Bolitho shook himself with sudden irritation. His fatigue was playing tricks on him. Tomorrow might find their roles changed once more, with himself a prisoner and Witrand going about his mysterious affairs again, and this a mere interlude. Part of the pattern for the whole.

And that was how war must be faced. To give an enemy personality was too dangerous. To allow him to share your own hopes and fears was asking for self-destruction.

He wondered what Broughton would have done under similar circumstances, and was still thinking about it when Meheux came to relieve him.

And so, under a light wind and her sparse sails drawing well, the Navarra continued on her journey. The only sounds to mark her passing were those of the pumps, the occasional cry of a wounded man between decks and to Bolitho as he lay sleepless in his makeshift cot they seemed to sum up completely what together they had achieved.

* * *

He was shaving in the stern cabin, a broken mirror propped against a sagging bookshelf, when Meheux hurried in to announce that a sail had been sighted, almost dead astern, and moving very fast.

Bolitho looked at his torn and blackened shirt and then reluctantly pulled it over his head once more. Maybe the shave was a waste of time, but he felt better for it, even if he did still look like a ragged scarecrow in the mirror.

Meheux was watching him with silent fascination. Bolitho could feel his eyes on the razor as he wiped it on a scrap of cloth before dropping it into a bulkhead locker where he had found it.

He said slowly, “Well, Mr Meheux, there is not much we can do about it this time.”

He picked up his sword and fastened it around his waist before following Meheux on to the poop. It was early morning, and the air still fresh before the heat which would come later. He noticed the shrouds were hung with clothing, mostly women’s garments, and Meheux’ muttered apologetically, “They asked to be allowed to wash ’em, sir. But I’ll have the lot hauled down now that you are on deck.”

“No.”

Bolitho took the telescope and raised it to his eye. Then he tossed it to a seaman saying, “The glass is smashed. We will just have to wait and see.”

He walked to the taffrail and shaded his eyes against the growing glare to search for the other vessel. He saw the telltale pyramid of sails on the fine horizon line almost immediately, shining in the sunlight and very clear. A step on the deck made him turn and he saw Witrand watching him.

“You are an early riser, m’sieu.”

Witrand shrugged. “And you are very calm, Capitaine.” He looked at the sea. “Even though your freedom may be short.”

Bolitho smiled. “Tell me, Witrand, what were you doing in this ship? Where were you bound?”

The Frenchman smiled broadly. “I have lost my memory!”