Caribbee

Chapter 10

L’Aurore had her orders by the time he returned on board. They were to take passage for Antigua to the dockyard at English Harbour for a minor refit, then relieve one of the inshore frigates in blockade of Guadeloupe.

‘It’s been a long time, old friend,’ Kydd said softly.

Renzi gave a wry smile, bringing to mind adventures ashore and afloat there when they had been common seamen together. Kydd had been a healthy young man in a lusty environment and there were things that he would not necessarily wish to be reminded of. ‘Yes, indeed, dear fellow. Conceivably the master shipwright will never penetrate your disguise in your lofty elevation.’ He laid down his book and chuckled companionably.

In the event it was quite another who came aboard in Antigua with the survey party, a genial and competent officer who let slip that Caird and his daughter had returned to England years before. And there would be no nostalgic reunion with the copper and lumber house where Kydd had first met a dark temptress, Sukey, or the little house he had lived in as Master of the King’s Negroes. Now that he was a post-captain, this was far out of sight in his past.

The survey was quick but thorough. ‘Naught but what can’t be put right in a brace o’ shakes,’ was the pronouncement. The ship would stay at moorings with her crew quartered ashore.

For her captain, there was no question of remaining in the coarse surroundings of the dockyard. It was expected he would take residence in the north, at St John’s, where the admiral’s shore headquarters was situated.

‘Shall we take carriage for the capital, Nicholas?’ Kydd said lightly, as Tysoe laid out his best clothes. ‘I do believe the society there will be quite up to expectations.’

Renzi hesitated. ‘Brother, if there’s anything I crave more than peace and quiet at this time I’m at a loss to think it. I have for companionship my books and my thoughts and, while your doughty mariners are on shore, my solitude.’

‘Of course, old chap, I do understand,’ Kydd came back.

With captain and officers heading north and the crew streaming ashore, there were only the standing warrant officers and three hands left aboard with Renzi. The frigate seemed to have grown larger, the echoing spaces and stillness broken only by the chuckle of water and the odd creak.

But this was an unmissable chance to take up his studies again. A considered comparison of the new German school of ethnics with the French encyclopedists would be a refreshing start, and in his cabin he pulled down the requisite tomes.

Within the hour he found it impossible: his head was so full of recent events that he knew he would get no rest until they had been settled to his satisfaction.

But how could he pursue the threads until all had been exhausted? As a mental exercise it would lead only to frustration, for a logical syllogism without sure data was nothing but a futility. However, to get data he would need to venture out into the field and acquire it. Was he prepared to do this when he had always declared he scorned and detested the practice of spying?

He laid down his pen, resolved. If the goal was sufficiently worthy, he would do whatever it took … Was he mad? He would set out not as an agent of a nation’s secret service but on his own account, a freelance amateur without direction, following his own instincts.

Yet it had powerful advantages: he could beg leave from L’Aurore and go anywhere he wished, do anything he wanted, for he owed nothing to any higher authority. He need tell no one so there would be none to criticise if he failed. And his fate if he was caught would be the same whether he had been an accredited spy or otherwise.

Excitement flooded Renzi. The overall objective was clear: to find the genuine base and bring back proof so persuasive it would be impossible to ignore. Then he would be vindicated. Triangulating from known positions of the losses to pinpoint it had proved inconclusive. But as he reflected on his earlier conclusion about the degree of risk and unreliability of setting up a covert naval base in a dominion out of their direct control, he realised that, if this was to be accepted, the converse must therefore be true: the only safe location was on French sovereign territory and, if that was so, the odds shortened considerably.

There were only two islands of significance still in French hands, Guadeloupe and Martinique. Putting aside all other concerns, it narrowed the search immensely – he had only to reconnoitre those.

He’d start with Guadeloupe, so conveniently close and- What was he thinking? He was known, a marked man. There was no way he could move about enemy territory even in some form of disguise: he’d likely be recognised on the spot.

His hopes died. If he could not get the proof there was no point in going on.

In despair he slumped back. But then …

The thought of Guadeloupe had triggered another memory from the past, from even earlier in the war when Kydd and he had been part of the ill-fated assault that had been thrown back when revolutionaries had landed and wreaked a bloody revenge. They had escaped, along with any royalists who could. Among them had been the gentle and wistful Louise Vernou.

The last he had seen of her was here in Antigua, at St John’s. Presuming she was still here, could she have kept up some form of connection with her family or friends in Guadeloupe? It was worth a try, at least to gather information or even clues. For all he knew, it might develop – a secret correspondence with those on the island in a position to know, trusted by reason of being her family?

Kydd accepted his arrival with well-concealed surprise. He was staying in a country villa within sight of the light-yellow-brick church and the well-remembered harbour. ‘Why, Nicholas, you’re joining me for the season?’

‘For some reason, dear fellow, I feel restless, not to say out of sorts. I’m persuaded a change of air from that to be found in the bowels of a frigate will answer.’ He had determined that he would tell Kydd nothing until he had his proof.

‘Then do consider this your home while you’re in the north, m’ friend.’

The next day, on the pretext of taking the air, Renzi set out. It could not have been easier. Recalling that Louise Vernou had taught French to English officers in the past, he enquired at the admiral’s headquarters and found a list of teachers. Among them was her name.

Memories flooded back: he and Kydd had been billeted on the family and grown close. Then, when the revolutionaries had triumphed, he had escaped Guadeloupe in a merchant brig with her, leaving Kydd with the last defenders. On the way they had been mauled by a hurricane but had made St John’s and then had parted.

He remembered her gentle smile, quiet dignity and old-fashioned politeness, which had stayed even as the insanity of revolution and bloodshed had reached out to engulf her world.

Her teaching rooms were near the waterfront, a small but tidy house with a neat garden, her sign discreetly in the front window. As he walked to the door he paused, hearing a sturdy masculine voice chanting irregular verbs, then soft encouragement from her.

For a long moment he remained standing there, unwilling to have the memory of years stripped away to a harder present.

The chanting stopped, there was a murmur of voices and the door opened to let out a young redcoat officer, who flashed an embarrassed smile at Renzi and left quickly.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, M’sieur?’ Louise Vernou asked softly.

She had hardly changed. She was wearing a modest but elegant blue dress, and the touch of grey in her hair he’d remembered had barely advanced. That direct, almost intimate gaze held his without recognition.

She waited politely.

‘Madame Louise Vernou, I believe,’ he said gently, in French.

