Captain Rennie loomed out of the darkness and said in an unnecessary whisper, “I’ve packed the marines below, sir. Sergeant Garwood will keep ’em quiet until they are required.”

Bolitho nodded and tried to remember once again if he had left anything to chance. “You have made sure that all muskets and pistols are unloaded?”

Rennie nodded. “Yes, sir.” He sounded as if he meant, “Of course, sir.” A primed musket exploding at the wrong moment, a trigger pulled by an over-excited marine, and their lives would be worth even less than they were now.

“Good.” Bolitho groped his way aft to where Stockdale stood straddle-legged beside the crude tiller bar, his head cocked towards the loose flapping sails. Midshipman Farquhar squatted by a shapeless bundle on the deck which Bolitho managed to recognise as the luckless Spanish skipper. He had been brought along as both guide and surety.

Rennie asked flatly, “Do you think we will get inshore without trouble?”

Bolitho glanced up at the high, bright stars. There was the merest sliver of silver for a moon floating above its reflection in the flat water. The night was dark enough to hide anything. Maybe too dark.

He said, “We shall see. Now get under way, and make sure the compass light is well shaded.” He walked clear of Rennie and his questions and brushed past the crouching sailors whose eyes gleamed like marbles as they watched him pass. Occasionally he heard the rasp of a cutlass or a dull clink from the bows where McIntosh, a gunner’s mate, was making a last-minute examination of his hastily rigged swivel gun. It was loaded with canister, and at close range would be quite deadly. It had to be perfect, Bolitho thought grimly. There might be no time for a second shot.

He wondered what Vibart was thinking, left in charge of the frigate, with hours to wait before he could play his part in the raid. He thought, too, of Herrick’s face when he had told him he was taking Lieutenant Okes with him in the lugger. Herrick had known there was no other choice in the matter. Okes was his senior, and it was only fair that he should get the chance of making a name for himself. Or dying before Herrick, Bolitho thought dryly. Vibart’s position and seniority made him the obvious choice for taking charge of the Phalarope, and if both Bolitho and Vibart were killed, Herrick could still move his way up the chain of command.

Bolitho scowled in the darkness and cursed himself for his morbid thoughts. Perhaps he was already too tired, too worn out by planning and preparation to think any more. All day long, while the frigate had beaten her way towards Mola Island, things had moved at a swift pace. Men and weapons had been transferred to the lugger, and the latter’s cargo had been either dropped overboard or rowed across to the Phalarope for their own use. The lugger’s cramped hold was now packed with marines, each man too busy fighting back the nausea thrown up by the stench of fish oil and sour vegetables to care much about what might lie ahead.