'I reckon we can see about a mile with the nightglass,' Southwick said. 'So we should be all right if we leave sending off the boats to a couple of miles out. They'll never hear anything, and they certainly won't see anything, even if they're keeping a sharp lookout.'

'I've little, experience of cutting out expeditions,' Ramage admitted, 'but a couple of miles seems a nice distance. Not far enough to exhaust the oarsmen but far enough for everyone to get their night vision and settle down.'

Southwick said: 'Here we are - the Ile à Ramiers bearing due east of us. Now it's up to the men at the wheel.' He called out a new course to the quartermaster and then with the speaking trumpet gave orders for a slight trimming of sheets and braces.

Over to starboard now, hidden in the darkness, were several beautiful beaches with shallow water and rocks off them. The direct course from the island to the frigate was free of all obstructions, and there should not be too much current. At least, Ramage hoped not: it could set the Dido well to the north, but the mountains at the back of Fort Royal would help the boats.

The leadsman in the chains sang out the soundings in a monotonous voice: Ramage had to concentrate: there was a shoal beyond the island and when they reached the far side of it and the water started to get deeper they would be two miles from the frigate and it would be time to heave-to.

The soundings showed they were crossing the reef: six, five and then, in one or two places, four and a half fathoms, only just enough for the Dido to scrape across - she drew twenty-three feet aft when fully laden, though less now since she had been eating and drinking the provisions and water.

Suddenly the soundings went up: seven, nine, twelve fathoms.

'Heave-to,' Ramage told Southwick. 'Back the maintopsail, have the boats hauled round.'

Slowly the Dido came to a stop, the wind on the backed sail balancing the thrust on the others. As the boats were hauled alongside to where rope ladders had been put over the side, the boats' coxswains called out a description of them so that the boarders would find their way in the darkness. 'Launch here!. . . Red pinnace, men for the red pinnace here . . . Green cutter, green cutter here! . . . Blue cutter - any more for the blue cutter?'

Seamen and Marines swarmed over the side and scrambled down the ladders. Ramage shook hands with Southwick and went forward, conscious of the two pistols in his belt pressing against his ribs. And, he had to admit, his heart sounded a bit hollow.

Jackson was already in the sternsheets of the launch, gripping the tiller, and round the boat were Stafford, Rossi and the four Frenchmen. They were a reassuring crowd, Ramage thought. It was curious how being in action several times with men established a bond. Not curious really: it meant that you knew you could trust the men who were covering your back.

Down here in the water, with the side of the Dido towering up like the side of a cliff, it was quiet except for the slap of water and the low, urgent calls of officers checking over their men. He could just distinguish the voice of Kenton, counting the number in his party: now 'Blower' Martin was cursing a man who had fallen into the boat from the bottom of a rope ladder. Now Aitken was giving crisp orders to get his pinnace away from the ship's side.

Ramage finished counting his men, found they were all present along with the gunner, and gave orders to Jackson to shove off. In a couple of minutes the Dido was just a large shadow and the men were bending their backs at the oars while Jackson thrust and pulled on the tiller to avoid other boats in the darkness.

And, away from the Dido, it seemed darker. It was an illusion, but Ramage was surprised how much the tiny candle in the binnacle of the boat compass lit up Jackson's face as he leaned over to check the course.

'Steer fine,' Ramage said, and cursed himself for an entirely unnecessary order: Jackson was about the last man who had to be told how important it was to steer an accurate course. Ramage knew - and the thought irritated him - that he had only said it because he was feeling nervous. Well, sitting among a boat full of armed men on a pitch-dark night with the butts of a pair of pistols threatening to stave in your ribs did not leave you relaxed.

Looking at Jackson's face, every wrinkle exaggerated by the light from the binnacle (it would have to be covered over very soon), Ramage found himself thinking of the passing years. Jackson was no longer the young American who had helped rescue the Marchesa de Volterra from that beach in Italy so many years ago; nor, for that matter, was he himself that very young lieutenant who was the sole surviving officer of his ship . . . Jackson's face was lined and his hair was thinning and the years were passing . . . that young lieutenant now commanded a ship of the line, and it took a cutting out expedition to make him realize that time did not stand still.

He looked astern and could just make out the darker blobs of the five boats following the launch. He listened carefully but could not hear any noise except the faint hiss of the water being sliced away by the stem of the first pinnace. The oars were well muffled: even here in the launch there was little more than a faint groan as they rode against the rowlocks, a noise caused by movement and not the friction of wood against wood.

He opened the nightglass and looked ahead over the heads of the oarsmen. There was nothing, except blackness. Well, perhaps just a hint of land, but nothing he could be sure of. He could imagine the people in the boats astern straining their eyes to keep a watch on the launch - they were following at four-yard intervals, and as soon as the launch stopped - which she would do as soon as she sighted the frigate - the boats, forewarned, would form up in pairs for the final approach. Then, in the last fifty yards, they would split up to board from opposite sides.

Were there guard boats, and if so how far were they from the frigate? Half a mile? Two hundred yards? Or were there no boats? Did the French dismiss the brig as of no consequence? Oh, don't start that train of thought again, he told himself; he had already been over it once and come to no conclusion, and now was not the time to fret: just keep a sharp lookout.

This really was the worst part of a cutting out expedition, the long row to the target. It left a man alone with his thoughts and fears for too long: there was just the slopping of oar blades dipping in the water and the creak of the thwarts as the seated men strained at the looms of the oars. Time seemed to stand still; the darkness left one's imagination open to the wildest thoughts.

What would Admiral Cameron think about this cutting out expedition - would he approve or dismiss it as a wild venture? If it was successful he would welcome an extra frigate - but success always brought approval; it was failure that brought condemnation.

Now Jackson was drawing a cloth over most of the binnacle to hide the light.