It came to her then. Her hand flew to her lips, and her eyes opened wide. ‘Mon Dieu – can it be …? It is! M’sieur Renzi!’

She swayed for a moment before Renzi caught the glitter of tears. Then, with a sob, she flung herself at him.

He let the emotion spend itself, holding her slight body tenderly as she connected once again with the fearful events of years before.

She pulled away, dabbing her eyes. ‘I do apologise,’ she said in English. ‘I forget your country does not value the open expression of feeling as do we. Please to come in, M’sieur.’

As soon as he entered Renzi caught the same subtle fragrance that he had first met when he and Kydd had shared a bedroom that had belonged to her. It touched him; the madness of war had spared this gentle soul.

‘Tea?’ she enquired, her voice tight with emotion.

They sat side by side in the drawing room while the maid brought refreshments.

Louise looked at him intently, then said quietly, ‘You never were the simple sailor, Mr Renzi, were you? What do you now?’

‘Je vais vous expliquer a un autre moment,’ he answered. Her English was greatly improved but his French was better.

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I want to know the answer, but could you tell me this? What became of the young sailor, Tom Kydd, your friend? He gave up his own place in the boat for me,’ she added, with a catch in her throat. ‘Such a fine man and true.’

‘You may not believe me if I told you, Madame.’

‘Do, please!’

‘In English Harbour dockyard there lies a smart frigate, her name L’Aurore. Her commander is … Captain Thomas Kydd.’

‘Vraiment? Quelle merveille!’ she squealed, her hands working together. ‘What happened? You must tell me.’

‘Dear Madame, I rather feel that it were better told within the civilities of a dinner perhaps. Do you-’

‘This very evening. It shall be here, and I will prepare it myself. Do you object, sir, if it were we two alone?’ she added, with a coy smile in her eyes.

The fish was exquisitely cooked in a delicate sauce and the little dining room touchingly feminine with its carefully chosen pieces and faultlessly draped hangings in the soft gold of the candlelight.

Their converse was intelligent and attentive; they relished the courtly exchanges, the courteous deferences and gallantries of the old order.

Renzi recounted the epic adventures that had led to Kydd’s rise to eminence in his profession and his own calling of scholar, while Louise told a poignant tale of being wrenched from her homeland, her brother’s suffering under the guillotine and her quiet waiting existence in exile.

It called for a vin d’honneur and a promise that she would be allowed to meet Kydd once again at the earliest opportunity – and then Renzi knew it could not be put off any further.

‘Louise, ma chere, what do you know of the current perils that face us in the Caribbean as we dine together here so elegantly?’

She looked puzzled. ‘Surely the tyrant is now vanquished in these parts. He makes imperial decrees as he struts in the Tuileries, but they cannot affect us here, not with your great navy that prevails over all.’

Renzi let his expression sadden. ‘Dear lady, there has recently arisen a threat that is even now wreaking ruin all over the Caribbean. I would not trouble to mention it, save it is causing the gravest anxiety to Captain Kydd and his fellow officers. It is such a scourge as bears on all our spirits.’

‘How can this be, Nicholas?’

It was easily told, the ruinous losses, all unexplained – then, after he had extracted a promise of secrecy, the probability that it was the result of a clandestine naval operation by numerous small craft, which had to be centred and directed from French territory.

‘And you believe this to be in Guadeloupe?’ she asked shrewdly.

‘Just so.’

‘Then …’ she began uncertainly.

‘Louise, do you have family still in Pointe-a-Pitre? Or friends you may still talk with in other parts of the island?’

‘You want to learn if anything is known of this port de guerre there,’ she replied quickly. ‘And I have to tell you that, no, to communicate with them, ce n’est pas possible.’

‘There is no way you can get word to them?’

‘I know why you ask, and if it were possible I would try, but you must understand this war is like no other. Revolutionaries and islanders both live together in suspicion and hatred, and if by any means I could get through to any in Guadeloupe they would pay for it with their lives.’

There was no way forward – except one. Even before he spoke Renzi despised himself. ‘Louise … this leaves only one alternative. To land someone on the shores of Guadeloupe to see if such a base exists.’

Her eyes on him were still and luminous.

‘I wish with all my heart it could be me,’ he said, ‘but I am known to them and would not survive to bring back the information.’

‘And you want me to go there and be a spy. Now I know what it is you do. Is this why you came to me tonight, Mr Renzi?’

The sudden chill in her manner struck him to the heart.

‘There is none other I could think to turn to. Please believe me.’

She put down her napkin and spoke coldly: ‘Sir, I’m astonished – no, I confess amazed at what you’ve been saying. I thought you a gentleman of reputation, of learning and discernment, and I find you speaking of spying. And, what is more, to a lady!’

He couldn’t meet her gaze.

‘No, sir, I will not do it. I cannot abide dissimulation and deceit. You will find another.’

There was one last throw – one that had been used successfully before. By spymaster d’Auvergne on himself.

‘I’m grieved to hear it, Madame,’ he said softly. ‘Especially since it is impossible another will be found in time …’

She said nothing.

‘And therefore I have to beg you will consider the future.’

A candle guttered in the stillness.

‘When you must be obliged to recall that a grave duty to your country was presented that only you may perform – and you chose to turn your back.’

He raised his eyes to meet hers.

‘These are not words to use to a woman, sir,’ she said levelly. ‘If by them you seek to shame me into complying with your scheme, you have failed.’

‘Then for me, for the sake of Tom Kydd, who saved you from the revolutionaries?’

‘Not even for him – or you.’

Nothing could be read from her expression. She sat rigid and unyielding.

‘Then …’

Unexpectedly she smiled. ‘Nicholas, I have the strangest feeling.’

He blinked.

‘I cannot believe you are a spy at all. You are too gentle – you care about the old things. And … and you’re an honourable man.’

‘In truth, I am not, ma chere.’

‘It must have cost you much to come to me with what was in your heart.’

A lump rose in his throat.

‘It will have been a great matter that weighs so much on you.’

He nodded dumbly.

‘Very well, I will save you. From yourself, that is to say.’

‘Er …’

‘Yes. I will not do this thing for you – that you must accept.’

‘I do, Madame Louise.’

Paradoxically he felt relief that now she would not know the terror and degradation that was the lot of the spy.

‘Then you will understand when I say that it is for la belle France that I will do it.’

Renzi realised she was sparing him the pain of having her on his conscience. He reached across, took both her hands and kissed them. ‘Madame,’ he said quietly, ‘do believe me when I say I am truly humbled.’

