“The surgeon says not.” Vibart sounded indifferent. “Apart from his ribs, which are badly stove in, he’s got a split in his skull you could put a marlinspike through!”

“I see.” Bolitho stared down at his hands on the rail. “I hardly knew the man, but he was a hard worker and tried to do his best.” He shook his head. “To die in action is one thing, but this . . .”

Herrick said quickly, “I will get another clerk, sir. There is a new man, Ferguson, one of those pressed in Falmouth. He can read and write, and is more used to that sort of work.” Herrick recalled Ferguson’s wretched expression as the ship had left Antigua. He had promised to help him get a letter away to his wife. Perhaps this release from the heavy duties of seamanship and the harsh control of the petty officers would make up for the omission in some way.

Herrick watched Bolitho’s grave face and wondered how the captain could find the time to grieve over one man when he himself was burdened with such bitter responsibility.

Bolitho said, “Very well. Detail Ferguson and tell him his duties.”

A yell came from the main-topmast. “Deck there! Squall comin’ from the starboard bow!”

Herrick ran to the rail, one hand shading his eyes. Incredulously he saw the gentle ripple pushing down towards the becalmed ship and heard the rigging stirring itself as the inert sails moved slowly into life.

Bolitho stood upright and clasped his hands behind him. “What are you all staring at? Stir those men, Mr Herrick, and get the ship under way!”

Herrick nodded. He had seen the excitement beneath Bolitho’s outburst. As the sails filled and flapped overhead Bolitho’s expression was almost boyish with pleasure.

It was not much of a wind, but sufficient to get the Phalarope moving once more. The water gurgled around her rudder, and as the braces squeaked in the blocks the sails swung to embrace every last ounce of air, eager for the life it had given them.

Bolitho said at length, “Keep her north-west by north, Mr Herrick. We will remain on this leg until sunset.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Herrick watched him walk back to the taffrail and peer down at the small wake. There was no sign of the anxiety he must be feeling, he thought. The wind was a small respite and no way a recompense for the endless, meaningless patrol, yet Bolitho acted as if everything was normal, outwardly at least.

Again the masthead lookout was to prove that nothing could be taken for granted.

“Deck there! Sail fine on the starboard bow!”

Herrick lifted his glass but Bolitho snapped, “You’ll not see anything from here! The haze is like a blanket to the north of us!”

Vibart muttered, “Mr Neale, get aloft!”

“Belay that!” Bolitho sounded dangerously calm. “You go, Mr Herrick. I want an experienced eye at this moment!”

Herrick ran to the mainshrouds and began to climb. He quickly realised how out of condition his body had become, and by the time he had reached the topmast trestle and crosstrees his heart was pounding like a drum. The bearded lookout moved over for him and pointed with a tarry hand.