The masthead lookout yelled, “She’s a frigate, sir!”

Meheux asked quietly, “What do you think, sir? Shall we alter course and make a run for it?” Then he smiled sheepishly as Bolitho pointed at the reefed topsail and listing deck. “I agree, sir. There is little point.”

Bolitho thrust his hands behind him, trying not to show his disappointment. A frigate could mean only one thing. An enemy.

Witrand said quietly, “I understand your feelings, Capitaine. Can I do something to assist you? A letter per’aps to a loved one? It might take months otherwise . . .” His eyes fell to the sword as Bolitho’s fingers touched the hilt. “I could send the sword to England.” He added gently, “Better that than to let some dockside dealer get his claws around it, eh?”

Bolitho turned to watch the other ship which was so rapidly overhauling the crippled Navarra it made him feel as if they were on converging courses. He could see her bulging topsails and top-gallants, the bright tongue of her masthead pendant as she pushed and plunged across the dancing water in full pursuit.

There was a puff of brown smoke, gone instantly in the wind, and then a bang. Seconds later a tall waterspout shot skywards within fifty feet of the larboard quarter.

Muffled cries floated through the open hatches, and Bolitho said dully, “Heave to, Mr Meheux.” He glanced up at the main-mast and asked, “Where is the flag?”

“I am sorry, sir.” Meheux seemed stunned. “We used it to cover Mr Grindle before he was buried.”

“Yes.” Bolitho twisted round so that they should not see his expression. “Well, run it up now, if you please.”

Meheux hurried away, calling the seamen from the gangways and ratlines where they had been clinging to watch the newcomer.

Minutes later, with her ensign flapping against the dear sky, the Navarra rounded into the wind, her loose canvas banging in protest, her decks crowded with figures who had swarmed up from below to see what was happening.

Bolitho steadied himself against the uneven motion and walked slowly to Witrand’s side.

“Your offer, m’sieu. Was it genuine?” Bolitho moved his fingers around the buckle of the sword-belt, his eyes hidden as he said, “There is someone. I . . .”

He broke off and swung round as a great burst of cheering floated across the water.

The frigate was sweeping down to run across their quarter, and as she tacked violently in the wind he saw a flag breaking from her gaff. It was the same as his own, and he had to look away once more, unable to hide his emotion.

Ashton was dancing up and down yelling, “She’s Coquette, sir!”

Meheux’s face was split in half with a huge grin, and he slapped Allday’s shoulder as he shouted wildly, “Well then!” Another slap. “Well then, eh?” It was all he could find to say.

Bolitho looked across at the Frenchman. Then he said, “It will not be necessary, m’sieu.” He saw the understanding in the man’s yellow eyes. “But thank you.”