He had a momentary picture of Jackson, poised at his gun. The sandy-haired American would be grinning; not because he was amused but because he always grinned at times of stress. Along with half a dozen others still in the Calypso, Jackson had served with Ramage since before he had been given his first command, here in the Mediterranean; he had been one of the men - the most important man - helping in the rescue of Gianna from that beach at Capalbio. Gianna had come to regard him as a favourite retainer. And Jackson? Ramage had the feeling that he thought of her as a wayward niece.

Now the gun captains would be waiting for that black blur to pass twenty yards off a gunport; a black blur which gave them the signal to tug the lanyard to send the gun coughing back in recoil.

No, the Frenchman had not altered course. He was just about hard on the wind, thanks to a bend in the coast, and could do nothing to prevent the Calypso keeping up to windward.

As the Calypso's first gun roared out Ramage saw a spurt of smoke come from the muzzle of the first French gun. A moment later, as Southwick and Aitken gripped the rail at the fore end of the quarterdeck, there was a confused roar made up of the coughing of the Calypso's broadside and the lighter thudding of the French broadside. The sound of ripping calico warned of French roundshot passing overhead.

As though a flash of lightning on a dark night had lit up the scene for a moment, Ramage had a medley of impressions: the French frigate's black hull was stained with salt; the luff of the flying jib was wrinkled; there were at least two rusty holes amidships showing where roundshot had penetrated, and there were several more further aft, showing that several of the Calypso's gunners had taken a few moments to react to the rapidly passing target. The Tricolour was streaming out; the sails were even more patched than he thought from his view through the telescope. The small group of officers on the quarterdeck had crouched down as the Calypso passed.

And then he was yelling at Aitken while watching the passing enemy: "Come about! Don't let him get away!"

The last gun of the Calypso's broadside had hardly fired before topsails were slatting as the frigate tacked. Ramage realized that the enemy had the advantage in speed because she had all plain sail set; but she would be more difficult to handle with all that canvas. As the Calypso swung round to starboard, Ramage looked over the quarter at the enemy just in time to see her beginning to clew up her courses. So she was going to fight under t'gallants and topsails. Ramage was sure the French would soon furl the t'gallants; they were not handy sails for fighting - but furling them took topmen away from the guns . . .

The Calypso quickly turned and Ramage saw an opportunity. "Steer across his stern," he ordered Aitken. "We'll give him a raking broadside, even though at long range."

The Calypso seems to be spending most of the day raking French frigates, Ramage thought, although this time it would be at a range of a couple of hundred yards, instead of twenty.

As soon as the ship came round on to the other tack and Aitken had braces and sheets trimmed, Ramage watched the departing enemy frigate closely and gave helm orders which would make the Calypso pass across the enemy frigate's stern at an oblique angle, so that she had plenty of room to wear again to avoid running aground.

Now the Frenchman had his courses clewed up - and yes, he was furling his t'gallants: at least he was getting down to topsails, the usual rig for fighting. And it meant that he was slowing down, reducing the range for the Calypso's raking broadside.

By now the first of the Calypso's larboard broadside was firing again, the gunners hastily adjusting the quoin for the increased range. Ramage found himself counting with the slower rate of fire. He took up his telescope and trained it on the Frenchman's stern, and was just in time to see a spark as a roundshot hit a piece of metalwork, probably a fitting on the rudderhead. As his count reached sixteen Ramage realized that the French frigate - he had just read the name on the transom as Le Jason - was bearing away and was going to cross ahead of the Calypso. "She's going to rake us," growled Southwick.

"And there's nothing we can do to stop her," Ramage said quietly.

Nor was there. The Calypso was committed to wearing to get away from the shore, which was fast approaching, and the Frenchman would pass across her bow firing a raking broadside into her. Ramage thought of the ship of the line they had encountered earlier in the day: please, no damage to the jibboom and bowsprit!

The quicker the Calypso wore, the less time her vulnerable bow would be exposed to the Frenchman's broadside. Ramage listened to the slamming of the sails and hoped the gunners were hard at work reloading.

And then Le Jason was crossing the Calypso's bow, wreathed in smoke, her whole side a line of winking red eyes as her guns fired. Ramage heard a crash aloft and glanced up to see a wild shot had smashed six feet off the end of the foretopgallant yard. The calico ripping noise of a dozen more roundshot passing overhead showed him the French gunners had not yet settled down.

There were four or five shotholes in the topsails: nothing that needed repairing. And the jibboom and bowsprit were still standing, with no damage apparent from where Ramage stood.

"We've been lucky," he commented to Aitken, and a moment later saw he could turn the tables on the Frenchman.

"Luff up and we can rake his stern as he goes past."

He looked round for Orsini. "Warn the gunners that they'll be able to rake the Frenchman on the starboard side!"

By now the Frenchman was heading north-west, steering for the shore and obviously about to tack or wear. The Calypso bore up slightly and Le Jason's stern came round on to her starboard beam. Sounding like a huge drum being beaten irregularly, the Calypso's guns started firing, and once again Ramage saw sparks as round-shot glanced off metal. And the sternlights were now an irregular shape: instead of being rectangles enclosing the glass, they were ragged shapes, chewed at by roundshot.

Would it work? "Wear round," he shouted to Aitken, "we'll rake him again!"

The Frenchman seemed to be manoeuvring very slowly; after raking the Calypso, Ramage expected Le Jason to tack or wear to get offshore again, but she was staying on the same course, north-west, as though careless of the risk of going up the beach.

Then Ramage stared hard through his telescope. Le Jason was leaving no wake: she was stopped in the water! And he noticed that her rudder was hard over.

"She's aground, by God!" exclaimed Southwick just as Ramage was about to speak.

"We must have damaged her rudder with that raking broadside," Ramage said.

"How close in can we go?" Southwick growled, reaching for the chart.

"Close enough to rake her again,' Ramage said grimly. "And again and again. It probably won't take them long to repair that rudder."

Aitken gave orders to the quartermaster and the Calypso came round a few degrees. Ramage looked round for Orsini and sent him off to warn the gunners to expect to rake the enemy with the starboard broadside.

Ramage saw a red winking at the transom and realized that Le Jason had got a sternchase gun in action. Almost immediately there was a crash aloft and the Calypso's foretopgallant mast crashed down, hanging by rigging, the yard swinging like a pendulum.

"Go and sort that out," Ramage ordered Aitken. "I'll take over the conn."

Of all the damnable luck: at least, damnable for the Calypso and almost beyond belief for Le Jason. That a single shot from a sternchase gun should bring down the Calypso's foretopgallant mast was an almost unbelievable piece of good fortune for the French.