His father had been away at sea. It had been his brother Hugh who had come to find him and had boxed his ears for good measure.

Thin sunlight filtered above the cruising haze and he heard the masthead lookout call, “Oi think ’tis there on the lee bow, zur! Broken water!”

Bolitho raised a telescope and eagerly scanned the murky shoreline. Then he saw the telltale cluster of small breakers marking the inward curve of a headland. He trained his mind until he fitted it into the mental picture of Inch’s chart, the place as described by Alava in his soft, gentle voice.

He heard a man slip and apologise awkwardly in the half-light, and saw Calvert feeling his way along the lee bulwark. He looked pinched and strained, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

Inch cupped his hands. “Masthead! Any sign of Restless?”

“None, zur!”

Inch said with unusual irritation, “That damn fellow must have lost himself!”

Bolitho looked at him. Maybe Inch was more worried than he showed, to be groping his way along this treacherous coast. Or perhaps he was masking his true feelings about the task he had been given? It was not going to be easy for him. He watched Inch nodding and whispering with his gunner and first lieutenant. Or was it that he was unwilling to be the one to witness Bolitho’s failure?

Slowly but surely the rounded headland was moving out to greet them, its summit already shining dully in the dawn light. Very soon now.

Inch came aft. “With your permission, sir, I will fire the mortars as we come abeam of the point. That will give my people time to reload for the next shots as we pass the entrance. Mr Broome is confident that we will make a good deal of confusion, even if we hit nothing!”

Bolitho smiled. Inch had certainly discovered new confidence, and that in itself was infectious.

“Good. Then carry on.”

Inch shouted, “Send the hands to quarters, Mr Wilmot! You know what we have to do today.”

The carronade crews had been up and about for several hours, and apart from dousing the galley fire there was little else to do but wait and watch Mr Broome with his men grouped like high priests around their two crouching mortars.

Allday murmured, “They’ll wake the bastards up, God rot them!”

“By the mark three!”

The headland was hard and clear against the skyline now, leaning out into the lively wavecrests as if to nudge the bowsprit.

Broome raised his hand. “Stand clear o’ they mortars, lads!”

Bolitho saw the spark of a fuse, the momentary jerk of the gunner’s shoulder, and held his breath.

The mortars fired within seconds of one another, and he was surprised the noise was negligible compared with the terrific shock of their recoil. He felt the deck bounce and vibrate beneath his feet with such force that his teeth were jarred painfully and his neck felt as if he had just been thrown bodily from a stampeding horse.