The moment hung until she withdrew her fingers and rose, turning away for a space before she came back brightly, ‘Then, mon brave, we should be started.’

An Argand lamp was lit and brought to the table while the maid was summoned to remove the dishes and dismissed for the evening.

‘No brandy until we have completed our business,’ Louise said firmly. ‘Now, what is it we have to do?’

The essentials were simple: to discover by any means if there was unusual activity inside blockaded Guadeloupe consistent with Renzi’s theory.

He took pains to detail to her what might most betray its existence but emphasised it was only the vital secret of its being that was necessary; the rest was out of her hands.

That settled, there was the conceiving of a story to account for her presence there, one that could stand against any question and would be credible to all as she moved about, observed and listened.

It was all progressing much faster than Renzi had expected, and it was Louise who came up with her story.

‘A sad tale. I ran from the war, fearful of my fate. I was taken to St John’s by a kind naval officer’ – Renzi bowed politely – ‘who took me into keeping. He tired of me and turned me out for a younger woman. Cast down and yearning for the sound of le francais about me and craving food that was civilised, I paid a fisherman to return me to Guadeloupe, where all I care for now is a quiet life.’

‘Bravo!’ Renzi exclaimed in admiration. ‘Worthy of Manon Lescaut!’

It was certainly credible and her dignity of bearing would deter all but the most determined enquiries.

She would take a bundle of what treasured possessions she could carry and, understandably, have her small means in English currency.

Now all that was needed was for the landing and rendezvous to be made.

‘There’s a quiet little village, Petit-Bourg, on the left of the bay before Pointe-a-Pitre. Leave me there, and I’ll make my way into town.’

‘You must be so careful,’ Renzi implored.

‘Why? I’ve nothing to hide. They may search me, question me – I’m a ruined woman and all I wish is to end my days on the soil of France, M’sieur.’

There were other details. How long would she need? There would have to be devised a plan of signals for when she was ready to to be picked up, a thorough understanding of the tides and moon by date …

And would L’Aurore be available to them for the vital landing?

Renzi explained what had happened leading up to Curacao, his humiliation and the likelihood Kydd would refuse to be involved in yet another theory.

‘I understand. Then we shall invite Captain Kydd to a cosy dinner, we three, hein?’

‘The evening went well?’ Renzi asked at breakfast.

‘Why, yes. The admiral keeps a capital table and the Antigua people were most civil in their appreciation of our late action.’ He reached for the plate of salt fish and ackee. ‘Saving their anxiety about their shipping, which is serious and vexing to them. And yourself? Something of an old acquaintance you were dining with, you said.’

‘Um, yes. You may recall her – Madame Louise Vernou,’ Renzi said off-handedly, pouring more coffee.

It didn’t register at first. Then Kydd dropped his bread roll and rounded on him. ‘You didn’t say, you sly beggar! She’s here – in Antigua still? I must see her, Nicholas!’

‘Well, yes. She asked to be remembered to you, of course, but do recollect, old fellow, that she recalls you as a young and unlettered seaman of somewhat direct manners and speech. You will not alarm her at all?’

The door was flung open. Louise ran to Kydd and hugged him tightly, then held her arms outstretched, her eyes sparkling. ‘My brave sailorman! To see you again – looking so handsome and commanding!’

Kydd blushed with pleasure, then performed an extravagant bow, protesting in his best French that not only was he enchanted to meet her once again but that the honour was to be accounted entirely his.

Her astonishment melted to delight and the evening promised to be a wonderful reunion.

‘When I saw you on the land, those wicked people all around you, I cried so much to leave you. And now you tell me you were in no danger at all and went off to Jamaica.’

‘Er, that’s true enough. But afterwards …’

‘Have you found an amoureuse at all, Thomas? It’s not seemly that a man of such distinction and elegance should toil alone.’

‘Er, not at this moment, Madame Louise. My sea duties do claim me, I find.’

‘I’m desolated to hear this. But you will have seen sights inconceivable to we land creatures.’

The dinner passed off in great style. Then, as the Armagnac was produced, Louise casually said, ‘Oh – before I forget this thing. I have it in mind to visit my cousin very soon. We were very close and I so worry about her in these … douloureux times.’

‘I honour you for it,’ Kydd said comfortably, cupping his drink; the Armagnac was magnificent.

‘She will be cast down, that poor one, and I wish to take her some comforts. You are a captain of the sea, M’sieur, who may advise me wisely how I might safely travel.’

‘Er, where will you visit, Madame?’

‘Why, Guadeloupe, of course! Where she has been since-’

‘What?’ blurted Kydd. ‘No – this is not possible! Louise, the whole island is under the strictest blockade and … and …’ He tailed off, at a loss to put into words the utter impossibility of what she was asking.

‘There are no cartel ships?’ Renzi asked innocently.

‘None, and well you know it. Louise, you cannot do this. They’ve a villainous crew in power and you being a …’

‘Nonsense. I’m merely returning to the place of my birth for a quick visit. Who can object to that? Besides, I shall keep quiet and no one will notice me.’

Kydd fell back speechless, then returned strongly, ‘Well, it’s just not thinkable. We have the island under the closest watch and not a sail moves in or out without we know it. Why, L’Aurore herself will sail in two days to be part of the blockade.’

She brightened. ‘Hourra! Then you will stop and row me in a boat onto the land. I don’t mind where.’

‘No!’ Kydd spluttered. ‘This is war, Louise, have you forgotten? And on a King’s ship!’

‘A pity,’ she said sadly. ‘Then it must be that I ask a little fisherman to take me. They say they’re most obliging for a silver dollar.’

‘A fisherman? Louise, do give up this mad idea, I beg.’

‘She does have a point, dear fellow. We’ve nothing to fear of what the French can bring against us, and simply to heave to, a quick landing-’

‘Nicholas! This does not concern you, and I’ll thank you to keep your suggestions to yourself. No, Madame, this I cannot do, and that is my final word.’

‘All quiet, sir,’ Curzon murmured. The night was inky black but the bay off Pointe-a-Pitre was well known to English ships, used to lying off the buoyed channel that led through the reefs, effectively sealing it off from all movements.

‘Hmmph. Well, get it into the water – we haven’t all night.’

There was a muffled squeal of sheaves as the gig was lowered and voices aft as Madame Vernou was helped into the boatswain’s chair to be swayed down into the boat. Renzi came to assure Kydd of her safe embarkation but thought better of it and returned to board himself.

‘Push off, sir?’ Poulden asked laconically.

