‘There will be no smoke,’ he said shortly. ‘No cover. And they are ready and waiting and confident.’

‘My orders are to attack whatever the success of the fire boats,’ Captain Pett declared.

He called for the sails to be crowded on and the Mercury moved slowly towards the mouth of the harbour. There was another pinnace before her, and one behind; all the English captains were staying within the letter of their orders though the chances of the attack succeeding with the wind down and the fire boats sputtering into darkness was remote. The Turkish guns, expertly manned from the high harbour walls, bombarded the incoming ships. ‘Like ducks on a moat,’ John said angrily.

Mercury sailed in, obeying orders.

‘Please God he does not put us ashore and expect us to scale the walls,’ Tradescant muttered into his neckerchief. He looked back at his men. They were waiting grim-faced for Tradescant to lead them; ahead of them were the high walls of the fort with the sharply etched windows where a dozen muskets waited for the English to come into range, clearly visible on the water which was brightening with the morning light and shielded neither by mist nor smoke.

Captain Pett sailed inward, obeying his orders to the letter, but with a man at his elbow with a telescope trained on the commander’s ship, waiting for a signal. At last the flag reluctantly fluttered out.

‘Retreat ordered,’ shouted the man with the telescope.

‘Retreat!’ Captain Pett bawled. At once the drum began to beat and the other English ships wheeled around and started forcing their way, against the prevailing wind, back out of the harbour mouth.

The rest of the fleet sent in barges and took the ships in tow. It was an ignominious end to an attack, but John caught a rope and made it fast, feeling as light-hearted as a lad. The desire for battle had been replaced completely with a profound longing for the safety and comfort of his home.

Elizabeth greeted John home with a touch of coolness. She had been painfully aware that he had left despite her wishes, and she had prayed every night that he would be spared so that he could come home and they could start again, start as friends and lovers again. But when he walked into the Canterbury cottage, not a scratch on him, his face tanned and smiling, and a small wagon of plants waiting outside in the lane, her most powerful feeling was deep irritation.

John sent the wagon on to Lord Wootton’s garden with orders to see that the plants were unloaded and watered, and came into the house asking for a bath and that his linen be burned on the kitchen fire.

‘It’s lousy,’ he said. ‘It has driven me mad for days.’