“Two men for punishment.” Herrick saw Okes leaning against the stern windows, his face lost in thought.

Vibart leaned back in the chair. “Say ‘sir’ when you address me, Mr Herrick.” He frowned. “I can’t imagine why you make such a point of worsening your position.” He continued coldly, “Make a report in the log, Mr Herrick. Punishment at eight bells tomorrow morning. Two dozen lashes apiece.”

Herrick swallowed. “But I have not told you their offence yet, sir!”

“No need.” Vibart gestured towards the open skylight. “I happened to overhear your nonsensical conversation with Mr Evans just now. And I must warn you I do not approve of your apparent wish to toady with men who lie and steal!”

Herrick felt the cabin closing in around him. “Is that all?” He swallowed again. “Sir?”

“For the present.” Vibart looked almost relaxed. “We will alter course to the south’ard in one hour. Try and make sure that the men do not slacken off during your watch.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Herrick contracted his stomach muscles into a tight knot.

Outside the cabin he turned momentarily and looked back. The door was shut again and the marine sentry stared blankly in front of him beneath the swinging lantern. It was just as if Pomfret had returned and now sat back there in the big cabin. Herrick shook his head and mounted the ladder to the quarterdeck. It was all moving so much to a pattern again that he found himself wondering if Pomfret had been the controlling influence which had made the Phalarope into a living hell!

When he returned to the deck he saw that the sun had already moved closer to the horizon. The sea was empty, a great desert of silver and purple hues, with an horizon like a knife edge.

Out here a ship’s captain was God indeed, he thought bitterly. Only under Bolitho had he felt the meaning of purpose and understanding, and after Pomfret it had seemed like a new chance of life.

He looked aft to the taffrail as if expecting to see Bolitho’s tall shape watching the trim of the sails or just waiting for the sun to reach the horizon. Herrick had never disturbed Bolitho at those moments, but had drawn on each occasion to better his own understanding of the man. In his mind’s eye he could still see the strong profile, the firm mouth which could be amused and sad almost at the same instant. It did not seem possible that such a man could be wiped out like something from a slate.

He resumed his slow pacing, his chin low on his chest. In this world, he thought, you could never depend on anything.

* * *

To the tired men in the longboat the night seemed cold and cheerless, and even those who had cursed the blazing sunlight and bemoaned their urgent thirst found no comfort from the darkness.

Bolitho groped his way aft to where Farquhar was sitting beside the tiller. With Stockdale’s assistance he had just dropped a dead seaman over the side while the other men had watched in silence. The sailor in question had been spared the worst of his wound and the suffering of pain and thirst by remaining almost unconscious from the moment he had been shot down by the sloop’s deck watch. The longboat was moving so slowly under her small sail that it seemed to take an age for the corpse to bob astern. There was not even an anchor to weight the man’s body. In fact there was not much of anything. Just a cask of rancid water and little more than a day’s ration of a cup per man.