He thought too of Vibart’s attitude since his return to command. Due to his wound and the swirling darkness of pain and sickness he had not seen his face at the actual moment of return. But in the days which had followed, the days and nights of creaking timbers and thundering seas against the hull, he had seen him several times. Once when he had been delirious and sweating in his swaying cot he had seen Vibart standing over him and had heard him ask, “Will he live? Tell me, Mr Ellice, will he live?”

Perhaps he had only imagined it. It was hard to tell now. But for a brief moment he was sure he had heard the true resentment in Vibart’s voice. He wanted him to die. Just as his return from the dead was still leaving him resentful and bitter.

The door opened and Stockdale said throatily, “I’ve told Atwell to lay out your best uniform, sir. And he’ll be in here shortly to prepare the table.” He stared at Bolitho’s worn features and then said flatly, “You’ll be taking a rest now, I expect?”

Bolitho glared at him. “I have work to do, damn you!”

Stockdale said, “I’ll just turn your cot down. A couple of hours until the Dog Watches will do you a power of good.” He ignored Bolitho’s expression and added cheerfully, “I see the Formidable’s here, sir! She’s a fine big ship an’ no mistake! But then you’d need a big ship to hold an admiral like Rodney!” He stood a moment longer, one hand resting on the cot. “Are you ready now, sir?”

Bolitho gave in. “Well, just two hours. No more.”

He allowed Stockdale to help him into the cot and felt the tiredness closing in on him once more. Stockdale picked up his shoes and said to himself, “You rest there. We’ll need a good captain tonight to meet the bloody admiral!”

As he turned Stockdale’s eye fell on Bolitho’s empty rack above the cot, and for a moment he felt strangely unnerved. The sword was back there somewhere in the wrecked Andiron. If only he could have got it back. If only . . .

He stared down at Bolitho’s face relaxed in sleep. And he wanted to do something for me! He pulled the curtain to shade Bolitho’s face from the reflected sunlight and then ambled slowly towards the door.

* * *

The tall stone jetty threw a welcome rectangle of dark shade across the Phalarope’s cutter as it rested easily alongside the steps. Packwood, the boatswain’s mate, paused at the top of the steps and looked down at the lolling seamen in the boat. “You can take a break. But nobody leaves the cutter, got it?”

Onslow squatted comfortably on the gunwale and pulled a short clay pipe from his shirt. Under his breath he murmured, “Right, Mr bloody Packwood! We do all the work, and you go off an’ fill your belly with rum!”