Ramage swayed in time to the cutter's rhythmic roll: the Belette was a mile ahead and he was steering the same course as before. The 'Prepare for Battle' and 'Board' signals were flying, the latter qualified by the all-important ‘Preparative'. The main and jib sheets were eased so that both sails were spilling a lot of wind, reducing the cutter's speed to about five knots. They'd be alongside the Belette in about twelve minutes.

Ramage walked over to the quartermaster, who was stand­ing on the weather side of the tiller, with a seaman to leeward.

‘You understand your orders?'

The quartermaster grinned confidently.

‘Y es, sir: same as before, only this time I luff her up and lay alongside the Belette, so our transom is level with theirs.'

 'Good: do your best: mind the bowsprit — we don't want to harpoon the Belette with it.'

Both the quartermaster and seaman laughed.

 Ramage was thankful he'd hove-to and shifted over the larboard-side carronades to replace the damaged ones to starboard: it had been hard work, but worth it. He walked over to the crew of the aftermost gun. Their cutlasses and board­ing pikes were stuck into the bulwark on each side of the port, ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice. The gun was loaded, and the tompion closed the muzzle against spray. A gaudy yellow and red striped rag — judging from the grease one of the men had been wearing it round his forehead - covered the flintlock, and the trigger line was laid on top. To one side of the gun was a grapnel, its line coiled down. The once-smooth planking of the deck was deeply scored where the shot from the Belette had flung aside the carronade that this one re­placed.

'Who's the man for the grapnel?'

 A burly seaman in grimy canvas trousers and faded blue shirt stepped forward.

'Me, sir.'

'And you know where I want that grapnel to land?'

 'If we get alongside like you said, sir, then I pop 'im over the bulwarks just above the second gun port from aft'

'And if we stop short?'

'Over the taffrail, sir.'

 'Fine. Don't forget to let it go when you throw: I don't want you to fly across to the Belette.'

The rest of the gun's crew laughed and a moment later the seaman, who had not at first understood Ramage's joke, joined in.

Ramage walked forward, having a word with the crew of each gun. He checked how the sausage-shaped fenders had been lashed over the side and made sure they were clear of the muzzles of the guns.

Standing by himself near the stemhead, Ramage found a  small, thin and almost bald seaman waiting patiently with a grapnel and coil of line at his feet.

 He seemed hardly the right man to heave a grapnel, yet the Bosun's Mate had chosen him to be in the most important and difficult position of all - at the end of the bowsprit, clear of the jib.

Ramage asked him: ‘How far can you throw that?' 'Dunno, really, sir.'

'Forty feet?'

 'Dunno, sir: but a deal farther than anyone else on board.' ‘How do you know?'

 'Last cap'n had a sort of competition, sir. Got meself an extra tot.'

 'Good,' Ramage smiled. ‘Heave like that again and you'll get a couple of extra tots!'

'Oh, thank'ee, sir, thank'ee: John Smith the Third sir, able seaman. You won't forget, sir?'

 The man's eyes were pleading. For all he knew, in - well, about eight minutes' time - he would be out on his lonely perch facing a murderous fire from the French, and the prospect left him unworried. But the chance of an extra couple of tots of rum - that made his eyes sparkle and brought with it a sudden anxious fear, that the captain might forget.

'I'll remember,' Ramage said, 'John Smith the Third.'

 'Akshly, sir, I just remembered it's "the Second" now, sir: one of the other two dragged his anchors at number four gun.' Ramage looked ahead at the Belette. So three John Smiths had sailed from Bastia. With luck two would return. The other, as his namesake had just phrased it in seamen's slang, was dead. Bastia... Gianna was doing - what?

 He strode aft again along the weather side of the deck, call­ing to Jackson for his telescope.

 'Might as well have these, too, sir,' the American said, offer­ing him the pistols Sir Gilbert Elliot had sent on board.

'Oh - yes, thank you.'

He undid the bottom buttons of his waistcoat, pulled the flaps back and pushed the long barrels into the top of his breeches.

'And this, sir.'

Jackson handed him the sword.

 Ramage waved it away. 'You keep that: I've enough already.'

He bent down and eased the throwing knife so that it was loose in its sheath in his boot.

Southwick came aft, beaming.

'Satisfied, sir?'

'Perfectly, Mr Southwick.'

'If you did it like you did last time, sir, we'll be all right.'

 Ramage glanced up sharply and was just about to tell him to watch his tongue when he realized the man was serious: the fool really thought the first attempt was well done. Well done -with ten corpses already bundled over the side without ceremony and fifteen men below wounded, three of them - in John Smith's phrase - dragging their anchors for the next world....

He put the telescope to his eye and looked at the Belette, judging the distance. He waited and then without looking round called to Jackson, Haul down the "Preparative"!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

 Half a mile away: that’d give the Belettes six minutes to get out of the Tower and board the frigate. God, it had been a temptation to give them ten minutes, so there would be no risk to the Kathleen: in that time they'd either have captured the ship, or the survivors would be jumping over the side in confusion, giving him plenty of warning of their failure.

 But by allowing them six minutes he was gambling on the Kathleen coming alongside a couple of minutes after they had boarded, just as the French quit the guns to fight them off. The Kathleen's carronades barking at their heels might tip the scales, showing the French they were trapped between the boarders from the Tower and the guns - and possibly more boarders - from the Kathleen.

 He looked at the Belette's transom and was surprised to see the damage done by the Kathleen's carronades. Realizing it would do the Gunner's Mate good to see the result and tell the: men, Ramage called: 'Edwards — take the glass and have a  look at the damage. I want the next broadside to be as effective, if we have to fire it.5

 The man ran aft and took the telescope, steadied himself, and gave a whistle. 'Well, we certainly wrecked the cabin!'

 A typical reaction, thought Ramage, smiling to himself: the idea of smashing up the captain's accommodation in one of the King's ships while acting under orders obviously appealed to him.

 'But sir—' exclaimed Edwards, and then stumbled as the ship gave a violent roll. He steadied himself and again looked through the telescope. '—Yes! By God, sir, more men are going on board!'

 Ramage snatched the glass: Edwards was right, but the men were British: dozens were lining the edge of the cliff and jostling their way down a few feet to swarm across the fallen masts, and the masts themselves were already thick with sailors.

 'Run out the guns, Mr Southwick! Quartermasterl Steer as if your life depends on it!'

 The Belettes had quit the Tower and started to board much more quickly than he'd allowed, blast it: now he had to increase speed to help them - just when he wanted to make his final approach as slowly as possible: a cutter took a lot of stopping.

 He swung the telescope downwards again to the root of the masts: there was no sign of smoke, so perhaps the French in the ship had not yet spotted the seamen scrambling down towards them. Ramage said a silent prayer that the men were not yelling, so they could benefit from surprise.