* * *

Bolitho’s wide cabin seemed almost cold after the furnace heat of the quarterdeck, and he had to force himself to stand quite still by the stern windows to steady his racing thoughts and plan the next move. With real effort he closed his ears to the muffled shipboard noises and distant shouts as a boat was dropped alongside to take a boarding party to the lugger, which now rode uneasily under the frigate’s lee. It had been all Bolitho could do to remain outwardly unruffled as his orders were passed and carried out, so that in the end he could no longer face the watchful glances of his officers or avoid the buzzing speculation of the upper-deck idlers.

His casual guess about the coming of a wind had seemed like a miracle, and when the lookout had reported the lugger in the haze he had felt his pent up emotions churning around like raw alcohol. The waiting and petty irritations were momentarily put to one side, even the shame he felt for the admiral’s attitude to Phalarope could be overlooked, if not forgotten.

There was a tap at the door, and he swung round, caught off guard. “Enter!”

He stared for a few seconds at the pale-faced seaman who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. He wrenched his mind away from the lugger and nodded towards the desk by the bulkhead.

“You must be Ferguson? You will be working here when I require you.” His tone was terse, his thoughts still following the invisible boarding party.

Ferguson stared round the cabin and blinked. “Yes, sir. I mean—aye, aye, sir.” He seemed confused and nervous.

Bolitho studied him kindly. “I will tell you more of your duties later. At the moment I am rather busy.” He looked round with a jerk as little Neale panted up to the door.

“Captain, sir!” He fought for breath. “Mr Okes has taken the lugger!”

“So I should hope!” Bolitho added dryly, “Her skipper has a whole broadside staring down his throat.”

Neale considered the point. “Er, yes, sir.” He stared up at Bolitho’s calm face, obviously wondering how the captain could bear to leave the upper-deck when something was at last happening. He added, “The boat is returning now, sir.”

“That was what I wanted to hear, Mr Neale.” Bolitho looked through the stern windows towards the empty sea, its surface still ruffled by a small but steady breeze. “When the boat comes alongside tell Captain Rennie with my compliments to keep the lugger’s officers apart until I can question them. Mr Okes can carry on with his search of the lugger and report when he finds anything.”

“The lugger’s officers, sir?” Neale’s eyes were like saucers.

“They may be dressed in rags, boy, but they are still officers!” Bolitho watched the midshipman patiently. “And make no mistake, they will know these waters like their own faces.”

The midshipman nodded and scurried away. Bolitho paced restlessly around the cabin and then paused by his table where his personal chart of the Caribbean lay in readiness. The complex mass of islands and soundings, the vague surveys and doubtful descriptions were like the clues of a giant puzzle. He frowned and tugged at his chin. Somewhere amongst the tangle of scattered islands lay the key to the whole campaign. The first to find it would win the day. The loser would be driven from the Caribbean for ever.