered, 'I fear Commander Murray is going fast, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho fell into step beside him and they strode across the wide, flagged terrace to the archway which led to the temporary hospital. Bolitho had been grateful for that at least. Men who were suffering from their wounds should not share a place with garrison soldiers who died from yellow fever without ever hearing the sounds of war.

He glanced shortly at the sea before he entered the other building. Like the sky, it looked angry. A storm perhaps; he would have to consult with Hyperion's sailing master.

Murray lay very still, his eyes closed as if already dead. Even though he had been on the West Indies station for two years, his features were like chalk.

Hyperion's surgeon, George Minchin, a man less callous than most of his trade, had remarked, 'A miracle he survived this far, Sir Richard. His right arm was gone when they pulled him from the sea, and I had to take off a leg. There is a chance, but —'

That had been yesterday. Bolitho had seen enough faces of death to know it was almost over.

Minchin rose from a chair near the bed and walked purposefully to a window. Jenour studied the sea through another window, thinking perhaps that Murray must have been staring at it too, like a handhold to life itself.

Bolitho sat beside the bed. 'I'm here —' He remembered the young commander's name. 'Rest easy if you can, James.'

Murray opened his eyes with an effort. 'It was the boom, sir.' He closed his eyes again. 'Nearly tore the bottom out of the poor old girl.' He tried to smile but it made him look worse. 'They never took her though — never took her —'

Bolitho groped for his remaining hand and held it between his own.

'I shall see that your people are taken care of.' His words sounded so empty he wanted to cry out, to weep. 'Is there anyone?'

Murray tried again, but his eyes remained like feverish slits.

'I — I — ' his mind was clouding over. 'My mother — there's nobody else now —' His voice trailed away again.

Bolitho made himself watch. Like candles being snuffed out. He heard Allday outside the door, Jenour swallowing hard as if he needed to vomit.

In a remarkably clear voice Murray said, 'It's dark now, sir. I'll be able to sleep.' His hand bunched between Bolitho's. 'Thank you for —'

Bolitho stood up slowly. 'Yes, you sleep.' He pulled the sheet over the dead man's face and stared at the hard sunlight until he was blinded by it. It's dark now For ever.

He crossed to the door by the terrace and knew Jenour was going to say something, to try and help when there was none to offer.

'Leave me.' He did not turn. 'Please.'

Then he walked to the terrace wall and pressed both hands upon it. The stone was hot, like the sun on his face.

He raised his head and stared again at the glare. He could remember as a small boy seeing the family crest, carved in stone above the great fireplace at Falmouth. He had been tracing it with one finger when his father had entered and had picked him up in his arms.

The words below the crest stood out in his mind. Pro Libertate Patria. For my country's freedom.

What young men like Murray, Dunstan and Jenour all believed. He clenched his fists until the pain steadied him.

They had not even begun to live yet.

He turned sharply as he heard footsteps to his left and seemingly below him. He had been staring so hard at the glare that he could see nothing but a vague shadow.

'Who is that? What do you want?' He twisted his head further, unaware of the edge to his voice or its helplessness.

She said, 'I came to find you.' She stood quite still at the top of some rough stone steps which led down to a small pathway. 'I heard what happened.' Another pause, which to Bolitho seemed endless, then she added quietly, 'Are you all right?'

He looked at the flagstones and saw the image of his shoes sharpen as the pain and mist in his eye slowly withdrew.

'Yes. One of my officers. I barely knew him —' He could not continue.

She remained at her distance as if afraid of him or what she might cause.

She said, 'I know. I am so sorry.'

Bolitho stared at the nearest door. 'How could you marry that man? I've met some callous bastards in my time, but —' He struggled to recover his composure. She had done it again. Like being stripped naked, with neither defence nor explanation.

She did not answer directly. 'Did he ask about the second treasure galleon?'

Bolitho felt the fight draining from him. He had almost expected Somervell to ask him just that. Both of them would have known where that might lead.

He said, 'I apologise. It was unforgivable of me. I had no right to question your motives, or his for that matter.'

She watched him gravely, one hand holding a lace mantilla in place over her dark hair as the hot wind whipped across the parapet. Then she stepped up on to the terrace and faced him. 'You look tired, Richard.'

He dared at last to look at her. She was wearing a sea-green gown, but his heart sank when he realised that her fine features and compelling eyes were still unclear. He must have been half-crazy with despair to stare at the sun. The surgeon in London had declared it to be his worst enemy.

He said, 'I hoped I would see you. I have thought of you a great deal. More than I should; less than you deserve.'

She flicked open her fan and moved it in the wind like a bird's wing.

'I shall be leaving here quite soon. Perhaps we ought never to have met. We must both try —'

He reached out and took her wrist, not caring who might see, conscious only that he was about to lose even her, when he had lost everything else.

'I cannot try! It is hell to love another man's wife, but that is the truth, in God's name it is!'

She did not pull away, but her wrist was rigid in his grasp. She answered without hesitation, 'Hell? You can never know what that is unless you are a woman in love with another woman's husband!' Her voice threw caution aside. 'I told you, I would have died for you once. Now, because you seem to think your chosen life is in ruins you can turn again to me! Don't you know what you're doing to me, damn you? Yes, I married Lacey because we needed one another, but not in a fashion you would ever understand! I cannot have a child, but then you probably know that too. Whereas your wife has given you a daughter I believe, so where's the rub, eh?' She tore her arm away, her dark eyes flashing as loose strands of hair broke from under the mantilla. 'I shall never forget you, Richard, God help me, but I pray that we never meet again, lest we destroy even that one moment of joy I held so dear!'

She turned and almost ran through the door.

Bolitho walked into the adjoining building and received his hat from a footman without even noticing. He saw Parris walking towards him and would have passed without a word had the lieutenant not touched his hat and said, 'I have been supervising the last of the treasure-chests, Sir Richard. I can still barely believe what we went through to get them!'

Bolitho looked at him vaguely. 'Yes. I shall note your excellent behaviour in my report to their lordships.' Even that sounded hollow. The aftermath. Letters to Murray's mother and Dalmame's widow, arrangements for prize-money to be paid to the dependents of those others killed or discharged. His despatch would at least guarantee that.

Parris eyed him worriedly. 'I did not speak to you for praise, Sir Richard. Is something wrong?'

Bolitho shook his head, and felt the wind in his face, just as he could still sense her wrist under his fingers. In hell's name, what had he expected?

'No. Why should there be? It will be known as a noble sacrifice, I am given to understand, so be grateful that you serve and do not command!'

He walked away and Parris turned and saw Allday striding out into the angry sunlight. 'Sir Richard will require the barge, Cox'n.' Allday shook his head. 'No, he'll walk a piece. When he's wore himself out, then he'll want the barge.'

Parris nodded, understanding perhaps for the first time. 'I envy the both of you.'

Allday walked slowly to the balustrade that overlooked the main anchorage. The sea was getting up right enough. He bit on an apple he had obtained from the commodore's cook. Bloody good job. Blow some of the bitterness clean out of sight.

He saw his barge standing off from the jetty to avoid scraping the paintwork as lively catspaws spattered the stone stairs with spray. Bolitho was all aback, just when he had believed things were getting better. Bloody women. He had said as much to Ozzard when they had returned in triumph with the treasure-ship. Ozzard had made one of his defensive remarks and Allday, too tired and angry to care, had exclaimed, 'What the hell do you know? You've never been married!' Strange how it had upset the little man. Allday had decided he would give him one of his precious bone carvings to make up for it. He tossed the apple core into the sun-dried grass and turned to leave. Then he saw her, standing on the terrace, watching him with those eyes of hers. That look could make a man turn to water.

She met his gaze and said, 'Do you remember me? You are Mr Allday.'

Allday replied carefully, 'Why, o' course I remember you, Ma'am. Nobody could forget what you done for the Captain, as he was then.' She ignored the unspoken suggestion in his voice. 'I need your help. Will you trust me?'

Allday felt his defences slipping. She was asking him to trust her. The wife of the high and mighty Inspector General, a man who needed watching if half what he had heard was true. But she had paid out her line first. She was the one who was taking all the risks.

He grinned slowly. A sailor's woman. 'I will.'

She moved towards him, and Allday saw the quick movement of her breasts beneath the fine gown. Not so cool and calm as she wanted to appear, he thought.

'Vice-Admiral Bolitho is not himself.' She hesitated; perhaps she had already gone too far. She had seen the grin fade, the instant hostility in the big man's eyes.

'I — I wish to help him, you see —' She dropped her gaze. 'In God's name, Mr Allday, must I beg of you?'

Allday said, 'I'm sorry, Ma'am. We've had a lot of enemies over the years, see.' He weighed it up. What was the worst thing that could happen? He said abruptly, 'He was nearly blinded.' He felt like ice despite the searing wind, but now he could not stop. 'He thinks he's losing the use of his left eye.'

