The realisation that they had won, the sudden understanding they had beaten an overwhelming force of a terrifying enemy, was enough. Cheering, or sobbing with exhaustion, they ran back to their tackles, while the swivels and even muskets cut the air apart in their efforts to pursue the fast-moving chebeck.

Bolitho saw a massive carronade lurch inboard, and the flash as its ball burst close under the chebeck’s raked stem. He turned his head as a second slammed into her ornate poop, scattering the packed figures in bloody gruel.

Everyone was yelling and shouting, and Bolitho clung to the shrouds trying to peer over the rolling bank of smoke as the enemy’s twin masts began to tilt over.

He heard Inch calling to him, but as he swung round to listen he felt something like a blow in his right shoulder. It was not much and yet he was falling, and as he dropped to his knees he stared with dulled surprise at the blood which ran down across his white breeches and covered the deck around him. But something else was happening. He was on his side, the great mainsail high above him, and beyond it a wedge of pale cloud.

Voices were calling, and he saw Inch running towards him, his face frozen with dismay.

Bolitho opened his mouth to reassure him in some way, but as he did so the pain came. So great and so terrible that a merciful darkness closed over him. Then there was nothing.

16

AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR

SLOWLY, almost fearfully Bolitho opened his eyes. It seemed to take an age for his vision to clear, and he felt his mind bunching itself to withstand the terrible pain which must surely come. He could feel the sweat running down his face and neck like iced water, but as he waited, dreading the return of torment, he realised he could find no other sensation. He tried to move his body, straining his ears to catch the sound of sea or creaking timbers, but there was neither, and as his uncertainty changed to something like panic he realised he was surrounded by total silence, and that the light was so dim he could have been in a tomb.

As he struggled to lift himself he felt the searing thrust of redhot agony lance through his shoulder until he thought his heart would fail under it. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tightly against the pain, and felt himself slipping back again into the nightmare. How long had it lasted? Days, hours, or was it an eternity since . . . He concentrated his failing reserve of will-power to try to remember, to keep his mind from cracking under the pressure in his body.

Figures and voices, looming faces and the vague motions of a ship were parts of the confused memories. Some episodes, although brief, stood out more than others, although they had neither order nor apparent relevance. Inch cushioning his head from the deck. And Allday’s agonised face coming down at him from every angle, again and again. And he had heard himself speaking too, and tried to listen, as if he had already become completely detached, his spirit hovering to watch the dying husk with nothing more than idle curiosity.