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way came off the rudder. The sail cracked and flapped wildly, as slowly and steadily the boarding party drove the defenders back. The deck was slippery with blood, and Markham could see that quite a few of the Agamemnons had wounds. But that did little to interfere with their relentless advance, as jabbing, punching and gouging, blood afire, they drove back their enemy.
    The boom of the four-pounder cannon, if it was designed to aid the defender, had the opposite effect, driving from them any desire to sustain the fight. Their arms dropped just before their knees, as they pleaded to be allowed to live. The British sailors then performed a remarkable transformation, from blind bloodlust to jovial celebration in the twinkling of an eye, though taking care to remove any weapons from their enemies which might pose a threat. Brownlee had already taken the wheel, and got some way back on the ship, as the original crew were herded below.
    Behind Markham, in strict obedience to his orders, Rannoch had lined up the Lobsters, and as his officer approached, was himself crouched down with his barrel pointing over the prow, taking careful aim on the leading cutter. In the bows of that, Markham could see three men struggling in the confined space to reload, a blue-coated officer calling instructions. At no more than a hundred yards, Rannoch’s shot did not kill him, as it would have almost certainly done on dry land. But it caught him in the upper thigh of his right leg, sending him spinning in amongst his boat crew.
    The Highlander didn’t even linger long enough to see the effect of his shot. He was too busy reloading himself. He had his musket back over the ship’s rail in twenty seconds, squinting to take aim on the men in the bows of the second cutter. This was standing a little further off, prepared to take on the boats coming in from the British warships as well as aiding the assault on the now captured Tarantine. A quick glance over the stern established that the other two cargo ships had practically halted in the water, backing and filling, unsure whether to proceed or retreat. Behind him Rannochkept up a steady fire, each shot accompanied by a curse as he missed whatever it was he’d aimed at.
    ‘Brownlee, can you put us about to threaten those other ships.’
    ‘I can, your honour,’ he replied, following that with another stream of concise instructions to secure the prisoners then man the sails. George Markham hadn’t spent much time on ships, but he had rarely seen a man handle responsibility better. The progress of the action was now his to command. Until he got them close enough to threaten another ship, Markham and his Lobsters were playing second fiddle.
    That at least allowed the luxury of time to assess the situation. The sun was going, leaving him with no more than an hour of fading light. Nelson’s ships had beat out to sea, Diomede well ahead of Agamemnon. But even a totally inexperienced eye could see that they would never come round quickly enough on the other tack to close the entrance to Calvi anchorage. Their cutter and the crowded jolly boat were still pulling towards them, but faced, as they would be with at least one gunboat, he doubted that they could do much to aid him. In the French cutter that had fired the shot, the crew seemed more intent on tending to their wounded officer than continuing the action. So his task was simple, even if he was left to his own devices to undertake its execution.
    ‘Mr Brownlee, we must drive those ships away from the shore by whatever means we possess, and allow our frigates time to close the entrance to the anchorage. With night falling, what will they do?’
    ‘They must enter in daylight, your honour. Even with beacons well lit on the fortress, no captain would risk his ship on such a rocky shore in the dark.’
    That reasoning must have made equal sense to them. Practically before Brownlee had finished speaking they brought their heads round and filled their