Every movement had been practised so many times that the men could carry out their tasks blindfolded. And after a few rounds had been fired and the deck filled with smoke from the guns, they were as good as blindfolded, as well as being stunned and deafened by the detonation of all the guns, so that most of what they did was instinctive.

Up on the quarterdeck Ramage listened as first one division of guns and then another reported itself ready. Aitken had come up to the quarterdeck to take over the watch from Kenton, who had gone below to his own division.

Aitken had looked at the approaching ships and in his broad Scottish accent agreed that they were French built and, without any prompting from Ramage, reckoned they were former prizes taken at Trafalgar and now bought into the King's service.

"If they sail anything like this one," he commented, "they'll be useful additions to the Fleet."

How many hundreds of times have we stood here like this, Ramage thought, all the guns loaded, ready to greet a friend or attack an enemy, quizzing the other ships - usually just a single ship - with a telescope? Usually, he had to admit, someone recognized the other ship: usually there was a man who had served in her, or recognized her from a previous voyage. Most ships had some peculiarity of build or rig, like a person's walk.

Ramage looked over the bow at the approaching ships, noting yet again that, with the wind astern of them, it was impossible to see their colours and that it would be equally difficult to read their reply, except that by the time they had hoisted it they would be several hundred yards closer.

"Hoist the challenge," he told Aitken.

"I thought they'd have beaten us to it, sir," the Scot said, after passing the order.

Both ships were now a mile away, and Aitken's remark reminded Ramage that he had expected to be challenged: it was a habit rather than a tradition, that the larger ship challenged the smaller.

He heard the slatting as the flag hoist was hauled up on its halyard, and he repeated to himself the answer, picturing the colours on the flags. With the wind in this direction, the best chance of identifying them would be as they were hoisted, when they would be flickering in random eddies of wind blowing off the sails.

The two ships sailed on, dipping and rising in the following sea, a flurry of foam at their stems. Their masts were almost in line and Ramage watched, along with Aitken and Southwick, for hoists of flags to snake up on their halyards.

The Calypso's challenge had been hoisted for a couple of minutes before Ramage felt a cold hand clutching at his stomach. He tried to will one or other of the two ships to hoist the reply, but there was nothing.

"They're French," he finally said to no one in particular, his voice hollow. One tiny frigate against two ships of the line which had the weather gauge. Two 74s against a 32-gun frigate. Before the Calypso could wear round and begin to escape one or both of the ships would bear up to loose a broadside into her: 32-pounder shot would crash through her hull . . .

What to do? He shook off the momentary paralysis brought on by the lack of reply to the challenge and found he was angry: angry with himself for taking it for granted that the two ships were British, and angry with them for being French. He wanted to smash them - just as they were about to smash the Calypso. But how?

There was only one way: he would ram one of them: crash the Calypso right across her bow, tearing away the jibboom and bowsprit and, with luck, tearing away enough of her rigging to bring down the foremast, disabling her.

Which ship? The Calypso was on the starboard tack, so it would save time to steer for the ship to leeward, the one on the larboard side. But whatever he did, there was no time to waste: the Calypso and the ships were approaching each other at a combined speed of more than fourteen knots, the Frenchmen wallowing along in a following sea, the Calypso butting herself to windward.

"We'll ram the larboard one," he snapped at Aitken and Southwick. "Warn the starboard side batteries to open fire if their guns bear."

Southwick picked up the speaking trumpet and bellowed forward. From aloft Ramage was aware of a plaintive hail from Orsini asking permission to come down. Aitken was shouting to seamen to man the sheets and braces.

Ramage did a quick sum in his head, calculating the forward movement of the French ship and the Calypso, working out the point at which they would collide.

He saw at once that on the present course the frigate would pass twenty or thirty yards ahead of the Frenchman unless he luffed up at the last moment, and that would mean that the Frenchman would merely collide with the Calypso, whereas it was vital that the Calypso was moving fast when she aimed herself at the enemy, so that her bow hit the Frenchman's bow at the exact spot to create the most damage.

"A point to starboard, Mr Aitken: haul in those sheets as though your life depended on it."

He had an absurd urge to laugh at the order: Aitken, like the rest of them, was done for whatever happened.

The Calypso turned a few degrees, heading for a point many yards ahead of the Frenchman so that they would collide in - about three minutes.

He heard a sound like ripping calico and instinctively looked aloft: the other Frenchman was opening fire with her bowchase guns, and the first shot had gone overhead, apparently without damaging masts, rigging or sails. A difficult feat at this range, Ramage thought.

In a second he saw exactly what would happen: the French ship would come ploughing on and the Calypso, slicing across her course, would just clip her bow, taking away, as he planned, jibboom and bowsprit and perhaps the foremast. If she was lucky, the Calypso would emerge beyond the Frenchman with her own masts still standing, but more likely - there were only a few feet in it - the Frenchman would in fact ram the Calypso and, while probably not rolling her over, smash a great hole in her starboard side and pin her while the boarders swarmed on board.

What was the second ship going to do? If she bore away for a couple of minutes she could bring her entire starboard broadside to bear. The only thing was she had no idea what the Calypso intended doing.

Should he pass the word to stand by to repel boarders? No, it meant taking men from the guns, and they would probably do more good there: if they could keep firing the starboard side guns while the two ships were locked together they might do some damage.

He looked over the starboard bow at the enemy. She was painted black with red and green trim; the paintwork was faded and the black forward was now greyish with salt drying out from the spray. Sails patched - more patches than original cloth, in fact. And now he just caught sight of the Tricolour flapping aft. All her guns run out; stubby black fingers protruding from her hull.

And she seemed to be getting bigger every moment: her great jibboom and bowsprit stuck out from the bow like a fisherman's rod, the lower end a complex web of stays, the most vulnerable part of the ship. The yards were massive, the sails hanging from them like bulging curtains. And men: he could see men now standing on the fo'c'sle, staring at the approaching frigate.

The French officers on the quarterdeck would not be able to see the frigate's hull now: it would be hidden beyond the bow. They would see only the masts and yards. What were their thoughts? That the English frigate captain had at last panicked, and was trying - very clumsily - to turn away to attempt to make a completely futile run for it?

Ramage glanced at Southwick. The old master's face was impassive: he was just leaning against the quarterdeck rail looking at the Frenchman without any visible emotion. In two minutes the old man could be dead but he gave no sign of knowing it. Ramage could not think how many times Southwick had been in action but one thing was certain: death was no stranger to him: he had stared it in the face scores of times.