He had seen the little powder monkey cut in half, and even above the roar of battle he had heard his own words to that same boy just three weeks ago:

“You’ll see England again! Never you fear!”

Now he was wiped away. As if he had never been.

And there had been the seaman Betts, trapped and writhing on the severed topgallant. The man he had used to try to prove his authority. The axes had cut the spar away, and with a sigh it had bobbed clear of the ship before moving away in the smoke in a trail of rigging. The spar had idled past the quarterdeck, and for a brief instant he had seen Betts staring up at him. The man’s mouth had been open like a black hole, and he had shaken his fist. It was a pitiful gesture, but it felt like a curse from the whole world. Then the spar had rolled over, and before it had faded astern Bolitho had seen Betts’s feet sticking out of the water, kicking in a futile dance.

He tore his eyes from the carnage as more balls slapped through the main course and whined away over the water. It could not last much longer. The Andiron had hauled off slightly to windward. He could see her upper-yards and punctured sails moving above the smoke bank as if detached from the hidden ship beneath, and guessed she was drawing clear to pound the Phalarope into submission with slow, carefully aimed shots.

He did not recognise his own voice as he gave his orders automatically and without pause. “Tell the carpenter to sound the well! And pass the word for the boatswain to send more men aloft to splice the mizzen shrouds!” There was little point any more, but the game had to be played out. He knew no other way.

His eye fell on an old gun captain at the nearest twelve-pounder below the quarterdeck. The man showed fatigue and strain, but his hoarse voice was unhurried, even patient as he coaxed his crew through the drill of reloading. “That’s right, my boys!” He peered through the haze as one of his men rammed home the cartridge and another cradled the gleaming ball into the gaping muzzle. A splinter flew from the gunport and laid open his arm, but he merely winced and tied a filthy rag around his biceps before adding, “Ram that wad well home, bucko! We don’t want the bugger to fall out agin!” He saw Bolitho watching him and showed his stained teeth in what might have been either pain or pride. Then he bawled, “Right then! Run out!” The trucks squeaked as the gun lumbered up the canting deck and then roared back again as the old man pulled his trigger.

Vibart loomed across the rail, his figure like a massive blue and white rock. He looked grim but unflinching, and waited for the nine-pounders to fire and recoil before he shouted, “No water in the well, sir! She’s not hit below the waterline!”