The Spanish frigate was La Sabina. She was lying almost stern-to fine on Kathleen's larboard bow, and her name in bold letters right across her transom was picked out with too much gilding and red paint. Ramage looked impatiently at his watch, the vane at the masthead to see if the wind was constant, and then at the boat towing fifty yards astern. Thin wisps of smoke from the burning portfires were seeping out from under the canvas cover.

With the telescope he could clearly see the stubby black gun barrels poking out of the ports on La Sabina'sstarboard side. Presumably they were trained as far aft as possible and as soon as he got nearer they'd make good leading marks - by keeping this side of the line of the barrels he'd be outside their arc of fire.

As the men reeled in the log Southwick reported the Kathleen was making just over five knots. The easterly wind was right aft, and with the ship on the larboard tack the great boom of the mainsail was swung right over, blanketing both jib and foresail which, with no wind to keep them full slatted with the cutter's roll. Ramage glanced at his watch again. If the portfires burned evenly, he had eight minutes to go - barely enough.

Inexorably the seconds sped by. The black paint of the frigate's hull was shiny and the over-elaborate ornamentation on her transom stood out boldly. Many pounds' worth of gold leaf on the quarter galleries alone showed the captain to be a rich man, since he'd have paid for it with his own money.

How far now? Without the telescope he could just make out men on her decks, so she was less than half a mile ahead - about six minutes at the Kathleen's present speed. The hands of his watch showed the portfires should fire the powder in five minutes. He was running it close; much too close.

Glancing round the cutter, he was surprised how cool and detached he felt. Or was it resignation? His father had often said, 'If you can't do anything about it, don't fret about it!' A dozen seamen were aft, waiting to pay out the rest of the grass warp: waiting to lengthen the monkey's tail at the last moment to give it a longer reach as the cutter turned. Southwick gave him an inquiring look, anxious to put more distance between the Kathleen and the bags of powder in the smoking jolly boat, but Ramage shook his head.

The two men at the helm were having a hard time. The pressure on the big mainsail was not being balanced by pressure on the flapping headsails forward so the cutter was trying to come up into the wind, with the result that she was edging herself up to larboard. Ramage snapped an order to the quartermaster and in a few moments the frigate was once again fine on the larboard bow. She was growing noticeably larger and he could distinguish individuals among a group of men standing at the taffrail (just over seven hundred yards away, he noted). Some were much taller than the others. No - a quick glance through the telescope showed the smaller ones were leaning on the taffrail holding muskets to their shoulders. Sharpshooters, with orders to pick off the officers and men at the helm ...

Ramage called to Jackson and told him to hold the watch.

'For the next four minutes read out the remaining minutes and half minutes starting... now!'

The Kathleens were silent, all looking ahead at the squat stern of the frigate. Hell! The barrels of the aftermost broadside guns began to foreshorten, and now Ramage could see farther along her starboard side. She was yawing and if the wind and sea continued to swing her round a few more degrees her aftermost three or four guns would be able to fire into the Kathleen. Then slowly she paid off and the gun barrels lengthened.

The wind began to strengthen - he felt it on his face - and the cutter picked up speed, pitching rhythmically, and the boom rising slightly as the wind bellied the mainsail. Six knots now? No time for another cast of the log.

Tiny puffs of smoke along the frigate's taffrail, barely glimpsed before the wind dispersed them, and faint popping noises - musket fire - at that range a nuisance but no more.

'Three minutes and thirty seconds,' said Jackson.

Ramage guessed the distance at six hundred yards and signalled to Southwick. At once the seamen began paying out the rest of the grass warp and the jolly boat dropped farther astern, the warp floating on the water like a long thin snake. Southwick swore as a bight of the rope twisted into a figure of eight, knowing a sudden jerk on the boat might shift the casks and snap the portfires, exploding the powder prematurely, but a seaman untwisted it before the weight on the boat came on.

Many more puffs of smoke along the frigate's taffrail.

'Three minutes,' Jackson chanted gloomily.

Two stern chase guns were poking out through the ports like accusing black fingers. If they hadn't fired by now they never would - the Spaniards must have decided that with the rolling it was a waste of powder.

'How much more to run?'

'Nearly all gone,' Southwick called. 'Five fathoms or so left ... There, that's the lot. Steady lads, take the strain now. All hundred fathoms out, sir!'

So the jolly boat, the explosive red herring, was towing astern on the end of a two-hundred-yard rope tail.

'Two minutes and thirty seconds,' said Jackson, excitement beginning to show in his voice.

About four hundred yards, Ramage noted.

'Mr. Southwick! Overhaul the mainsheet. Stand by to bear up. Not a moment to lose when I give the word.'

Yards mattered now as he sailed the Kathleen right down to the frigate's starboard quarter, carefully staying just enough to windward so the wind would blow the jolly boat down to the frigate when, fifty yards away, he turned the Kathleen round to larboard to head back the way she came for a moment - giving the tail a flick, in fact - and hove-to. Then, stopped with her stern to the frigate and the grass warp floating in her wake in a huge crescent, if he'd judged it correctly the wind would slowly blow the boat down towards the frigate, and if the portfires burned true... If, if, if!

'Two minutes, sir,' said Jackson, his voice revealing tension for the first time.

Spanish officers were standing among the men with muskets on the taffrail - he could distinguish their uniforms. Not even a stump of the mizzen left; it must have been a fantastic squall that hit her - or else, for all that new paint, her rigging was rotten.

Yet again Ramage glanced astern at the boat. She was towing beautifully, bow riding high but the stern not squatting so much that water slopped up over the transom. No sign of even a whisp of smoke: he swore - had the portfires gone out? A quick glance with the telescope did not reassure him. More popping from ahead and a man at the second carronade on the Kathleen's larboard side screamed with pain and another dropped silently to the deck. Ramage stared curiously, trying to recognize the sprawled figure.

'One and a half minutes!' Jackson said.

Startled at the realization he had only ninety seconds left, Ramage looked again at the frigate. She had suddenly become enormous and even as he shouted to Southwick to put the helm down it seemed impossible for the Kathleen's enormously long bowsprit to miss swiping the frigate's starboard quarter as she swung round to larboard.

With all that preparation, Ramage swore to himself, he'd let a wounded man divert his attention long enough to wreck the whole bloody manoeuvre. He rubbed the scar on his brow, fighting back the panic trying to get him in its grip.

For a moment as the tiller went over there seemed total confusion on the Kathleen's deck; one group of seamen sheeted in the mainsail at the run; others hardened in jib and foresail sheets and both sails filled with a bang as the cutter's bow swung to larboard and brought them out from under the sheltering lee of the mainsail. The sudden weight of wind in both sails tried to push her bow off to starboard and the quartermaster ran to help the two men hold the heavy tiller.