Bolitho frowned. The Spaniard was going to pass further astern than he had gauged. He would have to act now, or never.

“Right, Williams, over you go!”

The big seaman clambered on to the larboard gangway, and with his face set in a mask of determination began to lean over the rail.

Keverne muttered harshly, “God, he is making the most of his performance.”

“There ’e goes!” Partridge hurried back to his place near the wheel as with a violent thrashing of arms Williams pitched over the rail and vanished.

Bolitho ran to the nettings as the cry “Man overboard!” brought the crew of the quarterboat dashing from their various attitudes of unlikely concentration. He breathed out more easily as the seaman’s head appeared bobbing and spluttering close to the side, and snapped, “Back the mizzen tops’l, Mr Keverne! Get that boat away!” He had feared that Williams’s enthusiasm would make him mistime his fall. The steep tumblehome of the three-decker’s side could easily have broken an arm or skull had he been careless.

He tore his eyes from the orderly confusion as the boat’s crew swarmed down into the tethered craft below the quarter, while overhead the mizzen topsail banged and flapped against the mast and yard, acting like a brake on some runaway juggernaut, just long enough to peer towards the Spanish ship. She was about two cables from the point where she would cross Euryalus’s wake, and he could see figures scampering along her forecastle, as if to get a better view of the drama.

Bolitho raised his hand. “Now! Stand by to go about!” Already the mizzen yard was squeaking back to its original position, while from their hiding places beneath the gangways the seamen ran to their stations, encouraged by derisive cheers from the unemployed gun crews.

Partridge called, “Ready, sir!”.

“Put the helm down!” Bolitho trained his glass on the Spaniard. There was still no sign of alarm as far as he could see.

“Helm a’lee, sir!”

Up forward the headsail sheets had already been let go, and as the wheel went over and the great hull began to swing very slowly into the wind, Keverne urged the men at the braces to even greater efforts as they strained back, panting and cursing, their eyes on the yards above them.

Sails boomed and swelled, and as the ship continued to swing Bolitho saw sudden activity on the other vessel’s poop, an officer waving wildly and pointing to his men who were still grouped around the bows.

“Off tacks and sheets!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer aloft through the tangle of flap-ping sails and jerking shrouds to where the topmen were already fighting their way to the topgallant yards in readiness for the next part of the attack. For a moment longer he hardly dared to draw breath. The wind was still quite strong, and at worst might bring down the topmasts, or leave the heavy ship thrashing helplessly and all aback.

But the pendant was swinging, the ship was still responding, wheeling across the eye of the wind like a well-disciplined mammoth.