His brain was racing and even as he climbed he realized the Kathleen would fill in a very few minutes and, if her shrouds could take the strain, her dead weight pulling down on the San Nicholas's bowsprit might break it off short and bring the mast with it. Then ... but there was no more time to think: Jackson and Stafford were screaming at him and gesticulating upwards.

Already the San Nicolas's splintered foreroyal and topgallant masts were hanging down and now the foretopmast was bending forward like a bow. Even as he watched it suddenly split like a bamboo cane and slowly toppled down, bringing the yard and topsail with it. For a moment he thought it would crash on him, but the weight of the yard slewed it round so it plunged over the larboard side.

Yet the wreck of the Kathleen was still being thrust through the water by the sheer bulk of the San Nicolas. Some Kathleens were standing on the side of the hull - which was almost horizontal - and quite unhurriedly (or so it seemed to Ramage) grasping various pieces of the Spanish ship's severed rigging and beginning to climb up hand over hand to get on board.

Ramage scrambled up on to the platform and in a moment was with Jackson, Stafford and several others crouching close against the beakhead bulkhead waiting for a hail of musket fire from the Spanish soldiers who before the collision had been firing into the Kathleen from the rail just above. But there was not so much as a face at the rail. Smoke which bit into the lungs and seared nostrils was still drifting from the Kathleen and when Ramage leaned cautiously over the head-rails and looked aft he saw a few Spaniards on the fo'c'sle at the bulwarks looking down to see what was happening under their bow.

At once he realized the beakhead bulkhead was hiding the group of Kathleens: no one realized they were on board. For the next few minutes the Spaniards' efforts would be concentrated on clearing away the wreckage of the mast and yards - and any moment the Kathleen would sink. If her last plunge snapped off the bowsprit, his task would be complete. So for the moment, he realized thankfully, there was nothing more the Kathleens need do: it'd be better to wait hidden on the beakhead platform. The Spaniards were already in complete confusion. If they showed any signs of sorting themselves out the Kathleens could discomfort them again with all the advantages of surprise.

He gave orders to Jackson and to Stafford. The Cockney beckoned three men and climbed down to the lower rail and, out of sight of the Spaniards, began hauling other Kathleens on board as they swarmed up the hanging ropes and wreckage. Each man, soaking wet and shivering, then joined the group huddled against the bulkhead.

Anxiously Ramage watched. Of his 'Cartagena Sextet' Rossi was missing. And there was no sign of Southwick. Finally he could wait no longer.

'Jackson - go down and help Stafford. See if there's any sign of Mr. Southwick.'

How long before some Spaniards came along the gangplank to the bowsprit - the 'Marine's Walk', as it was called - and discovered them? Ramage told two of the men with half pikes to stand guard and, as soon as anyone set foot on it, dispose of them quickly and silently with a sharp upward jab.

Spaniards shouting like men demented, stern voices of authority swamped by yells of confusion and panic, the slopping of water under the bow, the steady thumping against the hull as waves caught the wreckage of the masts and yards hanging over the side - and even as Ramage absorbed the impressions, he sensed the ship slowly beginning to swing to larboard, up into the wind. He felt dizzy with relief - the San Nicolas, leading the Spanish van, was out of control!

With the Kathleen athwart her bow, her great topmast and yards over the side dragging like an anchor, and the wind still filling the sails set on the other masts with nothing forward to balance them but the single sail left on the remains of the foremast, her stern was being forced round, throwing her bow up into the wind. And unless the Spaniards quickly braced the yards hard up to stop the wind getting forward of the beam, every sail would soon be a'back. Then, given the normal ration of confusion, the San Nicolas would quickly gather sternway and begin to drive astern through the rest of Cordoba's ships which were following close in her wake. Ramage could scarcely believe that the little Kathleen had achieved so much.

Gunfire - close astern, too! Peering round between the headrails he saw the Captain approaching - she was perhaps six hundred yards away, smoke from her guns streaming to leeward. Almost at once another broadside (which from its noise could come only from the Santisima Trinidad) echoed across the sea.

Someone tugged his sleeve and he turned to find Southwick grinning at him, the white hair plastered down over his ears and forehead making him look like a bedraggled but happy old English sheepdog just emerging from the village pond.

Ramage gripped his shoulders. 'Are you hurt?'

'No, sir! The mainsheet took a turn round my leg and I couldn't get free, though.'

'Standing in a bight of rope, Mr. Southwick,' Ramage accused him with a grin. 'How many times have you rubbed down a man for that?'

'Aye,' Southwick admitted, 'and I'd still be down there if it hadn't been for Stafford and Jackson.'

'What did they do?'

'Came down again and cut me free. I was a bit rough with them because I thought they'd quit you.'

Ramage laughed. 'No, we're taking it easy: the Dons don't seem to have spotted us and they're doing quite well without our help - for the moment, anyway.'

Astern the rumble of guns was louder and closer. Still the San Nicolas's bow continued swinging slowly to larboard, and a moment later noises like giant hands slapping wet cloth showed her sails were being taken a'back.

Southwick grinned at Ramage. 'No, they don't need our help!'

More Kathleens were climbing up on to the platform. The cutter, still on her side, was almost completely submerged: air escaping through hatches hissed and whistled out in great spurts and bubbles, like a sea monster gasping in its death throes.

Southwick pointed at the shrouds hooked over the bowsprit. 'Can't understand how they're holding. Wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing it myself.'

Suddenly they both jumped with fear: without warning the huge bowsprit snapped like a carrot a few feet ahead of the figurehead. Ramage recovered just in time to yell 'Duck!'

Then came the crackling and groaning of a massive piece of timber splintering like a tree falling under a woodsman's axe, and the whole foremast and foreyard slowly toppled over the starboard side, part of the foresail draping across the fo'c'sle and the rest hanging down in the water, hiding the wreck of the Kathleen like a pall.

'Anyone hurt?' demanded Ramage.

There was no reply.

The gunfire was nearer: much nearer. In fact he was sure a British ship was firing into the San Nicolas's stern because all the shouting in Spanish came from aft.

Then a whole broadside shook the ship.

'My God!' growled Southwick, 'She's being properly raked!'

'Look sir,' Jackson exclaimed.

The Salvador del Mundo had put her helm up and was passing along the San Nicolas's larboard side and even as they watched Stafford yelled from across the platform, 'The Excellent!Cor, just look at 'er. Just like she was at Spithead!'

Captain Collingwood's ship was passing close along the other side of the San Nicolas and a ripple of red flashes sent the Kathleens crouching once again in a tangled heap against the bulkhead as the Excellent’s full broadside hit the San Nicolas. The whole ship shook as the heavy roundshot thudded into her timbers, and the little iron eggs of grapeshot sounded like metal rain, clanging as many ricocheted off metal.