The Witch of Looe’s shattered deck seemed to be swamped in French sailors, and as the drifting gunsmoke parted momentarily to allow the sunlight to play across the carnage, Bolitho saw the small knot of defenders, still fighting back from the brig’s small quarterdeck. In a few more minutes they would be swamped completely.

The gunports along the French frigate’s disengaged side suddenly opened, and to the steady rumble of trucks the guns appeared like a line of bared teeth.

Bolitho shut his ears and mind to the victorious shouts from the French frigate and concentrated his thoughts on the narrowing strip of water between them. Less than a cable’s length to go, with neither ship able to fire. Phalarope was almost dead in line with the other ship’s stern, so that if she held her course her bowsprit would drive straight through the stern windows. On one side of the enemy frigate lay the listing, riddled brig, and on the other the guns waited to claim another victim.

Bolitho called sharply, “Run out the starboard battery!”

He watched as his men threw themselves against the tackle falls, and in a squealing, protesting line the guns trundled up the slight slope of the deck and out through the open ports.

There was a great bellow of noise from the French ship, wild and inhuman. The sound gained from killing and madness. Phalarope’s own men remained tense and cold, their eyes unblinking as the enemy’s pockmarked sails grew higher and higher above the bows.

Bolitho placed his hands on the rail and said slowly, “Now send your men across to the larboard battery, Mr Herrick!” He saw the quick mystified glances and added harshly, “In another minute I am going to turn to starboard and go alongside the Witch of Looe. She is low in the water, our broadside should pass right above her!”

Herrick’s frown gave way to a look of open admiration. “Aye, aye, sir!”

Bolitho’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Quietly there! I don’t want the Frogs to see what we’re doing!”

Crouching almost on their knees the gunners scuttled across to the opposite side, their excitement instantly quelled by hoarse threats from the gun-captains.

Nearer and nearer. A few musket balls whined harmlessly overhead, but for the most part the French captain was prepared to wait. He could match gun for gun, and as Phalarope’s bows and foremast would take the first punishment he could afford to feel confident. His own ship was drifting slowly downwind and his gunners could thank the Witch of Looe’s weight alongside for a steadier platform beneath their feet. There was a faint ripple of cheering, drowned instantly by a fresh outburst of musket fire.

Proby muttered, “The brig’s people are cheering us, sir!”

Bolitho ignored him. One error now and his ship would change into a shambles. Fifty yards, thirty yards. Bolitho lifted his hand. He saw Quintal crouching like a runner, one beefy hand resting on the nearest seaman at the braces.