She stared at him, the picture leaping into her mind like a stark dream. He had been staring at the sky or the sea when she had found him. Bolitho had looked so defeated, so lost that she had wanted to run to him and take him in her arms, forget security, life itself if only she could comfort and keep him a few moments more. She recalled his voice, the way he had looked at her without seeming to see her.

She heard herself whisper, 'Oh, dear God!'

Allday said, 'Remember, I've told you nothin', Ma'am. I'm often in hot water as it is without you adding more coals to it.' He hesitated, moved by her distress, her sudden loss of poise before him, a common seaman. 'But if you can help —' he broke off and touched his hat quickly. He whispered hoarsely, 'I sees yer husband hull-down on th' horizon, Ma'am. I'll be off now!'

She stared after him, a great, loping figure in flapping blue jacket and nankeen breeches, one scarred and hurt so badly she could see it on his homely features. But a man so gentle that she wanted to cry for him, for all of them.

But her husband did not come to her; she saw him walking along the terrace with the lieutenant called Parris.

When she looked down the sloping pathway which led to the harbour she saw Allday turn and lift his hat to her.

Just a small gesture, and yet she knew that he had accepted her as a friend.

The deckhead lanterns in Hyperion's great cabin spiralled wildly, throwing insane shadows across the checkered deck covering and across the tightly lashed nine-pounders on either side.

Bolitho sipped a glass of hock, and watched while Yovell finished yet another letter and pushed it across the table for him to sign. Like actors on a stage, he thought, as Ozzard busied himself refilling glasses, and Allday entered and left the cabin like a player who had been given no lines to learn.

Captain Haven stood by the stern windows, now half-shuttered as the wind, made more fearsome by the darkness, broke the crests from the inshore waves, and flung spray over the anchored ships.

Bolitho felt the whole ship trembling as she tilted to her cable, and remembered the feeling of disbelief when Dacie had severed the Spaniard's mooring.

Haven concluded, 'That is everything I can determine, Sir Richard. The purser is satisfied with his storing, and all but one working party has been withdrawn from the shore.' He was speaking carefully, like a pupil repeating a hard-learned lesson to his teacher. 'I have been able to replace the three boats too, although they will need some work done on them.'

An observation, a reminder that it had been his admiral who had abandoned them. Haven was careful not to display his true feelings.

'Who is in charge of the last party?'

Haven looked at his list. 'The first lieutenant, Sir Richard.'

Always the title now, after their last clash. Bolitho swilled the hock around his glass. So be it then. Haven was a fool and must know that his admiral, any flag officer for that matter, could make or destroy his career. Or was it his way of exploiting Bolitho's sense of fairness?

Yovell looked over his steel-rimmed spectacles. 'I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, but did you intend this despatch to Obdurate to read in this fashion?'

Bolitho gave a wry smile. 'I did.' He did not need to be reminded.

You are directed and commanded to make ready for sea. Captain Robert Thynne of the other seventy-four could think what he liked. Obdurate was needed now more than ever. The vessels carrying the bulk of the treasure would have to be escorted clear of dangerous waters until they met with ships of Sir Peter Folliot's squadron, or until they could have the sea-room to manage for themselves. Bolitho would have preferred to bide his time until his own small squadron arrived, but the change of weather had altered all that.

He turned away from the others, glad of the lanterns' mellow light as he massaged his eye. It was still aching from his stupid contest with the sun. Or was it another snare of his imagination? He was glad to be aboard this old ship again. Somervell had guessed as much when he had said his farewell.

Somervell had explained that he and his lady were leaving after the main exodus, aboard a large Indiaman which was daily expected here. Personal comfort rated very high with Somervell.

Bolitho had seen the other side of the man when he had asked, 'I should like to take my leave of Lady Somervell.'

'Impossible.' Somervell had met his gaze insolently. Bolitho could well imagine those same cold eyes staring along the barrel of a duelling pistol in the dawn light, although it was known he favoured swords for such settlements.

He had added, 'She is not here.'

Antigua was a small island. If she had wanted to see him she could. Unless Somervell had grown tired of the game and had prevented it. Either way it did not matter now. It was over.

There was a tap at the door and Lieutenant Lovering, who was the officer-of-the-watch, took a pace into the cabin and reported, 'I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, Sir Richard,' his eyes flickered between Bolitho and Haven, 'but a courier-brig has been reported running for harbour.'

Bolitho lowered his eyes. Maybe from England. Letters from home. News of the war. Their lifeline. He thought of Adam, in command of his own brig, probably still carrying despatches for Nelson. Another world away from the heat and fever of the Indies.

Haven leaned forward. 'If there is any mail —' He recovered himself, and Bolitho recalled what Allday had said about his wife expecting a baby.

Bolitho signed more letters. Recommendations for promotion, for bravery, for transfers to other ships. Letters to the bereaved.

The lieutenant hesitated. 'Will you have any letters for the shore, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho looked at him. Lovering was the second lieutenant. Waiting for promotion, the chance to prove himself. If Parris fell…He shut the idea from his mind.' I think not.' It came out easily. Was it that simple to end something which had been so dear?

Haven waited until the lieutenant had withdrawn. 'First light then, Sir Richard.'

'Yes. Call the hands as you will, and signal your intentions to Obdurate and the Commissioner of the Dockyard.'

When Hyperion returned to Antigua the Indiaman would have gone. Would they ever meet again, even by accident?

'It will take all day to work out of harbour and muster our charges into a semblance of order. This wind will decide then whether to be an ally or a foe.'

If the treasure-ships and their escort were contained in the shelter of English Harbour for much longer, the Spaniards and perhaps their French allies might even try to counter-attack before the new squadron arrived.

Left alone in the cabin Bolitho drank some more hock, but although his stomach was empty he was unable to face Ozzard's meal. With the old ship swaying and groaning around him, and the duty watch being mustered every few minutes, or so it appeared, to secure and lash down some loose gear, it was impossible to rest.

The hock was good, and Bolitho found time to wonder how Ozzard managed to keep it so cool even in the bilges.

He toyed with the idea of sending a note to Catherine and dismissed it immediately. In the wrong hands it could ruin her.

What it might do to his own career did not seem to matter any longer.

He heard the clank of pumps and remembered what he had been told about Hyperion's age and service. It was like an additional taunt.

He lolled in his favourite chair but was awakened, it seemed within seconds, by Ozzard shaking his arm.

Bolitho stared at him. The ship was still in darkness, the din and movement as before.

'The first lieutenant wishes to see you, Sir Richard.' Bolitho was wide awake. Why not the captain? Parris entered, soaked with spray. He looked flushed despite his tan, but Bolitho knew he had not been drinking. 'What is it?'

Parris steadied himself against a chair as the deck swayed again. 'I thought you should know, Sir Richard. The guardboat reported earlier that a schooner left harbour. One of the commodore's own vessels, it seems.'

'Well?' Bolitho knew there was worse to come. 'Lady Somervell was on board.' He recoiled slightly under Bolitho's grey stare. 'I discovered that she intends to sail round to St John's.'

Bolitho stood up and listened to the wind. It was a gale now, and he heard the water surging against the hull like a flood tide. 'In this, man!' He groped round for his coat. 'Viscount Somervell must be informed.'

Parris watched dully. 'He knows. I told him myself.' Haven appeared in the screen door, his sleeping attire covered by a boat-cloak. 'What's this I hear?' He glared at Parris. 'I shall speak to you later!'

Bolitho sat down. How could Somervell let her do it? He must have known when he had said it was impossible for her to make her farewell. A small schooner could founder if wrongly handled. He tried to remember who commanded Glassport's vessels.

Even in calm weather it was dangerous to make casual passages amongst the islands. Pirates were too commonplace to mention. For every one rotting in chains, or on the gallows, there were a hundred more in these waters.

He said, 'I can do nothing until daylight.'

Haven regarded him calmly. 'If you ask me —'

He fell silent then added, 'I must attend the watch on deck, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho sat down very slowly. I did this to her. He did not know if he had spoken aloud or not, but the words seemed to echo around the cabin like a shot.

He called to Ozzard, 'Rouse my flag lieutenant, if you please.' He would send him ashore with a message for Somervell, in bed or not.

He stood up restlessly and walked to an unshuttered window. If I go myself one of us will surely die.

Bolitho strode out on to the quarterdeck and felt the wind lift under his boat-cloak, and the spray which burst over the weather quarter like tropical rain.

He held on to the nettings and slitted his eyes against the gale. It was strong but clammy, so that it did nothing to refresh his tired limbs. Two days since they had clawed their way out of English Harbour to assemble their small but priceless convoy. In that time they had barely logged fifty miles.

By night they rode out the storm under a reefed maintopsail and little else, while the four transports and the smaller vessels lay hove-to as best they could under savage conditions.

Secrecy was now of secondary importance and Hyperion burned flares and her vice-admiral's top-lights to try and hold the ships together. Then as each dawn found them it had taken a full day to reassemble the badly scattered ships and to begin the formation all over again. Everything was wet, and as the men toiled aloft to fight the wind-crazed sails or stumbled to replace their companions on the bilge-pumps, many must have wondered what was keeping them afloat.

