Bolitho realised with a further start that there was daylight in the passage outside the door, and as his mind accepted the reality of his position he heard the busy sounds of holystones and the sluice of water across the upper-deck.

“What time is it?”

The officer shrugged. “Seven bells. You’ve been asleep for nearly seven hours at that!” He beckoned to a seaman in the passageway. “There is some water for shaving and a razor.” He eyed Bolitho coldly. “My man here will stay with you to make sure you don’t cut your throat!”

“You are very considerate.” Bolitho took the bowl of hot water and ignored the seaman’s look of fascinated interest. “I would hate to die and miss seeing you hang, Lieutenant!”

The officer grinned calmly. “You sure are a little firebrand, I’ll say that for you.” He spoke sharply to the seaman. “Just watch him, Jorgens! One false move and I’ll expect you to deal with him, got it?”

The door slammed and the sailor said, “The cap’n wants to see you when you’s ready.” He licked his lips. “He’s havin’ your breakfast got ready.” He sounded amazed at such treatment.

Bolitho continued with his shaving, but his mind was as busy as his razor. Perhaps it would be better to do as the officer had implied, he thought bitterly. One slash with the razor and his captors would be left with neither a ready victim nor a possible source of information.

He remembered Herrick’s face when he had told him. “Information. Out here the lack of it could lose a war.” Now his own words were coming back to mock him.

Then he thought of Farquhar and the others, and the look on Stockdale’s battered face when the privateer’s men had pulled them apart. It had been an expression of trust and quiet confidence. At that terrible moment it had done more to hold back Bolitho’s final despair than any words or deeds imaginable.

He wiped the razor and laid it on the chest. No, there was more to living than a man’s own private hopes, he decided.

He pulled his torn uniform into shape and brushed the dark hair back from his forehead. “I’m ready,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you will lead the way?”

He followed the seaman along the passageway, and in the filtered daylight he saw more evidence of the brief battle. Smashed timbers shored up with makeshift beams, and telltale red blotches which so far had defied weeks of scrubbing.

An armed sailor stood aside and opened the main cabin door, and as Bolitho entered the once familiar place he was momentarily blinded by the dazzling reflections from sea and sky as the morning sunlight blazed across the wide stern windows.

The Andiron’s captain was leaning out over the stern bench, his body a dark silhouette against the glittering water, but Bolitho’s eyes fastened instead on his own sword which lay in the centre of the polished table.

He waited, standing quite still, his feet automatically braced against the ship’s easy plunge and roll. Even this cabin was not spared from the Phalarope’s wounded anger. More scars, and deeply gouged gaps left by flying splinters. Andiron must have spent little time in harbour, he thought.