Bolitho was vaguely aware of being gathered bodily in Stockdale’s arms and then falling through the air. His lungs were bursting and his throat was filled with salt water, and when he tried to open his eyes there was only stinging darkness.

Then he was being hauled up and across the little raft, and he heard Belsey gasp, “Oh the bloody bastards! They’ve done for the captain!”

Then Farquhar’s voice, shaking but determined. “For God’s sake watch out! There’s a boat! Keep down and stay silent!”

Bolitho tried to speak, but could only stare up at Stockdale’s misty face framed against the low, scudding clouds. He could hear oars, the swish of a boat cutting through water. But captivity or death were not in vain. Not this time! He listened to the distant boom of surf across the wrecked frigate, the small cries of those who still clung to the shattered hull.

Then, as if from right overhead he heard a sharp cry followed instantly by the click of a flintlock. It was still a dream, and nothing seemed to affect him personally. Only when a loud, English voice called, “Them’s some of the devils down in th’ water, sir!” did the slow realisation begin to break through the mist and the pain.

Farquhar stood up yelling, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, we’re English!”

Then everyone seemed to be shouting at once, and as another boat pulled nearby Bolitho heard one familiar voice as if from far away.

“Who have you got there, Mr Farquhar?” Herrick’s question was shaking with emotion, as if he still mistrusted what he saw.

Farquhar replied, “It’s the captain!”

Bolitho felt hands lifting him up over the gunwale, and saw distorted faces swooping above him in vague, unreal patterns. Hands moved across his ribs, and there was the stabbing fire of fresh pain. Then the muffling comfort of a bandage, and all the time the excited chatter of the men around him . . . His men.

Herrick had his face very close, so that Bolitho could see the brightness in his eyes. Somehow he wanted to say something, to reassure Herrick, to make him understand.

But he could no longer find the strength even for that. Instead he squeezed Herrick’s hand, and then allowed the waiting darkness to gather him in like a cloak.

12

“CONFUSION TO OUR ENEMIES”

THE HIGH afternoon sun blazed down on the sheltered water and threw a dancing pattern of reflections across the deckhead above Bolitho’s small desk. Just by turning his head he could see the lush green hillsides of Antigua and a few scattered dwellings around the smooth stretch of St John’s harbour. He had to force himself back to his task of completing his report in readiness for the admiral’s scrutiny.

He leaned his forehead against the palm of his hand, feeling the weakness moving through his veins, willing him to rest, to do anything but attend to the waiting duties and orders. Beneath his shirt he could feel the stiff embrace of the bandage, and allowed his mind to move back in time, as he had done so often since his unexpected return to the Phalarope.