SEVEN DAYS after calling his captains together in conference, Bolitho was growing more and more restless for news. It was like being abandoned by the world beyond Styx ’s hull, or being cast adrift because of some terrible plague.

He had deliberately sent the other two frigates to maintain close watch on Belle Ile and its approaches. This would ensure that the French would believe their enemy’s blockade remained unchanged. Also, if the Spanish shipmaster’s information proved false, it might allow time to call heavier vessels from the other squadrons if there was an attempt to break out.

So while Styx cruised slowly back and forth along a twentymile triangle to the south, Bolitho had ordered the little brig to maintain contact between them.

It was frustrating, almost maddening, to know nothing, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from going on deck whenever he heard a cry from the masthead or some unusual disturbance among the men on watch. The weather did nothing to help. The wind had fallen away to a leisurely breeze, with barely a whitecap to break the Bay’s shark-blue emptiness. The ship’s company, although much aware of the responsibility of carrying their admiral about his affairs, grew slack and casual. Here and there seamen would loll at their monotonous tasks of splicing and whipping, polishing and stitching, and, hidden from the quarterdeck, others would lie sprawled in the tops, fast asleep.

Bolitho had noticed that neither Neale nor Browne had mentioned the lack of support from north or south. Beauchamp’s wishes must have been translated into deeds by now, even the gun brigs from Gibraltar should have arrived to give him the support he needed. The fact that Browne stayed silent suggested he and not his rear-admiral was closer to the truth. No support would arrive. The strategy so carefully planned by Beauchamp would be allowed to lie in some Admiralty strongbox until conveniently forgotten.