Still the firing continued, three by three, with the guns hurling themselves inboard where they were seized and reloaded by men already dazed beyond reason. Beyond anything but the need to load and run out. To keep on firing no matter what was happening.

Meheux was walking behind the guns now, his sword tapping a breech or pointing towards the fort for another captain’s benefit, his face frowning with concentration.

Broughton asked, “Where are the other marines? Your Captain Giffard should be at the causeway by now.”

Bolitho did not reply. His mind was rocking to the crash of guns, his eyes almost raw with smoke and strain as he concentrated everything on watching the fort. He could see the dark smudge below its circular wall where the sea entrance was situated. The double line of square windows, like gunports, which appeared to circle the whole building.

Two of them suddenly flashed with fire, and he imagined he saw the line of the nearest ball streaking across the sea towards him. The thud against the lower hull was muffled, and he saw the other ball throwing up a burst of spray far abeam.

He glanced astern. The ship was almost halfway across the bay, and with all sails drawing well would reach the opposite headland in about five minutes.

Again the telltale tongues of fire, and this time both balls smashed into the Euryalus’s side with the force of hammers striking a wooden box.

Three hits, and he did not yet know how serious. Yet the fortress was outwardly unmarked, with just a few patches of fallen chippings to show for their efforts.

Astern he could see the Valorous’s topmasts rounding the headland, and knew what Furneaux must be thinking as he watched the flagship under the onslaught of those great guns.

He turned to the admiral, who was standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the fort as if mesmerised.

“May I signal Valorous to stand off, sir?”

“Stand off?” Broughton’s eyes moved slightly to fix him with an unmoving stare. “Is that what you said?” A muscle jumped in his cheek as the lower battery roared out again, the smoke driven downwind by the darting tongues of flame.

Bolitho studied him for several seconds. Perhaps Broughton was caught off balance by the squadron’s inability to hurt the fort, or maybe he was dazed by the continuous crash of cannon fire.

He said bluntly, “Ships are being damaged to no purpose, sir.” He winced as the planking beneath his shoes gave a violent jerk. Another hit somewhere below the quarterdeck.

All at once, as the wind whipped the smoke clear of the deck, he saw Broughton’s face clearly in the sunlight and knew what was wrong. Broughton had not been testing him in the past, or trying to gauge the extent of his capability. The realisation was like a dash of icy water on his spine. Broughton did not know what to do next! His plan of battle was too rigid, and, found wanting, had left him with nothing to replace it.