It was suddenly very quiet, and once again Bolitho was aware of several vivid details, like parts of a pattern. Giffard’s boots squeaking. The smell of rum on his breath. And a wounded seaman crawling into the circle of lantern light, very slowly, like a broken bird.

Giffard barked, “Beg to report the arrival of my marines, sir! All present and correct.” The sword came down with a swish. “Request instructions, sir!”

Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. “Thank you, Captain Giffard. But had you left your attack any longer, I am afraid you would have found the gates shut in your face again.”

Giffard turned to watch his lieutenant supervising the prisoners. “Heard the explosions, sir. Saw the musket fire on the ramparts an’ put two an’ two together.” His voice took on a hurt note. “Couldn’t have you taking the fort without my marines, sir. Not after being out in the bloody sun all day, what?”

“You received no message then?”

He shook his head. “None. We did hear musket fire towards the beach, but the whole place is full of skirmishers and damned felons. I had cause to hang one meself in the afternoon. Tiresome fellow was trying to steal our rations!”

Bolitho said quietly, “Lieutenant Calvert should have reached you with news of the attack.”

Giffard shrugged. “Probably ambushed.”

“Probably.” Bolitho tried not to recall Calvert’s fear.

Giffard looked around at the weary, gasping seamen. “But you did very well without our help, it seems, sir.” He grinned. “But you can’t beat a bit o’ discipline and cold steel when it comes to real fighting!”

When Bolitho looked up at the towering wall again he saw that almost every window and slit was alight. There was such a lot to arrange before dawn. He rubbed his eyes and realised the sword was still firmly grasped in his hand. His fingers ached as he slid the blade into the scabbard. Ached as if they would never come free from it.

He said, “Secure the prisoners and have the wounded taken into the lower fortress. Coquette and Hekla will enter the bay at first light, and there is a world of work to do before then.”

Bickford clattered down the steps and touched his hat. “All resistance finished, sir.” His eyes fell on Lucey’s corpse, the bayonet still upright in his back, as if pinning him to the ground. “God,” he muttered shakily.

“You did well, Mr Bickford.” He walked slowly towards the steps, the tension still within him like the spring of a pistol. “As you are the only lieutenant left . . .”

Bickford shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Sawle is safe. Your barge picked him up. And Mr Fittock.”

Bolitho turned and looked back at Lucey’s body. It was strange how the Sawles of this world always seemed to survive, when others . . . He pulled himself from his brooding thoughts and snapped, “See to our wounded and then recall all the boats. I want a close watch kept on the anchored brig in case she tries to escape before daylight!”