Her arrival had been an unexpected but welcome diversion as far as Herrick was concerned. The tension aboard the frigate was getting bad enough to feel like something with a soul of its own. In a matter of days there had been seven floggings, but instead of settling the crew into dumb servility it had only helped to drive a firm wedge between quarterdeck and forecastle. There was little chatter or laughter any more between decks, and when an officer passed close by a group of seamen, the latter would lapse into sullen silence and turn their faces away.

Midshipman Maynard had reported, “The brig is Witch of Looe, sir! She has despatches for us!”

Vibart had waited importantly on the quarterdeck, alone and aloof, saying nothing and watching everything.

A boat had skipped across the choppy water, and soon a young lieutenant had climbed aboard carrying the inevitable canvas envelope.

Herrick had been standing nearby, straining his ears and trying to imagine what was happening. He had heard Vibart asking about the flagship and the lieutenant’s brief reply.

“These orders are from the admiral, sir. I have nothing to add.”

The reply had been too brief, almost insolent, and Herrick had guessed that the young lieutenant was high enough on the admiral’s list of favourites to afford such rudeness.

Vibart had started to tell the brig’s messenger about the raid on Mola Island and had then clamped his jaw tightly shut. He had turned on his heel, merely adding for Herrick’s benefit, “Get the ship under way again, Mr Herrick. I have work to do!”

He was always the same now, Herrick pondered. Fluctuating between ponderous self-importance and fits of blind rage. From one hour to the next you could never be sure of his reactions, and it was doubly bad because he was always in evidence. Watching and criticising and bawling out fresh orders to overrule those of his subordinates.

Herrick had stopped the lieutenant at the entry port and had tried to get more information.

The officer had regarded him thoughtfully. “St Kitts has fallen. The fleet is falling back and regrouping. I am on my way to Antigua now.” He had stared across at his own ship. “But Rodney is said to be on his way back from England with twelve ships of the line. I hope to God he will be in time.” Then he added quickly, “Where is your Captain?”

“Dead.” Herrick’s tongue had lingered on the word. “We lost him at Mola Island.”

“Well. I don’t care much for your new commander, my friend.” The lieutenant had paused above his swaying boat. “We have been searching for the Phalarope for two days! The admiral will not be pleased that you were off your station, Mola Island or not!” He had rolled his eyes. “Sir Robert is a stickler for routine.”

Herrick’s mind shifted to the next part in the sequence of events which had sent the Phalarope on her new course towards the islands. Vibart had called a meeting in the stern cabin. Every officer and warrant officer had been present, and it was somehow typical of Vibart that while he sat comfortably in his chair, all the others were kept standing.