The brig which today had made contact with Styx was already well on her way to the north and England. Despatches from the vice-admiral commanding the southern squadron, another piece of intelligence which might eventually be used by the brains of Admiralty.

But, as was customary in local strategy, the brig’s commander had been instructed to make contact with any senior officer he discovered on passage. A keen-eyed lookout had ensured that the officer concerned was Bolitho.

He said, “You all know by now the bones of our orders, our true reason for being here.”

He glanced around their intent faces. Young and serious, each aware of the supposedly secret peace proposals, and conscious that with peace could come the sudden end of any hope for advancement. Bolitho understood very well. Between the wars he had been one of the very fortunate few who had been given a ship when the majority of officers had been thrown on the beach like paupers.

“A week ago, two of our patrols to the south’rd fell in with a Spanish trader and tried to take her as a prize. It was near dark and the Spaniard made a run for it. But with a few balls slammed into his hull, and a shifting cargo for good measure, he began to capsize. A boarding party was just in time to seize some papers, and discover that the vessel’s holds were filled with building stone. With encouragement the Spanish master admitted he was bringing his cargo into this sector.” He touched the chart with his fingers. “Fifteen leagues south of our present position, to the Ile d’Yeu.”

As he had expected, some of their earlier excitement had given way to disappointment. He decided not to play with them any longer.

“The Spanish master stated that he had visited the island several times, and on every occasion had landed a cargo of stone.” He picked up the brass dividers and moved them over the chart.