Ramage suddenly turned and walked towards the fo'c'sle, trying to break away from the torrent of thoughts and misgivings. Ahead lay the hulk, placed there by the vagary of a single thunderstorm. But before he was abreast the mast he suddenly knew that whatever happened he was going to try to do something, for the simple and singular reason that like those contemptible and pallid creatures at White's, he couldn't resist the challenge, and the thought made him feel guilty.

Southwiek hustled up the companionway buckling on a sword - or what passed for a sword, Ramage thought wryly, since the cutler who'd fashioned it must have drawn his inspiration from a butcher's cleaver, a Saracen's scimitar, an overgrown claymore and a West Indian machete.

'Glad she's a Don, sir,' the Master grunted, drawing in his bulging stomach to hitch in the belt buckle another notch. 'Easier to deal with than Frogs, 'ticularly as they've only been in the war a few weeks. They'll be jumpy, and I bet the Fleet was manned with a hot press o' yokels who still don't know a yardarm from a farmyard.'

'Maybe, but don't forget she's probably carrying a lot of soldiers as supernumeraries.'

'The more the better,' Southwiek said cheerfully, attempting yet another notch in his belt, 'they'll get in the way o' the sailors.'

‘I hope so, but unless you're a betting man, never forecast the result on the day of the race.'

Southwiek looked up in surprise. 'Why, I suppose not, sir, but,' he added with a broad grin, 'I'm a betting man today!'

'Very well,' Ramage said ironically, 'if you've placed your wagers and the jockeys are booted and spurred, we'll get ready for the first race. Beat to quarters, Mr. Southwiek.'

As Jackson from his position high up on the cro'jack yard heard the staccato but rhythmic beat of the drum sending the men to quarters he felt a considerable relief. He'd kept one eye on the wallowing hulk and one eye on Mr. Ramage standing at the carronade below, and he wasn't sure which worried him most.

For once the American was glad he was only a seaman. He knew better than most of the ship's company Mr. Ramage's loneliness in deciding what to do. Jackson admitted he didn't fancy the idea of tackling the Don because he firmly believed Nature intended that only knaves and politicians should be forced to risk their lives unnecessarily. Yet at the same time he didn't fancy leaving the hulk just wallowing there, like a ripe peach waiting to be plucked (although by a bigger hand than the Kathleen) and turned over to the prize agent.

Yet for the life of him he couldn't see how they'd get her to surrender and be taken in tow. However, the drum was beating to quarters so obviously Mr. Ramage had finally thought of a way. That scar on his forehead must be burnished by now, the way he'd been rubbing it. Jackson tried to think what the plan could be, failed, totted up the weight of the frigate's broadsides - or even just her stern and bow chasers - and finally decided miracles were needed rather than plans.

He steadied himself against the occasional wild, inverted pendulum swing of the mast as the cutter heeled to heavier gusts of wind, and looked again at the hulk ringed in the lens of the telescope. A sudden movement and flurry of colour at her taffrail made him grip the brass tube tighter. Hmm, they were hoisting a flag on a pike, or something. The wind caught it and blew it clear. Horizontal stripes of red, gold and red!

'Deck there!' he yelled. 'The frigate's showing Spanish colours. Using an oar or a pike as a staff.'

'Very well, Jackson,' he heard Mr. Ramage reply, as though he'd known she would eventually. 'Can you see if she has any boats at all?'

He trained the telescope again. The deck was bare, so she'd lost the boom boats. Ah, a sea was pushing her stern round. Yes, there was one in the water - they probably used it to cut away the wreckage.

'Deck there! I can only see one - lying astern to its painter.'

What on earth was Mr. Ramage worrying about boats for? Oh yes - if they had three or four boats, they could tow the hulk's bow or stern round to train the broadside guns. He shrugged his shoulders; it was a small thing yet it showed Mr. Ramage was thorough. But come to think of it, he told himself ruefully, it wasn't a small thing; the Dons' ability to train their guns meant all the difference between tackling a couple of stern chasers or a full broadside.

Below him the boy drummer was still rattling away, his drum seeming as big as he was himself. Watching from such a vantage point as the men went to quarters, Jackson realized the value of the last fortnight's constant training: no man took an unnecessary pace nor got in anyone else's way; no one ran or shouted. Yet already the lashings had been cast off the carronades, gun captains had collected their locks and trigger lines and were fitting them, with horns of priming powder slung around their necks, and the sponges, rammers and wormers were beside each gun. The head pumps were already squirting streams of water across the deck ahead of four men walking aft in line abreast and scattering handfuls of sand as though they were sowing corn, the sand ensuring no one should slip, the water ensuring no spilled gunpowder would be ignited by friction.

Five men were hoisting up the grindstone from below while several more stood waiting to use it, arms laden with cutlasses, pikes and tomahawks taken from the racks. Other seamen rolled small wooden tubs into position near the guns and half-filled them with fresh water from the scuttle-butt, so the guns' crews could refresh themselves in action. Other wider but shallower tubs were being dragged between the guns and filled with sea water to wet the 'woolly 'eaded bastards', the sponges which would swab out the barrels and douse any burning residue left behind after a round had been fired and also cool the barrel. Several tubs with notches cut round the top edge were in position and the long, worm-like slow matches, already lit, had been fitted in the notches with their glowing ends hanging down over the water out of the way of stray powder, but ready for use should a flint in the lock of a gun fail to spark.

The American pictured the scene below deck round the magazine: screens would have been unrolled, hanging down like thick blankets, and soaked with water to prevent the flash from an accidental explosion from getting into the magazine itself, where the small cylindrical bags of gunpowder for the carronades were stacked. Outside the screens all the young powder boys would be waiting. They'd be chattering with excitement and waiting to be handed the cartridges, which they would put into their wooden cartridge boxes, slide the lids down the rope handles, and scurry up on deck to their respective guns, dreaming of glory, fearing death, but more scared of a gun captain's bellow should they delay reloading for a second.

A rumbling noise made Jackson think of Mr. Ramage, who could not stand the scraping of metal on stone. The men had the grindstone turning and he saw Mr. Southwick, a great curved sword in his hand, gesticulating to a man to pour more water on the spinning wheel and then begin to hone the blade with the skill of a butcher, pausing every few seconds to sight the edge against the sun and finger it gently.

Catching sight of Ramage looking up at him, Jackson hurriedly raised the telescope to look at the frigate.

'Jackson! If you're so interested in what's going on down here you'd better leave the telescope with the lookout and reload my pistols.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Thankfully the American started down the ratlines.

Southwick cursed as the reflection showed he'd honed a slight flat into one side of the curved blade, but that bit of carelessness would have to be removed later because the men with the cutlasses were impatient to get at the stone. Southwick loved his sword and as he slid it into the rawhide scabbard, which was itself stiff enough to break a man's arm with a single blow, he reflected that it was a real fighting sword, heavy yet balanced, and the rasping of the shagreen covering on the handle against the palm of his hand reminded him he personally caught the shark, cured the skin and fitted it on himself. No, his sword wasn't one of those strips of tin decked out in pinchbeck wire that was only fit to wear on ceremonial occasions; it was a man's sword.