It wouldn't be easy to get the mast up even though the foremast was standing. Not easy, but not impossible since they could rig shearlegs. They'd need to use a dozen or so pieces of two-by-four-inch planks to make the splints at the join— 'making a fish' as the carpenters called it. But he hadn't noticed a single plank on deck...

What else?

Four huge brindle-coloured hounds held by seamen on rope leashes; men standing around, apparently idling, but each with a brass musketoon by his side. And another smell—a curious, familiar odour which wasn't part of the stench of a slave ship, but which for the moment he couldn't recognize.

And from below the rhythmic moaning—like monks chanting in a distant hilltop monastery—of the slaves lamenting. A small pile of whips at the foot of the foremast—brutal affairs, handles eight feet long and tails as much again, knotted every few inches.

As he turned to go down the companionway Ramage was able to see Jackson had understood, and the ten men forming the boarding party also appeared to be standing about idly— but they were between the slave ship's crew and the ladder to the captain's cabin.

The cabin was the full width of the ship and surprisingly large, but the headroom was surprisingly low. Well furnished, too—a silver teapot and some good china in a rack at the end of a table made of fine-grained, highly-polished mahogany. A cavalry sword with a curious silver-thread pattern on the scabbard rested in a rack on the starboard side. Four or five cut-glass decanters, the many faceted stoppers winking as they reflected the light, sat elegantly in fitted racks on the side board. And a long bookcase with several books in it. Leather bindings worn and mottled in dark stains where the mildew had attacked. A doth flung over the books hung down just enough to hide the tides. Curious, for otherwise the cabin was very tidy. Ramage found it hard to think of the captain reading books. Again the curious odour.

The American followed him in and pointed to a chair as he went to a small desk beneath the large skylight. His head was small, the nose narrow but prominent, the ears large with pendulous lobes. Chin narrow and long. The baldness made the man's head in profile look like a vulture's.

He took a folder from a drawer in the desk and as he put it down he grinned, exposing teeth yellowed with decay and tobacco juice.

'First, 'tenant, what'll you drink?'

Ramage shook his head.

'Now, now,' the American chided, 'can't have the Royal Navy accusing us Jonathan of being inhospitable.'

'You've offered hospitality,' Ramage smiled frostily, 'but the sun's not over the foreyardarm yet.'

'True, true. Now, look'ee here'—he opened the folder and took out papers—'Certificate of registry, duly signed and sealed in Charleston... Bills of lading... Charter agreement with Benson and Company of Charleston, signatures duly witnessed__Everything's here and in regular form.'

Ramage took the certificate of registry and unfolded it. Glancing at Wheeler's hands he saw they were filthy and obviously always were, but the certificate was clean. The paper was thick and had been folded twice. Ramage inspected the document and then folded it once and put it back on the desk. The upper side lifted slightly. The certificate said the ship had been built at Charleston five years earlier, but the certificate—and the paper on which it was written—was at most a few months old.

'The muster book?'

Ramage watched Wheeler closely and the American's eyes glanced for a moment not at the desk but at the sideboard and then focused on the folder.

'Well, 'tenant, to be truthful I don't know where it is right now, and anyway I can't see it's any interest to the British Navy.'

'On the contrary, it's of great interest If you've any British seamen on board, I can press them------'

'Well, we don't have, so you can rest assured on that point.'

'I'd still like to see it. Perhaps you'd get it from the sideboard.'

Wheeler looked up, startled for a moment; then his eyes narrowed. His cranium had a ridge across the top that came down the brow to his nose.

'Now see here, 'tenant, I'm not used to being dictated to on board m' own ship. You go back and tell your captain that.'

'I am the captain,' Ramage said shortly. 'You had a favour to ask, I believe.'

'Oh yes,' Wheeler said with an easy grin. "You've seen the mainmast., or what's left of it. We lost it eight days ago—after being becalmed in the Middle Passage for thirteen days— thirteen days! Never been becalmed there for more than three. Then this squall caught us in the dark. Took us three days to get the mast back on board and the foremast jury rigged so we could set a stitch of canvas.'

'So you've used up more than three weeks' extra provisions. You're three weeks' short in other words.'

'That's about the size of it. Still several bags of yams and coconuts left. Short of rice and beans. Plenty of palm oil. And we catch fish—they love it, heads and all. Lucky we've plenty of brandy: they get two tots a day—keeps 'em happy so they don't notice they're hungry. But all that's not so important: we haven't the lumber to fish the mainmast—without tearing the ship apart—and make up a gaff. I need six ten-foot lengths of two by four and a spar for the gaff. I'll pay well for it—can you help?'

Suddenly Ramage recognized the odour. Garlic. The whole ship reeked of it This cabin reeked of it But there was none of it on Wheeler's breath.

'Six ten-foot pieces of two by four, you said?'

'That's right, 'tenant—Capting, rather—and then there's the gaff.'

'And an extra squaresail yard to make shearlegs?'

Wheeler looked embarrassed. 'Yes, I was just coming to that We've got the foretopsail yard, but like the foresail gaff, it's got a patch of rot in it. I doubt if either of 'em will see us into Charleston.'

'Spare yards are expensive—and difficult to come by in the Caribbean.'

Wheeler mustered a grin. 'Especially a few score miles east of Barbados.'

Ramage wanted a few more minutes before he fired his broadside; he wanted to be sure of the target, so there'd be no bloodshed.

'Well, is that all you want?'

'Water, Capting, if you've any to spare. An' bread—I'd be glad to buy a few sacks. We have a hungry cargo.'

'How hungry?'

'Pretty. We're so short of victuals they've been on quarter allowance for two weeks.'

Ramage nodded in feigned sympathy and Wheeler grumbled:

'This'll knock every bit o' profit out o' this voyage—an' more. How's the time we usually double the rations—fattens 'em up just right for when we get into port and they're put to auction.'

'Like cattle,' Ramage commented understandingly.

'That's right, Capting, just like cattle. No farmer likes to drive his herd to market and sell the same day: he wants them to spend a day or two on grass or hay to put the shine back on their coats. Same with slaves.'

'I imagine so.'

'Exactly the same. If they get sick or starved it shows on their skin, y'know. It goes dull; no gloss to it. Give 'em a few days on bread sopping with palm oil and they soon shine up.'

Suddenly Ramage snapped: 'Fetch m'sieur capitain.' Wheeler gave a start and automatically put his hands on the desk to stand up, before recovering and sitting back in the chair. There was a pallor now under the brown, leathery skin of his face; the eyes were shifty; the skin over the skull taut and bloodless under the tan.

'Sorry, Capting, I don't speak Spanish. Or was it French?'

The smell, the crude deception, the horror of what he knew was below deck, finally sickened Ramage: rubbing the scar over his brow, he could see Wheeler only in a red fog of anger. He knew he could shoot the man with no compunction and was glad he wore only a sword.

'This ship is a prize to His Majesty's brig Triton, Wheeler.