He looked astern and could just make out the other boats following in the launch's wake. In a few minutes three of the boats would turn to starboard to make their way to the Achille's stern, still keeping out of the field of fire. What sort of lookout were they keeping in the French ship? For the moment they would not be able to see very far because of the darkness, but would they spot the boats in the starlight during those last few yards?

Ramage decided they would not be keeping a special lookout because they would not expect the Dido to board them: they knew that the English realized they were stuck on the rocks, and helpless. They might expect a further attack in daylight, with the Dido raking her and doing more damage by gunfire. Indeed, that might have been the reason for them landing men - to save casualties.

Casualties! The word made him shiver. If the French had not landed many men, then he was likely to suffer a lot of casualties tonight. He did not doubt that his own men would be able to start a few fires, but at what cost?

Some captains, he knew, could send their men off on operations where the number of casualties would be enormous, and the fact did not make them lose any sleep. But he was not one of these captains. He did not know whether to call them lucky or not - in war men did get killed or maimed. But the fact was that he shied away from operations where the casualties would be heavy. He had shied away from this one until he persuaded himself that if he did not destroy the Achille now, the admiral would send him back to do it.

So now he was setting off with more than 150 seamen and Marines not knowing whether there were five hundred or fifty Frenchmen on board the Achille. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed the most absurdly risky operation he had ever undertaken: it was, literally and figuratively, a leap into the dark.

He stared ahead and could just make out the black shape of the Achille outlined against the stars. Judging from the height of the masts they were closer than he had realized. He glanced astern and saw that the last three boats had already left to make for the French ship's stern. There was just the faint hiss as the launch's bow cut through the water and the muffled gasping as the men strained at the oars. The launch, carrying thirty men plus the oarsmen, was a heavy boat to row.

Yes, it was a hot and humid night: already he could feel the perspiration soaking through his clothes. But he was thankful there was little wind. Wind meant waves and waves meant a slop at the bow which could be spotted by the French lookouts. Thank goodness there was almost no phosphorescence tonight. It was extraordinary how one night it would be bright and another night there would be almost none at all. One thing was certain - had there been much of it then it would give away the positions of all six boats, warning the French long before they could actually see the outline of the raiders.

Forty yards, perhaps less. Jackson had brought the launch round - with the two pinnaces following - in a half-circle, so that he stayed out of the arcs of fire of the Achille's guns and approached from dead ahead, the direction it would be hard for the French lookouts to see, because of the network of rigging supporting the jibboom and bowsprit.

Ramage loosened the two pistols stuck in his belt: they were digging into his ribs, and they would jab him when he climbed. He hitched at his sword, making sure it was free in the sheath, ready to be drawn instantly. He was, he realized ruefully, behaving just like a nervous man, but damnation, he was nervous: not at the thought of boarding the Frenchman, but at what they might find. Fifty or five hundred - they were not the sort of odds to attract a gambler . . .

Thirty yards - no more. Jackson was hissing an order at the nearest oarsmen and they were passing it forward, from man to man. The rate of rowing slowed. The Achille was huge now, looming over them - and there was no challenge. No shooting from aft, either, so that the other boarding party had not arrived yet. He had thought of trying to synchronize the two attacks, but finally decided against it: the trouble involved increased the risk that they would be discovered if one or other party had to wait in the darkness.

Twenty yards - and Jackson was beginning to put the tiller over and hissing another order to the oarsmen nearest him. The Achille was now like the side of a huge cliff; her rigging was outlined against the star-filled sky like a fishnet, and the masts stood up like enormous trees, reaching up into the blackness.

Ten yards, and the men on the starboard side tossed their oars. Ramage poised himself, ready to leap upwards at whatever projection would give him a foothold. Still no challenge and, mercifully, still no shooting from astern. In the few seconds before the launch came alongside the French ship he thought how extraordinary it was that she was keeping such a poor lookout.

Then he smelled the stench of rotting seaweed and realized that it had been growing beneath the waterline but had been exposed when the bow had lifted as the ship had run on to the reef. He noticed that the French had not let go an anchor - an indication of how firmly she was wedged. Probably firmly enough to make this boarding quite unnecessary, but one could not be sure.

Then, in a frantic rush, the launch was alongside and he was leaping up, grasping at a loop of rigging and kicking out with his feet to find a foothold. The wood was slippery from the weed but his feet found the edge of a plank that was standing proud. He levered himself upwards, kicking and grasping, until he found he had reached the headrails. He ducked through them and worked his way up to the beakhead bulkhead, conscious just as he reached it that a French voice was shouting a challenge.

Several more men from the launch had managed to scramble up, and were almost alongside him. In fact as he looked below, the whole bow of the ship seemed to be a wriggling mass of men. He stretched up again and got a grip on the Marine's walk, the short strip of gangway leading from the fo'c'sle to the bowsprit. Then he swung himself up, kicking and struggling, until he was sprawled on the walk, and a few moments later found himself on the fo'c'sle, only a few feet from the foremast.

By now the French voice was shouting hysterically: it had stopped challenging and was calling out an alarm. Obviously there had been a single lookout forward, and he must have been dozing. Ramage heard a voice answer in the distance and knew it would be only a matter of moments before the men boarding aft would be spotted. The shooting would start any second now, and as he stood upright on the fo'c'sle he wrenched out the pistols from his belt.

He suddenly realized that Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, all puffing from their exertions, were standing beside him at the forebitts, beside the foremast. More men were climbing up the beakhead bulkhead while others were scrambling up on to the Marine's walk.

Suddenly there was the rattle of musket fire from aft and shot ricocheted off the mast. 'Start those fires!' shouted Ramage, knowing that any moment a barrage of musketry fire could sweep the deck.

Lanterns suddenly appeared and he saw several slowmatches sparkling in the darkness. There was a glow as someone took a candle from a lantern and used it to light a piece of cloth.

Now the musketry fire from aft was closer: the French were advancing along the deck towards them. What had happened to the boarders aft? Just as he wondered, Ramage noticed that some of the muskets and pistols were now aimed aft: at last the rest of the Didos had appeared. They had a far more difficult task than the men boarding over the bow: there was much less to hold on to.

'Come on,' Ramage called, 'let's get some fires started amidships.' He noticed that one of his men was crumpled up on the deck, obviously hit by a musket ball, and then Jackson shouted: 'Here they come!'