Gillmor said sharply, “Had I been there, I’d have sunk both of ’em rather than let such a thing occur.”

Furneaux drawled, “But you were not there, young fellow, so you are conveniently spared any of the blame, eh?”

“That will do, gentlemen.” Bolitho stepped between them, aware of the sudden tension. “What happened, happened. Recriminations will help no one, unless they are used to act as a guard and a warning.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We will have plenty of work to do before long, so save your energy for that.”

The doors opened and Broughton, followed by Draffen and the flag-lieutenant, entered the cabin.

Broughton nodded curtly. “Be seated, gentlemen.” He shook his head as the servant offered him a glass. “Wait outside until I have finished.”

Bolitho noticed that Draffen had gone to the stern windows, either disinterested in what was happening or placing himself where he could see their faces without being observed himself.

Broughton cleared his throat and glanced at Draffen’s squat figure, almost black against the sunlit windows.

“As you are well aware, our fleet has been excluded from the Mediterranean since the close of last year. Bonaparte’s advances and conquests in Italy and Genoa closed all harbours against us, and it was found necessary to withdraw.”

Draffen crossed from the window. It was a quick, agile movement, and his words matched his obvious impatience.

“If I may interrupt, Sir Lucius?” He turned his back on Broughton without awaiting a reply. “We will cut this short. I have little use for the Navy’s indulgence in its own affairs.” He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling together like crow’s-feet. “England is alone in a war against a dedicated and, if you will pardon the expression, a professional adversary. With the fleets of France and Spain combining at Brest for one great attack, and then invasion of England, the withdrawal of ships to reinforce the Channel and Atlantic fleets seemed not only prudent but greatly urgent.”

Bolitho eyed Broughton narrowly, expecting some sign of anger or resentment, but his face was like stone.

Draffen continued briskly, “Jervis’s victory over that combined fleet at St Vincent has postponed, maybe smashed altogether, any chance of a military invasion across the English Channel, and has also proved the poorness of co-operation between the Franco-Spanish Alliance at sea. So it would seem sensible to assume that Bonaparte will spread his influence elsewhere, and soon.”

Broughton said suddenly, “Shall I continue?”

“If you wish.” Draffen took out a watch. “But please be quick.”

Broughton swallowed hard. “This squadron will be the first force of any size to re-enter the Mediterranean.” He got no further.

“Look at this chart, gentlemen.” Draffen snatched it from Lieutenant Calvert’s hand and opened it on the table.

As the others crowded closer Bolitho darted another glance at Broughton. He looked pale, and for a few seconds he saw his eyes gleaming with anger across Draffen’s broad back.

“Here, two hundred and fifty miles along the Spanish coast is Cartagena, where many of their ships were based prior to sailing for Brest.” Bolitho followed the man’s spatulate finger as it crossed southward over the Mediterranean to the craggy outline of the Algerian coast. “South-east from Spain, a mere one hundred and fifty miles, lies Djafou.”