“Sir Robert Napier has received information that the Andiron is lying off Nevis.” He had plunged into what sounded very like a carefully rehearsed speech. “She is apparently carrying out repairs and awaiting fresh orders, but there is no saying how long she will remain there.” He had looked slowly around their faces. “Sir Robert requires that we make our way to Nevis forthwith to sink or cutout the Andiron.” His words had dropped in the cabin like stones in a pool. “We will make as quick a passage as possible.” He had glared meaningly. “So make sure there are no mistakes, Mr Proby!”

Herrick had been studying Vibart during his announcement, and had been surprised by his apparent eagerness to begin the operation. It might be a false piece of intelligence, but if not, it would not be an easy matter to cut-out an anchored ship close inshore to a hostile island.

Then, as Vibart had droned on about details and timing, he had realised that Vibart’s demeanour owed much to his own uncertainty. So far, although he had been in command since Bolitho’s loss, Okes stood in the best position to gain full credit for past successes against the enemy. He still had to ensure the firmness of his own control, and this new operation was the obvious opportunity.

It was odd that he had sent no despatches across to the Witch of Looe, Herrick thought. It was just as if he wanted to save the whole record for the admiral’s ear alone. Sir Robert might be angry about Phalarope being off station, but the destruction of the Mola Island battery and transports, and a victory over the privateer Andiron would do much to placate anyone but the devil himself.

But now that Vibart had time to consider the full implications of his orders he had changed yet again. As the ship drove towards the chosen rendezvous he had grown nervous and edgy, and more than once had let his impatience get the upper hand. Only that morning he had had a man flogged for letting a marline-spike fall from the foreyard. It had struck quivering in the deck within feet of Packwood, a boatswain’s mate. Vibart had been brooding on the quarterdeck, watching the boats being checked and moved ready for instant lowering. Packwood’s startled shout had given him yet one more outlet for his unpredictable temper.

“Get that man down here!” His voice had stopped all work on the main deck. “I saw what he did! That was meant to fall on Packwood!”

Even the boatswain’s mate had voiced a protest. “It’s lively aloft today, sir. It was an accident.”

Vibart’s face had gone scarlet. “Silence! Or I’ll see your backbones, too!”

Again the dread pipe. “All hands lay aft to witness punishment!”

Again the agonising passage of time while the grating was rigged and the marines had made a scarlet rectangle on the quarterdeck.

The seaman in question was a man called Kirk. He was a thin, hollow-eyed sailor who had gone almost deaf after the encounter with the Andiron, his ears apparently permanently damaged by the thundering crash of broadsides.