‘Er, yes, please do,’ Renzi said, distracted by the necessity of trying to read the boat compass in its awkward case. West-by-north would see them past the treacherous Caye Ronde and therefore the reciprocal course would be needed to take them back to L’Aurore.

The boat’s crew bent stolidly to their oars and all too quickly the frigate was lost in the darkness.

Louise sat quiet, not inviting conversation. Renzi could only guess at what was going through her mind at this return to her home after all these years and shied from the thought of the danger he was thrusting her into.

The passage in was not a concern. Nothing would be about – the French had no reason to have patrols out – but once she was ashore …

He shifted uncomfortably.

Out of the blackness ahead several lights shimmered dimly. This would be Petit-Bourg – their destination.

‘Not far, Madame.’

She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the shore.

There was a sudden bump and the gig was displaced to one side by some underwater obstacle. Reefs?

‘Easy, oars. Bowman, a pole in the water ahead.’

‘No matter,’ Louise said softly. ‘We’re past. Go to the right of the lights.’

They smelt the fish quay well before it loomed out of the darkness.

Louise went to rise, but Renzi pulled her down again. ‘Doud!’ he hissed.

The lithe topman sprang for the rickety ladder and, after pausing for a moment to listen, pulled himself up and over. He was soon back. ‘Clear!’ he whispered.

Her bundle was handed up first, then it was her turn. She did not hesitate and hauled herself up quickly. At the top, smoothing down her dress, she picked up her bundle and, without a single glance back, lifted her head and went off into the black of the night.

In the morning L’Aurore spread sail and continued on her patrol, a lazy circling of Guadeloupe, taking the inner passage between it and La Desiderade and the other islands, Marie-Galante and the legendary Saintes.

Four days later she hove to off Pointe-a-Pitre and that night prepared to pick up Louise.

Renzi insisted on going in the boat, and when they reached their position off Petit-Bourg, he tended the dark-lanthorn ready to signal the reply.

The men lay on their oars and waited. It was still and calm, the rippling of water along the boat the loudest sound, but the soft blackness remained inviolate.

The boat thwarts were hard and Renzi squirmed uncomfortably but never took his eyes off the shore.

An hour passed, another. The current was taking them gently away to the north and every so often the boat had to be brought back.

One by one the lights were disappearing on the land and by midnight they had all winked out.

And still nothing.

This was worrying: a moonrise was expected about two and they could not risk being seen so close inshore. What if …?

Dark thoughts crowded in. Renzi forced them aside and tried to concentrate. The men were, in the age-old way, lying across the boat yarning quietly together, the drone of their voices and occasional snicker getting on his nerves.

If indeed Louise had been taken up, there would be questions under duress – it was too much to expect that she could hold out against torture, and if that was the case, there was every chance that an armed launch was now on its way out to intercept them.

The first sliver of moon appeared. They had to leave.

‘Out oars, we’re going back.’

Kydd was waiting at the taffrail. ‘Where’s Louise?’ he demanded.

‘Shall we go below?’ Renzi answered wearily. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

In the cabin Kydd exploded: ‘You persuaded the poor innocent to go into Guadeloupe after your crack-brained secret base? Are you insane, Nicholas?’

‘It has to be logical. I’ve-’

‘Be damned to you! Have you any idea what you’ve done? She’s all alone in there, for God’s sake, probably at this minute in some stinking French prison waiting for … for …’

‘She went of her own accord, brother. Her choice!’

‘Of course she would! To please you, damn it! I can’t believe it of you – taking advantage of a tender-hearted woman like that for your own ends.’

Kydd’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d never have thought it, Nicholas. You of all people, full of your morals and logic, you’ve no idea of what it is to be in the real world. Not stopping to think what you’ve-’

‘I’m going in to find out what happened to her,’ Renzi said quietly. ‘If you’ll set me ashore tomorrow night, I’m determined to find her.’

‘And look for your lunatic base!’

Renzi’s eyes glowed dangerously. ‘I said I’ll go after Louise.’

Kydd paused. ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right. I’ll not allow it.’

‘I’m going.’

‘No!’

‘Then this minute I’ll go overside and swim ashore, I swear it.’

‘You’ve no chance, Nicholas. You’ll be taken as an Englishman the first person who sees you.’

‘That’s my affair. I’d be obliged if you’d linger here for another day, then put me ashore.’

‘You’re quite determined on it, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

Kydd drew a quick breath. ‘Very well, I won’t stand in your way.’

‘Have a care, sir!’ Doud hissed anxiously from the boat.

The top of the fish quay was deserted, a patchwork of shadows; beyond, lights of the village. Renzi cautiously edged to one side, tiptoed to a stack of lobster pots and peered over.

The road wound out of sight past a group of houses and in the other direction there were deserted pig-pens and a farmhouse with lights ablaze.

Cautiously he stepped out. He was dressed plainly, in dark clothing with a makeshift knapsack on his back. There was no point in disguise: he was a stranger and his accent marked him out as an Englishman so his only hope was a rapid entry and exit.

His plan was simple: to reach Pointe-a-Pitre in an hour or so and find Louise’s well-remembered house near the waterfront. If there were any of the family Vernou left, that was where they would be. If not, he’d have to think again.

After he had passed the last house, he breathed a little easier. Lofty palm trees and thick bush lined the road; if he saw or heard anything he could be out of sight in a second. He moved quickly, wryly recalling that this was the self-same road that, years before, Kydd had taken with his party escaping from the capital when it was captured by the revolutionaries.

The night was cool and the thinning sky overhead allowed him a glimpse of the stars and the comfort of knowing his direction. He caught the glimmer of water to his right: the head of the bay, and it was therefore only about ten minutes to the bridge and the same to the other side to the capital.

Houses began again, some with lights. He hurried past them, his heart thumping when a dog began a sudden howling and someone came to the door. He froze and after a moment the door banged shut, the dog now barking maniacally.

It fell silent after he reached the road to the bridge. In French Europe, bridges were often guarded as a matter of course, and it was too dark to see if there was a factionnaire at this one. As quietly as he could he followed the road on to the bridge but his footsteps became a wooden thumping. He pressed on, trying to think of what he would say if stopped.

He was two-thirds over when he heard some way behind him the creak and grind of a cart. He hurried along, then saw the unmistakable outline of a sentry-box. He stopped in panic and glanced back: the cart had reached the bridge and was beginning to cross it.

