Fascinated, Bolitho watched the two great masts shiver and then bow very slowly towards the starboard side. Then as stays parted and the angle became more acute the masts thundered down in a flapping tangle of spars and torn sails to plunge eventually into the white-crested water alongside.

Another crash and yet another shook the hull, and while the deck tilted more and more towards the sea Bolitho dragged himself to his feet and shouted, “She’s hard on the sandbar! She’ll break her back and capsize in minutes!”

He could hear guns tearing themselves from their lashings and charging across the deck to carve through the screaming, struggling remnants of their late masters. There was no hope of lowering a boat, and nobody even attempted it. Already some were leaping overboard, to be swept away instantly in the strong current. Others ran below as if to find safety in the darkness, and all around voices cried and pleaded, threatened and cursed as their ship broke up beneath them.

The foremast splintered some four feet from the deck and followed the rest into the sea. From a trim frigate the Andiron was changed into a lolling, dismasted hulk, already a thing of ugliness and horror.

Belsey shouted above the din, “There’s a hatch cover, sir! Look, floating by the bowsprit!” He watched Bolitho wildly. “We could jump for it!”

Bolitho turned to watch as the deck shivered yet again and another released gun charged through a group of crawling seamen. Then he saw his brother standing alone by the quarterdeck rail, his body appearing to be at a forty-five-degree angle on the reeling deck. He was not calling any more, but was standing quite motionless, as if to share the agony of his ship to the last.

For a moment longer Bolitho stared towards him, separated from the other man by far more than a length of deck. He could feel a sudden surge of understanding, even pity, knowing full well how he himself would have felt at such a time.

Then he said sharply, “Over you go, lads! Jump well clear!”

Belsey and Farquhar leaped together, and he saw them struggling towards the listing square of timber. Stockdale said hoarsely, “Here, Captain, I’ll jump with you!”

As he gripped the rail Bolitho heard a cry behind him and got a vague glimpse of an officer dragging himself up the canting deck towards him. He saw blood on the man’s face and recognised him as the lieutenant who had shared his lonely captivity on the poop. The man who had spoken of his farm and the impossible freedom of peace.

Then he saw the pistol in the lieutenant’s hand, and even as he tried to pull himself over the rail the deck lit up with a blinding flash, and something like a white-hot iron exploded across his ribs.

Stockdale tore his eyes from Bolitho and gave a short, animal cry. It was as if it had been torn from his very soul. With all his strength he cleaved outwards with his axe, the force of the blow almost decapitating the American officer, so that the man seemed to bow forward in a grisly salute.