Giffard and Bickford were waiting by the gig, and the marine said gruffly, “I still think we should use my men to make a forced march across country, sir.”

Bolitho studied him with something like affection. “Given more time I might agree. But you have said yourself that a few carefully placed sharpshooters could delay an army in those hills and gullies. But have no fear, I think there will be plenty of work for you soon, enough.”

To Bickford he said, “Tell Mr Fittock to set about laying charges in the magazine and lower storerooms.” He smiled at the lieutenant’s grim features. “He will, I am sure, be delighted at the prospect.”

Then he saw Calvert hurrying down the stairs, his face set in a frown of unusual determination.

He said, “With permission, sir, I would like to accompany you in Hekla.”

Bolitho was conscious of Giffard’s mouth turning down in disapproval, of some of the gig’s crew watching Calvert with curiosity, if not actual contempt.

He heard himself say, “Certainly. Get in the boat.”

Giffard said awkwardly, “I have buried the, er, basket, sir. At the end of the causeway.”

“Thank you.” Bolitho thought suddenly of the wife who waited in Bordeaux. He wondered if he would ever write and tell her where Witrand had died. That he lay beside a British lieutenant and a pimply-faced midshipman.

Then with a nod he jumped into the boat and snapped, “Cast off.”

Inch was waiting to greet him at the bomb’s low bulwark, his hat askew as he squinted towards the wavecrests beyond the headland. He saw Calvert, opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He, after all, knew Bolitho better than most. And if he did something, he usually had a damn good reason.

He watched the boat being swayed inboard on its tackles and shouted, “Stand by the capstan!” Then he looked enquiringly at Bolitho. “When you are ready, sir?”

Their eyes held. Across the years like a conspiracy. He grinned and replied, “Directly, Commander Inch!”

Inch bobbed with pleasure. “Directly it is, sir!”

* * *

After his own quarters in Euryalus the bomb’s stern cabin was like a rabbit hutch. Even here her sturdy build was very apparent, and the massive deckhead beams gave the impression they were pressing down forcibly to further restrict movement and space.

Bolitho sat on the bench seat and watched the salt spray dashing across the thick glass, feeling the shallow hull staggering and groaning in a steep beam sea as she plunged awkwardly on the larboard tack. The deckhead lanterns were gyrating wildly, and he pitied the helmsmen on the unsheltered upper deck, and those unfortunate souls aloft at this moment trying to take in another reef.

The door banged open and Allday appeared carrying a jug of coffee. He rocked back on his heels, swayed and then hurtled towards the table, cracking his head on a low beam as the Hekla pitched sickeningly into a deep trough. Miraculously none of the scalding coffee was lost, and Bolitho marvelled at the cook’s skill in such a sea.