To windward, over the starboard bow, Ramage could see Cordoba's division of nineteen sail of the line, among them the Santisima Trinidad. If they'd ever been in any recognized formation it was now but a memory: they were like a flock of sheep being driven in for shearing, two, three and four abreast. They were running eastward, intending to cross ahead of the British line to join the second division, six sail of the line which were over on the Kathleen's larboard bow and now trying desperately to claw their way up to Cordoba's ships before the British line cut them off. Two flocks of sheep, in fact, trying to join up before a pack of wolves got between them, since it was through the ever-narrowing gap that the Culloden was leading the British line.

'What d'you make of the Dons, sir?' Southwick repeated and Ramage, lost in thought, realized he had not answered.

'They're paying the price for bad station keeping during the night, Mr. Southwick, and for relaxing because they thought they were near home,' Ramage said sourly, intending the lesson would not be lost but knowing he'd merely been pompous.

'You don't think it's a trap?'

'Trap? If it is, someone forgot to set it!'

'But might I—'

'Yes, you can ask why I think that. Cordoba probably has at least twenty-seven sail of the line - though we can see only twenty-five at the moment - against our fifteen. If he'd kept them together he could match them two to one against thirteen of our ships and still have one left to deal with our remaining two. Just think of the Captain, for example, being attacked by the Santisima Trinidad to windward and a seventy-four to leeward. Two hundred and four Spanish guns against the Captain's seventy-four.

'Instead of that, you can see Cordoba has nineteen up there to windward and six more down to leeward. And with a bit of luck we'll manage to get in between and stop them joining up.'

'Yes,' admitted Southwick, 'they've split themselves up nicely. Cordoba's letting us match our fifteen against six, or fifteen against nineteen. Sounds easy enough!'

'It isn't though - there's one big "if". If those two Spanish divisions do manage to close that gap, Cordoba will form his line of battle at the last moment right across our bows. All their broadsides against our leading ships - and we won't be able to bring a single gun to bear...'

'But d'you reckon Cordoba has a chance of doing it?'

'About fifty-fifty at the moment - it'll be a close-run affair. If the wind pipes up a bit, Cordoba's nicely up to windward so he'll get in first and bring it down with him. It might be just enough to turn the trick.'

Jackson said: 'Victory's hoisted her colours, sir!'

Ramage motioned to Southwick and the Kathleen's colours soared up to the peak of the gaff, and one after another the rest of the ships hoisted theirs.

Almost at once Jackson sang out gleefully, 'There she goes! Number five, sir!'

Two or three men started cheering and then the whole ship's company took it up. It was the one signal that they all knew by heart, 'To engage the enemy'.

Southwick sidled over to Ramage and said quietly, 'I think the men would appreciate a few words, sir.'

'A few words? What do you mean?' The idea irritated Ramage.

'Well, sir, a little speech or something. It's - well, customary, sir.'

'Customary in a seventy-four but hardly appropriate to us, surely? I said all I had to say when I came on board at Gibraltar.'

'I still think they'd like it,' Southwick said doggedly.

Ramage saw the men had moved instinctively nearer their guns and were all watching him expectantly, and was unaware that to the men his lean, tanned face, and piercing eyes made him look like a buccaneer leader of earlier days. Then he heard himself speaking to them quietly.

'This may be the biggest battle you'll ever see in your lives, but our part in it is simply to repeat the Commodore's signals. We are just one of the crowd watching the prizefighters knocking each other's heads off.'

That'll cool them off a bit, he thought; then when he saw their eager faces he felt ashamed of such a sneer. Southwick's face, too, had that familar taut look, eyes almost glazed and bloodshot with the prospect of battle.

Jackson, watching the Victory with the telescope, reported the order for a slight alteration of course, then exclaimed: 'There's another, sir! General, number forty.'

He fumbled through the signal book, and it was one Ramage could not remember.

' "The admiral means to pass through ths enemy's line".'

'What? Check that again! exclaimed Southwick.

Jackson looked through the telescope. 'It's number forty all right, sir.'

Southwick snatched the signal box and looked for himself.

'Yes, sir,' he said to Ramage. 'That's what it says.'

'Quite so, Mr. Southwick. Don't forget we've only assumed that's what the admiral intended doing. He has to give the order and he's left it as late as possible in case the Dons did something unexpected. You don't want the Victory festooned with "Annul previous signal" do you?'

A moment later he realized it was an unfair remark but Southwick took it cheerfully, disregarding Ramage's words and thinking to himself it had taken Sir John a long time to come round to Mr. Ramage's way of thinking.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As Ramage looked through his telescope at the six Spanish ships trying to claw across the head of the British line to join Cordoba's division to windward he was reminded of two stage-coach drivers racing each other to a crossroad, one coming along the northern road, the other the eastern. And he knew from bitter experience the almost paralysing tension that must now be gripping each of the Spanish captains.

Ahead of them, less than three miles away, was the safety offered by their Commander-in-Chief and nineteen comrades; but approaching rapidly on their starboard side was the British line, led by the Culloden, intent on cutting them off.

Somewhere out there on the surface of the sea, he mused, is a spot unmarked by even a wavelet, and it's the crossroads, the point where an invisible line drawn along the course the British are sailing crosses a similar line along which the Spanish are steering. Whoever reaches that point first wins the race.

For a moment he felt sympathy for the Spanish captains. Even now each of them must be bending over the compass, taking a bearing of the Culloden and comparing it with a previous one. In a couple of minutes each will again bend over the compass and take yet another. And every successive bearing tells each captain how the race is going, a race which means all the difference between life and death for many of the men of both sides.

It's all beautifully and brutally simple: if the latest compass bearing shows the Culloden more to the north, the Spaniards know they are winning the dash for that unmarked crossroad; if more to the west, then the British are winning. And if the bearing stays the same, then they'll collide.

Even as he watched, Ramage was half-ashamed to admit his sympathy for the Spaniards was growing: he was sure they were losing and a little later he was certain.

Since Sir John had already hoisted signal number five, 'Engage the enemy', all the British ships were free to fire as soon as they had a target. At this moment, he mused, every gun in the Culloden is loaded; every gun on her larboard side is ready to fire. And from what he'd heard of Captain Troubridge, he'd be waiting until the last possible moment for the maximum effect, knowing the smoke of his first broadside (almost always the best-aimed) would then hinder his gunners by drifting to leeward and masking the enemy.