Almost as large as a sloop, yet with neither the grace nor the agility, a bomb was said to be the devil to handle in anything but perfect conditions.

As the boat hooked on to the chains he saw Draffen standing alone in the centre of the tiny quarterdeck shading his eyes to watch him climb aboard.

Bolitho raised his hat as the small side party shrilled a salute, and nodded to a young lieutenant who was watching him with a kind of fascination.

Draffen called, “Come up here, Bolitho. You’ll get a better view.”

Bolitho took Draffen’s proffered hand. Like the man, it was tough and hard. He said, “That lieutenant. Is he the captain?”

“No. I sent him below just before you came aboard.” He shrugged. “Sorry if I disturbed your traditional ceremonial, but I wanted my chart from his cabin.” He grinned. “Cabin indeed. My watchdog has better quarters.”

He gestured forward. “No wonder they build these bombs the way they do. Every timber is twice as thick as that in any other vessel. The recoil and downward shock of those beauties would tear the guts out of a lesser hull.”

Bolitho followed his hand and saw the two massive mortars mounted in the centre of the foredeck. Short, black and incredibly ugly, they nevertheless had a muzzle diameter of over a foot each. He could imagine without effort the great strain they would put on the timbers, to say nothing of those at the receiving end of their bombardment.

The other vessel anchored close abeam was very similar, and aptly named Devastation.

Draffen added half to himself, “The bombs will sail at night. No sense in letting those jackals at Algeciras know too much too early, eh?”

Bolitho nodded. It made good sense. He looked sideways at the other man as Draffen turned to watch some seamen flaking down a rope with the ease of spiders constructing a web.

Draffen was older than he had imagined. Nearer sixty than fifty, his grey hair contrasting sharply with his tanned features and brisk, muscular figure.

He said, “The news from England was bad, sir. I heard it from Sir Lucius.”

Draffen sounded indifferent. “Some people never learn.” He did not explain what he meant but instead turned and said, “About your brother. I met him when he commanded that privateer. I understand you destroyed his ship eventually.” His eyes softened slightly. “I have been learning quite a lot about you lately, and that piece of information makes me especially envious. I hope I could do what you did if called.” The mood changed again as he added, “Of course. I cannot possibly believe all I’ve heard about you. No man can be that good.” He grinned at Bolitho’s uncertainty and pointed over his shoulder. “Now take what the Hekla’s commander has told me, for instance. Never heard the like!”

Bolitho swung round and then stared with astonishment. The man facing him, his long, horse-face changing from confusion to something like wild delight, was Francis Inch, no longer a mere lieutenant, but wearing the single epaulette on his left shoulder. Commander Inch, Hyperion’s first lieutenant at that final, bloody embrace with Lequiller’s ships in the Bay of Biscay.