He strode to the nettings as a small patch of colour showed itself above the smoke. The Spanish flag was flapping from her gaff, and he knew he had not mistimed his approach.

“Stand by on the gundecks!”

He saw the midshipmen scamper to the hatchways and imagined Weigall and Sawle down there in their world of semi-darkness, the great muzzles glinting perhaps in the open ports.

Meheux was facing aft, his eyes fixed on the quarterdeck, and Bolitho noticed that he had his sword sloped across his shoulder as if on parade.

With sudden alarm he clapped his hand to his hip and said, “My sword!”

Allday ran forward. “But, Captain, you can’t use it yet!”

“Get it!” Bolitho touched his side and marvelled at the stupid value he had given to wearing the sword. And yet it was important to him, although he could not put words to it.

He waited as Allday slipped the belt around his waist and said, “Left-handed or not, I may need it today.”

The coxswain took up his position by the nettings and watched him fixedly. While he had his cutlass the captain would not need his arm, he would lay an oath on that.

A new sound made several faces turn upwards. Screaming and sobbing, like some crazed spirit, it passed overhead and faded into the drifting smoke.

Bolitho said shortly, “Chain shot.”

The French usually tried to dismast or cripple an enemy if at all possible, whereas the British gunnery was normally directed at the hulls, to do as much damage and create sufficient carnage to encourage surrender.

The smoke glowed red and orange, and he heard cries from the forecastle as more chain shot scythed past the carronades to cut away shrouds and rigging like grass.

A strong down-eddy of wind thrust the smoke to one side, and while gunfire continued up and down the enemy line Bolitho saw the nearest Spanish seventy-four less than half a cable from the larboard bow. Just before the smoke billowed down again she stood there on the glittering water, clear and bright, her gold scrollwork and elegant counter throwing back reflections, while on her tall poop there were already flashes of musket fire.

To starboard the second Spanish ship was wallowing slightly out of line, her jib and fore topsail in torment as her captain tried to avoid the oncoming three-decker.

When he looked at Broughton he found him as before. Standing motionless with his hands hanging at his sides as if too stricken to move.

“Sir! Walk about!” He pointed at the nearest ship. “There are sharpshooters there this morning!”

As if to verify his warning several splinters rose like feathers from the planking, and a man beside a gun screamed in agony as a ball smashed into his breast. He was dragged away gasping and protesting, knowing in spite of his pain what awaited him on the orlop.

Broughton came out of his trance and began to pace up and down. He did not even flinch as a corpse bounced down from the main yard and rolled across the nets before pitching overboard. He seemed beyond fear or feeling. A man already dead.