As the lieutenant hurried away to rouse the weary seamen Allday asked, “Shall I go and find the cook, Captain? ’Tis my belief that a hot meal can work wonders when all else has failed.” He stiffened as Witrand’s figure moved below the poop. “And him, will I clap him in irons as he deserves?”

Bolitho studied him impassively. “He’ll be no more trouble, Allday. While there is a fear of pirates hereabouts, I think our authority will stand.” He turned away. “Yes, you may put the cook to work.” As Allday walked to the companion he added, “And thank you.”

Allday paused with one foot hanging in space. “Captain?”

But Bolitho did not say any more, and after a further hesitation Allday clattered down the ladder, his mind grappling with this new and strangely disturbing mood.

At midnight, as the Navarra sailed slowly into a deepening darkness Bolitho stood by the lee gangway, his hair stirring in the cool wind, while more of the dead were buried. He had no prayer book, and there was no Spanish priest amongst the passengers to read over those who had died in or after the fighting.

In a way, he thought, the silence was more moving and sincere, and he was conscious of the other sounds: of sea and canvas, of shrouds and the creak of the tiller. A more fitting epitaph for men who had once lived off the sea which was now to receive them forever.

Grindle and Pareja had been buried together, and Bolitho had seen Ashton rubbing his eyes as the master’s mate had splashed down alongside.

Meheux called, “That’s the lot, sir.”

His voice was hushed, and Bolitho was thankful to have him here. Meheux understood without being told that the dead were being buried at night to make it as easy as possible for those who remained alive. There was absolutely no sense in adding to their grief, and there would be more dead tomorrow, he was certain of that.

He replied, “Very well. I suggest you trim the main yard, and then dismiss the watch below. You and I will stand watch and watch, though I doubt anyone will want to usurp our doubtful privilege.”

Meheux said simply, “I am proud to share it with you, sir.”

Bolitho turned and walked up the tilting deck until he had reached the taffrail. The western horizon was very dark, and even the ship’s lively wake was difficult to see.

Below his feet, in the gutted stern cabin he could hear McEwen whistling softly as he fussed over his thirty-two-pounder. It was strange how safe they all seemed to feel. How assured.

He turned his head as the Spanish seamen finished trimming the main yard and noisily secured the braces to their belaying pins. Even they—who because of the stroke of some politician’s or monarch’s pen were deemed to be enemies—appeared content under his command.

He smiled wearily at his grotesque thoughts, the ramblings of his mind, and began to pace slowly back and forth across the poop. Once, as his eye fell on the nearest hatchway, he recalled the bearded giant with his axe, and wondered what would have happened but for Witrand’s quick action. With his second pistol he could just as easily have killed him too. In the grim business of hurling the boarders back over the side no one would have noticed an additional shot. Perhaps even Witrand felt safer with him alive.