Bolitho almost fell as the bowsprit and jib boom ploughed into the French flagship’s shrouds and with a further grinding convulsion both hulls came together.

The smoke was bright with darting flashes of muskets and swivels, and Bolitho watched Lieutenant Cox of the marines leading his men across the forecastle to close with the enemy.

Below decks the larboard guns recommenced firing, as swinging like parts of a mammoth hinge the two ships angled towards each other. Right forward the gun muzzles were almost touching, and Bolitho felt the enemy’s shots crashing through the hull, upending guns and turning the lower batteries into places of slaughter and stark horror.

Musket balls ricocheted and whined around the exposed quarterdeck, and Meheux peered at the maintop where the swivel gunners were firing towards the enemy’s poop.

He yelled, “Shoot down those marksmen!” But the noise was so great they did not hear. Desperately he climbed on to the gangway and cupped his hands to try again. A marine, wild-eyed and grinning, peered down at him and then swung the swivel towards the other ship’s maintop. Even as he jerked the lanyard Meheux took a ball full in the stomach, and with his eyes already glazing in stunned surprise he rolled over the rail and fell unseen beside one of his beloved twelve-pounders.

Broughton watched the French marksmen as they fell to the vicious cannister. Some hung kicking across the enemy’s main yard and others, more fortunate, fell to the deck below and died instantly.

Then he said calmly, “Our people are not holding them off.”

Bolitho looked along the larboard gangway and saw the enemy boarders already overflowing on to the forecastle, while others swayed back and forth between the two hulls, steel against steel, pike against musket.

Here and there a man would fall out of sight to be ground between the two massive bilges, or a solitary figure would find himself isolated on his enemy’s deck to be hacked down with neither thought nor mercy.

A marine officer dropped screaming, his white crossbelt already soaked in blood, and Giffard snarled, “Cox is gone!” Then with an oath he was charging along the gangway, soon to be lost in the packed mass of figures.

The two hulls were grinding closer and closer, and with a violent jerk Euryalus’s bowsprit splintered and tore free, the jib flapping uselessly above the confusion like a banner.

More men were clambering across from the other ship, and Bolitho saw some of them fighting their way steadily aft towards the quarterdeck. A young lieutenant appeared as if by magic on the ladder, his sword swinging as he hurled himself across the deck. Bolitho tried to parry him to one side, but saw the French officer’s eyes wild with triumph as he knocked the blade away and turned on his heels for the fatal blow.

Calvert thrust Bolitho aside, his face calm as he snapped, “This one is mine sir!” His blade moved so fast that Bolitho did not see it. Only the Frenchman’s face slashed from eye to chin as he reeled gasping against the rail. Calvert’s wrist turned deftly and then he lunged, taking the Frenchman in the heart.