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surrender?’
    ‘You’ve killed our pigs–’
    The devil take it, would that foremast never go by the board?
    ‘–The cow has been dismounted – the guns don’t give any more milk – the pig’s making water at the rate of a foot every fifteen minutes!’
    He heard Jackson chuckling and at that moment there was a crackling from forward and a whiplash noise as several ropes parted under strain. Then there was a fearful groan, like a giant in pain, and against the night sky he could see the foremast beginning to topple. It went slowly at first; then crashed over the side, taking the yards with it.
    ‘Wilson! the topsail and spanker!’
    He saw the spanker being sheeted home to the boom end as the topsail was let fall from the yard. A few moments later, when he looked back at the Barras , she had vanished. He realized the Sibella was swinging round to larboard faster than he expected, and he glanced aft. The Barras had been caught unawares – she was still sailing on her original course and had gone too far for her guns to be able to rake the Sibella ’s completely unprotected stern.
    He felt shaky with relief and his clothes were soaked with perspiration. He scrambled down from the bulwark, and as he jumped to the deck his knees gave way slightly and Jackson caught him. ‘Pity about that cow, sir,’ he said dryly, ‘I just fancy a mug o’ milk.’

Chapter Three
     
    For more than half an hour Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage’s little world had been limited to the boat, the sea and the great blue–black dome of the night sky, which was cloudless and glittering with so many stars and planets it seemed to hold every spark that had ever fallen from a blacksmith’s anvil.
    The launch was heavy, but the men sitting on the thwarts facing him were rowing with a will: as they leaned back in unison, pulling with all their strength, the oars creaked against the wooden sides of the rowlocks. Who was it who said in ancient times, ‘Give me a fulcrum and I’ll move the Earth’?
    At the end of each stroke the men involuntarily gasped for breath, at the same time pushing downward on the looms of the oars to bring the blades clear of the water. Then, leaning forward like rows of seated tenants bowing to the landlord, they thrust the looms in front of them, and at the end of the movement dipped the blades into the water to haul back and begin the new stroke.
    Lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward; lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward… Ramage, his arm resting along the top of the tiller as he steered, could feel the boat spurting forward under the thrust of each stroke. Occasionally he glanced astern, where the Bosun’s cutter and the other two boats followed, each linked by a line to the next ahead.
    ‘Sir!’ exclaimed Jackson, gesturing astern: there was a small red glow in the distance but, even while Ramage watched, tongues of flame spurted up, as if a blacksmith’s bellows suddenly fanned new life into a forge fire.
    Half an hour: the French would have taken off the wounded. God knows they must have suffered as they were carried across to the Barras . Still, the sea was calm enough for the two ships to lie alongside each other, which would save them being ferried in boats. Ramage could picture the French officers leading the boarding party having the well sounded and reporting back the depth of water in the ship and the damage.
    Now, with the magazine flooded, they’ve set fire to the ship… He turned away and saw some of the men wiping their eyes. It was ridiculous how a ship’s company became fond of a few hundred tons of wood, rope and canvas which had for months been their home, and for the last hour and all eternity a tomb for many of them.
    The men were rowing unevenly as they watched the Sibella burn. A sudden tug on the line to the cutter, followed by a string of curses from the Bosun, told him that he might as well let the men watch the Sibella ’s funeral pyre and have a rest at the same time, and he