Bolitho saw the damaged chebeck begin to edge painfully towards the starboard quarter and managed not to watch the seamen frantically trying to reload before she was gone from view. But a Long Nine normally had a crew of fifteen men to attend to its needs. Meheux had half that number.

“Run out!” He had done it in two minutes.

The other two chebecks were reversing their swoops and backing away from the Navarra’s sudden challenge. One of them fired, but the shot must have passed well clear for none of them saw where it fell.

Meheux yelled hoarsely, “Left traverse!” He dashed to the side of the cabin, squinting his eyes as he tried to gauge the enemy’s speed.

Bolitho heard more crashes and shouts from the upper deck and said, “I must leave you.”

Meheux did not even hear him. “Left, left, left!” He snatched up a handspike and threw his own weight to the gun. He was still peering and squinting over the breech as Bolitho tore himself away and ran back to the poop.

He had just reached the sunlight again when Meheux fired. As he ran to the starboard side he saw the double-shot smash into the chebeck’s hull, watched with fixed fascination as the narrow deck began to tilt over, the packed mass of figures surging towards the shattered side like sheep stampeding down a steep hill. The two massive balls must have smashed the hull close on the water-line. The strain and impetus of the oars would have done the rest. Even now the hull was settling down, the milling figures of her crew spilling over the gunwale or running in confusion towards the bows. Neither of the other chebecks was making any attempt to draw near to save life or pursue the attack, and he wondered momentarily whether the stricken boat contained their leader.

He felt Grindle tugging his arm. “One of ’em’s turnin’, sir! She’s comin’ straight for the bows!”

Bolitho stared along the deck and saw a chebeck’s slim masts bearing down at full speed, her furled sails appearing to be within feet of the Navarra’s jib boom. At the last possible moment it changed course and swept purposefully towards the ship’s larboard bow, the oars swinging back against her hull like some great seabird folding its wings as it glided in for a closer embrace.

Bolitho yelled, “Larboard battery! Fire!”

As Ashton staggered along the line of guns each one lurched inboard, the smoke billowing across the enemy craft, the balls doing little damage but cut her foremast in two like a young sapling under an axe.

Bolitho felt the grinding shudder, saw grapnels thudding over the gangway, and dragged out his sword.

“Repel boarders!” He saw the Frenchman snatch up his pistols and push some of the dazed seamen towards the side. “Mr Ashton! The swivel gun!”

He saw Allday charging along the deck towards him, his cutlass already drawn and shining dully in the smokey sunlight.

He snapped, “I told you to stay with Mr Ashton!” But knew it was useless. Allday would never leave his side in a fight, no matter what he said.