The door opened, revealing the light of another candle lantern. The air inside the room was foul; McCool was sitting on a chest, while two of the ship’s corporals sat on the deck with their backs to the bulkhead. The corporals rose at an officer’s entrance, but even so, there was almost no room for the two newcomers. Hornblower cast a vigilant eye round the arrangements. There appeared to be no chance of escape or suicide. In the end, he steeled himself to meet McCool’s eyes.

“I have been put in charge of you,” he said.

“That is most gratifying to me, Mr — Mr—” said McCool, rising from the chest.

“Hornblower.”

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hornblower.”

McCool spoke in a cultured voice, with only enough of Ireland in it to betray his origin. He had tied back the red locks into a neat queue, and even in the faint candlelight his blue eyes gave strange reflections.

“Is there anything you need?” asked Hornblower.

“I could eat and I could drink,” replied McCool. “Seeing that nothing has passed my lips since the Espérance was captured.”

That was yesterday. The man had had neither food nor water for more than twentyfour hours.

“I will see to it,” said Hornblower. “Anything more?”

“A mattress — a cushion — something on which I can sit,” said McCool. He waved a hand towards his sea chest. “I bear an honoured name, but I have no desire to bear it imprinted on my person.”

The sea chest was of a rich mahogany. The lid was a thick slab of wood whose surface had been chiselled down to leave his, name — B. I. McCool — standing out in high relief.

“I’ll send you in a mattress too,” said Hornblower.

A lieutenant in uniform appeared at the door.

“I’m Payne, on the admiral’s staff,” he explained to Hornblower. “I have orders to search this man.”