The American captain would no doubt expect the smaller ship to turn again and try to slip downwind, and as soon as she turned he would pour a full broadside into the Phalarope’s stern, as he had first intended. Bolitho’s manœuvre would bring the Phalarope round towards the other ship, and with luck Herrick might be able to get in the first blood.

He saw the flash of sunlight on a telescope from the Andiron’s quarterdeck and knew the other captain was watching him.

“Stand by, Mr Proby!” He lifted his hat and yelled along the main deck, “Right, lads! A broadside for old England!”

With a protesting groan the yards came round, while overhead the canvas thundered like a miniature battle. Bolitho found that his mouth was as dry as sand, and his face felt chilled into a tight mask. This was the moment.

* * *

John Allday crouched beside the second gun of the larboard battery and stared fixedly through the open port. In spite of the cool morning breeze he was already sweating and his heart pumped against his ribs like the beating of a drum.

It was like being a helpless victim of a nightmare, with every detail clear and stark even before it happened. Somehow he imagined it would be different this time, but nothing had changed. He could have been sailing into battle for the first time, new and untried, with the agony of suspense tearing him apart.

He tore his eyes from the open square of water and glanced back across his shoulder. The same men who had jeered Ferguson or ringed Evans in menacing silence now stood or crouched like himself, slaves to their guns, their faces naked and fearful.

Standing a little apart from the battery, his back to the fore-mast, Lieutenant Herrick was watching the quarterdeck, his fingers resting on his sword, his bright blue eyes unwinking and devoid of expression.

Allday followed the officer’s stare and saw the captain at the quarterdeck rail, his palms resting on the smooth wood, his head jutting slightly as he watched the other ship. The latter was almost hidden from Allday by the high bulwark and gangway and the other guns, but he could see her topmasts and straining sails as she bore down on the larboard quarter, until she seemed to hang over the Phalarope like a cliff.

Pryce, the gun captain, slung the powder horn over his hip and squatted carefully behind the breech, the trigger line in his hands. Through his teeth his voice sounded strange and taut. “Now, lads, listen to me! We’ll be firing a broadside first.” He looked at each man in turn, ignoring the other gunners at the next port. “After that it will all depend on how quickly we load and run out. So move sharply, and as the cap’n said, take no notice of the din about you, got it?”

Ferguson clung to the rope tackle at the side of the gun and gasped, “I can’t take it! God, I can’t stand this waiting!”