Then Farquhar barked, “Take him away, Mr Thain.”

The master-at-arms pushed Betts towards the hatch ladder adding softly, “Not a single flogging since we left Falmouth. I knew such gentleness was a bad mistake!”

* * *

Richard Bolitho leaned his palms on the sill of one of the big stern windows and stared out along the ship’s frothing wake. Although the cabin itself was already in semi-darkness as the frigate followed the sun towards the horizon, the sea still looked alive, with only a hint of purple as a warning of the approaching night.

Reflected in the salt-speckled glass he could see Vibart’s tall shape in the centre of the cabin, his face shadowed beneath the corkscrewing lantern, and behind him against the screen the slim figure of Midshipman Farquhar.

It took most of his self-control to keep himself immobile and calm as he considered what Farquhar had burst in to tell him. Bolitho had been going through the ship’s books again trying to draw out Vibart’s wooden reserve, to feel his way into the man’s mind.

Like everything else during the past twenty days, it had been a hard and seemingly fruitless task. Vibart was too careful to show his hostility in the open and confined himself to short, empty answers, as if he hoarded his knowledge of the ship and her company like a personal possession.

Then Farquhar had entered the cabin with this story of Betts’s assault on the purser. It was just one more thing to distract his thoughts from what lay head, from the real task of working the frigate into a single fighting unit.

He made himself turn and face the two officers.

“Sentry! Pass the word for Mr Evans!” He heard the cry passed along the passageway and then added, “It seems to me as if this seaman was provoked.”

Vibart swayed with the ship, his eyes fixed on a point above the captain’s shoulder. He said quickly, “Betts is no recruit, sir. He knew what he was doing!”

Bolitho turned to watch the open, empty sea. If only this had not happened just yet, he thought bitterly. A few more days and the damp, wind-buffeted ship would be in the sun, where men soon learned to forget their surroundings and started to look outboard instead of watching each other.

He listened to the hiss and gurgle of water around the rudder, the distant clank of pumps as the duty watch dealt with the inevitable seepage into the bilges. He felt tired and strained to the limit. From the moment the Phalarope had weighed anchor he had not spared himself or his efforts to maintain his hold over the ship. He had made a point of speaking to most of the new men, and of establishing contact with the regular crew. He had watched his officers, and had driven the ship to her utmost. It should have been a proud moment for him. The frigate handled well, lively and ready to respond to helm and sail like a thoroughbred.