Soon they would alter course and run south-east, deeper and deeper into the Bay of Biscay. That was Neale’s problem, but it was nothing compared with the task he must order his ships to do.

Within a week Beauchamp’s orders would have been acknowledged by the flag-officers concerned. Captains would be rousing their men, laying off courses to rendezvous with their new rearadmiral. A cross on a chart near Belle Ile. And within a month Bolitho would be expected to act, to catch the enemy off balance inside his own defences.

Browne was obviously awed by his ability to discuss the proposed tactics as if success was already an accepted fact. But Browne had been appointed to his position of personal aide in London through his father’s influence, and knew little of the Navy’s harsh methods of training for command. Like most sea-officers, Bolitho had gone to his first ship at the age of twelve. Within a very short time he had been made to learn how to take charge of a longboat and discover an authority he had not known he had possessed. Laying out a great anchor for kedging, carrying passengers and stores between ship and land, and later leading a boat’s crew in hand-to-hand attacks against pirates and privateers, all had been part of a very thorough schooling for the young officer.

Lieutenant, captain and now rear-admiral, Bolitho felt little different, but accepted that everything had been changed for him. Now it was not just a question of momentary courage or madness, the ability to risk life and limb rather than reveal fear to the men you led. Nor was it a case of obeying orders, no matter what was happening or how horrible were the scenes of hell around you. Now he must decide the destiny of others, who would live or die depended on his skill, his understanding of the rough facts at his disposal. And there were many more who might depend on that first judgement, even, as Beauchamp had made clear, the country itself.