There was a scream of shot, and Herrick turned biting back vomit as the eighteen-pound shot cut the boy in half. The head and shoulders remained upright on the planking for several seconds, and before he turned away Herrick saw that the boy’s eyes were still open and staring.

He cannoned into Okes who still stood with upraised sword, his eyes fixed and glassy as he gaped at the remains of his battery.

Herrick shouted, “Fire, Matthew! Give the order!”

Okes dropped his sword and here and there a gun lurched back adding its voice to the dreadful symphony.

Okes said, “We’re done for! We’ll have to strike!”

“Strike?” Herrick stared at him. All at once the reality was cruel and personal again. Death and surrender had always been words, a necessary but unlikely alternative to victory. He looked towards the quarterdeck at Bolitho’s tall figure and the marines beyond. The latter must have been firing their muskets for some while, yet Herrick had not even noticed. He saw Sergeant Garwood with his half-pike dressing one rank where two red-coated bodies had left gaps in the line, while he called out the time and numbers to his men as they reloaded and fired another volley into the smoke. Captain Rennie had his back to the enemy and was staring across the other rail as if seeing the sea for the first time.

Pryce, the gun captain, gave one long scream and fell backwards at Herrick’s feet. A long splinter had been torn from the deck and had embedded itself in the man’s shoulder. Through the blood Herrick could see the thick stump of jagged timber sticking out like a tooth, and knew that the other end would be deep inside. The splinters were always the most dangerous and had to be cut out from the flesh in one piece.

Herrick gestured towards the men by the main hatch, “Take this one below to the surgeon!” They had been staring at a pulped corpse beside the hatch, its teeth white against the flayed flesh. Herrick’s harsh tone seemed to give them strength to break the spell.

Pryce began to scream. “No! Leave me here by the gun! For God’s sake, don’t take me below!”

One of the men whispered, “ ’E’s a brave ’un! ’E don’t want to leave ’is station!”

Pochin spat on the gun and watched the spittle hissing on the barrel. “Squit! ’E’d rather die up ’ere than face the butcher’s knife.”

There was a splintering crack, like that of a coach whip, high overhead, and as Herrick squinted up through the drifting smoke he saw the main-topgallant quiver, and then as the wind tore jubilantly at the released canvas it began to slide forward.

Herrick cupped his hands. “Look alive, you men! Get aloft and cut those shrouds! It’ll foul the foremast otherwise!”

He saw Quintal and some seamen running up the shrouds and then winced as another cannon ball ploughed along the deck by his feet and smashed into two wounded gunners beside the lee bulwark. He looked away, sickened, and heard Vibart yell, “Heads below! The t’gallant is falling!”