Although Jackson did not know what Harris meant by me last few words, he'd at last got at the truth of it. Just a few more details to fill in the gaps.

'Dyson, you're a dead fish, but I'll give you a choice. I'll have you killed quickly and painlessly if you answer two questions truthfully. If you don't, or if you lie, you'll start dying in a couple of minutes and Rossi and Maxton'll be finishing you off at Sundown tomorrow.' 'What d'you want ter know?' Dyson croaked.

'Who were the real ringleaders of this mutiny?'

'Brookland's the ringleader. He thought of it first Oh, what's the good, Harris'll split on me, and I might as well get the credit mat's due. Brookland thought of it, yes; but I was the brains. I, the one and only Slushy Dyson, who can't read nor write did the planning. Brookland couldn't plan how to divide fifty-eight pieces of salt beef into fifty-eight mess bags.'

Jackson nodded.

'Second question. Are there any others you could call ringleaders? No, put it another way: if you and Brookland are out of the way, will there still be a mutiny in the Triton?' 'Not on your life,' Dyson said contemptuously. 'Not a chance. Sheep they are; worse than sheep. You could let Brookland go free, you lot could swim to the shore, and there still wouldn't be a mutiny without me to lead it.'

'You're a clever fellow, Dyson.'

'No, not clever. Just sick of salt beef and salt pork in port when we could 'ave fresh meat and fresh vegetables. Just sick of spending years in a ship and never a day's leave. I ain't seen me wife fer three years. There's four kids I 'aven't seen fer three years—and one kid I ain't never seen. He was born a fortnight after the press gang caught me.

'Four daughters—that's seven years we'd 'oped and prayed for a son. Then I get took up by the press a'fore I even see 'im.

'Listen, you skinny Yankee, you don't know what it's like. In the last two years I've spent five months, two weeks and three days in Portsmouth. Me wife and kids are in Bristol. Did I ever get a week's leave ter go ter Bristol? No—most I've ever 'ad is four hours for a run on shore. And 'ave you ever tried to keep an 'ome and feed six mouths on a cook's mate's pay?

'Afore the press took me up I 'ad a pie shop. I made good pies. I made good money. What my old lady wanted, she 'ad —within reason, anyway.

'But when the price of flour went up, so did the price of my pies. So did the wages of farm workers, builder's men an' the rest. But what about the seamen? Their pay 'asn't gorn up since the days of Charley the Second, and if you don't blow the date I'll tell yer—1650. Just short of a hundred an' fifty years ago.

'When did the price of flour last go up? An' bread? Seven weeks ago, and fer the eighth time since the beginning of the war.

'You really call it mutiny, Jackson? Honestly? D'you blame the men at Spit'ead? You really blame me for wantin' to get the Triton back there, so we stand four square with the Fleet and get our rights? You really blame me? Anyway, I don't give tuppence worm of cold slush whether you do or you don't: just kill me quick and bolt fer France an' give Boney my compliments an' tell him I 'ope he straps you down on the gilloting as soon as you step on shore.

'An' just one more thing. I expect you'll 'ave ter kill Mr Ramage—in fact yer must 'ave done that already, and Mr Southwick, or they'd 'ave been down 'ere afore now. Well, that's up to the Kathleens but I'll tell you wiv me dying breath that our 'ands wouldn't 'ave been as dirty as yours: we weren't going to 'arm an 'air on their 'eads, and dial's God's truth.

'Now'—he tore open his shirt and turned to face Rossi, who was still holding his knife—'Let's get it over with.'

Jackson swung his belaying pin and Dyson collapsed unconscious. , 'Fetch Brookland,' he told Stafford.

As soon as the whimpering man was dragged into the breadroom a second blow with the belaying pin left him unconscious beside Dyson.

'Maxie, Rossi—guard 'em. Harris, and you, Staff, come with me.'

He left the breadroom, groped his way along the passage to the ladder leading to the breadroom scuttle, and climbed up to me wardroom.

Ramage turned the chair round and sat down wearily, an arm resting on the desk. The tan from the days in the Mediterranean had gone; now his face was pale, emphasizing the black smudges under his eyes. The newer scar over his right brow was still a livid mark made worse by his habit of rubbing the older one beside it. Jackson realized he must have been rubbing it a lot tonight as he tried to puzzle out what was happening.

The American, watching him closely for the first time for many weeks, realized he now looked much older. It wasn't a question of age, really. In the Mediterranean he'd still been a lad; now he was a young man. There was a definite change; a maturing, perhaps.

But what now surprised and worried Jackson was that he sensed that somehow the Captain had lost—what was it? Zest? Jackson wasn't sure precisely what 'zest' meant, but further speculation was interrupted by Ramage, who said quietly:

'Well, Jackson, make your report.'

'There's no fear of a mutiny tonight, sir—I'm pretty sure of that much. Nor any other night for that matter.'

'What makes you so sure?'

'We've got the two leaders under guard.'

Ramage felt almost too disheartened to ask their names. He'd been sure he'd persuaded Harris to be sensible, but obviously the man had completely fooled him. Now Ramage felt sick—not over a seaman betraying him, but because he'd been sure the man wouldn't: he'd made an almost fatal mistake in judging a man's character, and good captains couldn't afford such mistakes—unless, he thought mirthlessly, he had a cox'n like Jackson. 'I trust the "guests" are comfortable in the breadroom.'

'Comfortable as we could make them, sir.'

Ramage had to know sooner or later. 'Who are they?'

'The cook's mate, "Slushy" Dyson, and a foretopman called Brookland.'

'Only two? I thought I saw you—er, helping—three down the companionway.'

Jackson grinned. 'One was a mistake, sir.'

'Who was it?'

'Harris, sir. The man you spoke to yesterday morning.'

Was it only yesterday morning? It seemed months ago.

'Why did you suspect him? And why are you now so sure he's innocent?'

Jackson described the events of the past hour in detail. He made no secret of how he'd made a mistake about Harris; nor did he fail to make Ramage laugh with the story of Harris's own mistake in thinking that Jackson was leading a mutiny of the ex-Kathleens. He related almost word for word Harris's savage condemnation of Jackson for betraying not just his lawful captain but a man who'd earned, by his own bravery, the allegiance of the Kathleens.

Ramage nodded, embarrassed but impressed.

'We've got ourselves into a pretty pickle, Jackson.'

'How so, sir?'

Ramage felt too tired to go through everything twice but he wanted to hear Jackson's reactions.

'My compliments' to Mr Southwick, Jackson, and if it's convenient to leave Mr Appleby at the conn, tell him I'd like to see him, By the way, where's Harris?'

'Stafford's guarding him, sir. In the wardroom—forward, he can't overhear anything.'

Southwick was soon sitting by the table, blinking in the light of the lantern, and quickly Ramage related the position.

As soon as he'd finished, Southwick looked up at Jackson and said with such sincerity that his massive tactlessness was not noticed. 'You might be a Jonathan, m'lad, but you're a credit to the Service 1'

'I agree,' Ramage interposed, 'but for the moment we have problems.'

'Problems maybe,' Southwick said breezily, 'but no mutiny!'

'But problems all the same. Dyson and Brookland are mutineers pure and simple. Court martial and sentence of death. Jackson, Stafford, Maxton, Rossi and either you or me required as witnesses. It'd have to be at Plymouth and that means a delay of—well, three or four days, and we can't be sure there aren't more mutineers there who'd stop us sailing again. And then there's Harris------'