He replied, “About three cables, I believe. We will carry on now, Mr Bickford, so keep a good lookout.”

At a further command the boats drifted apart once more, and as the oars started to move Bolitho sat down on the thwart, his eyes trained slightly to starboard where he would first see the bay’s western headland. Provided he had not misjudged the drift or the uneasy power of the swell.

He made himself think back over the busy afternoon, trying to discover any flaw in his hazardous plan. Yet each time he seemed to see Inch’s face, hear his voice as he had sat in the Euryalus’s stern cabin. A voice so weary and drained of life that he had seemed much older than his twenty-six years.

It was hard to recall Inch as he had once been as a junior lieutenant, eager but bumbling, loyal but without experience, more so when Bolitho considered what he had just done on his behalf. Inch had waited fretting at Gibraltar for an escort, knowing how desperately the two bombs were needed, and realising too that no such escort might ever arrive. He had taken his courage in both hands and had confronted the local admiral for permission to sail unaided. Typically, the admiral had granted permission, on the written understanding that whatever happened as a result would be Inch’s own responsibility. The other bomb vessel, Devastation, had also up-anchored without delay, and together they had headed out from the Rock’s protection, both commanders expecting to be attacked within hours by the patrolling Spanish frigates which had been so much in evidence.

As he had told his story Bolitho had been reminded of his own words to Draffen at Gibraltar about Inch’s luck. That luck had certainly held, for they had not sighted a single ship. Until that very morning, when out of a sea mist Inch’s lookout had reported a fast-moving Spanish frigate. There was little doubt in Bolitho’s mind that it was the one sighted by Coquette turning to dash back to Spain with the news of Broughton’s attack on Djafou. Perhaps her captain had imagined the two small and ungainly bombs were part of a trap being sprung to catch him before he could escape. Otherwise, he would hardly have been likely to have engaged them.

Inch had sent his small company to quarters, and with his consort some half mile abeam had prepared to give battle.

With all sail set the thirty-two-gun frigate had gone about to take advantage of the wind, her first broadside dismasting the Devastation and raking her decks with grape and chain shot. But the little bomb was sturdily built, and her guns had replied with equal vigour. Inch had seen several balls hitting the enemy’s hull on the waterline before a second savage broadside had smashed the Devastation into silence.

Inch had expected the same treatment, but had put his ship between the frigate and the other bomb and had opened fire. Maybe the Spanish captain had counted upon Inch to turn and run after witnessing the fate of his companions, or perhaps he still expected to see the Coquette’s topgallants above the horizon in hot pursuit. But the challenge was enough. The frigate had gone about again, leaving Inch to lower boats and pick up the survivors from the other bomb, which had turned turtle and started to sink.