Bolitho stared abeam and saw the faint sheen of the sloop-of-war's topgallants. Phaedra was standing up to windward, heeling every so often as the waves lifted her slender hull like a toy. The brig Upholder was invisible, far ahead in the van, and the other brig Tetrarch was an equal distance astern.

Bolitho climbed up a few steps on a poop ladder and felt the cloak stream away from him, his shirt already soaked with spray and spindrift. There was Obdurate, half-a-mile astern, her black and buff bows shining like glass as the waves burst into her. It felt strange to have another third-rate in company again, although he doubted if Thynne was thanking him for it. After a long stay in harbour, repairing the last storm battering she had suffered, it was likely that Obdurate's people were cursing their change of roles.

Bolitho climbed down to the deck again. There were four seamen at the big wheel, and nearby Penhaligon the master was in deep conversation with one of his mates.

The wind had backed decisively to the south-west and they had been blown many miles off their original course. But if the sailing master was troubled he did not show it.

All around, above and along the maindeck, men were working to repair any storm damage. Lines to be replaced or spliced, sails to be sent down, to be patched or discarded.

Bolitho glanced at the nearest gangway where a boatswain's mate was supervising the unrigging of a grating.

Another flogging. It had been worse than usual, even after Ozzard had closed the cabin skylight. The wild chorus of the wind through stays and shrouds, the occasional boom of reefed topsails, and all the while the rattle of drums and the sickening crack of the lash across a man's naked back.

He saw blood on the gangway, already fading and paling in the flung spray. Three dozen lashes. A man driven too far in the middle of the storm, an officer unable to deal with it on the spot.

Haven was in his quarters writing his log, or re-reading the letters which had been brought in the courier bag.

Bolitho was glad he was not here. Only his influence remained. The men who hurried about the decks looked strained, resentful. Even Jenour, who had not served very much at sea, had remarked on it.

Bolitho beckoned to the signals midshipman. 'The glass, if you please, Mr Furnival.' He noticed the youth's hands, raw from working all night aloft, and then trying to assume the dress and bearing of a King's officer by day.

Bolitho raised the glass and saw the sloop-of-war swim sharply into focus, the creaming wash of sea as she tilted her gunports into a deep swell. He wondered what her commander, Dunstan, was thinking as he rode out the wind and waves to hold station on his admiral. It was a far cry from Euryalus's midshipman's berth.

He moved the glass still further and saw a green brush-stroke of land far away on the larboard bow. Another island, Barbuda. They should have left it to starboard on the first day. He thought of the schooner, of Catherine who had asked the master to take her around Antigua to St John's instead of using the road.

A small vessel like that would stand no chance against such a gale. Her master could either run with the wind, or try to find shelter. Better ships would have suffered in the storm; some might have perished. He clenched his fingers around the telescope until they ached. Why did she do it? She could be lying fathoms deep, or clinging to some wreckage. She might even have seen Hyperion's toplights, have known it was his ship.

He heard the master call to the officer-of-the-watch, 'I would approve if you could get the t'gallants on her, Mr Mansforth.' The lieutenant nodded, his face brick-red from the salt spray. 'I — I shall inform the Captain.' He was very aware of the figure by the weather side, with the boat-cloak swirling around him. Hatless, his black hair plastered to his forehead, he looked more like a highwayman than a vice-admiral.

Jenour emerged from the poop and touched his hat. 'Any orders, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho returned the glass to the midshipman. 'The wind has eased. Please make a signal to the transports to keep closed up. We are not out of trouble yet.'

The four ships which were sharing most of the treasure were keeping downwind of the two seventy-fours. With a brig scouting well ahead, and the other trailing astern like a guard-dog, they should be warned in time should a suspicious sail show itself. Then Hyperion and Obdurate could gauge their moment before running down on the convoy, or beating up to windward to join Phaedra.

Flags soared up to the yards and stiffened to the wind like painted metal.

'Acknowledged, Sir Richard.' Then in a hushed voice Jenour added, 'The Captain is coming.'

Bolitho felt the bitterness rising within him. They were more like conspirators than of one company.

Haven walked slowly across the streaming planking, his eyes on the gun-breechings, flaked lines, coiled braces, everything.

He was apparently satisfied that he had nothing to fear from what he saw, and crossed the deck to Bolitho.

He touched his hat, his face expressionless while his eyes explored Bolitho's wet shirt and spray-dappled breeches.

'I intend to make more sail, Sir Richard. We should carry it well enough.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Signal Obdurate so that they conform. I don't want us to become separated.' Captain Thynne had lost two men overboard the previous day and had backed his mizzen topsail while he had attempted to send away the quarter boat. Neither of the luckless men was recovered. They had either fallen too far from aloft and been knocked senseless when they hit the sea, or like most sailors, were unable to swim. Bolitho had not intended to mention it.

But Haven snorted, 'I will make the signal at once, Sir Richard. Thynne wants to drill his people the better, and not dawdle about when some fool goes outboard through his own carelessness!'

He gestured to the lieutenant of the watch.

'Hands aloft and loose t'gan'sls, Mr Mansforth!' He looked at the midshipman. 'General signal. Make more sail.' His arm shot out across the quarterdeck rail. 'That man! Just what the bloody hell is he about?'

The seaman in question had been wringing out his checkered shirt in an effort to dry it.

He stood stockstill, his eyes on the quarterdeck, while others moved aside in case they too might draw Haven's wrath.

A boatswain's mate yelled, 'Tis all right, sir! I told him to do it!'

Haven turned away, suddenly furious.

But Bolitho had seen the gratitude in the seaman's eyes and knew that the boatswain's mate had told him nothing of the kind. Were they all so sick of Haven that even the afterguard were against him?

'Captain Haven!' Bolitho saw him turn, the anger gone. It was unnerving how he could work up a sudden rage and disperse it to order. 'A word, if you please.'

The midshipman called, 'All acknowledged, sir.'

Bolitho said, This ship has never been in action under your command or beneath my flag. I'll trouble you to remember it when next you berate a man who has been running hither and thither for two days and nights.' He was finding it hard to keep his voice level and under control. 'When the time comes to beat to quarters in earnest, you will expect, nay, demand instant loyalty.'

Haven stammered, 'I know some of these troublemakers —'

'Well, hear me, Captain Haven. All these men, good and bad, saints and troublemakers, will be called on to fight, do I make myself clear? Loyalty has to be earned, and a captain of your experience should not need to be told! Just as you should not require me to remind you that I will not tolerate senseless brutality from anyone!'

Haven stared back at him, his eyes sparking with indignation.

'I am not supported, Sir Richard! Some of my wardroom are as green as grass, and my senior, Mr Parris, is more concerned with gaining favour for himself! By God, I could tell you things about that one!'

Bolitho snapped, 'That is enough. You are my flag captain, and you have my support.' He let the words sink in. 'I know not what ails you, but if you abuse my trust once again, I shall put you in the next ship for England!'

Parris had appeared on deck and as the calls trilled to muster the topmen once again for making more sail, he glanced at Bolitho, then at his captain.

Haven tugged his hat more firmly over his ginger hair and said, 'Carry on, Mr Parris.'

Bolitho knew Parris was surprised. There was no additional threat or warning.

As the seamen poured up the ratlines like monkeys, and the masthead pendant whipped sharply for the first time to prove that the wind was indeed easing, Haven said stiffly, 'I have standards too, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho dismissed him and turned again towards the far-off island. Allday stood a few paces away. He never seemed to trust him alone any more, Bolitho thought.

Allday said, 'Them island schooners is hardy craft, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho did not turn but touched his arm. 'Thank you, old friend. You always know what I'm thinking.' He watched two gulls rising above the wave crests, their wings spread and catching a brighter sunlight as it broke through the clouds. Like Catherine's fan.

He said desperately, 'I feel so helpless.' He looked at Allday's strong profile. 'Forgive me. I should not pass my burden to you.'

Allday's eyes narrowed as he stared at the leaping waves, their long crests curling over to the wind's thrust.

It was like gauging the fall of shot. Up one. Down one. The next would hit home.

He said, 'Matter of fact, she spoke to me afore we left harbour.'

Bolitho stared. 'To you?'

Allday sounded ruffled. 'Well, some women feels free to speak with the likes o' me.'

Bolitho touched his arm again. 'Please, no games, old friend.'

Allday said, 'Told me she was fair bothered about you. Wanted you to know it, like.'

Bolitho banged his fist on the weathered rail. 'I didn't even try to understand. Now I've lost her.' It was spilling out of him, and he knew that only Allday would understand, even if he did not always agree.

Allday's eyes were faraway. 'Knew a lass once in a village where I was livin'. She was fair taken with the squire's son, a real young blade 'e was. She was made for him, an' he never even knew she was alive, the bastard, beggin' your pardon, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho watched him, wondering if Allday had wanted that girl.

