A dull, grey sky; a dull grey sea. Even the spray thrown up by the Frenchman's bow seems washed with grey. And a plum-coloured hull! This light makes it look bruised; even at this distance the salt drying on it makes it seem diseased, fruit that will be thrown away.

In line astern of the 74 is the San José church. The men at the wheel of the 74 are not doing a very good job: not just the surging of the seas, when one leaves the wheel alone, knowing that the ship will come back on course by herself. No, the Frenchmen are sawing the wheel from one side to the other so that she shoots off half a point one way, then swings back half the other. The 74's wake must look like a demented snake.

But for all that she is overhauling the Calypso, which is what matters. The French captain must be well satisfied: he has the Englishman at his mercy. Whichever way he tries to escape (and he is cut off by the land from going east or north) the 74 has the advantage of speed: one needs patience, mes braves.

Ramage walked to the binnacle, glanced down at the weather side compass, and then at the Cortadura fort. Yes, one and a half miles away. And the bearing was correct. But that damned 74 was making faster time than he anticipated. A lot faster time.

He felt the skin on his face and arms covered with goose pimples; there was a hollowness in his stomach. Yes, the 74 was going much faster in this wind (which was strengthening all the time: the royals would have to come in very soon before they blew themselves out). Yes, he had made a mistake. He thought the Frenchman would have a foul bottom and be badly sailed. In fact she had a relatively clean bottom and apart from sloppy steering she was being sailed well: even though her wake was wavy, she was being kept close to the wind.

They say a man is allowed one mistake. It was beginning to look, he thought grimly, as though his mistake was going to be his last.

"Harden in topsail and topgallant sheets," he snapped to Aitken. "A foot or two on the courses, too."

Southwick had his quadrant, taking vertical sextant angles on the 74's foremast.

"She's gaining fast," the master said. "She has two or three knots more than us."

Ramage nodded. "That's what I'd expect in this wind: she can stand up to her canvas - and look at that copper sheathing when she rolls."

"She's fast to windward: perhaps she doesn't reach or run so well," Southwick said hopefully.

"Going to windward is our fastest point of sailing," Ramage reminded him. "She's French-built, just like us ..."

"True, true," Southwick admitted, lifting his quadrant again and balancing himself against the Calypso's roll.

Ramage looked again at the compass and then at the Cortadura Fort. He caught Jackson's eye. "Steer small," he said sharply.

Jackson nodded obediently but thought to himself: steer small? One more tack (at the most!) and that Frenchman will be so close alongside they'll be able to pelt us with cloves of garlic. When he had first come on deck and relieved Kinnock as coxswain, he had thought the captain had (as usual) some unusual plan to let them escape. But ten minutes had been enough to convince himself there could be no plan: they were trapped, and that was that. When a frigate is caught by a 74-gun ship with a clean bottom and a good captain, that is that. Not Mr Ramage's fault: just that a well-sailed 74 is a good deal faster to windward than a frigate: you didn't have to be a master of tactics to know that.

Now Jackson saw Mr Ramage talking to Mr Southwick, who turned and stared at that fort on the edge of the town. Yes, he is staring at the fort as though any minute he expected a hoist of signal flags to go up its flagpole. Now he is looking at the French ship.

Jackson glanced astern and immediately wished he had not: five hundred yards away? No more. Close enough that they would soon fire a round or two from their bowchasers, trying the range. And it would be just their luck that a round from a bowchaser would bring down the mizen - or skitter across the quarterdeck and smash the wheel.

Jackson looked back at the binnacle and turned to the two men at the wheel. "Steer small, blast you!" he snarled, and felt better for it. The lubber line was precisely on the "SW x W" mark on the compass card, but Jackson thought, for the first time for many years, that he wanted to live. The point had not arisen with such urgency for a long time . . . Always Mr Ramage had a plan and it was easy to see what it was: easy to see, in other words, that one would live to fight another day. Not this time, though: there was no arguing that 74s were faster than frigates.

He glanced astern again. Three hundred yards, and already the blasted Frenchman was hauling out to starboard so that he could range alongside instead of poking his jibboom through the Calypso's sternlights.

Ramage looked at Aitken. The Scot was pale under his tan, but holding the speaking trumpet as casually as though he was going to give a routine order: a tweak on a sheet, maybe. And Southwick? The master was gripping his quadrant as though it was a charm that would protect him from the 74's roundshot.

Once again Ramage looked down at the compass, and then back at the Cortadura Fort. One and a half or two miles. Split the difference and that made it one and three quarters. And on course. Now he turned and looked astern. Feet apart to balance against the roll; hands clasped behind his back; a confident look on his face. So that the ship's company thought he was going to wave at the 74 as it came up alongside, each gun captain sighting, trigger line taut in his right hand, kneeling on the right knee, with the left leg flung out to one side to maintain balance ... At least Ramage could not hear the bellow of Ça Ira against the moan of the wind!

A hundred yards? Less, perhaps. No, he had timed this wrong; there was no confused flurry of sea now, no rolling of the water, no darker patches, just that damned 74 slicing along. She did look rather splendid: he was prepared to admit that. And deadly and menacing, too; there was no denying that.

"If we tacked ... ?" Aitken said, as though talking to himself.

Ramage shook his head: he had started them off on this dance and they had to complete all the steps: tacking now would mean the 74 would tack as well - and, if she was quick enough, get in a raking broadside, and just one raking broadside might be enough for the Calypso.

He watched as a spurt of smoke was quickly carried away by the wind from one of the enemy's bowchase guns. There was no thud of the shot hitting the Calypso. The 74 caught a strong puff of wind that missed the frigate and surged ahead, sails straining.

Fifty yards. Another lucky puff like that and she will be alongside and the Calypso's decks will be swept by roundshot and grape; masts will collapse over the side as rigging parts; the wheel and binnacle will be smashed; there will not be a man left alive on deck. All because I underestimated a French 74, Ramage thought bitterly. He found he was not afraid. Deathly cold, but not actually afraid. Sarah would never know how it happened, and suddenly he wanted her to understand, understand that he had made a genuine mistake. Just one mistake that would leave Sarah a widow in - well, about a minute, and Aldington without a master. Still, Sarah would live there and she would -

He blinked: the 74 had suddenly stopped and slowly, as though they were tired, one mast after another toppled forward across the bow with yards and sails. She began to slew round as the heavy canvas fell over the side, acting as an anchor. Two guns went off, smoke spurting through the ports, as gun captains were sent sprawling by the shock. An anchor came adrift and fell into the sea with a splash, and the ship settled in the water like a broody hen on her nest.

"What happened?" Southwick gasped. "What caused all that?"