A figure stepped into the road out of the sentry-box and his heart quailed. The man gestured irritably to him but, in a flood of relief, he saw he was motioning him out of the way. No doubt merely the bridge-keeper, making sure farmers paid their dues if they tried to cross at night.

Renzi mumbled something and pressed on to the streets beyond.

It had been many years and the darkness made it difficult to recognise where he was.

A couple passed on the opposite side, talking animatedly.

Were the Vernous on the north or the south side of the square? A man turned the corner and walked directly towards him. Renzi swayed a little, as though intoxicated, and the man passed wide in distaste.

Suddenly he recognised an odd wrought-iron pattern of a gate and recalled it was at the corner just up from the house.

He hurried on and there it was, with a light in the upper-floor bedroom where, long ago, he and Kydd had been quartered. His heart beat fast but he had to play it with the utmost care. He passed by without curious looks, trying to remember what was in the street behind, then recalled it was the grassy path that led to the waterfront, close to where he and Louise had got away in the brig, leaving Kydd alone.

He doubled back along the path – no one was following. As he drew abreast of the rear of the Vernou residence, he jumped over the low picket fence into the hibiscus bushes and was underneath the little balcony of the bedroom.

He’d brought to mind the noisy creaking of the rickety steps that led down from it that had made it impossible for himself and Kydd to slip out by themselves. With a last look around he leaped for the underside of the balcony. This was much quieter, but if he was seen, the game would be over.

He heaved and swung his legs up – they caught and he rolled over the rail, landing on the balcony with a light thump.

The curtains were drawn and he could not see who was inside. If it was Louise he was safe – if anyone else …

Taking a deep breath, he tapped lightly. There was no sound from inside so he tried again. Then he heard movement, someone coming to the window. If there was screaming …

The curtains were drawn back and it was Louise.

She stared at him, as if at a ghost, then recovered, her key rattling nervously as she unlocked the little door.

‘Quickly – come in!’ she hissed, pulling him in bodily. Before she closed the door she looked out carefully, then drew the curtains and turned on him.

‘You fool! The Citizen Watch Committee don’t trust me and are out.’

‘Louise, you’re safe. I was so worried-’

‘For now. I’m followed, watched – this is why I cannot go to your rendezvous.’

‘How will you-’

‘You must get out – now! There is no secret base here, nothing I have heard or seen in Guadeloupe. You must go, M’sieur Renzi. Go back to your ship while you can.’

HMS Hannibal did her best. An old lady of a previous war, she had neither the agility nor the deadly grace of the newer 74s and now, matched with them in line-of-battle, she was showing her age.

The flagship in the van braced up into the wind in breathless pursuit of the mock enemy, the other two astern sharpened in, but it was too much for the second in line. She tried but could not come up to the wind as close as the others and inexorably sagged away to leeward.

On the quarterdeck her captain turned red and roared murder at the sweating men set to bringing in every last inch on the sheets.

‘She’s as high as she’ll go,’ her sailing master mumbled, looking up at the sails, straining hard as boards, the tiniest flutter threatening on every weather leech.

‘If I want your opinion, Mr Maitland, I’ll beg it of you,’ Tyrell snarled sarcastically. ‘Until then, hold your tongue, sir!’

The master retired, his face set.

‘Hard in that fore topmast staysail, you vile set o’ lubbers, or I’ll see your backbones, every one, I swear!’ Tyrell bellowed forward, eyeing the flagship, whose starboard side now stretched away in full view as they fell further away from the line.

On the foredeck the raw acting fifth lieutenant, Mason, tried manfully to obey, his high-pitched voice carrying aft to the sombre group watching on the quarterdeck as he urged on his men. As was the case in so many other stations in a notorious ship unable to attract volunteers, he was short-handed and three men were few enough to put on the soaring triangular staysail.

Without warning the sail broke free. Flogging out savagely, it sent men sprawling into the scuppers.

‘God rot it!’ roared Tyrell. ‘The bloody dogs – can you believe it? They let go the rope!’ he spluttered, beside himself with rage. ‘Hale ’em all aft – every last man jack o’ the lubbers!’

They shambled up, the white-faced Mason with them.

‘It was an accident, sir,’ he began.

‘Hold your peace, Mr Mason. I’ll deal with you later.’

Tyrell stared down at the three men, his face working. ‘I know what you’re up to, you black-hearted rascals! Don’t think I don’t – I’m wise to you! Your little game is to make Hannibal look a shab before the admiral, isn’t it?’

‘Sir, it really was-’

‘Well, it won’t work, and now you’re going to pay for it.’ The men stared back in bitter resentment, knowing better than to say anything.

‘Sir, the sheet carried away. The line was rotten!’ Mason burst in.

Like a snake, Tyrell rounded on him. ‘You’re dismissed the deck, Mr Mason. Get to my cabin and wait for me there – this instant, sir!’

No one caught Mason’s eye as he turned stiffly and went below but Bowden saw the glitter of tears of frustration as he went. It was a cruel and unnecessary thing to inflict on the earnest young man and his heart went out to him.

‘You three, you’re in irons until tomorrow forenoon and then you’ll be up before me. Failing in your duty, which I daresay will earn you six at the gratings – and another half a dozen for the shame you brought on your ship.’

Ahead, the flagship had noted Hannibal’s unweatherly clawing and had considerately paid off a little until the line was whole again but it didn’t mollify Tyrell, who stumped about the deck, like a caged beast.

It was the same throughout the rest of the day, his brooding figure a malignant presence likely to appear silently from behind whenever officers or men were talking together. He did not go below until well into the evening.

The wardroom was in a black mood – there was little talk and few amused asides. Every officer was suffering: even the ponderous first lieutenant, Griffith, had been subject to a tirade in public for some petty shortcoming and he now kept to himself. Bowden occupied his time quietly, reading when he could, sometimes writing long letters home – careful not to express any criticism to his uncle and guardian, now a rear-admiral.

It was the unguessable arbitrary nature of their captain that sapped at morale, on one day demanding haste at all costs, then on another furious at the consequent compromises in quality, sometimes cruelly dismissing the efforts men were making for him, and at the next extravagantly rewarding mediocre performance. It made no sense.

The morning brought with it a heavy tropical downpour. The flagship ahead disappeared in grey-white curtains of solid water and the officer-of-the-watch grew lines of worry, which deepened as they plunged on, blind.

Tyrell paced up and down the quarterdeck, cocked hat jammed tight sending streams of water down his oilskin. Quite able to leave for a comfortable dry cabin, he remained morosely on deck, occasionally looking up at wet sails trailing sheets of water as they caught the rain.

