Instead of beating back to windward the Andiron met the full wind hard across her larboard bow. For a moment it looked as if she would rally and at worse come crashing back alongside.

Herrick was jumping with excitement. “My God, she’s in irons! She’s in irons!”

Men were standing beside their guns calling the news along the deck while across the water, framed in a rolling bank of gunsmoke, the Andiron rolled helplessly up wind, unable to pay off on either tack. Already men were running along her yards, and across the shadowed water they could hear the blare of commands through a speaking trumpet.

Herrick controlled himself. “Over to the starboard battery. Jump to it!”

Pryce touched the men he needed and scampered across the deck.

From aft came the call, “Stand by to go about! Man the braces!”

Allday threw himself down beside the opposite gun and showed his teeth to the crouching men.

Old Strachan croaked, “The cap’n can certainly ’andle the ship well enough.”

Okes shouted, “Silence there! Watch your front!”

Herrick walked to the centre of the deck and watched the carpenter and the boatswain hurrying to repair the brief damage. Men were already climbing aloft to splice the severed lines, and others were at last rigging nets above the main deck to give some protection from falling blocks or spars.

Round came the yards once more, sails thundering, braces screaming through the blocks as the men ran like goats to obey the constant demands from the quarterdeck.

It did not seem possible. Caught and surprised one instant, and the next moment they were not only attacking, but hitting the enemy again and again.

Bolitho must have thought it all out. Must have planned and schemed during his lonely walks up and down the night-darkened deck, waiting for just an eventuality.

He could see him now, calm-eyed and stiff-backed behind the rail, his hands behind his back as he watched the other ship. Once during the waiting Herrick had seen him wipe his forehead, momentarily brushing away the lock of dark hair and displaying the deep, savage scar. He had seen Herrick watching him and had jammed on his hat with something like anger.

Herrick ran his eye along his own guns, now manned by depleted crews and blind to the enemy as the Phalarope tacked round to close the range. He had heard Pochin’s bitter remarks and had seen the way Allday had rallied to help the new men. It was strange how they all forgot their other worries when real danger was close and terrible.

It was true that the ship was different under Bolitho. And it went deeper than the uniform clothing now worn by all hands, issued on Bolitho’s order to replace the stained rags which had been commonplace in Pomfret’s time. There was this violent uncertainty instead of sullen acceptance, as if the men wanted to draw together to match the young captain’s enthusiasm, yet had forgotten how to go about it.