Mathias, Bolitho’s clerk, had died and had been dropped overboard with a brief prayer, his death and passing hardly making a break in the frantic preparations. Looking back, it was hard even to recall his face.

Lieutenant Okes stumbled along the side deck, his shoulders hunched as if he expected to be struck by some unseen object. He peered at Bolitho’s watchful shape and muttered, “All—all the men are ready, sir.” He sounded taut and nervous.

Bolitho grunted. Okes’s behaviour had been worrying him for some time. He had even offered to stay aboard the frigate in Herrick’s place, which was odd, in spite of the danger. Okes, he knew, was not a rich man, and any extra promotion, a glowing report in the Gazette, would make all the difference to his career. He was probably frightened. Well, so was anyone but a raving maniac, Bolitho thought.

He replied, “We shall see the headland soon. There should be plenty of surf to show its position.” He screwed up his eyes to will himself to see the picture he had built of the island in his mind.

It was shaped something like a rough horseshoe, with the deep anchorage lying snugly between the two curved headlands. But the village was on the seaward side of the nearest headland, that being the only beach on the whole island. According to the chart and what he had wrung from the lugger’s skipper, the village was connected to the anchorage by a rough road which crossed a steep ravine by way of a wooden bridge. The tip of the headland was therefore isolated by the ravine, and on its highest point there was said to be a powerful battery of guns, probably twenty-four-pounders, which could easily defend the whole anchorage. A sand-bar and several isolated reefs completed the hazardous approach. In fact, the approach was impossible without consent from both battery and good daylight. No wonder the French had chosen this place as their strongpoint.

“ ’Eadland, sir!” A seaman pointed abeam. “There, sir!”

Bolitho nodded and walked aft again. “Steer close, Stockdale. There is a beach about a quarter of a mile ahead, and a wooden pier, if this Spaniard’s word is worth anything!”

From the bow a seaman dropped his lead-line overboard and then said hoarsely, “By the mark two, sir!”

Two fathoms under the keel, and still a long way to go. There was no chance of a surprise attack here either, except by craft as small as the lugger. The only thing in their favour was surprise. Nobody in his right mind would expect a single small boat to approach a heavily guarded island in total darkness.

Belsey, the master’s mate, said gruffly, “I can see th’ pier, sir. Look, over yonder!”

Bolitho swallowed hard, conscious of a prickling in his spine. He readjusted his sword and made sure that his pistol was ready at his waist.

“Get the Spaniard up here!” The tension was making his voice harsh, and he heard the prisoner’s teeth chattering like dice.