'We'll soon capture Bonn back again.'

'I doubt that.'

'France has a bigger and better army,' asserted Seurel. 'We also have the support of the Elector of Bavaria. We must win.'

'I'm sure that we will — in time. But forget about the war,' Catto went on. 'That will take care of itself. Our only concern is the private battle we have with Captain Rawson.'

'Let it wait.'

'What do you mean?'

'My worry at this moment is that,' said the Frenchmen, pointing at the ship towards which they were strolling with their luggage. 'I'm scared, Charles. Sailing across the Channel was bad enough. The North Sea will be far worse.'

'We'll make a sailor of you yet, Frederic.'

'The very thought of a voyage makes my stomach heave.'

'This is the last one you'll have to make and it's certainly the last one that Captain Rawson will have made. He'll pay dearly for his hour between the thighs of Madame Salignac.'

Seurel grinned. 'He may think it was worth it.'

'No woman is worth losing your life over.'

'I don't agree. I'd much rather be shot in bed with another man's wife than stabbed to death on the battlefield by a bayonet. At least I'd die with a smile of my face.'

They joined the end of the queue to board the ship. Proximity to other passengers made them keep their voices down. Seurel eyed the vessel warily then let his gaze travel up to the sky. It was overcast. A squall was in the offing. His stomach heaved more violently. He had heard many stories about how perilous the North Sea could be. People moved slowly forward, their passports examined before they were allowed aboard. Until now, the two men had spoken in French. As they edged towards the gangplank, Catto took the precaution of resorting to his native tongue.