Falcon’s men fired again, but the rhythm was gone, and here and there along her tumblehome Bolitho could see an angled muzzle to show a gun was unmanned, or an empty port which told its own story better than words.

Keverne said, “Four guns at a time, I’d say, sir.” He sounded cool and detached. An onlooker.

Lucey remarked, “Quite big too, by the look of them.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Lucey was only twenty and had been terrified. Bolitho knew all the signs, the constant swallowing, the inability to find anything for the hands to occupy themselves with, all the little things which told of a man’s mounting terror. Now Lucey was swopping comments with Keverne like an old campaigner. He hoped the pretence would last, for his sake.

Broughton said, “I can’t see for the damn smoke! What is Falcon doing?”

The smoke was funnelling through the Tanais’s stern windows, but whether from a fire or the exertions of the guns it was hard to tell. She was still managing to shoot, but she looked in a bad way. Her braced sails were easy targets and were pitted with holes, the latter from her own wood splinters as much as the enemy’s gunfire. Long trailers of severed rigging hung over her gangways, and Bolitho could see men already hacking it away with axes, the distance making their efforts all the more frantic.

Partridge cleared his throat. “She’s dipped ’er flag, sir.” He squinted at his big turnip watch. “Nigh on fifteen minutes that time.”

Broughton said, “I hope your thirty-two-pounders earn their keep, eh?” He was smiling, the skin drawn back tightly from his even teeth to make his efforts a lie.

But Bolitho was thinking of other things. Fifteen minutes, during which time his ship would be subjected to another merciless bombardment. The Spanish gun crews did not even have to alter their elevation. They merely waited and fired, as ship after ship the squadron sailed across that strip of open water. Sun in their eyes or not, it was as easy as shooting birds off a branch.

“I suggest you signal the squadron to discontinue the action, sir.” He kept his voice low, but saw the words affecting Broughton as if he had cursed him. He added quickly, “Independent action in support of the landing parties would . . .” He got no further.

“Never! Do you imagine I’ll let a few bloody Dons make me withdraw?” He glared at him with something like contempt. “By God, I thought you were made of sterner stuff!”

Bolitho looked past him and called, “Shake out the forecourse, Mr Keverne! Then hands aloft and get the t’gallants on her!” He held the lieutenant’s eyes with his own. “As quick as you can!”

As the men swarmed up the ratlines in response to the order he made himself walk slowly to the quarterdeck rail. He knew Broughton was staring after him but shut him from his mind. Broughton had made his decision, and the order had to be obeyed. But the Euryalus was his ship, and he would fight her to the best of his ability, and Broughton could think what he liked.