When at last the frigate had been ordered to Portsmouth to face an enquiry, Vibart had known fresh hope. Things had moved fast. The ship had been stripped of known troublemakers and had been fitted out for another long spell of service. Pomfret had stayed in his cabin, sulky and brooding, up to the time he was ordered from the ship. But no new commission had arrived for Vibart. No command of either the Phalarope or any other ship.

He was back exactly as he had been when he had first joined the frigate under Pomfret, except that the new captain, Bolitho, was another kind of person entirely.

He jerked from his thoughts as Maynard called breathlessly, “Sir! One of the men is signalling from the hillside!”

Vibart drew his sword and slashed sharply at a small bush. “So the captain guessed right, did he?” He waved his arm in a half circle. “Right, you men! Get to either side of the road and wait for Mr Farquhar’s party to work round behind them. I don’t want anyone to escape!” He saw the men nod and shuffle to the bushes swinging their clubs and readjusting their cutlass belts.

When the moment of contact actually came, even Vibart was taken off guard.

It was more like a carefree procession than a party of men avoiding the press gangs. Some fifty or more men tightly bunched on the narrow track, talking, some even singing as they strolled aimlessly away from Falmouth and the sea.

Vibart saw Farquhar’s slim silhouette break the skyline and stepped out from the bushes. His appearance could not have affected them more deeply had he been something from another world. He held up his sword as his men stepped out across the road behind him.

“In the King’s name! I charge you all to line up and be examined!” His voice broke the spell. Some of the men turned and tried to run back along the road, only to halt gasping at the sight of Farquhar’s men and the levelled muskets. One figure bolted up the hillside, his feet kicking the grass like some terrified rabbit.

Josling, a bosun’s mate, lashed out with his cudgel. The man screamed and rolled down the slope and lay in a puddle clutching his shin. Josling turned him over with his foot and felt the man’s bleeding leg. Then he looked at Vibart and said offhandedly, “No eggs broken, sir!”

Shocked and dazed the men allowed themselves to be pushed into line on the road. Vibart stood watching and calculating. It had been so easy that he wanted to grin.

Brock said, “Fifty-two men, sir. All sound in wind and limb!”

One of the uneven rank dropped on to his knees and whimpered, “Please, please, sir! Not me!”

There were tears on his cheeks, and Vibart asked harshly, “What is so special about you?”

“My wife, sir! She’s ill! She needs me at home!” He rocked on his knees. “She’ll die without my support, sir. In God’s name she will!”