Allday said simply, 'One day she threw herself down in front of the squire's coach. She couldn't take no more, I 'spect, and wanted to show him.' He looked at his scarred hands. 'She was killed.'

Bolitho wiped the spray from his face. To show him. Was that what Catherine had done because of him?

Why had he not seen it, accepted that love could never be won the easy way? He thought of Valentine Keen, and his girl with the moonlit eyes. He had risked so much, and won everything because of it.

He heard Allday move away, probably going below for a wet with his friends, or with Ozzard in his pantry.

He walked towards the poop and saw Mr Penhaligon watching the set of each sail, his beefy hands on his hips. Haven pouting as he peered at the compass, Parris watching him, waiting to dismiss the watch below.

Bolitho listened to the regular clank of pumps; the old Hyperion carried all of them. She had seen hundred of hopes dashed, bodies broken on these same decks.

Bolitho's ears seemed to fasten on to a new intrusion.

He exclaimed, 'Gunfire!'

Several men jumped at the sharpness in his voice; Allday, who was still on the ladder, turned and looked towards him.

Then the signals midshipman said excitedly, 'Aye, I hear it, sir!'

Haven strode to the quarterdeck rail, his head moving from side to side, still unable to hear the sound.

Jenour came running from the poop. 'Where away?' He saw Bolitho and flushed. 'I beg your pardon, Sir Richard!'

Bolitho shaded his eyes as the midshipman yelled, 'From Phaedra, sir! Sail to the nor'-west!'

Bolitho saw men climbing into the shrouds, their discomfort forgotten. For the moment.

Jenour asked anxiously, 'What does it mean, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho said, 'Signal Phaedra to investigate.' Minutes later when the midshipman's signalling party had run the flags up to the yard Bolitho replied, 'Small cannon, Stephen. Swivels or the like.'

Why had he heard, when so many others around him had not?

He said, 'Signal Tetrarch to close on the flag.'

Allday said admiringly, 'God, look at 'er go!' He was watching the sloop-of-war turning away, showing her copper in the misty sunlight, as she spread more canvas and rounded fiercely until she was close-hauled on the larboard tack.

Allday added, 'Like your Sparrow, eh, Cap'n?' He grinned awkwardly. 'I mean Sir Richard!'

Bolitho took a telescope from the rack. 'I remember. I hope young Dunstan appreciates the greatest gift as I once did.'

None of the others understood and once again Allday was moved by the privilege.

Bolitho lowered the glass. Too much spray and haze, whirling in the wind like smoke.

A privateer perhaps? Crossing swords with a Barbuda trader. Or one of the local patrols braving the wind and sea to chase an enemy corvette? Phaedra would soon know. It might also be a decoy to draw their flimsy defences away from the gold and silver.

He smiled bitterly. How would Haven react to that, he wondered?

'Nor'-west-by-north, sir!' The helmsman had to yell to make himself heard above the roar of wind through the canvas and rigging, pushing the sloop-of-war hard over until it was impossible to stand upright.

Commander Alfred Dunstan gripped the quarterdeck rail and tugged his cocked hat more firmly over his wild auburn hair. He had been Phaedra's captain for eighteen months, his first command, and with luck still on his side might soon be transferring his single epaulette to his right shoulder, the first definite step to post-rank.

He shouted, 'Bring her up two points to wind'rd, Mr Meheux! God damn it, we'll not let it escape, whatever it is!'

He saw the first lieutenant exchange a quick glance with the sailing master. Phaedra seemed to be sailing as close to the wind as she dared, so that her braced yards and bulging sails appeared to be almost fore-and-aft, thrusting her over, the sea boiling around her gunports and deluging the bare-backed seamen until their tanned bodies shone like crude statuary.

Dunstan strained his eyes aloft to watch every sail, and his topmen straddled out along the yards, some doubtless remembering Obdurate's hands who had been lost overboard in the storm.

'Full-an'-bye, sir! Nor'-west-by-west!'

The deck and rigging protested violently, the shrouds making a vibrant thrumming sound as the ship heeled over still further.

The first lieutenant, who was twenty-three, a year younger than his captain, shouted, 'She'll not take much more, sir!'

Dunstan grinned excitedly. He had a sensitive, pointed face and humorous mouth, and some people had told him he looked like Nelson. Dunstan liked the compliment, but had discovered the resemblance himself long ago, even as a midshipman in Bolitho's big first-rate Euryalus.

'A plague on your worries! What are you, an old woman?'

They laughed like schoolboys, for Meheux was the captain's cousin, and each knew almost what the other was thinking.

Dunstan tightened his lips as a line parted on the foretopsail yard with the echo of a pistol shot. But two men were already working out to repair it, and he replied, 'We must beat up to wind'rd in case the buggers show us a clean pair of heels an' we lose them!'

Meheux did not argue; he knew him too well. The sea boiled over the gangway and flung two men, cursing and floundering, into the scuppers. One came up against a tethered cannon and did not move. He had been knocked senseless, or had broken a rib or two. He was dragged to a hatchway, the others crouching like athletes as they gauged the moment to avoid the next incoming torrent of water.

Meheux enjoyed the excitement, just as Dunstan was never happier than when he was free of the fleet's apron strings or an admiral's authority. They did not even know the meaning or source of the gunfire; they might discover that it was another British man-of-war engaged in taking an enemy blockade-runner. If so, there was no chance of sharing the prize-money this time. The other captain would see to that.

Dunstan climbed up the ratlines of the lee shrouds, the waves seeming to swoop at his legs as he hung out to train his telescope while he waited for the next cry from the masthead.

The lookout yelled, 'Fine on the starboard bow, sir!' He broke off as the ship lifted then plunged deeply into a long trough, hard down until her gilded figurehead was awash, as if Phaedra was on her way to the bottom. The crash must have all but shaken the lookout from his precarious perch. Then he called, 'Two ships, sir! One dismasted!' Dunstan climbed back again and grinned as he poured water from his hat. 'Fine lookout, Mr Meheux! Give him a guinea!' The first lieutenant smiled. 'He's one of my men, sir.'

Dunstan was wiping his telescope, 'Oh, good. Then you give the feller a guinea!'

There was more sporadic firing, but because of the lively sea and the drifting curtains of spray it was impossible to determine the other vessels, except from the masthead.

Phaedra heeled upright, and the main topsail boomed and thundered violently as the wind went out of it.

'Man the braces there! Let her fall off three points!' Dunstan released his grip on the rail. The wind was dropping significantly so that the hull had to be brought under command to take advantage of it.

'Nor'-nor'-west, sir! Steady as she goes!'

Meheux gasped, 'By God, there they are.'

Dunstan raised his glass again. 'Hell's teeth! It's that damn schooner we were looking for!'

Meheux studied his profile, the wild hair flapping beneath the battered hat which Dunstan always wore at sea. Once, in his cups, Dunstan had confided, 'I'll get meself a new hat when I'm posted, not before!'

Meheux said, 'The one with the Inspector General's lady aboard?'

Dunstan grinned broadly. Meheux was a reliable and promising officer. He was a child where women were concerned.

'I can see why our vice-admiral was so concerned!'

A man yelled, They're casting adrift, sir! They've seen us, by God!'

Dunstan's smile faded. 'Stand by on deck! Starboard battery load, but don't run out!' He gripped the lieutenant's arm. 'A bloody pirate if I'm any judge, Josh!'

The first lieutenant's name was Joshua. Dunstan only used it when he was really excited.

Dunstan said urgently, 'We'll take him first. Put some good marksmen in the tops. She's a fancy little brigantine, worth a guinea or two, wouldn't you say?' He saw Meheux hurry away, the glint of steel as a boarding party was mustered clear of the gun crews and their rammers.

The schooner was dismasted although someone had tried to put up a jury rig. In that gale it must have been a nightmare.

Meheux came back, strapping on his favourite hanger.

'What about the others, sir?'

Dunstan trained the glass, then swore as a puff of smoke followed by a sharp bang showed that the pirate had fired on his ship.

'God blast their bloody eyes!' Dunstan raised his arms as he had seen Bolitho do when they had prepared for battle, so that his coxswain could clip on his sword. 'Open the ports! Run out!'

He recalled what Meheux had just asked him. 'If they're alive we'll take them next, if not —' He shrugged. 'One thing is certain, they're not going anywhere!'

He glanced around and winced as the pirate fired again and a ball slapped down alongside. The stage was set.

Dunstan drew his sword and held it over his head. He felt the chill run down his arm, as if the blade was made of ice. He remembered crouching with another midshipman on Euryalus's quarterdeck, sick with terror, yet unable to tear his eyes away as the enemy's great mountain of sails had towered above the gangway. And Bolitho standing out on the exposed deck, his sword in the air, each gun-captain watching, sweating out the agonising seconds which had been like hours. Eternity.

Dunstan grinned and brought his arm down with a flourish.

'Fire!'

The small brigantine came up floundering into the wind, her foremast gone, her decks covered with torn canvas and piles of rigging. That well-aimed broadside had also shot away the helm, or killed the men around it. The vessel was out of control, and one man who ran on to the poop with a raised musket was shot down instantly by Phaedra's marksmen.

