“Captain James Rook, sir.” The newcomer replaced his hat and glanced rapidly around him. He was well past middle age, and must have been brought back to the Service to replace a younger man. “I am in charge of harbour patrols and impressment, sir.” He faltered, some of the sureness leaving him under Bolitho’s impassive grey eyes. “Do I have the honour of addressing Sir Charles Thelwall’s flag captain?”

“You do.”

Bolitho glanced past him and down into the cutter. There was a mounted swivel gun aboard, and several armed men beside the normal crew.

He added calmly, “Are you expecting an attack?”

The man did not reply directly. “I have brought a despatch for your admiral.” He cleared his throat, as if very aware of the watching faces all around him. “Perhaps if we might go aft, sir?”

“Of course.”

Bolitho was getting unreasonably irritated by the man’s ponderous and evasive manner. They had their orders, and nothing this captain could tell him would not keep until later.

He stopped at the top of the ladder and turned sharply. “Sir Charles has been unwell. Can this matter not wait?”

Captain Rook took a deep breath, and Bolitho caught the heavy smell of brandy before he replied softly, “Then you do not know? You have not been in contact with the fleet?”

Bolitho snapped, “For God’s sake stop beating around the bush, man! I have a ship to provision, sick men to be got ashore, and two hundred other things to do today. Surely you cannot have forgotten what it is like to command a ship?” He reached out and touched his arm. “Forgive me. That was unfair.” He had seen the sudden hurt in the man’s eyes and was ashamed at his own impatience. His nerves must be more damaged than he had imagined, he thought bitterly.

Captain Rook dropped his eyes. “Mutiny, sir.” His single hand moved up his coat and unbuttoned it carefully to reveal a heavy, red-sealed envelope.

Bolitho stared at the busy hand, his mind still ringing with that one terrible word. Mutiny, he had said, but where? The castle looked as usual, the flag shining like coloured metal at the top of its lofty staff. The garrison would have little cause to mutiny anyway. They were mostly local volunteers or militia and knew they were far better off defending their own homes than plodding through mud or desert in some far-off campaign.

Rook said slowly, “The fleet at Spithead. It broke out last month and the ships were seized by their people until certain demands were met.” He shrugged awkwardly. “It is finished now. Lord Howe confronted the ringleaders and the Channel Fleet is at sea again.” He looked hard at Bolitho. “It is well your squadron was in ignorance. It might have gone badly with you otherwise.”

Bolitho looked past him and saw Keverne and several of his officers watching from the opposite side of the deck. They would sense something was wrong. But when they really knew . . . He deliberately turned away from them.