Less than seventeen men had been affected, with no new cases reported in over a week. Shore leave was out of the question, although that was more due to the risk of desertion than concern for the illness aboard, and Scylla required nothing in stores or supplies apart from rosin and oil of cloves. Consequently she was permitted to remain in the outer harbour with the yellow fever flag flying, although even that was more to keep the hawkers at bay than for any real regard for the spread of infection. Banks stepped from his gig and looked to the midshipman in the sternsheets. “Go back to the ship, Mr Barrow. I’ll signal when I am due to return.” Barrow touched his hat, the boat pushed off, and soon was starting the long pull back to the ship as her captain stood uncertainly on the stone quay. He glanced about and noticed a plain but business-like carriage approach and draw up. A smartly dressed civilian skipped nimbly from the doorway and began to walk briskly towards him. “Sir Richard Banks?”