'Hands aloft! Shorten sail! Take in the main-course!' Dunstan sheathed his sword and watched the other vessel reeling under Phaedra's lee. The fight was already over. 'Stand by to board!' Some of the seamen were clambering into the shrouds, their muskets cocked and ready, while others waited like eager hounds to get to grips. It was rare to catch a pirate. Dunstan watched his first lieutenant bracing his legs to jump as the sloop-of-war sidled heavily alongside. He knew it would be a madman who put up a defence. This was what his sailors did best. They would offer no quarter if one of their own was cut down.

There was a ragged cheer as the red ensign was hoisted up the brigantine's mainmast.

Dunstan glanced at the low-lying shape of the schooner. She must be badly holed, and looked ready to capsize.

It would mean risking a boat despite the lively waves.

He called, 'Mr Grant! Jolly boat, lively with you! Stand clear if the buggers fire on you!'

The boat lifted and dipped away from the side, the other lieutenant trying to stay upright as he looked towards the schooner. Once he stared astern, then gestured wildly towards Phaedra.

Dunstan stared up and then laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension draining out of him.

Bolitho would have had something to say about that. He shouted, 'Run up the Colours!' He saw Meheux clambering inboard again. 'We fought under no flag, dammit!'

He saw his cousin's face and asked, 'How was it, Josh?'

The lieutenant sheathed his hanger and let out a long sigh.

'One of the bastards had a go at us, slashed poor Tom Makin across the chest, but he'll live.'

They both watched as a corpse splashed down between the two hulls.

'He'll not try that again!'

Leaving the prize crew on board, Phaedra cast off, and under reduced canvas, edged towards the listing schooner.

Dunstan watched as the boarding party climbed across her sloping deck. Two men, obviously pirates who had been left stranded by the brigantine, charged to the attack. Lieutenant Grant shot one with his pistol; the other ducked and retreated towards the companionway. A seaman balanced his cutlass and then flung it like a spear. In the telescope's lens everything was silent, but Dunstan swore he could hear the scream as the man tumbled headlong, the blade embedded in his back.

'I'll not go alongside. Stand by to come about! Ready on deck!'

Dunstan lowered the glass, as if what he saw was too private. The woman, her gown almost torn off her back, yet strangely proud as she allowed the sailors to guide her towards the jolly boat. Dunstan saw her pause just once as she passed the dead pirate, shot down by Lieutenant Grant. He saw her spit on him and kick the cutlass from his hand. Hate, contempt and anger; but no sort of fear.

Dunstan looked as the first lieutenant. 'Man the side, Josh. This is something we shall all remember.'

Then later, when Phaedra with her prize making a painful progress astern, sighted the flagship, Dunstan discovered another moment which he would never forget.

She had been standing beside him, wrapped in a tarpaulin coat which one of the sailors had offered her, her chin uplifted and her eyes wide while she had watched Hyperion's yards swinging, her sails refilling on to the tack which would bring them together.

Dunstan had said, 'I'll make a signal now, my lady. May I order my midshipman to spell out your name?'

She had shaken her head slowly, her eyes on the old two-decker, her reply almost lost in the crack of sails and rigging.

'No, Captain, but thank you.' Quieter still, 'He will see me. I know it.'

Only once had Dunstan seen her defences weaken. The master's mate had shouted, 'There, lads! The old girl's goin'!'

The schooner had lifted her stern and was turning in a circle of foam and bubbles, like a pale hand revolving in a chandler's butt of grain. The hull was surrounded by bobbing flotsam and a few corpses when suddenly it dived, as if eager to be gone from those who had wronged her.

Dunstan had glanced at her and had seen her clutching a fan to her breast. He could not be certain but he thought he saw her speak two words. Thank you.

Afterwards Dunstan had said, 'Make it two guineas, Josh. It was more important than either of us realised.'

Two weeks after Phaedra's capture of the pirate brigantine and the release of the captives, Hyperion and Obdurate returned to Antigua.

The island was sighted at dawn, but as if to taunt their efforts, the wind all but died completely and it was nearly dusk before they edged their way into English Harbour and dropped anchor.

Bolitho had been on the quarterdeck for most of the afternoon, idly watching the hands trimming the sails while the island seemed to stand away at the same distance.

Any other time it would have been a proud moment. They had met with ships of Sir Peter Folliot's squadron, which even now would be escorting the treasure convoy all the remainder of the way to England.

The lookouts had eventually reported that there were three ships-of-the-line in harbour and Bolitho guessed they were the other vessels of his squadron, with each captain doubtless wondering about his immediate future under Bolitho's flag.

That too should have been like a tonic, after the strain of escorting the treasure and fighting a daily battle with the weather. Now, Bolitho was somehow grateful that it would not be until the next day that he could meet his new captains and while they studied him, he would measure the men who would be serving him.

When both the two-deckers finally dropped their anchors Bolitho had gone aft to his quarters where the great cabin was already transformed by several cheerful lanterns.

He walked to the stern windows and leaned out over the darkening water to watch a full-blooded sunset, but his mind was still hanging on to that moment when Catherine had been hoisted up the ship's side in the rough tarpaulin coat.

It did not seem possible that she had been here in this same cabin, alone with him.

Alone with him and yet still at a measured distance. He walked around the cabin and looked at his sleeping quarters, which he had given her during her brief stay on board. There should still be some sign of her presence. A breath of her perfume, a garment forgotten perhaps when she had been carried over to Admiral Folliot's flagship when the two formations of ships had found each other.

Bolitho crossed to the fine mahogany wine cabinet and ran his fingers along it. Made by one of the best craftsmen, it had been her gift to him after he had left her in London, where he had last seen her until Antigua. He smiled sadly as he remembered his old friend Thomas Herrick's disapproval when the cabinet had been brought aboard his Lysander, after he had been appointed Bolitho's flag captain.

Herrick had always been a loyal friend, but had mistrusted anything and anyone he thought might damage Bolitho's name and career. Even young Adam had been involved because of the so-called liaison between them for that short, precious time. He had fought a duel with another hot-headed lieutenant at Gibraltar in defence of his uncle's reputation. It seemed as if everyone Bolitho cared for was hurt or damaged by the contact.

He turned and looked along the cabin, and saw the marine sentry's shadow through the screen door. She had stood here, quite still, only her breathing rapid and uncontrolled as she had stared around, the coat bunched to her throat as if she was cold.

Then she had noticed the cabinet, and for just a moment he had seen her mouth quiver.

He had said quietly, 'It goes everywhere with me.'

Then she had walked right up to him and had laid her hand on his face. When he had made to put his arms round her she had shaken her head with something like desperation.

'No! It is hard enough to be here like this. Do not make it worse. I just want to look at you. To tell you how much it means to be alive because of you. God, Fate, I know not which, once brought us together. And now I fear what it might do to us.'

He had seen the great rent in her gown and had asked, 'Can I not have it mended? Your maid, where is she?'

She had walked away but had kept her eyes on him. 'Maria is dead. They tried to rape her. When she fought them with her bare hands they killed her, cut her down like some helpless animal.' She added slowly, 'Your little ship came just in time. For me, that is. But I made sure that some of those filthy pigs never breathe the same air again.' She had looked at her hands, at the soiled fan which she still grasped in one of them. 'I wish to God I could be there when they make those vermin dance on their ropes!'

The screen door opened slightly and Jenour looked in at him.

'The Commodore's boat has been sighted, Sir Richard.' His eyes moved around the cabin. Maybe he could see her too.

'Very well.' Bolitho sat down and looked at the deck between his feet. Glassport was the last man he wanted to see just now. He thought of that final moment when he had accompanied her across to Sir Peter Folliot's big three-decker.

The admiral was a slight, sickly man, but there was nothing wrong with his quick mind. Despite the poor communications he seemed to know all about the preparations for the raid on La Guaira, and the actual amount of booty down to the nearest gold coin.

'Quite an escapade, eh?' He had greeted Catherine with lavish courtesy, and had announced that he would place her in the care of one of his best frigate captains, who would make all speed to return her to her husband in Antigua.

Maybe he knew something about that as well, Bolitho thought.

He had watched the powerful forty-four gun frigate making sail to take her away from him for the last time, and had stayed on deck until only the topgallant sails showed above the evening horizon like pink shells.

The big Indiaman had gone from the harbour, and he had pictured Catherine with her husband drawing further and further away with each turn of the glass.

The door opened again and Captain Haven took a few paces into the cabin.

'I am about to greet the Commodore, Sir Richard. May I signal your captains to repair on board tomorrow forenoon?'

'Yes.' It was all so empty, so coldly formal. Like a great wall between them.

Bolitho tried again. 'I did hear your wife was expecting a child, Captain Haven.' He recalled how tense Haven had been since he had received his letters from the courier brig. Like a man in a trance; he had even allowed Parris to manage the ship's affairs for him.

