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who yielded his ship ‘cowardly or treacherously to the enemy…being convicted…shall suffer death.’
    Well, if he was a coward or traitor, at least he would have to be alive for them to sentence him to death, and the way he’d been muddling along so far that possibility was fast becoming remote.
    How far was she now? It was damned difficult to judge in the near darkness. Seventy yards? He put the speaking trumpet to his ear. Yes, he could hear French voices calling to each other now: just the normal order and acknowledgement. They must be pretty sure of themselves (and why not?) otherwise there’d be a lot of chattering. Would they open fire too soon? If only something would happen in the Barras to create a little confusion and uncertainty: that would gain him the time. Ramage put the speaking trumpet to his lips: he’d confuse them, he thought grimly.
    He stopped himself from shouting just in time, and called forward: ‘Boson! Belay what I said about cutting when you hear me speaking French: don’t start until I give the order.’
    ‘Aye aye, sir.’
    He put the speaking trumpet to his lips again and bellowed across the water at the French ship: ‘Bon soir, messieurs!’
    With the mouthpiece to his ear he heard, after what seemed an age, a puzzled ‘ Comment? ’ being shouted back from the Barras’ quarter-deck. He could imagine their astonishment at being wished good evening. Well, keep the initiative.
    ‘ Ho detto “Buona sera ”.’
    He almost laughed at the thought of the expressions on the Frenchmen’s faces as they heard themselves being told in Italian that they had just been wished ‘Good evening’. There was an appreciable pause before the voice repeated: ‘ Comment ?’
    By now the Barras was not more than fifty yards away: the bow wave was sharply defined and he could pick out the delicate tracery of her rigging against the night sky, whereas a few moments ago it had been an indistinct blur.
    This is the moment: once again he lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips. Now, he thought, let us commend ourselves unto the XVth Article of War and still take as long as we can about it, and he yelled in English: ‘Mister Frenchman – the ship is sinking.’
    The same voice answered: ‘Vot say you?’
    ‘I said, “The ship is sinking”.’
    He sensed Jackson anxiously shifting from one foot to another. There was a strange hush in the Sibella and he realized the wounded were not making a sound. The Sibella was a phantom ship, sailing along with no one at the helm, and manned by tense and silent men.
    Then through the speaking trumpet he heard someone say in French, ‘It’s a trick.’ It was the voice of a man who held authority and who’d reached a difficult decision. He guessed the next thing he’d hear would be that voice giving the order to open fire.
    ‘You surrender?’ came back the question, in English this time.
    Hurriedly Ramage turned his head towards the Bosun and called softly: ‘Bosun – start chopping.’
    He had to avoid a direct reply: if he surrendered the ship and then escaped the Admiralty would be just as angry as the French at a breach of the accepted code.
    Putting the speaking trumpet back to his lips he shouted: ‘Surrender? Who? Our wheel is destroyed – we cannot steer – we have many wounded…’
    He heard the thud of the axes and hoped the noise would not travel across to the Barras : he must drown it with his own voice, or at least distract the Frenchmen’s attention.
    ‘–We cannot steer and we have most of our men killed or wounded – we are sinking fast – we’ve lost our captain–’
    Damn, he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Jackson suddenly whispered, ‘Livestock’s killed, guns dismounted, burgoo’s spoiled…’
    ‘Yes, Mister,’ Ramage yelled, ‘all our pigs and the cow have been killed – all the guns are dismounted–’
    ‘ Comment? ’
    ‘Pigs – you’ve killed our pigs!’
    ‘ Je ne comprend pas! You