Once, he flashed a gleeful grin at the officer-of-the-watch, who jerked with surprise and answered with a weak smile. ‘Get those good men below in the dry, Bowden, there’s a good fellow,’ he ordered, pointing to four sailors forward.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Bowden replied, knowing it could well change the rare good mood to a raging tantrum if he objected and pointed out that they were posted in the eye of the ship for the express purpose of warning of collision with the invisible flagship ahead.

The rain stopped, the decks began steaming under a hot sun, and Tyrell finally went below to change. As soon as he had gone the atmosphere brightened.

Bowden caught movement out of the corner of his eye, Midshipman Joyce stealthily descending from aloft. He realised what was going on: the young rascal was engaged in the old game of baiting a marine.

The target was the poop-deck sentry, standing on duty with his musket, motionless and facing inboard. Joyce took out a piece of twine and secured it to the rigging and its other end he ever so carefully tied to the marine’s queue. Mission accomplished, he retired to await results.

Shortly, from out of the cabin spaces, a genial Tyrell emerged, looking about him with satisfaction.

The marine on the deck above snapped to attention, keen to show his alertness on duty by the routine of pacing across the deck to take a new position the other side. He shouldered his musket smartly and stepped out.

The twine tautened – the hapless marine was jerked backwards and crashed down, musket clattering. Disoriented, and on hands and knees, he looked around bewildered for the source of the attack.

The quarterdeck roared with laughter, Tyrell joining in. Joyce, clearly apprehensive at the possible consequences, gave a relieved smile.

When order was restored Tyrell ordered crisply, ‘Sar’nt of the watch, lay aft.’

The beefy soldier reported warily.

‘We’ve a younker here doesn’t show sufficient respect to your Royal Marines, Sar’nt. Give him a musket and set him to marching the length o’ the ship, fore and aft, until I say stop.’

Under the heavy musket the slight midshipman set out in good imitation of a Royal, stiffly swinging his arms and with a professional look of blankness just a trifle overdone. He was encouraged throatily by the sergeant, and shouts of support came as he passed by working seamen along the gangways to the foredeck and the root of the bowsprit, where he stamped around in a creditable ‘about turn’ before marching down the other side.

Bowden watched with relief. Was their tyrant at last lightening up?

Time passed and, visibly tiring under the unfamiliar weight of the musket, Joyce was no longer playing to the gallery, now trudging on in a mindless tramp, eyes fixed to the deck in front of him.

‘Er, sir,’ Bowden ventured, ‘stand down Mr Joyce? He’s been going for an hour.’

‘No.’ There was no compassion of any kind to be seen in his face.

The spiritless plodding went on – and on. Now there was pity and rough sympathy in the looks from the seamen for it was obvious that Joyce was suffering. He stumbled on doggedly, determined not to give in.

‘I’ll be below,’ Tyrell told the officer-of-the-watch and abruptly left.

Joyce crumpled to the deck.

Instantly the skylight on the poop opened and Tyrell popped into view, bellowing, ‘The last order was “march”, Mr Joyce! I have you under my eye, and if you stop again, I’ll see you court-martialled for disobeying a direct order.’

Shocked, the quarterdeck could only look on silently as the lad got to his feet and, with a superhuman effort, thudded the musket down on his shoulder and started off, a nightmarish shamble with staring eyes.

‘Send for the doc,’ Bowden whispered to a messenger.

The surgeon came, a shrivelled individual. ‘That man’s not fit to continue,’ Bowden said in hard tones. ‘Do you not agree, sir?’

Looking about him fearfully, the surgeon went to Joyce who, in his Calvary, didn’t pause, slogging on endlessly, seemingly in a trance. ‘I, er, cannot see that-’

‘What in Hades are you doing there, Surgeon?’ thundered Tyrell, who had shot out on deck.

‘Why, um, this man’s-’

‘Do you think to interfere with my authority, sir?’

‘Er, not at all,’ quavered the man.

‘Then get about your business, sir.’

Bravely the sergeant came up and faced Tyrell. ‘He’s had enough, sir. Can’t you-’

‘I’ll not have my orders questioned!’ he roared, to the deck in general. ‘The next man who interferes will be arrested on the spot.’

The watch on deck lowered their eyes and returned to their motions while the pitiful figure staggered on.

It couldn’t last: near the fore-mast and without a sound the lad collapsed, the musket skittering across the deck. With a piteous effort he tried to rise, swaying on his feet, then dropped, this time moving no more.

Deadly looks were shot aft as seamen ran to him but Tyrell seemed not to notice, gazing up lazily to take in the set of the topgallants, at the seas creaming in to windward.

Bowden felt anger rising. It threatened to overwhelm him. He stared obstinately out to sea until it passed, leaving him shaken.

That night he came off watch at midnight, thankful for the sanctity of his little cot where he could fight down the images of the day. He eventually drifted off into a restless sleep.

At some time in the early hours he was jerked into consciousness by the sudden pandemonium of cries and running feet above.

Heart thumping, he dropped to the deck and, pulling on a coat, headed for the after hatchway as fast as he could.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked hurrying figures in the darkness.

‘Don’t know,’ one man said hoarsely. ‘I’m getting topside, whatever!’

As he fought his way up, Bowden’s mind tried to grapple with sensations. The ship was still under way, for a live deck was under his feet with none of the deadly stillness to betray a grounding on a reef. There were no shots or firing, no stentorian orders or thundering drums in urgent summons to action – just men spilling up on deck from below in a bewildered throng.

He hurried to the wheel. The quartermaster was standing stolidly next to the helmsman.

‘What’s the alarm, man?’ Bowden demanded.

‘As we split the fore course, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘Captain wants we should shift to a new ’un and won’t wait for day.’

Bowden couldn’t believe his ears.

‘So he clears lower deck o’ both watches an’ we do it now.’

It took his breath away. The fore course was the main sail on the fore-mast. To replace it with another was a major task: not only had it to be handed, secured and sent down, but the replacement had to be roused out from decks below, lashed together in a long sausage and sent up, tons’ weight of canvas on bending strops into the tops, the work of hours.

In the darkness it was unthinkable – but it was happening. Bowden went forward in the gloom: sullen men were being mustered for the job. He peered up at the sail. It was indeed split, from top to bottom along a seam but apart from spilling its wind it did not seem a danger to the ship.

It could have waited until morning, but by his action Tyrell was condemning the entire ship to loss of precious sleep to which they were entitled. The watch below would have had barely an hour of rest since their last duty, and while seamen would willingly go aloft to save the ship this was no man’s idea of a life-or-death situation.