Haven's eyes narrowed. 'From whom, Sir Richard, may I ask?'

Bolitho sighed. 'Does it matter?'

Haven looked away. 'A baby boy.'

Bolitho saw his fingers clench around his cocked hat. Haven was driving himself mad.

'I congratulate you. It must have been on your mind a great deal.'

Haven swallowed hard. 'Yes, er, thank you, Sir Richard —'

Mercifully, shouted orders floated from the quarterdeck and Haven almost fled from the cabin to meet Commodore Glassport as he came aboard.

Bolitho stood up as Ozzard entered with his dress coat. Was it really Parris's child, he wondered? How would they settle it?

He looked down at Ozzard. 'Did I thank you for taking good care of our guest while she was amongst us?'

Ozzard brushed a speck of dust from the coat. He had mended Catherine's torn gown. There seemed no end to his skills.

The little man gave a shy smile. 'You did, Sir Richard. It was a pleasure.' He reached into a drawer and pulled out the fan she had brought with her from the sinking schooner.

'She left this.' He flinched under Bolitho's stare. 'I — I cleaned it up. There was some blood on it, y'see.'

'Left it?' Bolitho turned the fan over in his hands, remembering it, seeing her expression above it. He turned aside from a lantern as his eye misted over very slightly. He repeated, 'Left it?'

Ozzard watched him anxiously. 'All the rush. I expect she forgot.'

Bolitho gripped the fan tightly. No, she had not forgotten it.

Feet tramped towards the door and then Commodore Glassport, followed by the flag captain and Jenour, entered the cabin. Glassport's features were bright scarlet, as if he had been running uphill.

Bolitho said, 'Be seated. Some claret perhaps?'

Glassport seemed to revive at the word. 'I'd relish a glass, Sir Richard. Dammee, so much excitement, I think I should have retired long since!'

Ozzard filled their glasses and Bolitho said, 'To victory.'

Glassport stuck out his thick legs and licked his lips.

'A very fair claret, Sir Richard.'

Haven remarked, There are some letters, Sir Richard; they came in the last packet ship.' He watched as Jenour brought a small bundle and laid it on the table by Bolitho's elbow.

Bolitho said, 'See to the glasses, Ozzard.' Then, 'If you will excuse me, gentlemen.'

He slit open one letter. He recognised Belinda's handwriting immediately.

His glance moved rapidly across the letter, so that he had to stop and begin again.

My dear husband. It was as if the letter was for someone else. Belinda wrote briefly of her latest visit to London, and that she was now staying in a house which she had leased to await his approval. Elizabeth had had a cold, but was now well and had taken to the nurse whom Belinda had hired. The rest of the letter seemed to be about Nelson, and how the whole country was depending on him as he stood between the French and England.

Jenour asked quietly, 'Not bad news, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho tucked the letter into his coat. 'Really, Stephen, I wouldn't know.'

There had been nothing about Falmouth and people there he had known all his life. No concern, not even anger or remorse at the way they had parted.

Glassport said heavily, 'It is a mite quieter here now that the King's Inspector General is departed.' He gave a deep chuckle. 'I would not wish to get on the wrong side of that one.'

Haven said primly, 'His is another world. It is certainly not mine.'

Bolitho said, 'I shall see my captains tomorrow —' He looked at Glassport. 'By how much was the Indiaman delayed?'

Glassport peered at him, his mind already blurred by several large glasses of claret.

'When the gale eased, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho stood up without realising it. He must have misheard. 'Without waiting for Lady Somervell? By what vessel did she take passage after she arrived in the frigate?' Surely even Somervell, so eager to present the treasure to His Majesty in person, would have waited to be assured of Catherine's safety?

Glassport sensed his sudden anxiety and said, 'She did not leave, Sir Richard. I am still awaiting her instructions.' He seemed confused. 'Lady Somervell is at the house.'

Bolitho sat down again, then glanced across at the fan which lay on the wine cabinet.

He said, 'Once again, please excuse me, gentlemen. I will speak with you tomorrow.'

Later, as he listened to the trill of calls and the thud of Glassport's launch alongside, he walked to the stern windows and stared at the land. Pinpricks of light from the harbour and the houses behind it. A slow, glassy swell which tilted Hyperion's heavy bulk just enough to make the rigging and blocks stir uneasily. A few pale stars. Bolitho took time to count them, to contain the sudden realisation which moments earlier had been disbelief.

Would you risk everything? The voice seemed to speak out loud.

Jenour re-entered silently and Bolitho saw his reflection in the thick glass beside him.

Bolitho said, 'Fetch Allday, if you would, Stephen, and call away my barge. I am going ashore directly.'

Jenour hesitated, unwilling to pit his beliefs against Bolitho's sudden determination.

Jenour had watched him when Glassport had blurted out about the woman Phaedra had snatched from the sea and the nearness of brutal rape and death. It had been like seeing a light rekindled. A cloud passing away.

He said, 'May I speak, Sir Richard?'

'Have I ever prevented you from doing so, Stephen?' He half turned, feeling the young lieutenant's uncertainty and discomfort. 'Is it about my leaving the ship?'

Jenour replied huskily, 'There is not a man under the flag who would not die for you, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho said, 'I doubt that.' He immediately sensed Jenour's dismay and added, 'Please continue.'

Jenour said, 'You intend to visit the lady, Sir Richard.' He fell silent, expecting an instant rebuff. When Bolitho said nothing he continued, 'By tomorrow the whole squadron will know. This time next month, all England will hear of it.' He looked down and said, 'I — I am sorry to speak out in this fashion. I have no right. It is just that I care very much.'

Bolitho took his arm and shook it gently. 'It took courage to speak as you did. An old enemy, John Paul Jones, was quoted as saying that "he who will not risk cannot win". Whatever his other faults may have been, a lack of courage was not one of them.' He smiled gravely. 'I know the risk, Stephen. Now fetch Allday.'

On the other side of the pantry door Ozzard withdrew his ear from the shutter and nodded very slowly. He was suddenly grateful he had discovered the fan.

Bolitho barely noticed anything as he strode through the shadows to leave the harbour behind him. Only once he paused to regain his breath, and to try and test his feelings and the depth of his actions. He watched the anchored ships, their open gun-ports glittering across the even swell, the heavier, darker shape of the captured Ciudad de Sevilla. What would become of her? Would she be commandeered or sold to some wealthy merchant company, or even offered in trade to the Spaniards in an attempt to recover Consort? The latter was unlikely. The Dons would be humiliated enough at losing the treasure-ship and having another destroyed under their own fortress without adding to it.

When he arrived at the white walls of the house he paused again, conscious of his heart against his ribs, of the realisation that he had no plan in mind. Perhaps she would not even see him?

He walked up the carriage-drive and entered the main door, which was open to tempt any sea-breeze into the house. A sleeping servant, curled in a tall wicker chair by the entrance, did not even stir as Bolitho passed.

He stood in the pillared hall, staring at the shadows, some heavy tapestry glowing in the light from two candelabra. It was very still, and there seemed to be no air at all.

Bolitho saw a handbell on a carved chest by another door and played with the idea of ringing it. In that last fight aboard the treasure-ship, death had been a close companion, but it was no stranger to him. He had felt no fear at all, not even afterwards. He gripped his sword tightly. Where was that courage now that he really needed it?

Maybe Glassport had been mistaken and she had gone from here, overland this time to St John's. She had friends there. He recalled Jenour's anxiety, Allday's watchful silence as the barge had carried him to the jetty. Some Royal Marines on picket duty had scrambled into a semblance of attention as they realised that the vice-admiral had come ashore without a word of warning.

Allday had said, 'I shall wait, Sir Richard.'

'No. I can call for a boat when I need one.'

Allday had watched him leave. Bolitho wondered what he thought about it. Probably much the same as Jenour.

'Who is that?'

Bolitho turned and saw her on the curved stairway, framed against another dark tapestry. She wore a loose, pale gown, and was standing very still, a hand on the rail, the other concealed in the gown.

Then she exclaimed, 'You! I — I did not know —'

She made no move to come down and Bolitho walked slowly up the stairway towards her.

He said, 'I have just heard. I believed you gone.' He paused with one foot on the next step, afraid she would turn away. 'The Indiaman sailed without you.' He was careful not to mention Somervell by name. 'I could not bear to think of you here. Alone.'

She turned and he realised that she was holding a pistol.

He said, 'Give it to me.' He moved closer and held out his hand. 'Please, Kate.'

He took it from her fingers and realised it was cocked, ready to fire. He said quietly, 'You are safe now.'

She said, 'Come to the drawing room.' She might have shivered. 'There is more light.'

Bolitho followed her and waited for her to close the door behind them. It was a pleasant enough room, although nothing looked personal; it was occupied too often by visitors, strangers.

Bolitho laid the pistol on a table and watched her draw shutters across the window, where some moths were tapping against the glass, seeking the light.

