Without awaiting the admiral’s comments he said, “Signal her captain to repair on board forthwith.”

Then he turned and looked at the admiral, his eyes calm again. “With your permission, sir, I would like to attempt what we came to do.” He paused, seeing the flush mounting to Broughton’s checks. “Unless you would still prefer to ally yourself with pirates?”

Broughton swallowed hard and then replied, “Report to me when Hekla’s captain is come aboard.” Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the poop.

Bolitho looked down at his hands. They were shaking, yet quite normal in appearance. His whole body seemed to be quivering, and for a brief instant he imagined his old fever was returning.

But it was not the fever. It was something far more powerful.

Keverne crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Strange-looking craft, sir.” He faltered under Bolitho’s gaze. “The bomb, I meant, sir.”

Bolitho smiled, the tension draining out of him like blood.

“Just now she is the most welcome sight I have seen for a long, long while, Mr Keverne.” He plucked at his shirt and added, “I will go aft and change. Call me when the Hekla’s boat is near. I want to greet her captain myself.” Then he strode away.

Keverne said, “You know, I think I may never understand our captain.”

Weigall swung round from the rail. “What? What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Keverne walked to the opposite side. “Return to your dreams, Mr Weigall.”

He glanced up at Broughton’s flag flapping from the foremast and found himself wondering at the swift change in Bolitho’s mood. But it did appear as if the waiting was done, and that at least was something.

* * *

After the furnace heat of the day the night air was almost icy. Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets of his barge and signalled to Allday with his arm.

Allday barked, “Easy all!” and as one the oars rose dripping from the water and remained still, so that the dying bow wave gurgling around the stem seemed suddenly very loud.

Bolitho turned and strained his eyes into the darkness astern. They were following, and he could see the dancing phosphorescence around the two leading boats like bright clinging weed and occasional white feathers from the muffled oars.

The first boat loomed from the darkness and hands reached out to seize the gunwales to prevent further sound from any sort of collision. It was Lieutenant Bickford, his voice serious and quite normal, as if he were reporting his division for inspection.

“The rest are close astern of me, sir. How much further, do you think?”

Bolitho felt the two hulls rising and falling on the deep inshore swell, and wondered where the squadron had reached when the wind had at last decided to fade to a light breeze. All day, as he and the others had worked to put his plan of attack into motion, he had expected it to drop, a kind of inbuilt instinct which he could never properly explain. If it had done so before he was ready the plan would have had to be postponed, perhaps cancelled altogether.