Bolitho said quietly, “How are the men?”

Herrick replied vaguely, “Not happy, sir. It is bad enough out here, without short water rations!”

“Quite so.” Bolitho nodded without turning. “But it is necessary. God knows how long we will be pinned down like this.”

His hand moved vaguely to the scar beneath the rebellious fore-lock of hair. Herrick had seen him touch the livid mark on several previous occasions, usually when he appeared to be entirely wrapped in his own thoughts. Once Herrick had questioned Stockdale about it, and learned that it had happened when Bolitho, as a junior lieutenant, had been sent ashore to an island with a small party of seamen to refill water casks.

Unknown to the captain or anyone else, the island had not been uninhabited, and almost as soon as the launch had grated up the beach the party had been ambushed by a horde of yelling natives. One had snatched up a cutlass from a dying sailor and attacked Bolitho as he had tried to rally his outnumbered men. In his thick, jolting voice Stockdale had described the scene around the launch, with half the sailors butchered or dying and the others falling back desperately in a frantic effort to regain the safety of the sea. Bolitho had fallen, separated from his men, his face masked in blood from the cutlass slash which should have killed him. The sailors who survived were all for leaving their officer, whom they supposed to be dead anyway, but at the last minute they rallied, and as more boats pulled to their aid Bolitho was dragged to safety.

Herrick knew there was a lot more to it than that. Just as he guessed that it had been Stockdale’s massive right arm which had held the men from panic and had saved the man he now served like a devoted dog.

Bolitho walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and stared towards the bows. “The haze, Mr Herrick. It looks not unlike a Channel mist.”

Herrick’s dry lips cracked into a rueful smile. “I never thought I would miss the Channel Fleet, sir. But how I would like to hear the wind and feel the cold spray again.”

“Maybe.” Bolitho seemed lost in his thoughts. “But I have a feeling the wind will return soon.”

Herrick stared at him. It was not a boast or an empty statement of hope. It was like another small picture of the man’s quiet confidence, he thought.

There was a step on the deck behind them and Vibart said harshly, “A word, Captain.”

Bolitho replied, “What is it?”

“Your clerk, Mathias, sir.” Vibart watched Bolitho’s impassive face as he continued, “He’s had a bad fall in the hold, sir.”

“How bad?”

Vibart shook his head. “He’ll not see another day, I’m thinking.” There was no pity in his voice.

Bolitho bit his lip. “I sent him down there myself to check some stores.” He looked up suddenly, his face clouded with concern. “Are you sure nothing can be done for him?”