She did not look at him. 'Sit there, Richard.' She shook her head vaguely. 'I was resting. I must do something to my hair.' Then she did turn to study him, a lingering, searching glance, as if she was seeking an answer to some unspoken question.

She said, 'I knew he would not wait. He took his mission very seriously. Put it above all else. It was my fault. I knew the matter was so dear to him, so urgent once you had made the plan into reality. I should not have gone in the schooner.' She repeated slowly, 'I knew he would not wait.'

'Why did you do it?'

She looked away and he saw her hand touch the handle on the other door, which was in deep shadow, away from the lights.

She replied, 'I felt like it.'

'You might have been killed, and then —'

She swung round, only her eyes flashing in the shadows. 'And then?'

She tossed her head with something like anger. 'Did you ask yourself that question too when you went after the Ciudad de Sevilla?' The ship's name seemed to intrude like a person. It had rolled so easily off her tongue, a cruel reminder that she had been married to a Spaniard. She continued, 'Someone of your value and rank, you of all people must have realised that you were taking a terrible risk? You knew that, I can see it on your face — must have known that any junior captain could have been sent, just as you once seized the ship I was aboard, when I first laid eyes on you!'

Bolitho was on his feet and for several seconds they stared at each other, both hurt and vulnerable because of it.

She said abruptly, 'Do not leave.' Then she vanished through the other door although Bolitho did not even see it open and close.

What had he expected? He was a fool, and looking a worse one. He had harmed her enough, too much.

Her voice came from beyond. 'I have put down my hair.' She waited until he faced the door. 'It is not quite right yet. Yesterday and today I walked along the foreshore. The salt air is cruel to vain women.'

Bolitho watched the long, pale gown. In the deep shadows she appeared to be floating like a ghost.

She said, 'You once gave me a ribbon for it, remember? I have tied it around my hair.' She shook her head so that one shoulder vanished in shadow, which Bolitho knew was her long dark hair.

'Do you see it, or had you forgotten that?'

He replied quietly. 'Never. You liked green so much. I had to get it for you —' He broke off as she put out her arms and ran towards him. It seemed to happen in a second. One moment she was there, pale against the other door, and the next she was pressed against him, her voice muffled while she clutched his shoulders as if to control her sudden despair.

She exclaimed, 'Look at me! In God's name, Richard, I lied to you, don't you see?'

Bolitho took her in his arms and pressed his cheek into her hair. It was not the ribbon he had bought in London from the old lady selling lace. This one was bright blue.

She ran her hand up to his neck and then laid it against his face. When she raised her eyes he saw that they were filled with emotion, pity.

She whispered, 'I did not know, Richard. Then, before you sailed with the convoy, I — I heard something about it — how you —' She held his face between her hands now. 'Oh, dearest of men, I had to be sure, to know!'

Bolitho pulled her closer so that he could hide his face above her shoulder. It must have been Allday. Only he would take the risk.

He heard her whisper, 'How bad is it?' He said, 'I have grown used to it. Just sometimes it fails me. Like the moment you stood there in the shadows.' He tried to smile. 'I was never able to outwit you.'

She leaned back in his arms and studied him. 'And the time you came to the reception here, when you almost fell on the stair. I should have known, ought to have understood!'

He watched the emotions crossing her face. She was tall and he was very aware of her nearness, of the trick which had misfired. He said, 'I will leave if you wish.'

She slipped her hand through his arm. She was thinking aloud as they walked around the room, like lovers in a quiet park.

'There are people who must be able to help.'

He pressed her wrist to his side. 'They say not.'

She turned him towards her. 'We will go on trying. There is always hope.'

Bolitho said, 'To know that you care so much means everything.' He half-expected, her to stop him but she remained quite still, her hands in his, so that their linked shadows appeared to be dancing across the walls.

'Now that we are together I never want to lose you. It must sound like madness, the babbling of some besotted youth.' The words were flooding out of him and she seemed to know how he needed to speak. 'I thought my life was in ruins, and knew that I had done a terrible harm to yours.' Then she made to speak but he shook her hands in his. 'No, it is all true. I was in love with a ghost. The realisation ripped me apart. Someone suggested I had a death-wish.'

She nodded slowly. 'I can guess who that was.' She met his gaze steadily, without fear. 'Do you really understand what you are saying, Richard? How high the stakes may be?'

He nodded. 'Even greater for you, Kate. I remember what you said about Nelson's infatuation.'

She smiled for the first time. 'To be called a whore is one thing; to be one is something very different.'

He gripped her hands even tighter. 'There are so many things —'

She twisted from his grip. 'They must wait.' Her eyes were very bright. 'We cannot.'

He said quietly, 'Call me what you did just now.'

'Dearest of men?' She pulled the ribbon from her hair and shook it loose across her shoulder. 'Whatever I have been or done, Richard, you have always been that to me.' She looked at him searchingly. 'Do you want me?'

He reached for her but she stepped away. 'You have answered me.' She gestured towards the other door. 'I need just a moment, alone.'

Without her the room seemed alien and hostile. Bolitho removed his coat and sword, and as an afterthought slid the latch on the door. His glance fell on the pistol and he uncocked it, seeing her face when she had discovered him. Knowing that she would have fired at the first hint of danger.

Then he walked to the door and opened it, the shadows and the fears forgotten as he saw her sitting on the bed, her hair shining in the candelight.

She smiled at him, her knees drawn up to her chin like a child.

'So the proud vice-admiral has gone, and my daring captain has come in his place.'

Bolitho sat beside her, and then eased her shoulders down onto the bed.

She wore a long robe of ivory silk, tied beneath her throat by a thin ribbon. She watched him, his eyes as they explored her body, remembering perhaps how it had once been.

Then she took his hand and pulled it to her breast, tightening his fingers until he thought he must hurt her.

She whispered, 'Take me, Richard.' Then she shook her head very slowly. 'I know what you fear now, but I tell you, it is not out of pity, it is from the love I have never given to another man.'

She thrust her hands out on either side like one crucified and watched as he untied the ribbon and began to remove the robe.

Bolitho could feel the blood rushing through his brain; while he too felt momentarily like an onlooker as he bared her breasts and her arms until she was naked to the waist.

He gasped, 'Who did this to you?'

Her right shoulder was cruelly discoloured, one of the worst bruises he had ever seen.

But she reached up with one hand and dragged his mouth down to hers, her breathing as wild as his own.

She whispered, 'A Brown Bess has a fearsome kick, like a mule!'

She must have been firing a musket when the pirates had attacked the schooner. Like the pistol.

The kiss was endless. It was like sharing everything in a moment. Clinging to it, never wanting it to finish, but unable to hold on for a minute longer.

He heard her cry out as he threw the robe on the floor, saw her fists clench as he touched her, then covered her in his hand as if to prolong the need they had for each other.

She watched him tear off his clothes and touched the scar on his shoulder, remembering that too, and the fever she had held at bay.

She said huskily, 'I don't care about afterward, Richard.'

He saw her looking at him as his shadow covered her like a cloak. She said something like 'It's been so long —' Then she arched her body and gave a sharp cry as he entered her, her fingers pulling at him, dragging him closer and deeper until they were one.

Later, as they lay spent in each other's arms and watched the smoke standing up from the guttering candles, she said softly, 'You needed love. My love.' He held her against him as she added, 'Who cares about the tomorrows.'

He spoke into her hair. 'We shall make them ours too.'

Down on the jetty Allday seated himself comfortably on a stone bollard and began to fill his new pipe with tobacco. He had sent the barge back to the ship.

Bolitho would not be needing it for a bit yet, he thought. The tobacco was rich, well dampened with rum for good measure. Allday had dismissed the barge but found that he wanted to remain ashore himself. Just in case.

He put down a stone bottle of rum on the jetty and puffed contentedly on his new clay.

Perhaps there was a God in Heaven after all. He glanced towards the darkened house with the white walls.

Only God knew how this little lot might end, but for the present, and that was all any poor Jack could hope for, things were looking better for Our Dick. He grinned and reached down for the bottle. An' that's no error.

His Britannic Majesty's Ship Hyperion heeled only very slightly as she changed tack yet again, her tapering jib-boom pointing almost due east.

Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck nettings and watched the great looming slab of Gibraltar rise above the larboard bow, misty-blue in the afternoon glare. It was mid-April.

Men moved purposefully about the decks, the lieutenants checking the set of each sail, conscious perhaps of this spectacular landfall. They had not touched land for six weeks, not since the squadron had quit English Harbour for the last time.

Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and trained it on the Rock. If the Spaniards ever succeeded in retaking this natural fortress, they could close the Mediterranean with the ease of slamming a giant door.

He focused the glass on the litter of shipping which seemed to rest at the foot of the Rock itself. More like a cluster of fallen moths than ships-of-war. It was only then that a newcomer could realise the size of it, the distance it still stood away from the slow-moving squadron.

