He said, “Signal Tanais to make more sail, if you please. She is out of station again.”

Keverne frowned and touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the weather side and commenced his morning pacing. Tanais was a little to leeward of the line, but hardly sufficient to warrant a signal under their peculiar circumstances. Every ship was doing her best, and the squadron had logged in almost regular seven knots since the last alteration of course. Keverne was probably thinking he had mentioned it merely to remind him of the earlier collision with the two-decker. Imagined perhaps that Bolitho was making an offhand criticism.

His feet moved faster in time with his thoughts. Keverne could think what he liked. There was more than his comfort at stake this morning. On the face of it Broughton’s insistence was fair enough. Coquette and Restless had been off the Spanish coast when the captured frigate had somehow passed between the separated groups of vessels. It was equally possible that Auriga could not regain the Spanish coast without losing her lead and exposing herself to a clash with the pursuers. The prevailing north-west wind, which was so favourable to Broughton’s ships, would soon make short work of Auriga’s advantage. He frowned. It was getting him nowhere. Anyway, that was yesterday, when there had still been some real hope of a capture. But Auriga’s captain may have had no intention of turning towards Spain or France. Majorca or Port Mahon, further east even to some secret mission all of her own, she might be heading on and on with all the speed her sails could muster.

Perhaps if he had not been so concerned with his own personal affairs, his pleasure at seeing the boy again he might have confronted Broughton earlier. He frowned angrily. Always the perhaps and the maybe.

“Good morning, sir.”

He halted and saw Pascoe watching him from the top of the starboard gangway.

Bolitho relaxed slightly. “How are you settling in?”

The boy nodded. “I have been all over the ship, sir.” He looked suddenly grave. “It is hard to realise that it was here where the French surrendered.” He walked a few paces aft and stared at the damp. “I was thinking of Mr Selby, the master’s mate, who died to save me. I often think about him.”

Bolitho clenched his hand behind him. Would it never end? Always Hugh seemed to be at his shoulder, making mock of his efforts to forget. What would Adam say now, this second, if he knew Selby had been his own father? Perhaps their blood had been so strong that even the deception had been only temporary.

He knew too that the boy’s words had made him realise something else. He was jealous. Jealous because he still remembered a father he had not knowingly seen, and because it was something which could not be shared. Suppose he did discover the truth about Hugh and learn that his identity even at the moment of death had been denied him? At the time it had been vital for his own safety, as it was now for the boy’s future. But would those things seem important to him if he found the truth?