'It's not exactly making war, sir,' Ramage said, putting as much disapproval in his voice as he dared. 'It seems to me to be half - way between poaching and gamekeeping. I've never understood why we allow it ourselves.' 'It dam' well isn't war,' the Admiral said angrily, 'it's coldblooded murder, and these orders - ' he tapped the sealed packet on the highly - polished table in front of him - 'tell you to put a stop to it all. These privateers are no better than pirates. Oh yes, they may have parchment commissions covered with big seals and signed by the king of this or the queen of that, but the fact is they're privateering just for plunder.' He tapped the packet again. 'I say in here and I repeat it now, Ramage: any privateer you find, French, Spanish or Dutch, whose captain can't produce a regular commission, then well take him before the Admiralty Court and charge him with piracy, and hell hang from a gibbet along the Palisades. So search well and warn each captain before you take him off his ship - I don't want any of 'em claiming afterwards they had no time to collect their papers. Commission, certificate of registry, charter party, muster list, log everything. And witnesses - I want witnesses. The privateer's mate and at least two of your officers. Seal up in a packet all the papers you're given and make the privateer captain sign his name beside the seal.'

'Yes, sir,' said Ramage patiently. 'Yes sir, yes sir,' the Admiral repeated angrily, 'but just make sure you understand, Ramage: if one of these damned pirates escapes judgement in court because of some technicality that can be attributed to an omission by you, then I'll bring you to trial too, for negligence.'

'Yes, sir,' Ramage said deliberately, and he saw a copy of the latest London Gazette tucked under a pile of papers on one side of the table. The new 'Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty's Ships and Vessels upon the Jamaica Station' was not going to give his newest and most junior captain the satisfac tion of knowing that he had just read half a page about him in the Gazette, detailing his latest exploits on the Leeward Islands Station, nearly a thousand miles to the eastward, at the windward end of the Caribbean. Yet William Foxe-Foote, Vice - Admiral of the Blue, one of the Members of Parliament for Bristol (it was said that bribing the voters to get the seat had cost him more than seventy - five thousand pounds), was by reputation one of the most sly flag officers in the Navy List. It was also said (and looking at the pink and perspiring face with its tiny eyes and bulbous nose, Ramage had no trouble believing it) that he had badgered the First Lord of the Admiralty into giving him the Jamaica Station - the richest in the service for prize money - so that he could recoup his purse after the Bristol election. Seventy - five thousand pounds a Foote - perhaps the Admiralty realized a fathom of him in London could prove too expensive and agreed to send him out to Jamaica.

'What do you find so funny?' the Admiral demanded.

'I was thinking of the shock these privateersmen are going to get, sir,' Ramage said, finding it easy to lie gracefully to a man who was so clearly a politician first and an admiral second, two roles which he combined to further his main ambition, which was to get rich. Ramage recalled some lampoon to the effect that the nation's taxpayers were lucky that there was only one Foote in Old Palace Yard, a neat reference to the space in front of the Houses of Parliament.

'So you are confident you can ferret them out?'

Ramage was thankful for the chance of repeating the one doubt he had, and which Foxe-Foote was trying to ignore. 'The coast of the Main, sir, from Maracaibo all the way round to Cartagena, Portobelo and then north to the Moskito Coast. It's all very shallow, with dozens of bays sheltered by reefs of coral.'

'Frightens you, eh? Don't be nervous, boy,' the Admiral said, riot troubling to hide the sneer in his voice. 'You've got a good master on board - leave the navigation to him, and always stand out to seaward at nightfall.'

Ramage flushed at the man's insulting crudeness and stupidity. 'I'm talking of bays lined with mangroves, littered with cays and almost closed off by coral reefs, sir, where there won't be a couple of fathoms of water. My ship draws sixteen feet. That means any privateer can escape me by getting into one of these bays. Few privateers draw more than ten feet.'

'Send the boats in to chase 'em; a dozen Marines to capture the ship and a dozen seamen and a midshipman to sail her out to join you - nothing to it Wish I was younger; just the sort of fighting orders I always enjoyed getting.'

'Of course, sir,' Ramage said admiringly, remembering the hundred men that most privateers carried - and a biographical sketch in a recent issue of the Naval Chronicle, the most interesting fact in it being that Vice - Admiral Foxe-Foote had, by design or the fortunes of war, reached flag rank without ever being in action. No man was braver than one who had never been shot at...

Ramage reached out for his packet of orders but then recalled one of the Admiral's remarks which he might later claim was an order. 'Standing out to seaward at night, sir .. .'

Hie Admiral raised his eyebrows questioningly.

'Out here it is more usual to stand in for the land at nightfall, sir,' Ramage said cautiously. 'If the privateers suspect one of the King's ships is in the offing they take the opportunity of creeping along the coast in the dark using the offshore breeze - '

'You have your orders,' the Admiral said abruptly, 'so carry 'em out And don't go burning privateers when you catch 'em: send 'em back here to be condemned. Prize money for everyone, eh, Ramage? No need to burn money or strand it on a reef, or scuttle it, you know, good market for that type of vessel here in Jamaica; prices are high, so the prize agents tell me. Think you'll have any luck along the Main? At least a prize a week, I should reckon, eh?'

'No, sir,' Ramage said quietly. 'Ill probably sight one a day, but that'll be all. If I was commanding a privateer,' he added, 'I'd guarantee no frigate would catch me, nor would her boats get within a musket shot'

Admiral Foxe-Foote's face dropped. Now he reminded Ramage more of an unsuccessful haberdasher than a flag officer, with the skin of his long, thin and bony face tightening and slackening like a flag in a breeze to signal his reaction to everything going on round him. 'Not catch any privateers?' he almost whispered, as though unable to believe his ears. 'But . . . but I've just given you written orders!'

Yet Foxe-Foote was far from sure of himself: when brought up all standing by a chance remark, he was usually quick enough to realize he had made a mistake or forgotten something. Now he saw this young captain was standing up and tucking his orders into his pocket, and in a moment would be taking his leave and calling for his sword and hat.

'I hardly expected to hear this sort of talk from you, Ramage,' he said in a voice drenched with sorrow and disappointment 'From some of these other captains I've inherited on this station, men who've had it too easy for too long and who've grown fat and slothful, yes, I can understand a lack of enthusiasm; a lack of fighting spirit Understand but not condone, you understand. Their dilatory methods of patrolling in the past are the reason why the Caribbean is now swarming with enemy privateers. I was hoping you'd be an example to them. But now . . .' he shook his head sadly, the picture of a bishop who had just discovered that his wife lusted after a choirboy.