Finally there was Aitken, brought up as a boy in the Highlands and the son of a former master in the Royal Navy. Aitken, tall with a thin, almost gaunt face, black hair and deep-set eyes, at first meeting seemed dour and spare with words, issuing them with the reluctance of a purser handing out candles (which he had to pay for out of his own pocket). But in fact Aitken had a droll sense of humour: he and Southwick sparked teasing remarks off each other which made the rounds of the ship.

All the Jason's guns were still run out, and even though he had looked carefully at each gunport, Ramage could see no sign of the guns' crews. He could now see two men at the wheel (two, not four as a British ship o' war usually had when going into action) and a man was walking round them who could be either the officer of the deck or the captain, but who certainly was not wearing the uniform of a post-captain in the Royal Navy. Or the uniform of anyone's navy. Trousers (did that mean he was a sans-culotte? Presumably) of dark-green material and a long coat one would expect to see on an English parson visiting the dying: it was black with a deep velvet collar. Who but a madman would wear a coat like that in the Tropics? Well, Ramage admitted, the fellow commanding the Jason seems quite at home in it.

Ramage turned to Pegg, eyebrows raised, and the gipsy face nodded to show that he understood the moment was fast approaching and knew what he had to do. It was not a straightforward manoeuvre, because no one would be tending sheets or braces, but Pegg had the kind of confidence that Ramage had spent years instilling into his ship's company against such a day as now.

Fifty yards . . . the black paint of the Jason's hull was in even better condition than he had thought. Forty yards . . . there were a dozen brightly coloured shirts strung out on a washing line on the fo'c'sle. Thirty yards . . . although the Calypso was overhauling her, the Jason was making good speed: her wake formed the usual fascinating pattern of whorls. In a few minutes the Calypso's jibboom would be overhanging the Jason's stern like a fishing rod over a stream.

Ramage nodded to Pegg, who snapped out an order which had the four men spinning the wheel. To the captain of the Jason the Calypso was at last beginning to turn to starboard, sidestepping so that instead of following she came up alongside to starboard: on the windward side, with her whole broadside ready.

The Jason's captain would be making sure that all his gunners were at the starboard side guns: no frigate could man both broadsides at once, and if it was needed the men fired one side and ran across to fire the other.

There were still several yards between the Calypso's jibboom and the Jason's transom, even though the British frigate had begun her swing out, ready to overtake and come alongside.

Ramage watched the gap, narrowing his eyes as if to see more clearly. All he really saw was every one of his officers and Pegg anxiously watching him.

"Right, Pegg," he snapped and the gipsy, certain the order had been left a moment too late, shouted at the four men and flung himself on the wheel too, clawing at the spokes.

Slowly, as though with enormous dignity, like a dowager changing her mind, the Calypso's bow began to turn to larboard. To the watching men, it seemed as though the Jason was being pulled slowly to starboard and then, as the Calypso's extra speed became obvious, the Jason was gently pulled astern.

Ramage watched theJason's quarterdeck. Twenty yards. . .that curious black-coated figure was striding up and down and he had not looked at the Calypso for several minutes: it was as though he was unaware that she had been following and was now overtaking. All part of the play-acting, all part of whatever trap he was trying to set? Ramage was far from sure: all he knew was that the man would look perfectly at home striding among the dark-green yews and the moss-packed tombstones in an English cemetery, perhaps quietly muttering some prayer or psalm in memory of those who had taken up permanent residence.

He said to Pegg: "Now!"

The quartermaster snapped a third order to the men at the wheel, who hauled on the spokes and then stopped at another order from Pegg as the Calypso's bow started to swing in towards the Jason.

After she had travelled to within a dozen yards, the wheel was spun back amidships and the Calypso came back on to a parallel course.

Wagstaffe sighed, but Ramage had the feeling it was more from disappointment than relief: theJason's guns had not crashed back in a full broadside, even though the Calypso was a perfect target. Then once again Pegg, after a quick glance at Ramage to receive an approving nod, gave more orders which sent the wheel spinning again, except this time the Calypso turned on to a course which would converge with the Jason in two ships' lengths.

As the ships approached to crash alongside each other Ramage shouted: "Stand by those grapnels," and ran down the quarterdeck ladder to join his men waiting on the maindeck. Pegg calmly gave the order which turned the wheel enough to lessen the shock of the forthcoming crash. An excited Wagstaffe, for once ordered to remain on the quarterdeck instead of leading a boarding party, contented himself with shouts of "Hurrah, Calypsos!"

Ramage squeezed alongside a gun barrel and peered down into the water between the two ships. Only five yards separated them.

"Over with the grapnels!" he shouted. "Swing the others out from the yards. Take your time and aim true!"

The clinking of metal was men's cutlasses banging against gun barrels and metal fittings as they slid to the ports; the sharp metallic clicks were men cocking their pistols. Moments now - and there it was: with a crash that men felt right through the hull rather than heard, the Calypso drove alongside the Jason. The grapnels swinging out to lodge in her rigging and bulwarks were hauled in to hold the two ships together, and before Ramage had time to give the order the Calypsos were swarming on board the other ship, led as far as Ramage could see by Southwick, who looked like a demented bishop as he ran, white hair streaming, across the Jason's deck, his great sword like an immense crozier.

Ramage scrambled up and over the Jason's hammock nettings and dropped down on to her deck, vaguely noticing that the nearest men to him were Jackson, Rossi, Stafford, Gilbert and the other three Frenchmen. With a pistol in his left hand and cutlass in his right, he headed for the quarterdeck, for the man in the black coat, and was surrounded by dozens of men shouting excitedly: "Calypso! Calypso!"

But there was a strange atmosphere, as though they had met the coldness of a crypt. The excited dash that surged the Calypsos over the Jason's bulwarks was slowing down: far from men being in desperate cutlass-against-pike, pike-against-tomahawk, pistol-against-pistol duels, they were slowing down to a walk and looking round with all the curiosity of bumpkins at a fair. And beyond - or was it round them? - other shouting: that of frightened men shouting in English, as though desperately trying to establish their true identities before being run through, spitted by a pike or cut down by a tomahawk.

Was this the trap? English prisoners forced to shout for quarter at the instant the Calypsos boarded? Creating confusion and making them pause just long enough for the French to shoot them down?

Ramage looked round wildly, saw no immediate explanation and carried on his dash towards the man in the black coat who (Ramage blinked but kept his pistol raised) was now walking towards him, arms outspread in a welcoming gesture: just as a parson would greet a valued parishioner or, more likely, the patron of his living.

Above the din Ramage could hear the man saying in a normal voice: "Ramage, isn't it? I've heard so much about you, my dear fellow, and I'm so glad we meet at last!"