Herrick opened his mouth, an unspoken refusal caught in midair. He tugged at his cross-belt and said awkwardly, “Thank you, sir.” He touched his hat as Bolitho turned away towards the house.

Herrick stood quite still, the wind tugging at his boatcloak, until Bolitho reached the gates. Then, chin sunk on chest, he walked slowly towards the castle, his brow creased in a deep frown.

* * *

Lieutenant Giles Vibart cursed as his feet skidded on loose stones and a seaman cannoned into his back. The grey morning light showed the extent of the previous night’s wind, and the long grass and gorse was flattened and glittering with rain. He pulled his watch from inside his coat and then held up his hand.

“We will stop here for a bit!” He saw his order passing down the small party of men, and waited until they had squatted beside the crude track before he crossed to the two midshipmen and the gunner.

“We’ll give these idlers ten minutes and then move off again.” He looked round as a shaft of frail sunlight touched his check. “Then you can take a party further inland, Mr Farquhar, in case of stragglers.”

Farquhar shrugged and kicked at a pebble. “Suppose nobody comes, sir?”

Vibart snapped, “Just do as you’re told!”

Maynard, the other midshipman, readjusted his dirk and looked anxiously towards the resting seamen. “I hope none of ’em try and desert. The captain would be very displeased!”

The gunner gave a lazy grin. “I picked them myself. They’re all old hands.” He picked up a piece of grass and pulled it between his uneven teeth. “All pressed men, too. Much better than volunteers for this job!”

Vibart nodded. “Quite right, Mr Brock. There’s nothing better to give an edge to the press. No sailor likes to think others are getting away with it!”

Brock frowned. “An’ why should they? It’s not right that the fleet is expected to fight bloody battles and keep the country free of the Frogs without help from these lazy, pampered civilians! They make money and live happily with their wives while we do all the hard work!” He spat out the grass. “To hell with ’em, I say!”

Vibart walked away from them and stared down at the rocky beach below the cliff. What did it matter what anybody said? They needed men, and the sooner the better.

He watched the wind hissing through the tangled grass and thought again of the frigate’s dash through the night. How unlike Pomfret, he thought. He had always liked and expected a smart ship. But to him it had been more like a possession than a weapon of war. He lorded it in his fine cabin, enjoying his choice wines and well-stocked food store while he, Vibart, ran the ship and did all the things of which he was totally incapable. He moved restlessly on his thick legs as the old fire of resentment and injustice explored his mind like a drug.