Snowden heard himself shout, almost scream “Come on lads, after me,” and then he was over Waterwitch’s bulwark, climbing into the shattered cabin of Demoiselle, slashing with his cutlass at a face that appeared in front of him, and running, running with his men behind him through the choking smoke into the ship, passing smashed and bleeding bodies and groaning, wounded men, and up the companionway onto the quarterdeck, yelling, screaming, firing his pistols and swinging his cutlass, and then over to the mizzen mast, slashing at the halyards until the tricolour was at his feet.

He saw a French officer, one arm hanging limply, move towards him, and he raised his cutlass to strike at him when he felt a strong grip about him, pinioning his arms roughly into his side, forcing him to drop his cutlass to the deck with a clang.

“She’s struck, sir,” said the man holding him, a large marine in a tattered red coat. “It’s over. Go and take his sword.” And indeed, Snowden noticed for the first time that the French officer was holding out his sword, his eyes defeated, ashamed.