A step sounded beside him and Broughton said quietly, “He seems to be taking it well enough.” No concern or real interest. Just a casual comment.

Just as suddenly it was over, and as the boat cast off again to continue its way to the next ship Bolitho saw Taylor trying to turn his head to look up at him. But he did not have the strength.

Bolitho turned away, sickened by the sight of the contorted face, the broken lips, the thing which had once been John Taylor.

He said harshly, “Dismiss the hands, Mr Keverne.” He glanced involuntarily back again at the re-formed procession. Two more ships to go. He would never live through it. A younger man possibly, but not Taylor.

He heard Broughton’s voice again, very near. “If he had not been one of your old ship’s company—er, the Sparrow was it?”—he sighed—“you would not have felt so involved, so vulnerable.”

When Bolitho did not reply he added curtly, “An example had to be made. They’ll not forget it, I think.”

Bolitho straightened his back and faced him, his voice steady as he replied, “Neither will I, sir.”

For just a few more seconds their eyes held, and then the shutter seemed to fall as Broughton said, “I am going below. Make the signal for all captains as soon as possible.” Then he was gone.

Bolitho took a grip of his thoughts, his anger and disgust.

“Mr Keverne, you will instruct the midshipmen of the watch to bend the signal for all captains to repair on board.”

Keverne watched him curiously. “When shall it be hoisted, sir?”

A voice called, “Signal from Valorous, sir. Prisoner has died under punishment.”

Bolitho kept his eyes on Keverne. “You may hoist it now.” Then he turned on his heel and strode aft to his cabin.

5

A BAD BEGINNING

SHARP at two bells of the forenoon watch Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton strode on to the Euryalus’s quarterdeck. After nodding briskly to Bolitho he took a glass from a midshipman and proceeded to study each ship of his squadron in turn.

Bolitho ran his eye quickly along the upper deck where gun crews were going through their drill, watched with extra attention, now that the admiral had arrived, by Meheux, his round-faced second lieutenant.

It had been three days since they had sailed from Falmouth, a long, slow three days during which they had logged a mere four hundred miles. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, his body angled against the steep tilt, as with her consorts Euryalus plunged ponderously on a slow starboard tack, her great yards braced round, the straining topsails hard-bellied like metal in the wind.

Not that it had been bad sailing weather, quite the reverse. Skirting the Bay of Biscay, for instance, Partridge, the master, had remarked that he had rarely seen it so favourable. Now, with a freshening north-westerly ruffling the sea into an endless panorama of crisp whitecaps it seemed likely the opportunity was going. It would soon be time to reef, rather than make more sail.