He said, “It is all we can do at present, sir.”

Partridge called, “Eight minutes, sir!”

Suddenly Broughton nodded. “Very well. If you think so.”

Bolitho shouted, “Cease firing! Mr Tothill, signal Valorous to stand off and discontinue action immediately!”

The fortress fell silent as soon as Euryalus, and he guessed the garrison had to keep a careful watch on supplies of powder and shot. Not that they need have much fear of being beaten, he thought bitterly. Almost every ball fired from the fortress had hit home.

“Valorous has acknowledged, sir.”

Bolitho watched the two-decker’s shape lengthening as she began to tack, her sails almost aback as she swung heavily into the wind.

He called, “Report casualties and damage, Mr Keverne.”

To Broughton he said quietly, “We will have to support the marines, sir. They will be waiting for help.”

The admiral was studying the passing shoreline with something like resignation. Below a man was screaming and whimpering, and Bolitho felt the growing need to tend to his men and his ship.

But he persisted, “What instructions, sir?”

Broughton seemed to shake himself, and when he replied his voice was stronger again, but without conviction.

“Signal the squadron to close around the flagship.” His lips moved as if trying to form an order which would not come.

Bolitho looked at Tothill. “Make that signal at once.”

“Then I think we might land a second force, of seamen.” Broughton was pouting his lower lip. “Some guns too, if we can discover a favourable beach.”

Bolitho looked away. “Very well, sir.” Already he could visualise the tremendous effort and strain of getting even one thirty-two-pounder ashore and hauled up the hillside. And nothing but a gun of that size would do any good against the fortress. It would take a hundred men, maybe more, and others to be nearby to ward off any sudden attack by enemy skirmishers. A Long Nine weighed over three tons, and one such weapon would not be enough.

But it was better than having the squadron pounded to fragments in a senseless procession back and forth across the bay’s entrance.

He turned, caught off guard as Tothill said, “Sir!”

“What is it? Have they all acknowledged?”

“Not that, sir.” The midshipman pointed across the starboard nettings. “Coquette is off station and making more sail, sir.”

As he raised his telescope Bolitho saw the telltale balls dashing to the frigate’s yards and breaking out in bright patches of colour.

Tothill said, “Signal, sir. Strange sail bearing north-west.”

Bolitho lowered the glass and looked at Broughton. “Shall I order Coquette to give chase, sir?”

Tothill’s voice cut across Broughton’s reply. “Coquette is making another signal.” A pause, and Bolitho watched the muscle jerking in sharp, regular intervals in Broughton’s cheek. Then, “Strange sail has gone about, sir.”

Broughton let his arms fall to his sides. “Probably an enemy frigate. Coquette would have been able to close with her had she been anything else.” He looked at Bolitho. “She’ll be screaming our presence to the world now.”