It was obvious to Bolitho that Inch was torn between two real emotions. He was brooding over the loss of the Devastation and most of her company. But for his own eagerness she would still be anchored at Gibraltar, safe and unharmed.

Yet when Bolitho had outlined what he intended to do this same night he had seen something of the old Inch, too. Pride and a light of complete trust which had made him so very important in Bolitho’s memory.

Now, in Hekla his first and only command, Inch was anchored beyond the opposite headland, and within a very short while would be attempting something untried in naval history. With Bolitho and his own gunner he had climbed to the top of the beaked headland where the marines lolled like corpses in the scalding glare, and had carefully constructed a map of the fortress. Bolitho had said nothing which might have broken Inch’s concentration, and had been very aware of the deftness with which he went about his work. Ranges, bearings and measurements were added to the map, while the gunner had murmured occasional hints about charges, amounts of powder and fuses, most of which had been a foreign language to Bolitho.

Whatever Inch might say or think about his strange command, he certainly appeared to have found his right niche. It was to be hoped his zeal was matched by his aim. Otherwise these boats and their armed seamen would all be blown to oblivion.

If Inch could have fired his mortars in daylight he would have been quite sure his calculations were accurate. But Bolitho knew the defenders would have that much warning and make their own preparations. More time, to say nothing of lives, would be wasted, so Bolitho’s idea of a night attack was accepted without dissension, even by Broughton. Bolitho knew from experience that night attacks on shore defences were to be preferred. Sentries became tired, and there were usually so many strange noises abroad at night that one more shadow or additional squeak would excite little attention.

And why should it? The fortress had withstood siege after siege. Had seen the British squadron made to withdraw, leaving only a landing force of marines to fend for themselves amidst the rocks and scrub above the bay. They had very little to fear.

Allday hissed, “There’s the headland, Captain! Fine on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho nodded. He could see the vague necklace of white spray at the foot of the rocks, the darker blur of shadows where the land piled up into a craggy cliff beyond. Soon now.

He tried to picture his little flotilla in his mind. His barge and Bickford’s cutter would enter the bay first. Then four more boats would follow at regular intervals. One, under the command of Lieutenant Sawle, contained a large pouch of gunpowder, and once laid between the apprehensive oarsmen had all the appearances of a giant corpse being taken for burial. Sewn in greased leather, with a handmade fuse lovingly constructed by Fittock, the Euryalus’s gunner, it was to be in position just minutes before Inch’s mortars started to fire.