Yorke saw Ramage looking at the four guns and commented, "They seem to get smaller every time I look at them!"

"As long as they don't get fewer! But," he added ruefully, lowering his voice, "I don't think I'd have taken over from Stevens if I'd known these stern-chasers were unusable. I was betting on them to chip off some of the Frenchman's paint..."

"Rubbish!" Yorke said. "You're like a wild Irishman: you couldn't stay out of a fight whatever the odds!"

"We haven't much choice, anyway. About five minutes to go."

"If that."

"I think you'd better send those bags of mail to Father Neptune. Use this larboard after gun's crew. Duncan!" he called, "You and your men are under Mr Yorke's orders for a few minutes."

Stevens began walking forward, unhurried but obviously recovered, and carrying his battered hat. He had picked up his cutlass and it hung from the wide leather belt slung over his right shoulder.

Now Ramage could see a crowd of men perched on the privateer's bowsprit. Something glinted in the sun - a cutlass being waved, and he imagined the stream of threats and insults its owner was hurling at the Arabella.

Yet there's something odd about all this, he told himself. No privateer captain in his right mind would sail along the wake of a potential prize which he knew had two 9-pounder stern-chase guns. The Arabella's pair may be useless, because of rotten wood round some ring bolts, but the captain of the privateer doesn't know that. All he knows is that his bowsprit is pointing down their barrels and they haven't fired at him. It's as though he knows they will not. Is that the reputation the Post Office packets have among the privateers? It seems the only possible explanation. But not every damned packet captured up to now could have had rot round the ring bolts of the breechings!

Having so much to think about has at least stopped me from getting frightened ... Not frightened of being killed, anyway, but this weird ship of fools leaves me feeling as though I've spent a long and chilly night in a haunted church.

The Arabella's jogging along nicely: plenty of way on her to carry her round when I give the word to tack. If anyone makes a mistake and we get caught in stays...

Here she comes ... bearing away half a point to get out of our wake and ready to range up alongside. Those men perched along the bowsprit like vultures on a branch must be soaking wet from the spray. God, what a crowd - cutlasses, boarding pikes, tomahawks, not one of them has shaved for a month. One of them is bending over being seasick - or vomiting up an overdose of brandy.

Sudden puffs of smoke from her weather bow: the wind whipping the smoke away. Faint popping. They'll be lucky if a musket ball hits the Arabella's mainsail! Plenty of heads showing along the weather bulwark now and some enthusiastic fellows climbing up the ratlines ready to drop on board as soon as that black hull crashes alongside.

"Mailbags have all gone."

"Thanks. Duplicates and triplicates of all Sir Pilcher's dispatches - just think of it!"

She's going to come on to a parallel course - now! Forty yards to leeward. Just the range for 4-pounders. Her bowsprit will begin to overlap us in a couple of minutes. Just time to let Stafford and Rossi have a crack at her with their 4-pounders before we tack.

"Jackson! I'm going to bear away for a few seconds so you can use the starboard side guns. Stafford, Rossi - stand by! Get those guns trained as far aft as possible. Aim for the masts and don't fire until your guns bear!"

A three-point turn should do it. Bear away, fire, up with the helm and then tack. That should surprise the beggars!

"Stand by for a three-point turn to starboard, Mr Southwick. No sail trimming: bear away, and then bear up the moment the second gun's fired."

There are Wilson and Bowen tucking themselves in by the main shrouds. Those musketoons won't hurt the French but they'll keep the lads' spirits up: nothing like the banging of one's own powder to induce bravery...

Thirty men perched on that bowsprit and one of them still being sick. Aye, wave those cutlasses and cuss and swear, but you're going to get a shock in a moment ... Tip of the bowsprit has another twenty yards to go. Neat patches in that mainsail. The gaff jaws are chafing the mast badly. Bottom clean - just some weed on the copper sheathing. One sheet ripped off near the stem - probably hit a floating log.

Ten yards ... plenty of new rope up there: she must have had some successful cruises. Fifty or more heads along the bulwark. Is that the captain standing up on the bulwark right aft? No wonder that fellow is sick - the bowsprit's rising and falling twenty feet. Five yards. That might be your last retch, mon ami. What's Gianna doing now? My right shoulder aches – the muscles probably jarred by the Bosun's cutlass.

"Bear away, Mr Southwick; three points to starboard! Steady, Stafford - give 'em one for the Lord Mayor of London! Rossi, I'd like to tell the Marchesa you brought the foremast down!"

And the Tritons shouting their heads off! Bow beginning to swing - round she comes - don't overdo it, Southwick old chap. Damn, we're going to shave that bowsprit off! Wilson's musketoon - and a man's fallen off! Southwick's steadying her up...

The aftermost gun gave a bronchitic cough, followed a moment later by the forward one. The carriages rumbled back in recoil as smoke swirled away in a thick oily cloud.

"Helm up, Mr Southwick!"

But the Master had anticipated the order while Stafford and Rossi bellowed at their men to hurry with the reloading. And now the Arabella is turning fast, away from the privateer. In a few moments her stern will be pointing at the row of 4-pounders.

Ramage found himself staring at the muzzles: for many moments, until the Arabella's bow swung across the eye of the wind, and the yards were hauled and the sheets trimmed on the other tack, he had nothing to do but wait.

Suddenly the muzzle of the privateer's aftermost gun winked red and smoke streamed along the afterdeck and curled over her taffrail. A sharp twang showed that one of the grapeshot had hit something metallic on board the Arabella; solid thuds told of hits on wood. But there were no shouts and screams of wounded men; no whiplashing of parted rigging.

Then the privateer had passed, still thrashing her way northwards while Southwick and Much took the Arabella away to the south-west.

Ramage turned to Yorke, who was staring over the starboard quarter at the privateer's stern and saying, "You did it! It worked!"

"We were lucky," Ramage said, "but-"

He broke off as he saw Stevens gesticulating. Suddenly half a dozen or more packetsmen left the guns, cutlasses in their hands, and ran to the sheets and braces.

Much grabbed Stevens by the throat and both men toppled over, struggling violently. Southwick shouted something at the helmsmen and, as the one bolted away from the wheel, pointed his pistol at the other.

"Stop them," Ramage bellowed at the top of his voice and, drawing his sword, ran at the man chopping into the main brace. Within seconds individual fights between packetsmen and Tritons were going on all over the Arabella's deck, but before Ramage reached his man the main brace parted with a bang and the huge yard began to swing. Forward Ramage could see the forecourse flapping and the fore yard swinging with no brace to control it.

As the Arabella lost way and her bow paid off, the whole ship out of control, Ramage saw the privateer had tacked and was steering straight for them, dropping her mainsail at the same time. And that is that, he thought bitterly; Stevens has won: he must have whispered his orders to the Bosun while they were aft here with Farrell, and the Bosun passed them on to the rest of the packetsmen.