Broughton murmured in a tired voice, “Damn them all to hell!”

Bolitho looked up sharply as the masthead lookout shouted, “Valorous is signalling, sir!”

The admiral said bitterly, “Furneaux will be dreaming of his own future already!”

They all turned as Tothill shouted, “From Valorous, sir! Strange sail bearing west!”

“Must be almost astern of us, sir.” Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Inform the squadron.”

Broughton was almost beside himself with impatience. “She’ll put about the moment she sights us!” He peered towards Coquette. “But it’s useless to send Gillmor. He’d never be able to beat into the wind in time to engage her.”

Bolitho felt his arm throbbing, perhaps from his own excitement. The stranger could be another lone merchantman, or an enemy scout. She might even be the van of some great force of ships. He dismissed the latter idea. If the newcomer was part of the force from Cartagena he was well out of station, and the enemy would have no wish to waste any time if they were after Broughton.

He took a telescope and climbed swiftly on to the poop. It was getting less painful to manage the glass with one hand, and as he trained it past Valorous he saw a small square of sail, seemingly resting on the horizon line.

But far above the deck Ashton with his powerful telescope already had a much better view.

“Two-decker, sir!” His voice was shrill against the sounds of rigging and canvas. “Still closing!”

Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck. “It would be better if we shorten sail, sir. At least we will know for sure then.”

Broughton nodded. “Very well. Make the signal.”

Time dragged by, with the hands going for their midday meal, and the air becoming heavy with the odour of rum. There was, after all, no point in disrupting the daily routine when there was plenty of time to decide on a course of action, if any.

The other ship was coming up very fast, especially for a two-decker. It was easy to see her great spread of canvas as she plunged in pursuit. Her captain had even set her studding sails, so that the hull seemed weighed down by the towering pyramid of hard-bellied canvas.

Ashton yelled excitedly, “She’s signalling, sir!”

“For God’s sake!” Broughton was gnawing at his lip as he stared up at the midshipman on the crosstrees.

Tothill had swarmed aloft to join Ashton, and together they were already peering at their signal book, seemingly indifferent to the deck so far below their dangling legs.

Bolitho said, “A friend, sir. A reinforcement perhaps. But at least we might glean some news.”

He stared up at the masthead, unable to believe his ears as Tothill yelled, “She’s Impulsive, sir, sixty-four! Cap’n Herrick!”

Broughton turned sharply and looked at Bolitho. “Know him?”

He did not know how to answer. Thomas Herrick. How often he had thought of him and Adam, had wondered at their destinations and experiences. Now he was here. Here.