Bolitho sank into the sternsheets and stared up at the glittering ceiling of stars. “Keep her due south if you can.” He felt dry and aching with fatigue. “I wish we could get a bit more wind in this wretched sail.”

Farquhar said, “I think the boat would sink, sir! It feels rotten and worm-eaten!”

Bolitho eased his legs and thought back over the long, slow passage of time. If that was only the first day, he pondered, what would happen in the next? And the next after that?

The men were quiet enough, but that too could be dangerous. The first relief at escaping from the French could soon give way to mistrust and recriminations. The misery of being a prisoner of war might soon appear comfort itself compared with a living death without food or water.

Farquhar said absently, “In Hampshire there will be snow on the hills now, I expect. All the sheep will be brought down to their feed, and the farm workers will be drinking good ale by their fire-sides.” He licked his lips. “A few will be thinking of us maybe.”

Bolitho nodded, feeling his eyelids droop. “A few.” He thought of his father in the big house and the row of watchful portraits. After this there would be no heir to carry on the family’s name, he thought dully. Maybe some rich merchant would buy the house when his father died, and would find time to wonder at the portraits and the other relics of deeds and men soon forgotten. He said, “I am going to try and sleep for an hour. Call me if you need anything.”

He closed his eyes and did not even hear Farquhar’s reply.

Then he was aware of his arm being tugged and of the boat swaying and rolling as the listless seamen came to life and crowded excitedly in the bows. For a moment longer he imagined that he was dreaming. Then he heard Farquhar shout, “Look, sir! She came to look for us after all!”

Bolitho staggered to his feet, his sore eyes probing over the heads of his men as he tried to pierce the darkness. Then he saw it. It was more an absence of familiar stars than an actual outline, but as he stared he began to see the contours of something darker and sharper. A ship.

He snapped, “Make a light, Stockdale! Fire some of those rags!”

The sliver of moon struck silver from the distant sails, and against the night’s dark blackcloth Bolitho could see the darker tracery of raked masts and rigging. It was a frigate right enough.

The makeshift flare sizzled and then burst into flames, so that once more the eyes were blinded and limited to the small confines of the boat. Some men were cheering, others merely hugged each other and grinned like children.

“Now we shall get an answer to the mystery, Mr Farquhar.” Bolitho pushed the tiller over as the ship changed shape and moved silently above them. He could hear the creak of yards, the sudden flurry of canvas as the frigate started to back her sails and heave-to. He thought he heard a distant hail and the sound of running feet.