Bolitho looked at him. This was a moment when life might end. Also he might never see Allday again if they became separated.

He replied quietly, “He is a friend, m’sieu.”

Witrand sighed. “And that is something rare.” He smiled sadly. “He may stay with you. But any trick, and you will be killed.” He shot Pareja a scathing glance. “Like traitors, there is only one true solution.”

Bolitho turned towards the companion ladder, seeing the faces of the nearby passengers, and Pareja’s wife by the poop. She was standing very still, only the quick movement of her breast displaying any sort of emotion. Something squeaked, and when he turned his head he saw the white ensign was already fluttering down from the mainmast.

Like the loss of his sword, it seemed to symbolise the completeness of his defeat.

* * *

Bolitho rested his back against a massive cask of salt beef, listening to the muffled sounds beyond the door and conscious of his companions’ silence. But for a tiny circular port in the door, through which he could see the feeble light of a lantern, the place where he and the others were imprisoned was in total darkness. He was thankful for that. He did not want them to see his face or his despair.

He heard the chain move, felt the irons about his ankles jerk slightly as Meheux or one of the others changed his position. Allday was sitting next to him, sharing the same cask to rest his back, and Grindle was on the opposite side of the tiny storeroom shackled to Ashton. Each wrapped in his own thoughts. Brooding perhaps on the twist of fate which had brought them here.

It was impossible to tell what was happening elsewhere in the ship. The pumps had not stopped, but occasionally they had heard other sounds. Shouts and curses, and a woman sobbing and screaming. Once there had been another pistol shot, and Bolitho imagined that Witrand was having difficulty in controlling the Spanish crew. After the Euryalus’s deadly cannon fire, the storm and the humiliation of being seized as a prize, it was easy to picture the scene between decks. Without their own familiar officers and sense of purpose, any discipline might soon give way to a drunken disorganised chaos.

The wind had not returned. Just feeling the ship’s slow, uneasy motion, the useless clatter of loose gear, told him that much.

Meheux said savagely, “If ever I live to get my hands on those drunkards I’ll have them flogged to ribbons, the useless buggers!”

Bolitho replied, “The brandy was a clever ruse on Witrand’s part.” He added with sudden bitterness, “I should have made a thorough search.”

Grindle said worriedly, “You was too busy savin’ their lives for that, sir. No use in blamin’ yerself.”

“I’ll agree with that.” Allday stirred restlessly. “Should have left ’em to rot!”

Bolitho called, “Are you feeling better, Mr Ashton?” He was worried about the midshipman. When he had been dragged into the storeroom he had seen the bloody bandage around his head, and how pale he had appeared. It seemed that Ashton had tried to hold off the attackers on his own, calling for his men, who unknown to him were already too drunk to help even themselves. Someone had clubbed him brutally with a musket, and he had not spoken more than a few words since.