Ramage could see the grapeshot slamming into the yards as they lay across the deck. The mainyard slewed slightly as all the grapeshot from one gun smashed into the end.

At Aitken shouted out the orders to bring the Calypso round again, Southwick gave a bellow of delight and snatched at Ramage's arm. He was pointing aloft at the French frigate, and a few moments later Ramage realized what the master had seen: the French ship's colours were being lowered. She was surrendering. Honourably so, Ramage thought: with those two big yards down on deck and unable to manoeuvre, it was only a matter of time before the Calypso, wearing relentlessly across her stern, pounded her to pieces.

Ramage was just about to tell Aitken to order the guns to stop firing when he realized that a breathless sailor was standing in front of him. "Mainmast lookout, sir, I can't make you hear," he gasped. "There's a French frigate coming down from the north, dose in with the coast."

Another frigate! This part of the Mediterranean seemed to have become a French sea! Ramage hurriedly passed the lookout's report to Aitken and Southwick and tried to think clearly with the thunder of gunfire still numbing his brain.

Le Tigre had surrendered but there was no time to take possession of her: that probably meant that she would wait until she saw if her compatriot defeated the Calypso and then hoist her colours again. But what of the second frigate?

There was no choice: that made the decision a lot easier, he thought grimly: no time for second thoughts or misgivings -or, for that matter, doubts. He called Orsini, told him of the second frigate, and ordered him to warn the officers at their quarters, and make sure that all the guns were loaded with round-shot.

There was no chance of any tricks to gain surprise: the approaching frigate would have seen the gunsmoke, even if at this distance she could not distinguish the British colours. There were probably a few moments of doubt as they saw a French hull attacking a French hull, but the smoke would have been enough to 'send their men to general quarters: by now all her guns would be loaded and run out, ready to engage whichever of the two ships proved to be the enemy.

"Get the boats hoisted out and towing astern," he said to Aitken. That would reduce the risk from splinters.

"It'll make a change," grunted Southwick. "Just a ship-to-ship action, with no nonsense."

With his "no nonsense" Southwick dismissed actions against ships of the line and disabled frigates: the forthcoming action, he clearly considered, would be fought on equal terms, frigate against frigate. All else, his four words implied, was heresy; not to be considered by honest men.

How to tackle this frigate? A battle of broadsides or try to board? Ramage picked up the telescope and looked at the distant ship. Yes, like Le Tigre, she was a 32-gun frigate, the same as the Calypso; gun for gun they would be evenly matched. How many men would she have on board? Like the British, the French were always short of trained seamen; but unlike the British they frequently drafted soldiers on board. It was not unusual to find a ship with half a battery of artillerymen serving the guns. With luck, Ramage reflected, if there was anything of a sea running, the artillerymen had to fight seasickness as well as the enemy, so their rate of fire was slow and erratic.

But the sea was not rough; the brisk breeze was scudding clouds across the sun and knocking up white horses, but not enough to take a frigate roll or interfere with queasy gunners.

He turned to Aitken: "Steer straight for her, and warn that the funs on the larboard side will probably be firing first."

And that, he thought, covers the tactics: stay up to windward of the enemy, so that the smoke of the guns blows clear, and then it would be a straightforward battle of broadsides, hoping that the enemy would make a mistake.

Through the telescope he could see that the approaching frigate was painted black and her sails had enough patches to indicate that she had probably been at sea some time. Was she part of a squadron which had included the two ships of the line? Was it a coincidence that she was coming along the coast of Capraia when Le Tigre was at anchor doing repairs? Ramage shrugged: the answers to the questions hardly mattered: she was approaching Tom ahead, and that was the only thing that concerned him for the moment.

The Sea Service pistols stuck in his belt were bruising his ribs; they grated every time he took a breath. He pushed them further round after deciding not to put them down: there was always a chance that the Calypso would end up boarding the frigate, and he did not want to waste time looking round for a brace of pistols.

He found he was becoming pleasantly excited: the prospect of MI evenly matched fight against another frigate was sufficiently unusual to be welcome.

I

He gave an order to the quartermaster and told Aitken to harden in the sheets: he wanted to get to windward just another point, so there would be no question about the Calypso keeping up to windward of the enemy. Of course, the French frigate could always tack to the north-east - she could even turn on her heels and make a bolt for it. But Ramage was sure that she would come down to help Le Tigre. The French captain would not want to face a double charge - of cowardice, and deserting a comrade.

The frigate was a mile away now, sailing fast along the coast. Ramage glanced at the chart: there were no outlying rocks: they could manoeuvre without risk, except that if either of them was dismasted they would be blown on to the rocks, since this was a lee shore.

Could the Frenchman try any tricks? Ramage thought carefully and decided there was nothing he could not counter in time.

Three quarters of a mile, and her bow wave was curling away like a white moustache, with her sails bellying with the wind. All her guns were run out; they jutted from her side like stubby black fingers. As usual, the first broadside would be the most important because it would be fired carefully by men not coughing from gunsmoke, stunned by the noise of the guns firing, or wildly excited by the ritual of loading and firing.

Half a mile. "Orsini," he called, "run round the larboard side guns and warn them that they'll be firing in a matter of minutes."

The Italian youth ran off down the quarterdeck ladder and Ramage was thankful he could trust the youngster: he not only understood the orders but what was more important he understood the significance of them. He had been in action dozens of times now and one of his proudest moments, Ramage knew, was that he had taken part in the Battle of Trafalgar. It was becoming clear now that that battle was going to be the new yardstick by which actions were measured. Previously a man could say, "I was at Copenhagen", or "I was at the Nile", or Camperdown, the Saintes, the Glorious First of June, and other men could measure him. But Trafalgar had changed all that: it had been a victory the like of which had never before been seen. It was a new Agincourt. Ramage thought, and it would be sufficient for a man to say quietly: "Yes, I was at Trafalgar."

But what mattered for the moment was that the Calypso was off the east coast of Capraia steering north for a French frigate. Compared with Trafalgar there was little honour in that; but an unlucky shot or splinter could make you just as dead. That was the ironic thing about death; you were still dead whether you died in a great victory like Trafalgar or from falling down a hatchway on a dark night and breaking your neck. Death worked indiscriminately.

A quarter of a mile. Ramage could imagine the second captains cocking the locks and jumping back out of harm's way, and the gun captains would be taking up the tension on their lanyards . . .