With the points of his brass dividers he traced the Phalarope’s course and halted at the small pencilled cross. Out here he was doing no good. Fifty miles away St Kitts might still be fighting a siege, whilst just over the horizon Count de Grasse’s great fleet could be mustering for a final attack on the scattered British naval units. With the British driven from these islands, the French and their allies would unroll the South Americas like a chart. Would command the North and South Atlantic and reach for the rich rewards of Africa and beyond.

He pushed the apprehension from his mind as he heard the clatter of feet above and the thuds of muskets on the deck planks.

Vibart appeared in the doorway. “Prisoners aboard, sir.” He glared at Ferguson who seemed to be trying to curl into a ball beside the desk. “The lugger is Spanish well enough. Twenty men aboard all told, but no resistance. I have the master and two mates under guard outside, sir.”

“Good.” Bolitho stared at the chart. “Twenty men, you say? That is a large crew for such a small craft. The Spaniards are usually more sparing when they man a vessel of any kind!”

Vibart shrugged. “Mr Farquhar says that the lugger has been used for coastal trading. Not much use for us.”

“I’ll see the master first. You can go on deck and keep an eye on Mr Okes’s progress in the lugger. Let me know if he has found anything.”

The lugger’s skipper was small and swarthy, dressed in a tattered shirt and wide canvas trousers. Two gold earrings bobbed from beneath his lank hair, and his dirty, bare feet completed the picture of neglect and poverty.

Beside him, Midshipman Farquhar seemed elegant and unreal.

Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart, conscious of the Spaniard’s uneven breathing and the shuffling movements of his bare feet on the deck. He said at length, “Does he speak English?”

“No, sir.” Farquhar sounded impatient. “He just gabbles.”

Still Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart. Almost offhandedly he said, “Then take him on deck and tell the master-at-arms to run a halter up to the main-yard.”

Farquhar fell back startled. “Halter, sir? Do you mean to hang him?”

“Of course I do!” Bolitho put a rasp in his tone. “He is no further use to me!”

The Spaniard’s legs buckled and he pitched forward at Bolitho’s feet. Sobbing and weeping he pulled at Bolitho’s legs, the words flooding from his lips in a wild torrent.

“Please, Captain! No hang, please! I am a good man, sir, I have wife and many poor children!” His cheeks were running with tears. “Please, sir, no hang!” The last word was almost a shriek.

Bolitho stepped from the man’s grasp and said calmly. “I had an idea that your knowledge of English might return.” To Farquhar he added crisply, “You may try that ruse on the two mates. See what you can find out!” He turned back to the whimpering man on the deck. “Now stand up and answer my questions, or indeed I will hang you!”