Bolitho smiled. This was just what he had hoped for. A distraction to take their minds off themselves if only for a passing moment.

“Carry on, Mr Vibart. Heave to, if you please!”

Vibart lifted his speaking trumpet. “Main tops’l braces! Look alive there!”

Stockdale appeared at Bolitho’s side holding his captain’s blue coat and cocked hat. He squinted at the other ship and grinned. “Like old times, Captain.” He peered forward as Quintal, the boatswain, let loose a stream of curses and obscenities. The men had been slow to respond to the sudden orders, and already there was chaos on the crowded deck where off-duty idlers collided with others who were struggling with spray-swollen braces.

Maynard said hoarsely, “Signal, sir!” His lips moved slowly as he spelled out the message. “Have you news of Hood’s squadron?”

Quintal had at last got his men sorted out, and with sails flap-ping and thundering the Phalarope began to swing heavily into the wind.

Bolitho had half slipped his arms into his coat, but pushed Stockdale aside as Maynard’s words chilled his mind like ice. Masterman would never ask such a question. Even if he had lost his squadron he would certainly know that Phalarope was a stranger and had never served in these waters before. His mind rebelled, and he stared mesmerised as his ship continued to swing until the Andiron’s bowsprit seemed to point at right-angles across his own.

Vibart turned startled and confused as Bolitho yelled, “Belay that order, Mr Vibart! Stand by to go about!”

He ignored the surprised gasps and the fresh clamour of orders and concentrated his reeling thoughts on the other ship. Suppose he had made a mistake? It was too late now. Perhaps it had been too late from the moment the Andiron had appeared.

Then he saw the other frigate’s bows beginning to swing round still further. With her yards turning as one she altered course and charged down towards the helpless Phalarope. A few more seconds and the way would have been lost from the Phalarope’s sails, and the Andiron would have crossed her unprotected stern, unchallenged and overwhelming.

Bolitho felt his ship labouring round, his ears deaf to the cries and curses from officers and men alike. The weeks of sail drill in all weathers were taking charge, and like puppets the seamen tugged at sheets and braces, their minds too dazed by their captain’s behaviour to understand what was happening.

Vibart yelled. “My God, sir! We’ll collide!” He stared past Bolitho’s tense figure towards the onrushing frigate. Still the Phalarope wallowed round, her bowsprit following the other ship like a compass needle.

Bolitho snapped, “Steer south-east! Out second reefs!” He did not listen to his repeated orders but walked briskly towards the scarlet-coated marine drummer boy beside the cabin hatch.

“Beat to quarters!”

He saw the boy’s dull expression giving way to something like horror. But again training and discipline took charge, and as the drum began to stutter its warning tattoo the tide of men on the main deck swayed, faltered and then surged in opposite directions as gun crews rushed madly to their weapons.