He said, “Lower the sail, Stockdale! You men forrard, get ready to catch a line!” But nobody needed any encouragement from him.

The bowsprit swung dizzily barely feet away, and as Stockdale lit another crude flare Bolitho felt the grip of ice around his heart. The frigate’s figurehead danced and flickered in the light as if it was alive. A gilt-painted demon wielding a pair of furnace irons like weapons of war.

Stockdale threw the flare into the water and turned to stare at Bolitho. “Did you see, sir? Did you see?”

Bolitho let his arm go limp. “Yes, Stockdale. It is the Andiron!”

The cheers and jubilation in the longboat died as suddenly as the flare, and the men stood or sat like stricken beings as lanterns shone down from the frigate’s deck and a grapnel bit into the boat’s gunwale.

His men stood aside to let Bolitho pass as he made his way to the bows and reached out for the dangling ladder which had suddenly appeared. He was still too fatigued and too stunned by the change of events to mark a clear sequence of what was happening. His mind would only record brief, unreal images, magnified and distorted by patches of light from the circle of lanterns. Glittering bayonets, and pressing, curious faces.

As he stepped into the lamplight he heard a mixture of gasps and comments. An Irish voice called, “It’s an English officer!” Another with a twangy colonial accent broke in. “Hell it is! It’s a captain!”

One by one the Phalarope’s men climbed up the side and were pushed into line against the ship’s gangway. An officer in a dark coat and cocked hat pushed through the packed crowd and regarded Bolitho with amusement.

“Welcome aboard, Cap’n! A real pleasure!” He turned and shouted, “Put the men under guard and drop a round shot through that coffin of a boat!” To a massive Negro he added, “Separate any officers amongst them and take ’em aft!” Then to Bolitho he made a mock bow. “Now if you will come with me, I am sure the captain will be glad to make your acquaintance.”

Even in the uncertain light of the lanterns Bolitho was able to distinguish the old, familiar details of the privateer’s main deck. He recalled with sudden clarity the last time he had visited the ship to see his friend Captain Masterman, a grave but friendly officer, who unlike many of his contemporaries had always been willing to share his knowledge and experience, and pleased to answer Bolitho’s constant stream of questions.

The memory helped to drive back some of the gnawing despair, so that he automatically straightened his shoulders and was able to feel some bitter satisfaction at the scars and crudely repaired damage left from the Phalarope’s broadsides. The Andiron’s captain must have been heading for Mola Island to complete the repairs, he thought. Maybe the captured lugger’s contents of spars and canvas had been earmarked for the Andiron alone.