He had clutched Herrick’s arm, his voice unrestrained and desperate. “Had to go below, Thomas! Had to find those fellows who ran away!” He had swayed and added wildly, “You believe me, don’t you?”

Herrick’s contempt and anger had faded with the discovery that Okes was terrified almost to a point of madness. The realisation filled him with a mixture of pity and shame.

“Keep your voice down, man!” Herrick had looked round for Vibart. “You damn fool! Try and keep your head!”

He watched Okes now as the man skirted the corpses and then retraced his steps to the stern. He too was reliving his own misery. Destroying himself with the knowledge of his cowardice and disgrace.

Herrick found time to wonder if the captain had noticed Okes’s disappearance during the battle. Perhaps not. Maybe Okes would recover after this, he thought grimly, if not, his escape might be less easy the next time.

He saw Midshipman Neale’s small figure scampering along the main deck and felt a touch of warmth. The boy had not faltered throughout the fight. He had seen him on several occasions, running with messages, yelling shrilly to the men of his division, or just standing wide-eyed at his station. Neale’s loss would have been felt throughout the ship, of that Herrick was quite sure.

He hid a smile as the boy skidded to a halt and touched his hat. “Mr Herrick, sir! Captain’s compliments and would you lay aft to supervise burial party!” He gulped for breath. “There’s thirty altogether, sir!”

Herrick adjusted his hat and nodded gravely. “And how are you feeling?”

The boy shrugged. “Hungry, sir!”

Herrick grinned. “Try fattening a ship’s rat with biscuit, Mr Neale. As good as a rabbit any day!” He strode aft, leaving Neale staring after him, his forehead creased in a frown.

Neale walked slowly past the bow chasers, deep in thought. Then he nodded very slowly. “Yes, I might try it,” he said softly.

* * *

Bolitho felt his head loll and he jerked himself back against his chair and stared at the pile of reports on his table. All but completed. He rubbed his sore eyes and then stood up.

Astern, through the great windows he could see moonlight on the black water and could hear the gentle sluice and creak of the rudder below him. His mind was still fogged by the countless orders he had given, the requests and demands he had answered.

Sails and cordage to be repaired, a new spar broken out to replace the missing topgallant. Several of the boats had been damaged and one of the cutters smashed to fragments. In a week, driving the men hard, there would be little outward sign of the battle, he thought wearily. But the scars would be there, deep and constant inside each man’s heart.

He recalled the empty deck in the fading light as he had stood over the dead men and had read the well-tried words of the burial service. Midshipman Farquhar had held a light above the book, and he had noticed that his hand had been steady and unwavering.