He waited a few more moments, his mind half dwelling on what might have happened if the Spaniard really had been unable to speak English. Then he asked, “Where were you heading and with what cargo?”

The man stood swaying from side to side, his grubby hands clasped as if in prayer. “I go to Puerto Rico, Captain. I take small cargo of timber, a little sugar.” He wrung his hands. “But you can take it all, excellency! Just spare my life!”

“Hold your tongue!” Bolitho peered at the chart. The story was possible. These small trading boats were as common as fleas in the Caribbean. He added sharply, “From where did you come?”

The man smiled ingratiatingly. “I go all around, Captain.” He waved his hands vaguely. “I carry only small cargoes. I reap a living where I can. It is a hard, hard life, excellency!”

“I will ask you once more!” Bolitho fixed him with a hard stare.

The man shifted wretchedly. “Martinique, Captain. I has small work there. But I hate the French, you understand?”

Bolitho dropped his eyes to hide the excitement he now felt. Martinique, the headquarters of all French naval operations, the most heavily protected fortress in the whole Caribbean.

“You hate the French? Your gallant allies?” Bolitho’s sarcasm was not lost on the Spaniard. “Well, never mind that. Just tell me how many ships were there in the anchorage.” He saw the man’s eyes glitter with fright and guessed he understood which anchorage he meant.

“Many ships, excellency!” He rolled his eyes. “Many big ships!”

“And who commands these many big ships?” Bolitho could hardly keep the anxiety from his voice now.

“The French admiral, excellency!” The Spaniard puffed out his cheeks as if to spit on the deck, but caught sight of the marine sentry watching from the doorway and swallowed noisily. “He is a French pig, that one!”

“The Count de Grasse?”

The man nodded violently. “But you know everything, Captain! You are blessed by the Almighty!”

Bolitho looked up as Farquhar entered the cabin. “Well?”

“Only a little English between them, sir.” He seemed angry with himself. “But I gather they were heading for Puerto Rico.”

Bolitho gestured at the sentry. “Take this prisoner out and keep him closely guarded.” Then he said absently, “He was lying. He sailed from Martinique. The French would never allow him to carry on trading when they too might be under siege at any time!” He tapped the chart. “No, Mr Farquhar, he was at Martinique well enough, but his destination is elsewhere!”

Vibart entered and bowed his head beneath the deck beams. “Mr Okes reports that the cargo is much as you already know, sir. But there are new ship’s spars and casks of salt meat stowed beneath the main load.” He sounded doubtful. “There is also a great deal of spare canvas and cordage.”

“As I thought!” Bolitho felt strangely relieved. “The lugger was taking supplies from Martinique”—his finger moved along the charted islands—“to where?” He looked from Vibart’s brooding face to Farquhar’s baffled one. “Get that Spanish skipper back here at once!”