Meheux came reeling aft, his figure rising and falling like a seaport drunk as he slipped, cursing obscenely, against the Spanish captain’s corpse at the foot of the ladder.

“She’ll need take a second reef, sir.” He paused, seemingly amazed he was still alive. “Better get the Dons to do it now. You’ll not get ’em aloft again in this, no matter what you threaten ’em with!”

Bolitho cracked his lips into a grin. The uncertainty and the fears were giving way to a kind of wild excitement. Like going into a battle. A madness all of its own, and no less gripping than real insanity. Later, it would pass, and leave a man empty. Spent, like a fox before the hounds.

He shouted, “See to it! Then make fast and belay.” The grin was still there, fixed on his mouth. “And pray that it holds in one piece!”

Meheux sounded equally wild, his northern accent unusually broad. “I bin praying since th’ minute I came aboard this wreck, sir!” He laughed into the dashing droplets of spray. “It’s bin a mite helpful to my way o’ thinking!”

Bolitho swayed aft to the wheel.

“We will reef, Mr Grindle, but the moment you feel she may broach-to then let me know. I dare not tack, so we will have to spread more sail rather than less of it.”

The petty officer appeared at his side. “No doctor, sir. An’ there are some fierce-lookin’ rents, starboard side aft.”

“Tell Mr Meheux to get his Dons down there as soon as he has cleared the yards. I want every bucket, anything which will hold water, put into a chain of men. It will save the pumps from being swamped, and will keep the Spaniards busy for a while.”

The man hesitated. “Some o’ the women are willin’ to go forrard an’ tend the wounded, sir.”

“Good. See they are escorted, McEwen.” He raised his voice. “And make sure they come to no other hurt, understood?”

He grinned. “Aye, sir.”

Grindle muttered, “It’d take a powerful fine Jack to manage a woman in this lot, by the Lord Jesus it would!”

Ashton had appeared again. “Can you come, sir? I think we need some shoring up to be done in the carpenter’s walk by the aft hold. I—I’ve tried but I cannot . . .”

His voice trailed away.

And that was how the night was to continue. Until Bolitho’s mind found it hard to distinguish the passing hours as he applied it to one crisis after another. Faces and voices became blurred, and even Allday seemed unable to stem the constant stream of demands for help and guidance as the Navarra ploughed wildly into the leaping wave crests.

But somehow the pumps were kept going, the relays of men having to pull their exhausted companions clear before they could take over the fight against the hull’s greedy intake. The bucket chain worked without respite, until totally exhausted the men fell like corpses, oblivious to the spurting water across their bruised bodies or the kicks and curses from the British sailors. The rudder lines grew slack and the business of steering more difficult and wearing, but they did not part, nor did the sails tear from the yards, as well they might under the wind’s onslaught.