But he answered readily, “I am all right, sir. It will soon pass.”

“You acted well.”

Bolitho guessed that Ashton was probably thinking too of his future. He was only seventeen, and had already shown promise and no little ability. Now his prospects might seem dark and empty. Prison, or even death by fever in some forgotten enemy garrison. He was too junior and unimportant to be considered for exchange, even if the proper authorities ever gave it a thought.

Bolitho tried to picture his own ship, where she now lay and what Broughton might be doing. The admiral had probably dismissed them all from his thoughts. The storm, the likelihood of the Navarra’s foundering, would soon make him look on them as memories and little more.

He stirred against the cask, hating the iron around his ankles. He had been a prisoner before, but could find no solace in the memory. Then there had been a chance, although very slight, of escape and turning the tables on his captors. And always the real possibility of other British ships arriving to assist him. A slight chance could always offer hope. But now there was nothing like that. Euryalus would not return to look for him. How could she when the very mission they had come to do still lay untouched?

His stomach contracted, and he realised he had not eaten since yesterday. It seemed like a week ago. The ordered world of his own ship, a sense of being and belonging.

He pictured Pareja’s wife, probably retelling Witrand how easy it had been to delay him from seeking him out from amongst the other passengers. Or maybe she was up there weeping, watching her elderly husband kicking out his breath at the mainyard on the end of a rope. Where had she come from? And what would bring a woman like her to this part of the world? Another puzzle, and one which would now stay unanswered.

Feet scraped beyond the door and Allday said hotly, “Come to gloat no doubt! The bastards!”

The bolt was withdrawn and Bolitho saw Witrand squinting into the storeroom, two armed men at his back.

The Frenchman said, “I would like you to come on deck, Capitaine.”

He sounded calm enough, yet there was something about him which made Bolitho stiffen with interest. Maybe a wind was returning at last and Witrand had less confidence in the crew than he pretended. But the deck felt as sluggish as before, the mournful clank of pumps just as regular.

He asked coldly, “Why must I come? I am content to stay here.”

Witrand gestured to one of his men, who stepped cautiously inside with a key for the leg irons. He snapped, “Prisoners have no choice! You will do as I order!”

Bolitho watched the seaman unlocking the irons, his mind grappling with Witrand’s sudden change of manner. He was worried.

Meheux helped him to his feet and said, “Take care, sir.” He sounded just that much too bright, Bolitho reflected, and was probably imagining his captain was about to be interrogated, or worse.