There were growls and snarls under cover of darkness, but the work went on. Lines stretched along for hoisting, buntlines overhauled and above, almost invisible in the darkness, topmen manning the yards and fisting the canvas as the sail was brought in.

It was madness. Tyrell stood to one side, watching, his arms folded truculently as the sail was made up for unbending. Then, out in the night, there was a despairing shriek, cut short by a sickening thud as a man out on the yard scrabbled, lost his hold in the blackness and plummeted to his death.

All work ceased. A venomous muttering began but Tyrell stalked immediately to the centre of the deck. ‘Get those men back to work, damn your blood!’ he roared up to the tops. ‘Now!’

It was a turning moment. Bowden sensed the resentment turn to a visceral hatred, the sullen obedience now a feral wariness.

Hannibal was headed into the unknown.

It was an hour after dawn when the last line was belayed and the sail trimmed to the wind. The men went below without a word but the glances flashed aft could not be mistaken in their meaning.

As the day went on there was a rising feeling of menace, as if a fuse had been lit. Bowden had the last dogwatch and watched apprehensively as the bright day changed by degrees into a creeping darkness. At three bells a figure detached from the cabin spaces and shuffled towards him. It was Joyce.

‘Sir, I’d be obliged for a piece of your time,’ he said, in a low voice.

‘Of course,’ Bowden said, and moved up the deck out of hearing of the group at the conn.

Joyce seemed to have difficulty bringing out the words, then blurted, ‘I was asked by the men where I stood an’ all.’

Bowden went cold. There was no doubting the meaning. The ship was a powder keg.

‘In the event of …’

‘Aye, sir.’

There was only one answer. ‘On your honour, you must stand true to the ship.’

‘I knew you’d say that, sir.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘An’ I thank you for it, Mr Bowden.’ He moved painfully away.

Bowden paced forward. His duty now was clear and there was no putting it aside. He must formally tell the captain what he had heard.

Or should he stand back and let the man take what was coming to him for his inhuman treatment of his men?

The moral case for allowing things to take their course was strong, especially as by disclosing what Joyce had told him he was condemning the boy to a court-martial at the least for breach of the Articles of War in not having immediately informed the captain himself.

On the other hand if he didn’t and it turned into a bloody mutiny there would be lives lost and a vengeful Admiralty would be pitiless. By forewarning it could be prevented – and his oath to the Crown would remain untarnished.

By the end of the watch he had decided.

‘Come!’ Tyrell sounded irritable.

Bowden entered the great cabin, its spare and bleak appearance so different from that in any other ship-of-the-line he had seen.

Tyrell was standing by the stern windows, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Yes?’ he said, without looking round.

‘Sir, I wish to report-’

‘Ah, Bowden,’ Tyrell said, swinging round to face him. ‘Always pleased to see a loyal and upright officer. What is it I can do for you?’

Taken aback by his welcome, Bowden hesitated.

‘You want to report …?’

‘Ah, sir. A grave matter.’ Whatever it took, he would not involve Joyce by name.

‘Oh?’ The amiable expression remained unaffected.

‘Sir, I was approached by a member of the ship’s company who saw fit to inform me that certain unnamed individuals were disaffected and no longer reliable. Sir, in my opinion the people are in a state of incipient mutiny.’

It was said.

‘Why, you came down to tell me this? God bless you, Mr Bowden, for your concern on my behalf. Is there anything else?’

‘Er, this is to say, I’ve no reason to doubt that the men could rise at any time, sir, and-’

‘Calm yourself, Mr Bowden, it’s not as you fear. When you’ve been in the Service as long as I, you’ll realise that the scum are always in a state of mutiny, the dogs. Only hard discipline keeps ’em tranquil.’

‘Sir, I-’

‘For you, for the sake of your fears, I’ll take steps. You’ll learn that swift and decisive measures are an infallible remedy for these vile creatures.’

‘Er, thank you, sir.’

‘Captain of Marines this instant!’ he called loudly, to the sentry outside his door, who hurried to obey.

The officer arrived, breathless and confused.

‘Ah, Captain. I’ll have every marine sentry throughout the ship on duty with their bayonets ready fixed. Fixed, you understand?’

‘Um, yes, I’ll do it now.’ His eyes darted from Bowden to Tyrell with incomprehension but he left quickly.

‘There. The sight of naked steel will always steady the wayward, don’t you think?’ Tyrell said pleasantly.

Bowden could think of nothing to say. For any marine between decks the bayonet would be an intolerable impediment and impossible to wield, and what the seamen would think of this passed belief.

‘If you suffer any further disquiet, please feel you can approach me at any time. This is the duty any captain must owe his officers.’

‘Er, thank you, sir, I will.’

The wardroom at supper was tense. There was little conversation and each officer avoided any other’s eye.

The table was cleared and the president called for port. With deliberate emphasis he invited Mr Vice to make the loyal toast, which was given in guarded tones.

Afterwards, when normally the wardroom would relax into comfortable reminiscence, there was only an awkward silence. There were wary looks about the table, one or two comments on the dishes and then nothing.

‘Damn it!’ Griffith burst out. ‘Is no one going to speak?’

Eyes turned to him.

‘Clear the cabin o’ the serving staff!’ he snapped. ‘And send away the sentry.’

This was unprecedented. In effect the first lieutenant was reducing those present to the wardroom officers of Hannibal only.

‘No one to leave! Who’s the officer-of-the-watch?’

‘Mason,’ someone said nervously.

‘Right, we’ll do without him. So we’re all in this together – agreed?’ he snapped.

‘What can you mean by that, sir?’ gasped Jowett, the second lieutenant.

‘What I say, sir,’ Griffith ground out, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial quiet, ‘is this. It can’t go on and, whether we like it or no, we’re the ones to suffer in the end.’

The third, Briggs, had no qualms about an opinion. ‘He’s mad, of course. Anyone who’s passed by the Bedlam hospital knows what to look for.’

‘And what’s that?’ growled Maitland, the sailing master.

‘Does it matter?’ said the Captain of Marines. ‘We all know he’s beyond reaching.’

If the Royal Marines were no longer prepared to stand with their captain, it was a matter of desperate gravity.

‘Here’s my view, and it’s one that I sorrow to hold.’ Griffith regarded them gravely. ‘We have to declare him mad, unfit to command.’

