"Clew up the courses," he told Aitken. That would slow down the Calypso appreciably, and with luck the Frenchman would not notice: she would close with the Calypso, and probably put it down to a fluke of the wind.

Aitken's bellowed orders quickly resulted in the frigate's lowest and largest sails losing their bulging shape; quickly the clewlines hauled the corners of the rectangles of canvas up towards the middle; the buntlines hoisted the centres upwards, so that it looked as though a giant hand was squeezing the sails in the middle.

Almost at once the Calypso pitched and rolled less violently. Now the fore and maintopsails were doing all the work, but from astern, Ramage hoped, it would be difficult to see that the courses were not still drawing.

He took his telescope from the drawer and steadied himself. The Frenchman was ploughing on, showers of spray leaping away from her stem like a gull's wings. Even in the faint light she looked a fine sight: there was enough spray to outline her hull, as though the ship was a bird preening herself on a nest of light. And yes, she was beginning to close the distance. At least, she seemed to be, but Ramage knew that was what he wanted her to be doing. "Aitken," he said, "get the nightglass and see what you make of our friend."

Aitken braced himself against the roll, after checking that the focusing tube of the telescope was out far enough to suit his eye. He seemed to examine the ship for an age before shutting the telescope with a snap and reporting casually to Ramage: "She's made up a lot o' distance; I have my doubts if she's half a cable astern of us now.

"And she's not reducing her canvas - at least, she hasn't started yet," he added. "And with this sea, I have my doubts if we were getting a proper reading of our speed."

"Faster or slower?" Ramage demanded.

"Oh, I think we might well have been going ... well, quite a bit - perhaps half a knot -"

"Come on\" Ramage exclaimed impatiently.

"Half a knot slower," Aitken said, and Ramage realized that the Scotsman had deliberately taken his time, as a hint to Ramage that the tension was rising too high.

But damnation, Aitken did not have the responsibility for possibly drowning everyone. Still, Aitken would drown along with the rest, so it did not make a ha'porth of difference whose responsibility it was: death was always completely fair, carrying off the guilty and the innocent, the rascals and the good men.

The Calypso butted into three successive waves, her stem slicing off sheets of spray which flung aft like heavy rain-squalls. Suddenly Aitken pointed aloft and put the mouthpiece of the speaking trumpet to his ear, aiming the bell-mouthed open end at the foremasthead.

Ramage waited for Aitken to report whatever had been hailed. Instead the first lieutenant reversed the speaking trumpet and shouted: "Foremasthead: quarterdeck here. Repeat your hail."

Again the wind whipped the lookout's words away to leeward. Damnation, the lookout must have seen something, but in which direction?

Suddenly a man ran up the lee-side quarterdeck ladder. "Larboard forward lookout, sir - you can't hear us. Ship or rock dead ahead, maybe three cables, and also breakers five points to larboard, mebbe four cables!"

"Very well, back to the fo'c'sle! Make sure Mr Southwick knows."

Which was which? Was the rock ahead the northern one, Formica Maggiore, thirty-two feet high and whitish, with a bank of rocks extending southwards? Or the middle, eight cables to the south-east of it, blackish and with a bank extending northwest? Certainly it was not the southernmost because there was nothing southwards of it to cause breakers.

A thudding up the starboard side ladder made Ramage turn. "Lookout, starboard bow, sir. Mr Southwick says the middle rock is dead ahead - it's not high enough to be the northern one; and the southern one's five points to larboard."

"Very well, my compliments to Mr Southwick and tell him to stand by."

Damn, damn, damn . . . they had found the ants, but which one to choose? He had hoped they would come up to the northern, the Formica Maggiore, but they were lucky to spot any of them.

So is it to be the middle one, now dead ahead, or the smaller one to larboard? Well, altering course five points to larboard will alert the frigate astern. More important, with the Calypso steering direct for the middle rock and the Frenchman precisely in her wake, the Calypso's bulk will almost certainly be obscuring the rock, and anyway the French will hardly expect. . .

And there it was, dead ahead, a black smudge on what passed for the horizon. With the ship rolling and pitching it seemed to be bobbing up each side of the masts, the rigging frequently obscuring it as though a net was swinging in front. Distance? Two cables, perhaps less.

Aitken now had his nightglass. "Cable and a half distant, sir, judging from the seas breaking round it."

Ramage turned to look at the French frigate and was startled to see how much she had caught up. He snatched Aitken's nightglass and inspected her. "She's run her guns out!" he exclaimed. "She's decided we're British and is getting ready to run up alongside and give us a few broadsides!"

"Aye, that'd be likely," Aitken agreed. "She probably thinks that going to windward she has a knot or two's advantage over us."

"As long as everyone on her quarterdeck is concentrating on us! Hellfire, Aitken, quick, a cast of the lead!"

Ramage cursed his own inattention as Aitken shouted through the speaking trumpet, but almost instantly came back the cry: "By the deep nine, sir!"

Ramage told himself that if he lived he would promote that leadsman who had been sensible enough to take a cast the moment he heard the lookout's hail from the foretopmasthead - the hail which the quarterdeck had missed.

By the deep nine: fifty-four feet. Close. And the rock dead ahead, closing fast. And astern the Frenchman closing fast. Every damned thing closing fast.

"By the mark five!"

Again the leadsman's hail: five fathoms, which was thirty feet: the Calypso had a bare fifteen feet under her forefoot. He strained his eyes. The rock seemed to be racing towards them now like an approaching ship. Much less than a cable; perhaps only a hundred yards ahead, with the Frenchman a hundred yards astern and beginning to alter course a point, to run up on the starboard side? Damn her!

In an emergency, which way would that French captain turn - to larboard, which meant going about, with the danger in these seas of getting caught in stays, or would he bear away to starboard, bringing the wind round to three or four points on the quarter? That was the sure and safe thing to do, and Ramage guessed he would do it - when the time came!

And there was the rock. The Calypso was almost on top of it. No, make an allowance for darkness distorting distance.

"By the mark five!"

The leadsman was working fast; coiling up that much line between casts was hard work.

"Give me the speaking trumpet," he told Aitken, "but be ready: if we miss . . ."

Calling "Stand by" to Jackson, he jammed the mouthpiece against his mouth, took one more look at the rock, and shook his head: he had left it too late: the Calypso would hit the rock (or pile up on a shoal circling it) while making seven or eight knots!

"Mr Southwick - foredeck there! Let go!"

Almost simultaneously he felt rather than heard a series of thuds - the axes cutting the anchor adrift at the cathead; then, a few moments later he smelled burning. The anchor cable was now racing through the hawse and round the bitts, the hemp scorching with the friction against the wood.

"Larboard!" he yelled at Jackson and while the helmsmen spun the wheel with desperate urgency, Aitken snatched the proffered speaking trumpet and gave a stream of sail orders and then waited. Ramage could only imagine the anchor cable running out. Come on! he implored Southwick under his breath: snub the bloody cable and get that anchor biting home before we hit the rock! No, he decided, there is not room for the Calypso to swing round, like a running dog suddenly brought up all standing by its leash . . .