Bolitho did not pause but gasped, “Well done, Glover! Now follow me!”

A semi-circular wall pitted with square gunports ran around the far side of the headland, and as his feet slipped on the stubble of gorse and dried grass Bolitho counted seven or eight large guns facing seaward. A high mound was built well behind the guns, and he guessed that these earthworks had been thrown up to protect the magazine.

There was a startled cry from the shadows below the wall and a soldier seemed to rise out of the ground at Bolitho’s feet. He saw the bared teeth and heard the man’s quick intake of breath as he lunged forward and upward with his bayonet.

Glover, who was pressing close on Bolitho’s heels, gave a terrible scream and fell back pinioned on the blade like a slaughtered pig. Bolitho slashed out wildly and felt the shock jar up the sword blade and along his arm like a blow. The soldier seemed to crumple, his arm almost severed from his body by the force of the stroke.

He was lost and forgotten underfoot as the sailors surged wildly along the flattened ground, their eyes staring like madmen as they looked for further victims.

There were only six more French soldiers sleeping in a small stone hut beside a great earth furnace, which even now glowed malevolently and cast an eerie light across the garlands of bright round shot and the cutlasses of the jubilant sailors.

One soldier sat up gaping, as if he no longer trusted what he saw. A cutlass cut him down before he could even cry out, and two more died screaming even as they struggled for their weapons.

Bolitho ignored the gruesome sounds from the hut and leaned across the breastworks to stare down at the great shimmering mirror of the anchorage. There were two big ships anchored well out in the centre and two smaller ones near the foot of the cliffs. He could see the riding lights like fireflies on the still water. There was no alarm. Nothing to break the quiet night watch. Bolitho felt the sweat cold on his brow and realised that his body was shaking uncontrollably.

Farquhar climbed up beside him, his dirk glinting faintly against his dark coat. “The battery is ours, sir.” He sounded less controlled than usual, and Bolitho knew that he was suffering the same insane wildness as the rest of them.

Farquhar added in a calmer tone, “Eight guns, sir. Two of them are thirty-two-pounders!” He sounded impressed. “If they heated the shot in the furnace the Frogs would be able to sink any attacker with ease. A ship would be ablaze in no time from that sort of hammering!”

Bolitho nodded and pointed at the anchored ships.

“I’d like to use the guns on them! But the din would bring the whole island down on us!” He gestured towards the two large craft. “They’ll be troopships, but the soldiers will be sleeping under canvas ashore somewhere. The French would have no use for soldiers too cramped and seasick to march when the time came!”