‘And then?’ Jowett gave a dry laugh. ‘I’d not like to be the one who tells him. I have it from my man that Tyrell carries a pair of pocket pistols on him wherever he goes.’

Bowden spoke up quietly: ‘It’s a nice point, though. If we do nothing and there’s a meeting with the enemy, I have m’ doubts the men will fight for him, and we’re a liability in the line-of-battle. If we do take steps we could be each and every one damned for the rest of our careers …’

‘I don’t know why you’re all so gib-faced,’ Griffith said bitterly. ‘It’s down to my account who’s the “leader” in this … rising.’

‘Talking of rising,’ Briggs said strongly, ‘we should bear it in mind that if we do indeed make such a move, the ship’s company will see it in their best interest to drop any ideas they may have for a mutiny, or similar.’

‘That’s a good point. We’re only a couple of dozen against six hundred,’ muttered Maitland, staring into his glass.

‘Against?’ Bowden asked, with irony.

‘We’ve only to hang out a signal to the fleet and-’

‘Don’t be a looby,’ Jowett sneered. ‘They’ll never let us, and they’d have to wait only for nightfall to be off to wherever they’re carrying the ship. Anyone watching won’t have a clue what’s happening, and if it’s night, well …’

‘That’s as may be,’ Griffith said, with finality. ‘I’m to demand that before we leave this cabin we’ve decided on our course.’

‘To take Hannibal from Captain Tyrell or no,’ Bowden said levelly.

‘To prevent a rising of the hands and carrying of the ship over to the enemy.’

‘I say we take it to a vote!’ Briggs put in.

‘Now hold on, young ’un,’ Maitland said in alarm. ‘We’re not ready f’r that, like!’

Bowden tapped twice on the table with a spoon. ‘Let’s not lose sight of our options,’ he said, flashing an apologetic smile at the first lieutenant for his interruption. ‘First we have to be sure things can only be resolved by the captain’s, er, removal. This is a step with no going back. And if we do, then is it to be by main force or another way?’

‘Another way,’ Jowett said forcefully. ‘Simple – the doctor declares the man insane, we put him to bed and all is sweet for us.’

‘It does have the merit of being quick and sure,’ agreed Griffith. ‘Doctor, you’ll do this for us?’

The surgeon shrank from him in fear. ‘I c-can’t!’

‘Why not, pray?’

‘It’s that … Well, I’m not qualified, am I?’

‘Damn it!’ exploded Griffith. ‘If you’re not, who is?’

‘I know why he won’t,’ Jowett said with venom. ‘He’s worried that if he certifies Tyrell mad and Surgeons’ Hall won’t have it, he fears he’s to be cast in damages.’

‘Let’s keep our tempers, gentlemen,’ Bowden said, then asked, ‘Doctor, we have to take some kind of action. Is there a middle course, one that recommends he be retired immediately on grounds of ill-health, or some such?’

The surgeon shook his head mutely.

‘You’ll get no sense out of that lubber,’ Jowett growled. ‘We’ll have to do the business ourselves. Anyone knows the symptoms of mad?’

‘Hold hard, Mr Jowett,’ interposed Maitland. ‘You’re not reckoning on the consequences.’

‘What fucking consequences?’

‘If we declare him mad but the ship’s doctor declines, it’ll be taken as an act of open mutiny.’

The table fell into an appalled silence.

‘So we just carry on as before? I don’t think so,’ Griffith said slowly. ‘He’s getting worse, thinks there’s plots against him – he’ll one day likely up and skewer some poor wight he thinks is after his blood.’

‘Or worse,’ Briggs said morosely. ‘I’ve heard of things happening in Bedlam that would-’

‘Where did you …?’

‘When I was young, my aunt was taken to the asylum with the night terrors and shakes. We had to visit her as she got worse.’

His face fell sombre in recollection. ‘To see how she changed, why, it was-’

‘Yes, well. So, then, you’re the one to tell us the symptoms,’ Jowett said firmly. ‘What do we look for? What things say you’re a mad cove?’

‘Umm. Well, she used to write long letters to all us younkers and in the end the writing was so bad we couldn’t understand it.’

‘Bad writing!’ sniffed the purser, in an offended tone. ‘And that’s a thing. These days I send him papers, and get back scrawls I can’t figure and dursn’t ask.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ snarled Griffith. ‘This has gone on long enough.’

He looked about the table significantly. ‘Whether we like it or no, whatever happens in the near future will be on all our heads, no escape for any. I’ve a notion to act now, do something before it all comes down on us in a way we won’t like.’

Encouraged by one or two nods, he went on, ‘So this is what I’m proposing. We draw up a list of all the crazy, strut-noddy things he’s done and said.’

His head whipped around to the terrified surgeon, as he snarled, ‘Then get our doctor to sign that he’s seen all this and thinks it the behaving of a cheerful, well-living cove. Or not – as the case may be,’ he concluded grimly.

‘I – that is to say, I, er-’ the surgeon stammered.

Griffith turned on him with savage intensity. ‘You’ll sign, Doctor. I take my oath on it.’

He went on more quietly, ‘In this way we can say that, while we’re no taut hands in the matter o’ lunacy, we’re standing down our captain for the good of the Service as being our judgement of his condition.’

‘Good idea,’ Briggs agreed enthusiastically. ‘And then-’

But the first lieutenant hadn’t finished. ‘Now, for this to save our skins it has to be all of us or none. Nobody to hang back. If it isn’t, we’re done.’

It didn’t have to be spelled out: in going behind Tyrell’s back to the admiral with their demand, they were in breach of every moral rule of conduct of a naval officer, and even if there were no legal consequences they would be tainted by the action for the rest of their careers.

Bowden froze. Everything in his being screamed at him to shy away from the awful chasm they were approaching, but if he did, this would be betraying not only his fellow officers but as well the countless seamen who had suffered.

‘So. How about it, gentlemen? Do we take a vote on it?’ Griffith’s eyes went about the table, to each man in turn. There was no escaping it – they were all in or …

‘Then here it is. Officers of Hannibal now assembled. Do you now accept and determine that Captain Tyrell is, um, not of sound mind as can continue in his position and must be declared unfit?’

No one dared speak. The moment hung interminably.

‘I’ll take a show of hands. Raise ’em if you’re in. Gentlemen?’

Bowden, his mind now resolved to an icy coolness, joined the rest as every hand was raised.

Griffith smiled in grim satisfaction. ‘Then we’re in agreement. We’re a day only out of Antigua. When we’re hook down, I’m going ashore with you at my back and we brace the admiral!’