Allday gasped, “In God’s name!” Then he was across the small strip of cobbles, his cutlass swinging in a tight arc before the soldier realised what was happening. The heavy blade hit him across the mouth, and Bolitho heard the man’s bubbling cry even above the sound of the cutlass biting through flesh and bone.

But it was no use, any of it. Bolitho dragged his sleeve across his eyes and parried a soldier’s sword away, swinging him around and then driving the blade beneath his armpit. His sword arm was so weighty he could hardly raise it, and with sick despair he saw two pigtailed seamen beyond the gate waving their hands in surrender.

In those brief seconds he saw everything which had brought them here. His own pride, or was it only conceit? All the men who had depended upon him were dead or dying. At best they would end their lives in misery in the Spanish galleys or some rotting prison.

The soldiers paused and then retired to a further shouted command. Leaving the corpses and writhing wounded in the centre of the courtyard they fell back and formed into their original lines, only this time they were reinforced by more Spaniards from the lower fortress.

Bolitho let his sword fall to his side and looked at the remainder of his men. Gasping for breath, clinging to each other for support, they were standing dull-eyed to watch their own execution. And that is what it would be unless he surrendered at once.

As if from another world he heard a harsh voice bellow, “Front rank kneel!” And for a moment he imagined the Spanish officer was giving his commands in English to add to his misery.

The voice continued, “Take aim!” The order to fire was lost in the blast of muskets, and Bolitho could only stare as the ranks of Spanish soldiers reeled about in disorder under the deadly volley.

Of course, it was Giffard’s voice. He had heard it countless times on the quarterdeck at drills and ceremonial occasions. Giffard, plump, bombastic and pompous. A man who liked nothing better than to show off his marines. As he was doing now.

His voice was like a trumpet, and although hidden by the arched gateway, Bolitho could picture him exactly.

“The marines will advance! By the centre, quick march!”

And then it was all over. Like the passing of a cruel nightmare.

The marines, perfectly dressed as if on parade, their bayonets making a lethal glitter in the lantern light, their crossbelts very bright against the surrounding shadows. Behind them the next rank followed in stiff precision, reloading from their first volley, while Boutwood, the colour-sergeant, beat out the time with his half-pike.

Muskets clattered on the cobbles, and almost gratefully the Spaniards clustered together by the steps, the fight gone out of them.

Giffard stamped his boots together. “Halt!” Then he wheeled round and brought his sword hilt to his nose with a flourish which would have turned the head of King George himself.