He ducked his head as the officer led the way below the wide quarterdeck. At each step of the way he saw curious groups of the frigate’s crew as they gathered to watch him pass. They were a mixed crew sure enough, he decided. Some were openly hostile and called insultingly as he strode by. Others dropped their eyes or hid their faces, and Bolitho guessed that they were probably English deserters, some even members of the Andiron’s original crew. There were Negroes and olive-skinned Mexicans. Loud-mouthed Irishmen and dark-faced sailors who must have breathed their first breaths by the Mediterranean. But it was obviously a close-knit company, if only because of their mutual danger and the hazards of their chosen trade.

The officer opened a heavy door and stood aside to let Bolitho enter a small, sparsely furnished cabin.

“You can wait here. We have to get under way now, but I guess the captain’ll want to see you soon.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take the sword.” He saw Bolitho’s look of resentment and added, “And in case you start getting ideas of glory, there is a guard right outside the door.” He took the sword and turned it over in his hands. “A pretty ancient blade for an English captain?” He grinned. “But then I imagine things are getting a bit difficult for you all round?”

Bolitho ignored him. The officer was goading him. There was no point in pleading or asking favours. He watched the lamplight shining dully on his father’s sword and then deliberately turned his back.

He was a prisoner. He must save his energy for later. The door slammed and he heard the officer’s feet moving away.

Wearily Bolitho slumped down on a sea-chest and stared at the deck. Farquhar and Belsey would be kept apart like himself. No doubt the Andiron’s commander would wish to question each one separately. As he himself would have done. It was strange to realise that it was only two days since he had been questioning the terrified Spaniard aboard his own ship. And in the following period so much had happened that it was almost impossible to trace the pattern of time and events.

One thing was sure. He had lost his ship, and for him the future was an empty ruin.

The stuffy air in the cabin aided by the heavy fatigue in his body eventually took effect. As the deck canted slightly and the ship once more gathered way, Richard Bolitho leaned back against the cabin bulkhead and fell instantly asleep.

He was awakened by someone shaking his arm, and for a few more moments he found himself hoping it was all part of a terrible dream. Perhaps he could go back and take up reality again, even in the cramped uncertainty of the longboat. But it was the same officer who had escorted him to the cabin, and as Bolitho sat up on the chest he said, “I thought you were dead!”