“What in hell’s name are they doing over there?” He trained the glass on the other ship which still drifted about half a cable under the Euryalus’s lee.

Bolitho did not answer. He too was studying her as she yawed and plunged, the newly hoisted white ensign flapping jauntily from her mainmast to prove that Lieutenant Meheux and his boarding party had at least achieved something.

He glanced up at the flapping sails and rattling shrouds. It was nearly an hour since the boats had been lowered to take Meheux and his men across to the prize, and in that time there had been a distinct and worrying change in the weather. The sky was clouding over very rapidly, so that the sea had lost its colour and warmth, and the fast-moving crests of the steep waves were dirty grey and menacing. Only the horizon appeared clear, cold and steel bright, as if being lit by power other than the setting sun. Without consulting the masthead pendant he knew the wind had backed still further, and now blew almost from the west, its strength mounting with each frustrating minute.

They were in for a blow, and, hampered by the disabled ship and very little information from Meheux, it could not have been at a worse time.

Broughton snapped, “The jolly boat’s returning. And about damn time!”

Watching the small boat under oars as it dipped and curtsied over crest and trough alike was visible evidence of the worsening weather.

The other boats had already been recalled and hoisted inboard, this one being Meheux’s only link with the flagship.

In the sternsheets Bolitho saw the intent figure of Midshipman Ashton, who with a master’s mate and reliable petty officer had been sent with Meheux to take charge of the prize.

While the little boat wallowed sickeningly below the Euryalus’s quarter Ashton cupped his hands and yelled, “She’s badly holed, sir! And the rudder lines have been shot away!”

Bolitho craned over the rail, conscious of the men nearby listening to him as he shouted, “What is she? What is taking so long?”

Ashton replied, “The Navarra, sir. Outward bound from Malaga.” He almost pitched overboard as an angry wave hurled the boat into a trough. “General cargo and, and . . .” He seemed aware of the admiral’s presence for the first time. “And a lot of passengers, sir.”

“For God’s sake, Bolitho! Ask the young idiot about her captain’s explanation!”

But in reply Ashton called, “He was killed in the broadside, sir. And most of his officers.” He peered up at Bolitho adding miserably, “The ship is in a terrible state, sir.”

Bolitho beckoned to Keverne. “I think you had better go across. The sea is getting up, and there seems more to our prize than we thought.”

But Broughton halted Keverne in his stride. “Belay that order!” He looked at Bolitho, his eyes cold in the strange light. “And if Keverne cannot cope with the problem, what then? More delay, with us getting caught in a squall in the middle of it. You go.” He flinched as overhead the shrouds and rigging began to hum and whine like badly tuned instruments. “Decide what must be done, and be sharp about it. I do not want to lose her, but rather than waste hours or even days struggling back to the squadron with a lame duck for company, I’ll scuttle her, here and now.” He sensed Bolitho’s unspoken question and added, “We can take the crew and passengers aboard if need be.”