Dusty and weary after a night's journey in the post-chaise from London to Portsmouth, Ramage walked through the great dockyard after visiting the Admiral Superintendent's office with as much enthusiasm for the task ahead as a condemned man going to the wall to face a firing squad.

Normally there was more bustle in the streets of Portsmouth than in the City of London; normally the dockyard was busier than Billingsgate Fishmarket, and the language riper, and one had to keep a weather eye open for fear of being run down by an exuberant crowd of shipwrights' apprentices hurrying along with a handcart of wood.

There'd be the thudding of a hundred adzes biting into solid English oak, shaping futtocks and beams for new ships of war; the sharp clanking of blacksmiths' hammers shaping red-hot metal in the forges; the grating of two-handled saws cutting logs into planks in the sawyers' pits.

Groups of seamen from the various ships with a cheery 'One, two and heave!' would normally be hoisting sacks and barrels of provisions on to a cart, while the masts and yards sprouting from ships in the docks between the buildings would be alive with men bending on new sails and replacing worn-out rigging.

Marine sentries guarding the gates and the buildings would be saluting smartly, muskets clattering in a cloud of pipe-clay.

But today the dockyard was deserted as though abandoned before an approaching enemy army. Not one adze, blacksmith's hammer or saw was at work; not one forge had its furnace alight: the mutineers had frightened the craftsmen into staying at home. The masts and yards were bare—indeed, few yards were even squared.

Although there were plenty of seamen about, they slouched, some of them insolently walking out of their way to pass dose to an officer without saluting.

For the first time in his life Ramage felt he didn't belong; neither to me dockyard nor the ships. All were alien, things of brick or wood through which malevolent ghosts walked.

And the Port Admiral... He'd cursed and sworn with well-nigh apoplectic vigour about the mutineers and the disrespect they'd shown him; but he'd been quite unable to tell Ramage what was going on. In fact Ramage ended the interview with the uncomfortable feeling the Admiral considered him an odd fellow for being so inquisitive and was far more concerned that, as a new Commanding officer joining his ship he took a copy—and signed a receipt for it—of me bulky 'Port Orders' which outlined in considerable detail how the port's daily routine was to be conducted.

Ramage seemed as he recalled the interview. When he'd asked whether the Triton was provisioned for the West Indies and ready for sea, the question had been brushed aside, the Admiral drawing his attention to me first of the Port Orders and reading it out—'The receipt of all Orders or Letters on Service is to be immediately acknowledged in writing...'

Like a naval Nero fiddling while the Fleet mutinied, the Admiral reacted by ignoring it, apart from i tirade against the men in the Royal George who'd dared to hoist a red flag —the 'bloody flag'.

However, he'd finally managed to discover that Southwick had already gone on board the Triton. That was something, even though the Admiral added with gloomy relish that the mutineers had by now probably put him in irons and would do me same to Ramage the moment he set foot on board.

Recalling Lord Spencer's reactions when he'd attempted to warn him that many captains felt some of the seamen's grievances were justified, Ramage suddenly understood why the First Lord showed so little interest: he relied on his admirals to advise him; men like the Port Admiral. Men who, when they went to sea, took their own provisions, own cook and own servants; who, by the very nature of their high position, had to remain remote from the seamen. Little wonder the First Lord showed little sympathy for the men.

And suddenly he guessed that the mutineers' leaders must have realized all this long ago; realized that open mutiny was the only chance of getting better conditions. Since the men had already announced their loyalty to the King and vowed they'd sail at once if the French Fleet put to sea, there was no question that the mutiny was fomented by revolutionaries.

But why, he mused, couldn't people of Spencer's calibre understand that conditions must be bad for thousands of men to risk hanging to secure a few pence more pay, another two ounces in a pound of provisions, occasional shore leave and better treatment for the sick and wounded? The only possible explanation was that the admirals, unwilling to be the bearers of unpalatable news, had forgotten they had a loyalty to their men and told the First Lord what they thought he'd want to hear...

Who on earth was waving from that doorway? Suddenly Ramage recognized the lanky figure of Thomas Jackson, an American seaman and his former coxswain in the Kathleen: the man who'd helped him rescue the Marchesa and helped him escape, using false papers, after being captured by the Spaniards. Each had saved the other's life more than once; between them was the bond of shared dangers, failures and successes.

Glancing round to make sure none of the seamen was watching, Ramage walked over to the building, with apparent casualness, noticing Jackson had disappeared through the open door.

The building was a cooper's store, full of empty barrels and casks, with thousands of staves and hoops piled on top of each other in great stacks.

'Morning, sir: sorry to be waving like that but------'

'Good to see you, Jackson: you're mustered in the Triton?'

'Aye, sir: all the Kathleens exchanged into her from the Lively and Mr Southwick's joined. That's why I'm here.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, sir, us Kathleens didn't think anything about the exchange because the Lively's due for a refit soon; but when Mr Southwick arrived alongside one or two of us began to wonder. The original Tritons were all for keeping him off, but we got him on board. I tipped him the wink and as he knew you were due he thought I'd better stay on shore to keep a weather eye open.'

'Good. Now, how are things on board?'

'Bad, I'm afraid, sir.'

The Tritons?'

'They support the mutiny, every one of them. There's no violence, though. They're good enough men at heart.'

'A particular leader?'

'One man—the rest follow him.'

'If he wasn't on board?'

'Don't know, sir, to be honest. Someone else might take his place.'

'Any likely candidates?'

'No, I don't think so. But I've only been on board a short while, sir: it's hard to be sure.'

'The Kathleens?'

Jackson looked embarrassed.

'Come on, speak out, Jackson. The whole damned Fleet's mutinied, so nothing else can surprise me!'

'It's difficult to explain, sir, because the men's claims __________'

'We're not discussing conditions in the Navy, Jackson, because I can't change them. Now, how do the Kathleens stand?'

'Well, sir...'

He understood only too well Jackson's dilemma: those twenty-five men were among the finest in the Navy: cheerful, loyal and well-disciplined. After the Kathleen had been sunk he'd hand-picked those sent to the Lively and it had been difficult to choose them.

And how ironical—here's Jackson, an American and in law neutral, explaining away the disloyalty of Britons to the Royal Navy!

'It's like this, sir,' Jackson finally began, running a hand through his thinning hair, then pinching his nose. 'The delegates from all the sail of the line have told the smaller ships to stay out of the mutiny, but they're being ignored, because all the men think the Fleet's claims are reasonable. So the Kathleens—well, in the Lively we were just a small group and with everyone else in favour—well, we agreed.