Then the cutter was alongside, lines were thrown, and there were the gangway steps dancing up and down as the boat rose and fell in the swell waves. He pulled the flaps of his boat cloak clear, jammed his hat firmly on his head, swung back his sword scabbard and, as the boat reached the top of a wave, grabbed a manrope in each hand and began climbing up the wooden battens which passed for steps. The manropes were greasy and dirty, instead of being scrubbed white.

Then he was standing on deck with a confused set of impressions. Two sideboys were standing to attention, others were running from forward, and a lieutenant was saluting but without a telescope under his arm. Long untidy tails of ropes were snaking over the deck as though the ship was a chandler's shop on a busy afternoon, and there were many spots of grease on the deck, which had not been scrubbed for days. Not a man on deck was properly dressed.

A tall, thin and pale-faced man lieutenant with bloodshot eyes stood in front of him at the salute. There was a moment of complete silence on board and he knew every man on deck was watching: in this instant they would form their initial impressions of the new Captain, impressions that often turned out to be lasting.

He eyed the lieutenant coldly but for the moment did not return the salute, so the man stood there, arm crooked. Then he slowly stared round the ship. First his eyes ran along the deck forward, across the fo'c'sle, noting that the ship's bell had not been polished for a week, then up the foremast where at least four topsail gaskets on the larboard side were too slack and two on the starboard side of the furled topgallant were almost undone,

Where was Southwick? Ramage returned the lieutenant's salute and nodded as the man repeated his name. He was the First Lieutenant. 'Muster the ship's company aft, if you please,' Ramage said, his voice deliberately neutral, 'and then report to me in the cabin. My trunk is in the boat...'

As he turned aft to go down to the Captain's cabin he saw he had made the impression he wanted: the men were looking apprehensive, like naughty boys caught raiding an orchard; the First Lieutenant looked crestfallen, and Ramage had guessed the fellow had followed Ramage's eyes and perhaps seen the ship's condition for the first time in many weeks. He was half drunk, Ramage was certain.

As he reached the companionway he saw Southwick hurrying up the ladder from the lower deck, his face shiny and freshly shaven. Southwick saluted, his round face showing his obvious pleasure, his flowing white mop of hair already beginning to escape from his hat as random eddies of wind tugged at it. 'Welcome on board, sir: I was shaving - the sentry...'

Ramage returned the salute and then shook the old Master's hand. A few seamen were watching curiously and Ramage gestured to Southwick to precede him down the companionway to the cabin. Unbuckling his cloak and throwing it on the settee, Ramage sat down and told Southwick to sit opposite. The low headroom made it uncomfortable to stand, and he suddenly felt tired after the journey from London and the hurrying round Portsmouth.

'Is it as bad as it looks?' he asked.

'Worse, if anything, sir. We'll never do anything with these lieutenants!'

'We don't have to try,' Ramage said grimly. They'll be off the ship first thing tomorrow. We're to have all new officers, although I know nothing about them. His Lordship kindly gave me the choice of First Lieutenant, but I traded it for you as Master.'

Now it was Southwick's turn to grin. He was a good sixty years of age but for all his red face, stout build and white hair - which once led someone to liken him to a martial bishop from a country diocese - he was a fine seaman, firm with the men but fair. ‘I’m grateful, sir, but I'm afraid we have more than our share of scalawags in this ship.'

Ramage went to the door and closed it, and when he sat down again he said: 'Everyone I've met keeps dropping hints. All I know is the Captain was dismissed the Service. The Port Admiral is suitably mysterious, and the ship looks more like a fairground.'

'Drink,' Southwick said cryptically. 'The Captain was a drunkard. He was tried for "conduct unbecoming ..." but in fact he used to lock himself up in his cabin with a bottle for days on end.'

Ramage remembered the First Lieutenant with the bloodshot eyes and slightly hesitant manner. 'The First Lieutenant drinks too: do you think he found the strain too much?'

Southwick shook his head vigorously. 'At least, sir, not in the way you mean: for him the only strain is keeping away from a bottle too.'

'And the other lieutenants?'

Southwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven't seen much of them, sir; but from the gossip I picked up in Portsmouth they are good men who had no backing from the First Lieutenant, so they gave up.'

'With the Captain and the First Lieutenant drinking, it's a mercy they didn't put the ship ashore.'

'The First Lieutenant nearly did, I gather, right here at Gilkicker Point. The other three managed to get her anchored, and the Port Admiral came out to see what was going on and found the Captain insensible here in the great cabin and the First Lieutenant standing with his back hard up against the capstan to avoid falling down.'

'I wonder why they didn't try the Captain for "negligently hazarding the ship"?' Ramage mused.

'Hard to prove, sir: you need the evidence of the First Lieutenant on a "negligently hazarding" charge, and here the two of them were at fault.'

There was a loud rapping on the door, and when Ramage answered the First Lieutenant came in, stood to attention as best he could with the low headroom, and reported the ship's company mustered aft.

He was drunk all right, and although he was not yet thirty years of age the muscles of his face were slack and the flesh puffy, the eyes shifty and his brow and cheeks covered with perspiration. He had been a heavy drinker for years.

‘Very well. I notice there is no sentry at the door of this cabin.'

'No, sir, I er ...’

'Is my trunk on board yet?'

'Well, yes, sir, but -'

'Come along, Southwick,' Ramage said, taking a small parchment scroll from a pocket in his cloak and picking up his hat.

On deck the sun was occasionally breaking through low cloud; there was enough breeze to knock up occasional white horses although the Juno was tide-rode. Ramage strode to the capstan and turned to face forward. The men were drawn up in a hollow square in front of him. To his left the Marines stood stiffly to attention, a diminutive drummer boy at the end of the file. In front of him and to his right were the seamen and behind him the officers.

The deck was even filthier than he had thought at first: cracked pitch in many seams showed they were long overdue for re-paying or running over with a hot iron. Many ropes' ends needed whippings, the wood of many blocks was bare and showing cracks for lack of oil. Even on deck the stink of the bilges was nauseating - when had they last been pumped? Curiously enough the 12-pounder guns were newly blacked, the carriages freshly painted and the tackles neatly coiled. Perhaps the gunner was the only conscientious man on board.

Ramage looked at the sea of faces. It would be days, if not weeks, before he could put names to them all. They were an untidy crowd but they were nervous; there was just enough movement of feet and hands to reveal that. Every one of those men knew what was about to happen: the Captain was going to 'read himself in' by reading aloud his commission. Until it was done he had no authority on board, but after that he could order them into battle so that not a man lived; he could order them flogged - which was more than the King could do - and he could have them arrested and charged with crimes which put their necks in hazard. He could be judge and jury, father and confessor ...