Buddle, the purser, had been to see him this forenoon, his face gloomy as he had told of falling water supplies and several rancid casks of meat. Throughout the squadron it was the same. You could not expect this many men to be without replenishment for so long, especially as there was still no certainty of obtaining more water and provisions.

He sighed and looked at the door as it closed behind the surgeon.

“So we have Sawle promoted to fifth lieutenant to replace Lucey. That still leaves a vacancy in the wardroom.” He was thinking aloud. “Midshipman Tothill might be able to take it, but . . .”

Keverne said shortly, “He is only seventeen and has had little experience of gunnery. In any case, he is too useful with his signals to be spared as yet.” He grinned. “In my opinion, sir.”

“I am afraid I agree.” He listened to the shoes pacing back and forth. “We will have to see what we can do.”

Keverne gathered up the papers and asked, “What are our chances of finding the enemy, sir?”

He shrugged. “In all truth, I do not know.” He wanted Keverne to leave so that he could try to exercise his arm and shoulder. “Coquette and Restless should be cruising off Cartagena by now. Maybe they will return soon with new intelligence.”

There was a rap on the door and Midshipman Ashton stepped into the cabin. He no longer wore a bandage around his head and seemed to have recovered from his tough handling better than anyone had expected.

“Sir. Mr Weigall’s respects, and a sail has been sighted to the nor’ east.”

Bolitho looked at Keverne and smiled. “Sooner than I thought. I will go on deck.”

On the quarterdeck it was blazing hot, and although the sails were drawing well to a steady north-westerly, there was little freshness to ease the demands of watchkeeping.

Weigall was watching the poop, as if afraid he would not hear Bolitho’s approach.

“Masthead reports that she looks like a frigate, sir.”

To confirm his words the voice pealed down again, “Deck there! She’s Coquette!”

Broughton came down from the poop with unusual haste. “Well?”

Ashton was already swarming into the shrouds with a big telescope, and Bolitho said quietly, “What would we do without frigates?”

Minutes ticked past, and by the compass a ship’s boy upended the half-hour glass under Partridge’s watchful eye.

Then Ashton yelled, “From Coquette, sir!” The merest pause. “Negative.”

Broughton swung away, his voice harsh. “Nothing there. The ships have sailed.” He turned to Bolitho, his eyes squinting against the glare. “We must have missed them! God, we’ll not see them again!”

Bolitho watched the frigate swinging round on her new tack, the big black and white flag still streaming from her yard. One flag, yet to Broughton and perhaps many more it meant so much. The enemy ships had quit the harbour and by now could be almost anywhere. While the squadron had floundered around Djafou, and had exhausted their resources in the fruitless business of capture and demolition, the enemy had vanished.