"I've married a wife in fair London town,

And this night she a widow will be . . ."

Damnation, the frigate was pitching! This was when Ramage hated command: at a time like this he had no job to keep his mind occupied. Southwick was watching the cable and would soon be stowing the anchor; Aitken was judging his tacks. Hill, Martin and Kenton, and young Paolo, were down there on deck, busy with their allotted jobs. But Captain Ramage, having once given his orders, just had to keep out of the way, his most important tasks being to ensure his hat did not blow off, and nod when Southwick (out of politeness, not duty, because he had to report to whoever had the conn, Aitken in this case) made a report. The capstan men roared into the chorus once again.

"The stormy winds did blow, and the raging seas did roar . . ."

As they paused a moment before launching into the third line Ramage thought he heard a wild shout. Yes, it was coming from above. The only man left aloft was the masthead lookout and Ramage held on to the breech of a gun as he craned his head upwards.

Yes, there was the figure of the lookout. He was shouting - that much was obvious because his mouth was opening and closing, but the wind was whipping away the words. Frantically the man pointed to the south just as Southwick reported "Anchor apeak ... anchor aweigh, sir" and signalled to Aitken.

The frigate began to forge ahead slowly while turning to larboard, away from the land, and the men fairly ran round the capstan, cheerfully bawling out the rest of the chorus:

"While we poor sailors went to the top,

And the landlubbers laid below."

From that, Ramage thought inconsequentially, other landlubbers would assume that the poor fellows were lying down below, victims of seasickness or terror, but to a seaman "lay" meant something quite different. "Lay aft here!" meant come aft, and in the forebitter the wretched landlubbers had simply gone below.

Now the blasted ship had swung round so that the forward lookout was hidden by the yard, and Ramage walked across the fo'c'sle, braced himself and looked aloft again, trying to balance against the pitching. Now the man was gesticulating over the starboard beam.

Ramage looked to the south. Running down towards them under reefed topsails was a French frigate, identical in shape to the Calypso, but signal flags were streaming out from the halyards. "What ship?" she was probably asking - the normal procedure when ships o' war met. And normally not a problem - unless the ship challenged was an enemy which would not know the correct reply. Ramage had half expected to meet the frigate one day: no doubt she was the French national ship that had carried the hostages from Santo Stefano to Giglio. But to meet her at the beginning of a scirocco while weighing anchor to move to a more sheltered place . . .

For a few moments he listened to the next verse: nothing could be done until the anchor was out of the water and the men began to cat it: the curious order, catting the anchor, which saw it hoisted on the cat davit, a thick wooden beam projecting from the side of the ship forward, often with a cat's head carved on the end. The purchase, or pulleys, were inset and took the tackle (which had a hook on the end) and hauled the anchor close up against the ship's side.

"Then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship,

And a valiant man was he,

'For want of a boat we shall be drown'd'

For she sank to the bottom of the sea."

Just as Ramage turned to hurry aft, Southwick reported that he had sighted the anchor. Ramage nodded and then pointed towards the approaching French frigate.

"Pity we don't know the answer to that challenge," the master bellowed, "then we could lead 'em a dance!"

Lead them a dance, yes, in normal times, Ramage thought to himself, but these were not normal times: the Calypso had on board the handful of Britons that Bonaparte regarded as his most valuable hostages. The fact that they had just been rescued would not help much if they were now killed in battle. Or (which was more likely) recaptured.

Back on the quarterdeck after pointing out the approaching French frigate to Aitken, who had not heard the hail and still looked tense from the concentration needed to get the Calypso away on the correct tack instead of heading out of control for the rocks at the foot of the cliffs, Ramage listened as the drummer boy marched up and down the maindeck beating to quarters.

Sir Henry was on the quarterdeck but tactfully walking back and forth at the taffrail, well behind Ramage and obviously intent on leaving the Calypso's captain a free hand to do what was necessary.

Aitken gave the quartermaster a course to steer: north-east, roughly the same as the approaching French frigate but also one which gained time: although Ramage had been able to guess that the signal flags were obviously the challenge for the day, the Frenchman would not in turn be able to read flags hoisted in the Calypso as the British frigate began running dead before the wind: it would be like looking at a page on edge and trying to read the printing.

The scirocco and the frigate: Ramage cursed his luck. By and large he did not believe in luck: bad luck was usually the alibi used by those nincompoops whose plans went awry, although they never credited good luck when their plans succeeded. Yet now was hardly the time for such thoughts.

The French frigate had been approaching fast, the thickening scirocco haze and failing light making her seem a grey phantom surging towards them low in the water, rising and dipping over the ridge-and-furrow of the swell waves. But Ramage saw that the distance was now remaining almost constant as the Calypso came clear of the island and began setting more sail.

"Fore and maincourses, if you please Mr Aitken," Ramage said, looking towards the west. Twilight. How long before darkness would help hide the Calypso in its mantle?

Running away from a French frigate! Still, it was not often that a French ship saw the Calypso's transom . . . But now she had to be a plover. He looked forward, startled for a moment as the forecourse, the largest and lowest of the sails on the foremast, was let fall and Aitken, speaking trumpet to his lips, shouted orders for the afterguard to brace the yard and sheet home the sail. A moment later the maincourse tumbled, and Ramage could imagine the maintopmen cursing that the foretopmen had beaten them by a few seconds.

The Calypso surged forward as the brisk wind bellied out thousands of square feet of extra canvas to bring the ship alive, and Ramage saw men running across the maindeck like ants suddenly disturbed. Yet every apparently aimless movement was carefully controlled, sending each available man to the guns to cast off the lashings which prevented the carriages moving when the ship pitched and rolled, and heaving a strain on the train tackles.

Powder boys (the nippers of ten minutes earlier) would any moment be scurrying up from the magazine, each carrying a cylindrical wooden cartridge box containing a shaped bag of powder. Then the gun captains would arrive to bolt on the flintlocks (which because of their vulnerability to rust were stowed below when not in use) and the rest of their gear: prickers for preparing the cartridges, long lanyards which attached to the triggers of the locks, allowing them to fire the guns beyond the recoil, and horns of priming powder.

All you need do - all you have done, Ramage corrected himself - is give the orders: there is no need to stand here ensuring they are being carried out properly: that is why you have a first lieutenant like Aitken, and other officers like Kenton, and Hill (getting ready for action for the first time in the Calypso), and Martin, Paolo and, of course, Southwick.

Down below, Bowen would be laying out surgical instruments and bandages, spreading a tarpaulin over a small section of the deck in case there were a number of wounded; the carpenter would be sounding the well, and he would be doing it regularly if they went into action, his sounding rod sliding down the long tube to the bottom of the bilge, revealing if any water was leaking in through hidden shotholes.