'Aye aye, sir!'

'Stand by the sheets and halyards, Mr. Southwick!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Now for it. Time was slowing down. Keep calm. Speak slowly.

'Quartermaster, half a point to port,' he drawled.

'Half a point to port it is, sir.'

The slight alteration of course brought the San Nicolas round to fine on the cutter's starboard bow, ready for the last-minute turn, and Ramage had to run forward to see her because of the smoke pouring from the braziers. Both ships were on almost opposite courses and as far as the Spaniards knew apparently going to pass each other to starboard and fifty yards apart.

And the smoke streaming up from the braziers along the Kathleen's entire length was drifting off to leeward in a huge, ever-advancing bank into which the Spanish ship was heading. From the San Nicolas she must seem to be on fire from stem to stern.

Four hundred yards. less, perhaps. With one foot on the forward carronade slide Ramage watched the two-decker ploughing on, enormous, relentless, implacable - and seemingly invulnerable. The sea curving up and over in thin feathers of water at her bow was pale green. Groups of men on her fo'c'sle were looking down at him. Both bow chasers flashed red and spurted smoke. Somewhere overhead he heard wood splintering.

This was a fish's view of a fat angler on a river bank, the bowsprit and jibboom jutting out like the rod in his hand. So much gilt and red and blue paint on the headrails. Popping of champagne corks - yes: Spanish soldiers kneeling and resting their muskets on the rail as they fired. She was pitching slightly in the swell waves - just enough to make aiming difficult. And they could see little to shoot at anyway because of the smoke. Only him, he suddenly realized: everyone else was farther aft. The foredeck felt lonely.

Three hundred yards. The San Nicolas's standing and running rigging a complicated cobweb against her sails and the sky. St. Nicolas's features discernible, and he did not seem very saintly: a lot of pink paint on his cheeks - he looked as if he drank too much wine. Grape for the Saint, grapeshot for Nicholas.

Again the double flash of the bow-chasers: a dragon winking bloodshot eyes. So close the shot passing sounded like tearing calico. He could make out the seams in her hull planking. Greyish patches on the black paint where salt had dried. They must usually keep a canvas cover over the figurehead - or paint it once a week.

Two hundred yards. Plenty of popping now but he didn't hear the ricochet of musket balls. The double crack of the bow-chasers - they can't depress them enough now to hit the hull, but pray to God they don't hit the mast.

A Spanish officer waving his sword like a madman - twice over his head, then pointing at the Kathleen. Over his head again - curious fellow: maybe he's trying to inspire his men. The great bulging sails so badly patched - seams stitched too tight and uneven so the material crinkled.

One hundred yards. He'd never smash that great jibboom: it was like the trunk of a great pine tree sticking out over a precipice.

Perhaps the jibboom but certainly not the bowsprit.

Waiting for the executioner's axe to fall after you've put your head on the block must be like this. For God's sake do something. Wait. Seventy-five yards. Wait, wait, wait! All right - turn round...

'Mr. Southwick! Ready at the halyards and sheets?'

Acknowledged. Then he remembered he'd already asked that. Ten seconds to go. Memory pictures sped through his head: Gianna, mother, father; the tower of Buranaccio in the moonlight when he rescued Gianna; Southwick's excited bloodshot eyes; Jackson's grin and Stafford's imitation of the Commodore.

Turn again. Calmly. Loud enough for the man to hear.

'Quartermaster! Helm hard a'port!'

The Kathleen's bowsprit began swinging to starboard towards the San Nicolas. Slowly, oh so slowly. Too slowly! No, perhaps not. Anyway, too late to worry ...

No - he'd timed it perfectly! The Kathleen's foretopmast stay would hit the outer end of the San Nicolas's bowsprit.

'Mr. Southwick! Let fly halyards and sheets!'

Beside him the banging of a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil: musket balls hitting the barrel of the carronade. Musket balls aimed at him. Poor shooting.

Without looking up at the San Nicolas he turned and ran through the smoke to join the boarding party at the main shrouds. Several of the men, including Jackson, were already waiting half-way up the ratlines, looking ahead as the Kathleen's sharp turn began to bring the San Nicolas into view, poised for the desperate leap to board her. He prayed no one would jump too soon and fall into the sea between the two ships. Splashing water - the San Nicolas's bow wave!

He hitched round the cutlass belt so Southwick's sword was out of the way, hanging behind him like a grotesque tail, and as he rammed his hat hard on his head there was the crack and snap of splintering wood and a jolt shook the cutter: God! She'd managed to get closer than he'd expected before her topmast stay hit the San Nicolas's bowsprit. A crash aloft - he didn't bother to glance up: the stay had torn down the topmast.

A momentary spasm of fear in case the rest of the mainmast should go, tearing down the ratlines on which the boarders were perched. The shrouds vibrated, twanging with the strain; a seaman losing his grip fell, arms and legs flailing, hitting the deck a few feet away with a grunt which could have indicated unconsciousness or annoyance.

Then chaos: a great black bulging shape suddenly towering above him in the smoke - the San Nicolas's bow. A moment's silence then her stem smashed into the Kathleen's side just forward of the mast, biting deep into the planking with a shock which nearly knocked him down. A nightmare of noise - wood cracking and crunching; ropes whiplashing as they snapped under enormous strain; water splashing, surging, gurgling; men shouting with almost maniacal voices, insane cries of 'Kathleen! Kathleen! Kathleen!' - cries coming, suddenly, and almost unbelievably, from above him, from the San Nicolas.

And slowly the Kathleen heeled: the San Nicolas's bow was rolling her over as it rode into her hull, pressing her down under the massive curving forefoot.

A rope swung past. Without realizing what he was doing he leapt up and out and grabbed it, managing to hold on with desperate energy, to find himself swinging over the water and the wreck of the cutter like a pendulum.

On an upward swing he had a momentary glimpse of Jackson and other boarders scrambling through the lower rail. As he swung down again he saw below him the Kathleen's gashed hull impaled by the San Nicolas's stem.

By flexing and stretching his legs he tried to get sufficient momentum to swing high enough to reach the anchor cable, but even as he began soaring up on the final swing the whole anchor came adrift and fell into the water with a splash and tearing of timber. He just managed to twist round in time to get a leg astride the lower rail with a thump which drove all the air out of his lungs. For a few moments, gasping for breath and trembling with excitement, he sat helpless, watching Jackson and Stafford just above him dodging through the main rail.

Then he began climbing up after them and saw below the San Nicolas's jibboom hanging down, smashed into three pieces. With a curious detachment he registered the fact he'd succeeded in doing what he'd set out to do. He glanced down at the Kathleen - she was lying on her side like a stranded whale, the underwater section of her hull dark green with slime and weed and speckled with barnacles. And one of the flukes of the San Nicolas's fallen anchor had pierced her hull and the strain on the cable was helping to hold her so she did not roll over completely.