'If we hit a rock, sir, it'll be just a bit o' bad luck: should be ten fathoms under our keel with cliffs like that.'

Ramage nodded:  steep cliffs usually meant deep water close in, while a low coastline normally went with shallow water.

 With the Kathleen racing down on the frigate Ramage was conscious of a stream of impressions: the sea was much calmer, though the cliffs weren't blanketing the wind nearly as much as he'd expected, and he could see only the top of the Tower - the edge of the cliff hid the rest

 Tfou are still on trial' - whatever Probus meant, the next trial wouldn't lack witnesses but if he made a mistake they'd lack someone to charge.

 God, but they were approaching the frigate quickly! He saw Jackson looking at him and realized he was rubbing the scar on his forehead. Damn that American! Self-consciously he clasped his hands behind his back, telescope under his left arm. Once more unto the breach, dear friends....

Now he could see the panes of glass in the frigate's stern lights - they'd need re-glazing soon. And there was the jagged remains of the rudder post where the rudder had snapped off close under the tuck of the transom. Curious how the masts had fallen in just the right position against the cliff.

Three hundred yards to go; no, less, much less.

He put the speaking trumpet to his lips, then took it away and wiped the mouthpiece free of salt water - he was thirsty enough already.

 'Remember, you men: every shot must count! Don't hurry -and remember I'll be bearing away slightly as you fire, so don't worry about training the carronades. Out with the tompions!'

 Now he could see some details of the gilt scrollwork on the Belette's transom and quarter galleries. A face appeared for a moment where a pane of glass was missing.

'For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,' Jackson said blithely.

 Two hundred yards to go to the firing point: the cutter was creaming along like a yacht - one needed a few beautiful women on deck, laughing and joking... One hundred and fifty yards ... Women like Gianna, asking questions, mispronouncing unfamiliar words, her voice like music, her body ... One hundred yards: the quartermaster was balancing at  the windward side of the tiller, easing it a fraction this way and that, the other man pushing or pulling in unison.

'Stand by to ease sheets, Mr Southwick.'

 An unnecessary order - he'd just said that. Ramage rubbed his forehead again, not giving a damn whether or not Jackson noticed, and glimpsed the face at the window again.

 From where he was standing it was sixty feet to the Kathleen's stemhead and her bowsprit stretched out another forty feet beyond: a little over thirty yards altogether.

Then a momentary spasm of terror gripped Ramage: he realized that it was impossible to rake the Belette and then wear the cutter round in time to avoid passing through the field of fire of the frigate's aftermost guns. He'd misjudged both his course and the curve of the Belette's quarter; but it was too late to do anything about it.

 Fifty yards to the point where he could begin to bear away. Half these men now tensed by the guns would be dead in a couple of minutes' time.

 'Quartermaster — bear away slowly now! Mr Southwick -sheets! Stand by at the guns!'

 Slowly the cutter's bow, which had been heading almost directly at the frigate's stern, began to turn away to seaward. Ramage thought he'd never seen a ship turn so slowly and was just going to tell the quartermaster to put the helm hard up when he saw the captain of the first carronade drop down on one knee four or five feet behind the gun and peer along the barrel, the trigger line taut in his right hand.

Steady, he told himself... But God Almighty, a frigate was a damn big ship viewed from the deck of a cutter.

 A sudden crash from forward as the first gun fired made him jump, but instinctively he glanced at the target; a complete section of the Belette's stern lights where the man had been standing disappeared in a cloud of dust: strange how shot hitting light woodwork always sent up dust. Some rusty-coloured pockrnarks round the hole showed where a few scat­tered grapeshot had smashed through planking.

 Another crash as the second carronade fired, and the grapeshot blasted into the starboard side of the transom. Most of  them hit below the windows, sending up more dust, showers of splinters, and sparks where they ricocheted off metaL

 The third gun fired, punching in the centre section. But the Kathleen was still swinging seaward and Ramage could now look along the side of the frigate. He saw the ugly short muzzles of her broadside guns poking out of the ports, trained round as far aft as possible. He could imagine the Frenchmen, their hands taking up the slack on the trigger lines, waiting for the cutter to sail into their sights....

The smoke from the Kathleen's carronades drifted aft and although Ramage was not watching it, the smell was there, acrid and biting in the back of his throat. The noise and smell of battle: the combination drove many men temporarily crazy, transforming them from quiet, amiable sailors into bloodthirsty killers. This was the moment - particularly with board­ing parties - when officers had to be alert to keep the men firmly in the grip of discipline. They rarely if ever did; but success needed no excuses, and in case of failure dead officers could not reproach themselves.

'Mr Southwick - stand by to wear ship!'

 The fourth carronade fired: one more round to go: he looked at the fifth gun, the last of his puny broadside. The Gunner's Mate, Edwards, was kneeling down aiming it: even now he was calling for a slight adjustment in elevation.

The trigger line was tight in his hand. Would the damned man never fire? He looked along the barrel, glanced through the port to make sure no large waves were coming, paused a moment for the roll - and then jerked the line.

Ramage was hardly conscious of the crash of the gun: but saw the smoke spurting from the muzzle.

'Wear ship!'

 The Quartermaster and his mate swung the tiller; seamen hauled desperately at the main sheet to ease over the main boom; others heaved at runners and jib sheet. The cutter's bow began to swing seaward, but slowly, hell, how slowly. Ramage watched the big boom bang across, then glanced astern.

 He was looking right into the muzzles of four 12-pounders on the frigate's main deck, and four smaller guns on the deck above: staring straight at the proof of his error of judgement. Because the Belette's fat hull curved round to her narrower quarters, the aftermost guns could train farther round: he'd misjudged the extent of that curve, and even now the French gunners must see the Kathleen filling their sights.

Jackson was muttering, 'Jesus... Jesus!'

 The muzzle of the aftermost gun on the Belette's lower deck winked a red eye and spurted yellowish smoke. A split second later there was a crash overhead and Ramage glanced up to see the Kathleen's topmast slowly toppling down. He could not stop himself looking back at the frigate. The next gun forward winked and breathed smoke. A sudden sound like ripping canvas warned him the shot had passed within a few feet, but a hideous metallic clanging and the shrieks of wounded men told him, even before he could glance round, that it had ploughed down the line of guns on the starboard side.

 But as Ramage's eyes were drawn back to the frigate the aftermost gun on her upper deck fired, followed a moment later by the second.

 He waited for pain and noise; instead there was a splash in the sea thirty yards astern of the cutter and a vicious whine as the shot, ricocheting off the water, spun away overhead. The second shot must have been too high.