He looked over to starboard and could just make out the black hull of the Calypso, but she had the Delft beyond and the harbour entrance. The tree frogs sounded sharp and noisy, even this far from the shore, a constant squeaky noise like a Mock that needed greasing. The four Dutch guards, two on the Nuestra Senora and two on the next privateer, now prisoners in the Calypso, must wonder what the devil was going on. Very soon, he thought grimly, they would be certain the end of the world had come.

Ramage, calling down to Rennick to stove in the tar barrels so that it began seeping into the wood, began to walk forward. It was a strange sensation. Like all the rest of his party he wore only trousers and a shirt; his bare feet padding over, the deck, the soles of his feet detecting the unevenness of the schooner's planking. He had a Sea Service pistol in his waist - belt, just in case, but if he had not fired it when the time came to dive overboard, it would be another weapon for the Calypso's gunner to list as 'lost in action'.

There was no point in waiting any longer to get under way because everything was ready. Everything except the captain's courage, which be knew had vanished: his knees had a curious springiness about them, and his shin and thigh muscles had melted; there seemed to be bile at the back of his throat and his stomach was on the verge of heaving, as though he had eaten bad meat for supper. By now he was at the mainmast, and the men were waiting expectantly. 'Hoist away,' he said, 'and overhaul the mainsheet. And no noise!'

The blocks had been greased within the past hour, but it usually took a few spins of the sheaves to work the grease in. The blocks on the gaff were no exception, but by the time the sail began to creep up the mast he was abreast the foremast, repeating his order for the foresail. The few remaining gaskets were taken off the foresail and its gaff began creeping up the mast, pulling up the sail and having no apparent connection with the men hauling down on the halyards.

The mainsail was up, with a few more swigs on the peak halyard needed to top up the gaff, but the canvas was only rippling, not flogging, as the wind blew down both sides so that the sail did not draw. Flogging canvas on a night like this would sound like rolling gunfire.

Now the foresail was up and as the men topped up the gaff Ramage gestured to the men at the headsail halyards. At once narrow triangles of canvas rose up the stays, but instead of taking up the bellying curve of sails drawing they became almost flattened, held aback by the sheets so that the wind pushed against them, thrusting the bow over to starboard. But by then Ramage had walked up to the bow, where the two men waited with axes.

Yes, the Nuestra Senora's bow was being pushed round towards the entrance. 'Cut!' he snapped, and the first axe blade thudded into the cable, followed by the second. Five blows and the end of the cable whiplashed out over the bow and at once the schooner, no longer held by her anchor, swung round to starboard so that she headed along the channel, pointing at the Calypso and the harbour entrance.

Without further orders men were casting off the headsail sheets and making them up on the starboard side so that the sails began to draw; three men were enough to trim the foresail sheet because for a moment there was no weight on the sail, and four more tailed on to the mainsheet.

And the Nuestra Senora de Antigua began to come alive: with all the sails drawing she was already picking up speed and Ramage called: 'Sail hoisters - to your boat!' The boat was towing astern, ready for them, and he walked aft, expecting the dozen or so extra men on board to rush past him to jump into the boat, cast off and row for the Calypso. He had reached' the quarterdeck, looking up at the set of the sails and glancing forward to see the Calypso getting closer, when he realized that not a man had moved. 'Sail handlers! To your boat!' he called.

There seemed many fewer men on deck now. What the devil was going on? Or had he had a momentary lapse and not noticed the men leaving?

'Jackson! Has the sail handling party left?'

'It - er, I haven't been watching them, sir.'

'What the devil is happening? Where are the men?'

'Hiding, sir,' Jackson said bluntly. They want to lend a hand setting fire to the ship!'

'But what - '

They can all swim, sir,' Jackson said, leaning against the great wooden bar of the tiller. 'How close should I pass astern of the Calypso, sir? I'm wondering if this side of the channel shoals - there are no quays abreast the Delft on the Otrabanda side.' A fireship with thirty men on board . . . Still, better too many than too few ... "Steady as you go,' he said to Jackson. The Delft was still out of sight, hidden by the Calypso, but the schooner would pass thirty yards astern of the British frigate, which any moment would cease to hide her from lookouts in the Delft, even if the Dutchmen had not already spotted the sails. Men tended to see only what they were looking for, with luck no one had told the Dutchmen to do anything but watch the Calypso. Mainsail drawing well - and it was a well - cut sail; he could see that much in the starlight. Foresail rather baggy, probably an older sail, but also drawing well. And the headsails trimmed to perfection, as though the men knew that Southwick had his nightglass trained on them. And in the calm water the bow wave was a loud hiss as the schooner continued increasing speed, the wind on the larboard beam. Four knots, five and now six, Ramage estimated. Her bottom was dean, that much was certain; the copper sheathing had kept her clear of barnacles and weed. She picked up speed quickly and, he must remember, she would take time to lose way. The Calypso was looming up fast, her three great masts and yards seeming black stripes against the stars. Still no sign of the Delft. Jackson and Stafford were quite happy at the tiller, easing the schooner slightly in puffs that were just enough to heel her a few degrees. Everyone would be watching from the Calypso, nightglasses jammed to straining eyes; lookouts on the seaward side would be hard put not to glance over their shoulders at the sight of a schooner racing up the channel in the starlight under all plain sail. There was phosphorescence in here too, so her bow wave would be a pale green flame, seeming alive. There! A vague dark blob beyond the Calypso's stern; a blurring of stars low on the horizon, hidden by the Dutch frigate's masts and rigging. Two hundred yards to got 'Rennick, ahoy down there! Start lighting up!' Almost at once he could see Made hatchways becoming pale yellow squares as lanthorns came out from behind screens and the candles were snatched up to light fuses and combustibles. The reek of tar, and also the sooty smell of guttering candles - no, that was from Rossi's lanthorns, which he had, very sensibly, put in the schooner's binnacle box.

'Rossi, stand by to light those port fires!'

One hundred and fifty yards to go, six ship's lengths or more. Flickering at the hatchways - Rennick's men were making a good start and the tar was probably flaring. The Delft must see the lights now - the flames, still small, were reflecting on the underside of the fore and main booms, lighting the rigging as delicate tracery and just catching the weave of the canvas. And the phosphorescence must make the bow wave and wash very obvious. Were the Dutch waiting with a broadside? He gave a quick order to Jackson which brought the schooner a point to larboard but the Dutch still could not train round their broadside guns far enough.

No point in trimming sails; the Nuestra Senora would carry more than enough way to shoot her up into the wind and alongside the frigate. For a moment he thought the crackling was musket and pistol fire from the Delft; then he realized it was the sound of flames inside the schooner. The pitch must have caught - yes, and here was the beginning of the smoke, sharp in the throat The only thing (apart from his bad seamanship) that could save the Dutch now would be for the fire down below to get out of hand, so that it reached those half - casks of powder before the Nuestra Senora could get alongside ... A hundred yards to go, perhaps less. The schooner was seventy feet long, twenty - five yards.