He looked abeam. They were sailing as close as was prudently safe to the coast of Spain. Sunlight made diamond-bright reflections through the haze. He could imagine just how many telescopes were causing them as unseen eyes watched the small procession of ships. Where bound? For what purpose? Riders would be carrying intelligence to senior officers and lookout stations. The Dons could study the comings and goings with ease here at the narrowest part of the Strait of Gibraltar.

As if to give weight to his thoughts he heard Parris say to one of the midshipmen on the quarterdeck, 'Take a good look, Mr Blessed. Yonder lies the enemy.'

Bolitho tucked his hands behind him and thought over the past four months, since his new squadron had finally assembled at Antigua. Since Catherine had taken passage for England. The parting had been harder than he had expected, and still hurt like a raw wound.

She had sent one letter in that time. A warm, passionate letter, part of herself. He was not to worry. They would meet again soon. There must be no scandal. She was, as usual, thinking of him.

Bolitho had written back, and had also sent a letter to Belinda. The secret would soon be out, if not already; it was right if not honourable that she should hear it from him.

He moved across the quarterdeck and saw the helmsmen drop their eyes as his glance passed over them. He climbed a poop ladder and raised the glass again to study the ships which followed astern. It had kept his mind busy enough while the squadron had worked up together, had got used to one another's ways and peculiarities. There were four ships-of-the-line, all third-rates which to an ignorant landsman would look exactly like Hyperion in the van. Apart from Obdurate, the others had been new to Bolitho's standards, but watching them now he could feel pride instead of impatience.

Holding up to windward in the gentle north-westerly breeze he saw the little sloop-of-war Phaedra, sailing as near as she dared to the Spanish coast, Dunstan hoping possibly for a careless enemy trader to run under his guns.

Perhaps the most welcome addition was the thirty-six gun frigate Tybalt, which had arrived from England only just in time to join the squadron. She was commanded by a fiery Scot named Andrew McKee, who was more used to working independently. Bolitho understood the feeling even if he could not condone it. The life of any frigate captain was perhaps the most remote and monastic of all. In a crowded ship he remained alone beyond his cabin bulkhead, dining only occasionally with his officers, completely cut off from other ships and even the men he commanded. Bolitho smiled. Until now.

They had achieved little more in the Caribbean. A few indecisive attacks on enemy shipping and harbours, but after the reckless cutting-out of the treasure-ship from La Guaira all else seemed an anti-climax. As Glassport had said when the squadron had set sail for Gibraltar. After that, life would never be the same.

In more ways than one, Bolitho thought grimly.

It had been a strange feeling to quit Antigua. He had the lurking belief that he would never see the islands again. The Islands of Death, as the luckless army garrisons called them. Even Hyperion had not been immune from fever. Three seamen employed ashore had been taken ill, and had died with the disbelief of animals at slaughter.

He stepped from the ladder as Haven crossed the deck to speak with Penhaligon the master.

The latter remarked confidently, 'The wind stands fair, sir. We shall anchor at eight bells.'

Haven kept very much to himself, and apart from a few fits of almost insane anger, seemed content to leave matters to Parris. It was a tense and wary relationship, which must affect the whole wardroom. And yet the orders when they came by courier brig had been welcome. The storm was still brewing over Europe, with the antagonists watching and waiting for a campaign, even a single battle which might tip the balance.

The captured frigate Consort, renamed Intrépido, had slipped out of port unseen and unchecked. It was said that she too had left for Spain, to add her weight to His Catholic Majesty's considerable navy. She would be a boost to public morale as well. A prize snatched from the English, who were as ever desperate for more frigates.

Bolitho stared at the towering Rock. Gibraltar for orders. How many times had he read those words? He looked along the busy maindeck, the hands trimming the yards, or squinting up at the restless sails. It had been in Gibraltar that he had first met with Hyperion, when this endless war had barely begun. Did ships wonder about their fates? He saw Allday lounging by the boat tier, his hat tilted down to shade his eyes from the hard glare. He would be remembering too. Bolitho saw the coxswain put one hand to his chest and grimace, then glance suspiciously around to make sure nobody had noticed. He was always in pain, but would never rest. Thinking about his son, of the girl at the Falmouth inn; of the last battle, or the next one.

Allday turned and looked up at the quarterdeck. Just a brief glance of recognition, as if he knew what Bolitho was thinking.

Like that dawn when he had gone to the jetty after leaving Catherine.

Allday had been there, had put his fingers to his mouth to give his piercing whistle which dismissed any boatswain's call to shame, to summon a boat.

When he had last seen Catherine he had argued with her, tried to persuade her to move away from London until they could face the storm together. She had been adamant. She intended to see Somervell, to tell him the truth. Our love must triumph.

When Bolitho had voiced his fears for her safety she had given the bubbling, uninhibited laugh he remembered so well. 'There has been no love between us, Richard. Not as you thought it was. I wanted a marriage for security, Lacey needed my strength, my backing.'

It still hurt to hear her use his name.

He could see her now, on that last evening before she had sailed. Those compelling eyes and high cheekbones, her incredible confidence.

He heard Jenour's footsteps on the worn planking. Ready to convey his orders to the other captains.

Bolitho saw a brig riding untidily on the blue water, her yards alive with flags as she conveyed news of the squadron to the Rock fortress. There might even be word from Catherine. He had reread her only letter until he knew each line perfectly.

Such a striking, vibrant woman. Somervell must be mad not to fight for her love.

One night when they had been lying together, watching the moonlight through the shutters, she had told him something of her past. He already knew about her first marriage to an English soldier-of-fortune who had died in a brawl in Spain before the Franco-Spanish Alliance. She had been just a young girl at the time, who had been raised in London, a part you would not dare to believe, dear Richard! She had laughed, and nuzzled his shoulder, but he had heard the sadness too. Before that she had been on the stage. When she was fourteen. A long hard journey to become the wife of the Inspector General. Then there had been Luis Pareja, who had been killed after Bolitho had taken their ship as a prize, then defended it against Barbary pirates.

Pareja had been twice her age, but she had cared for him deeply; for his gentle kindness above all, something which until then had been denied her.

Pareja had provided for her well, although she had had no idea that she owned anything but some jewellery she had been wearing aboard that ship when Bolitho had burst into her life.

Their first confrontation had been one of fire. She had spat out her bitter despair and hate. It was still hard to fathom when all that had changed to an equally fiery love.

He took the telescope again and trained it on the brig.

Catherine had missed the sight she had sworn to witness. Almost the last thing Bolitho had seen when Hyperion left English Harbour had been a line of grisly gibbets, their sun-blackened remains left as a reminder and a warning to other would-be pirates.

He saw Parris standing forward along the starboard gangway, to make sure that when they anchored nobody ashore would find even the smallest fault in the manoeuvre.

Parris had taken a working party ashore at Antigua to move Catherine's trunks aboard the packet-ship.

Catherine had slipped her hand through Bolitho's arm while they had watched the sailors carrying the boxes towards the jetty.

She had said, 'I don't like that man.'

Bolitho had been surprised. 'He's a good officer, brave too. What don't you like about him?'

She had shrugged, eager to change the subject. 'He gives me the shivers.'

Bolitho glanced again at the first lieutenant. How simply he could raise a grin from a seaman, or the obvious awe of a midshipman. Maybe he reminded her of someone in her past? It would be easy to picture Parris as a soldier-of-fortune.

Jenour remarked, 'My first time here, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I've been glad enough to see the Rock once or twice after a rough passage.'

Captain Haven called, 'Stand by to alter course two points to larboard!'

Bolitho watched his shoulders and wondered. Or had Catherine recognised in Parris what Haven obviously believed?

Bolitho took out his watch as the seamen hurried to the braces and halliards.

'General signal. Tack in succession.'

The waiting midshipmen bustled amongst a mass of bunting, while their men bent on each flag with the speed of light.

'All acknowledged, sir!'

Haven glowered. 'About time, dammit!'

Jenour said carefully, 'I was wondering about our orders, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho smiled. 'You are not alone. North to Biscay and the damned blockade of Brest and Lorient. Or join Lord Nelson? The dice can fall either way.'

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the other ships shortening sail in preparation for the last leg to the anchorage.

Astern of Obdurate was another veteran, Crusader. Twenty-five years old, and like most third-rates she had tasted the fire of battle many times. Bolitho had seen her at Toulon and in the West Indies, seeking French landings in Ireland, or standing in the blazing line at the Nile. Redoubtable and Capricious completed the squadron, the latter being commanded by Captain William Merrye, whose grandfather had once been an infamous smuggler; or so the story had it. Seventy-fours were the backbone of the fleet, any fleet. Bolitho glanced up at his flag at the fore. It looked right and proper there.

Then the drawn-out ceremony of gun-salutes to the Rock, repeated and acknowledged until the anchorage was partly hidden by smoke, the echoes sighing across to Algeciras like an added insult. Bolitho saw the guardboat with its huge flag and motionless oars. Marking where they should drop anchor. He thought suddenly of the Spanish boat at La Guaira, smashed apart under the schooner's stem.

'Anchor!'

They must make a fine, if familiar, sight to the people on the shore, Bolitho thought.