Okes had acted hastily during the retreat from Mola Island, but unless he made an open admission there was little point in pursuing the matter, Bolitho thought. He could sympathise with Farquhar, and wondered what he himself might have done under the same set of circumstances. Farquhar’s built-in sense of caution had obviously taught him that there was more to a career than gaining petty triumphs. Also his breeding, the security of a powerful family, as well as his own self-confidence, gave him the ability to bide his time.

Herrick strode up the slope and said, “Shall we return to the ship, sir?”

Bolitho shook his head. “We’ll walk a little further, Mr Herrick.”

He pushed through a line of sun-scarred bushes and headed away from the beach. Herrick walked beside him in silence, no doubt thinking of the strangeness of the land around him. The sea’s gentle hiss was gone and the air was heavy with alien smells and a thick, clinging humidity.

Bolitho said at length, “I hope Okes can get the men working quickly. Every hour may be precious.”

“You are thinking of the French, sir?”

Bolitho wiped the sweat from his face and nodded. “De Grasse may have sailed by now. If he behaves as Sir George Rodney believes he will, his fleet will already be striking west for Jamaica.” He looked up fretfully at the limp leaves and cloudless sky. “Not a breath of wind. Nothing. We were lucky it held long enough for us to reach here!”

Herrick was breathing heavily. “My God, sir, I’m feeling this!” He mopped his face. “I have not set foot ashore since Falmouth. I had almost forgotten what it was like.”

Falmouth. Again the name brought back a flood of memories to Bolitho as he strode unseeingly through the thick scrub. His father would still be waiting and wondering, nursing the hurt which Hugh had left with him. Bolitho wondered momentarily what would have happened if he had seen and recognised his brother on the Andiron’s poop on that first savage encounter. Would he have pressed home his attack with such fervour? If he had caused Hugh’s death it might have eased the minds of the Navy, but in his heart Bolitho knew that it would only have added to his father’s grief and sense of loss.

Perhaps Hugh already had another ship. He dismissed the idea at once. The French would not trust another prize to a man who had allowed Andiron to fall into her own snare. And the American rebel government had few ships to spare. No, Hugh would have his own problems in plenty at this moment.

He thought too of Vibart, left behind in charge of the frigate. It was strange how Evans’s murder had affected him. Bolitho had always thought Evans to be more of a toady than a friend of the first lieutenant. Yet his death seemed in some way to have deprived Vibart of something familiar and reliable, the last outlet from his own isolation. Bolitho knew that Vibart blamed him for Evans’s death, as much as he hated Allday for the deed. Vibart viewed humanity like sentiment. To him both were useless hindrances to duty.