While everyone else had been engaged, her captain had taken his ship out of the line to try to regain an advantage. As she turned slightly, shortening her silhouette until almost bows on, Bolitho saw the Impulsive. Dismasted, she was so settled in the water that her lower gunports were already awash. A few tiny figures moved vaguely on her listing decks and others were jumping overboard, probably too stricken by the slaughter to know what they were doing.

Keverne asked harshly, “Do you think many will survive?”

“Not many.” Bolitho looked at him steadily. “She was a good ship.”

Keverne watched him as he walked back to the rail. To Pascoe he said, “He is taking it badly. In spite of his bluff, I know him well by now.”

Pascoe glanced astern at the sinking ship beneath her great pall of drifting smoke. “His best friend.” He looked away, his eyes blind. “Mine, too.”

“Deck there!” Maybe the masthead lookout had been calling before. Amidst all the noise his voice would have been unnoticed. Keverne looked up as the man yelled hoarsely, “Ship, sir! On the larboard bow!”

Bolitho gripped his sword in his left hand until his fingers ached. Through the shrouds and stays, just a fraction to larboard of the massive foremast, he saw her. Wreathed in the endless curtain of gunsmoke she loomed like a giant, her braced yards almost fore and aft as she edged very slowly across Euryalus’s course.

Bolitho felt the hatred and unreasoning fury running through him like fire. Le Glorieux, the French admiral’s flagship, was coming to greet him, to repay him for the shameful destruction done to his ships and his overwhelming confidence.

He seized the sword even tighter, blinded by his hatred and sense of loss. She, above all, would be Herrick’s memorial.

“Stand by to engage!” He pointed his sword at Meheux. “Pass the word! Double-shotted and grape for good measure!” He saw Broughton staring at him and rasped, “Your contemporary lies yonder, sir.” He could feel his eyes stinging and knew Broughton was speaking to him. But he could see nothing but Herrick’s face staring up through the smoke as his ship died under him.

Broughton swung round and then strode along the starboard gangway, his epaulettes glinting in the dim sunlight.

His feet seemed to be carrying him in spite of his wishes, and as he walked above the smoke-grimed gun crews he paused to nod to them or to wish them good luck. Some watched him pass, dull-eyed and too dazed to care. Others gave him a grin and a wave. A gun-captain spat on his heated twelve-pounder and croaked, “Us’ll give ’ee a victory, Sir Lucius, don’ you fret on it!”

Broughton stopped and seized the nettings for support. Aft, above the chattering seamen and the marines who were already levelling their muskets through the smoke, he saw Bolitho. The man who had somehow given these men a faith so strong they could not weaken even if they wanted to. And in their own way they were sharing it with him.