Bolitho watched him in silence. He was still angry at Broughton’s slanderous attack on Herrick, but at the same time he could guess the full extent of his disappointment and despair. Auriga was indeed a symbol, but not as described by Broughton. To the admiral she represented the very beginning of his misfortune, almost from the moment he had hoisted his flag at the foremast.

He said, “I believe that Captain Herrick’s discovery of the Auriga was a pure accident, sir. Just as his arrival here was totally unexpected, so too the enemy would have been surprised.”

Broughton tore his mind from some inner thought. “So?”

“Our departure from Gibraltar was seen, and we have been sighted by other enemy ships, and some which we might not even have known were there.” He persisted, seeing the returning hostility in Broughton’s eyes. “After all, sir, why should Auriga come here?”

“I have no more idea of that than you, Bolitho.” His voice was icy. “But I am going to find and take her. When we return to the fleet it will be as a complete squadron. One which will be ready to re-enter the Mediterranean and act with the full authority at my disposal!”

He made as if to walk away and then added, “Inform me the moment you sight Coquette!” Then he strode beneath the poop.

Bolitho walked to the rail and stood looking down at the sailmaker and his mates squatting on every square foot of deck, needles flashing while they carried out their endless repairs to some of the canvas. Everywhere around and above him there were men at work. Splicing and greasing, reeving new lines or merely putting a touch of paint where it was most needed. A squad of marines was climbing heavily to the foretop to do their drill at a swivel gun, and on the larboard gangway he saw Pascoe in close conversation with Meheux.

All this was what Broughton had failed to see. He saw all these men as some sort of threat, or a form of weakness which might imperil his own set plans. Yet here was the true strength, without which any ship was just timber and cordage. Broughton spoke often enough of loyalty, but he had failed to realise that it was merely another word for trust. And trust was two-sided, not the personal possession of one man.

He looked up sharply as Tothill called, “Gunfire, sir!”

Bolitho pressed his hand on the rail and leaned forward, straining his ears above the constant shipboard sounds. There it was, very faint, like surf booming in a deep cave. But it would be faint, with the wind so strong across the larboard quarter.

Trute, who was carrying a tray of empty mugs, was almost knocked from his feet as Broughton burst from beneath the poop, his face contorted with sudden agitation. He was hatless, and still carrying a pen in his hand like a baton.

“Did you hear that?” He peered round at the swaying figures of the watchkeepers. “Well, did you?” He crossed to Bolitho’s side, his eyes slitted in the sunlight. “What price your damn caution now?”