Like a living creature the Phalarope lifted her bows and smashed jubilantly into each succeeding rank of low waves, the spray bursting back over her forecastle in long white streamers.

Herrick reported, “Chain slings rigged, sir.”

“Very well.” It was an effort to speak calmly. “Have the boats swung out for towing astern. If we fight today there will be enough splinters flying without the boats adding to them!”

Okes managed to ask, “The gunfire, sir? What do you make of it?”

Bolitho saw several men pausing to listen to his reply. He said slowly, “Two ships. One much smaller than the other by the sound of the firing. We can be sure of one thing, Mr Okes. They cannot both be enemies!”

Herrick was back again. “What now, sir?”

“I am going down to shave and wash. When I return I will expect to hear that the men have been fed.” He smiled. “After that, we shall have to see!”

But once back in his cabin it was almost more than he could bear to take time to shave and change his clothes. The breakfast which Stockdale hurriedly laid on the cabin table he could not even face. By tonight, or perhaps within the next few hours, he might be dead. Or even worse, screaming for mercy under the surgeon’s knife. He shuddered. It was pointless even to think of it. More, it was harmful.

Stockdale said, “I have laid out a fresh shirt, sir.” He looked searchingly at Bolitho. “I think you should wear your best uniform, too.”

“For heaven’s sake why, man?” He stared at the coxswain’s battered face in surprise.

Stockdale replied gravely, “This is the day, sir. I have the same feeling I had with you once before.” He added stubbornly, “And the men will be looking to you, sir. They’ll want to see you.” He nodded as if to settle the matter. “After all that’s happened they’ll need to know you’re with them.”

Bolitho stared at him, suddenly moved by the man’s halting, broken voice. “If you say so, Stockdale.”

Ten minutes later a voice echoed faintly above the sounds of sea and canvas. “Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho made himself wait just a few more seconds as Stockdale buckled on his sword, and then walked to the cabin ladder. The quarterdeck seemed crammed with figures, all pointing and speaking at once. Every voice fell silent as Bolitho walked to the rail to take a telescope from Maynard.

Through the frigate’s criss-cross of rigging he could see the distorted patterns of tossing whitecaps beyond her bows. The sky was already clear, but the water seemed to writhe in the grip of a slow-moving sea mist, and for once the new day felt drained of warmth.

Then he saw them. Two ships close together, their hulls hidden in a dense cloud of smoke and mist, their tattered sails hanging disembodied above the hidden battle below.

But the flags were easily visible. One blood red, like that which flew above him. The other clear and white. The flag of France.