Every object and every person he saw was under his command : he was the king of all he surveyed. Legally, he had more power of life and death over these men than the King himself: he could order any of them to be flogged, which the King could not. He could order them into a battle from which they couldn't possibly return alive, and since the King didn't command a ship he couldn't do that either.

But, Ramage thought ruefully, just as no king was safe from revolution, no captain was safe from mutiny; and for all the good it did, his commission could have been a cook's recipe...

Walking forward the fifteen feet that brought him to the companionway, he clattered down the steps and turned aft into the two cabins which would be his home for the next few months. Stretching the full width of the hull, one abaft the other, they formed the stern of the ship. Forward of them were three small cabins on either side, against the hull, the space in the middle forming the wardroom. Each was about six feet square and in them lived Southwick, the surgeon, purser, and other senior men.

Ramage glanced round at the main cabin. It was larger than he expected and he needed to bend his neck only slightly to avoid banging his head on the beams. The door was in the middle of the bulkhead and there was a similar door in the other bulkhead leading to his sleeping cabin.

The main cabin was well furnished: a desk to starboard against the forward bulkhead was lit by the skylight above; next to it a sideboard fitted the ship's side and had a glass-fronted cupboard over it.

On the larboard side a well-padded settee made three sides of a square, its back against the forward bulkhead, the ship's side and after bulkhead. A table was fitted in the middle so that four or five people on the settee sat round three sides of it, leaving the fourth clear for the steward to work.

Walking aft into the sleeping cabin, Ramage found it was small and dark and airless: the hull was curving into the centre-line so sharply (the rudder was hung only a few feet farther aft) that mere was less than five feet headroom.

The long, open-topped box that was the cot, slung at head and foot by ropes secured to the beams above, had just enough room to swing with the ship's roll without banging the larboard side of the hull. On the starboard side there was a chest of drawers and an enamelled basin with a mirror above it. But the only light came through the open door: the skylight did not reach over this cabin.

Ramage returned to the main cabin and went to the desk, opening the leather bag and emptying out its contents as he sat down.

His commission, a new copy of the Signal Book for Skips of War, the letters for Admiral Curtis, Lord St Vincent, and Admiral Robinson, a small fiat parcel, and the copy of his orders from the Admiralty.

After locking the Signal Book and letters—the most secret items on board—in the top drawer of the desk, he opened the parcel. It was a small portrait in a plain gilt frame, and a good likeness—the artist had almost caught the unpredictability of Gianna's expressions—one moment so patrician, the next so impudent. And the way the light glistened in her jet black hair. And the small nose, high cheek bones and warm, expressive mouth.

Although the portrait was simply a head and shoulders, one could see the subject was small—barely five feet tall; and even a stranger could sense she was accustomed to rule. How long, he mused, before she ceased being a refugee and could return to her tiny kingdom of Volterra, with its 20,000 inhabitants, all of whom were now part of Bonaparte's empire?

She might be the ruler of Volterra and a wave of her hand might have dismissed her chief minister; but Ramage relaxed for a few minutes to relive their parting a few hours ago at Blazey House, in Palace Street. Since Gianna was living with his parents, she'd insisted on nursing him while he recovered from the head wound. Neither of them had been over-anxious to speed his convalescence.

The door of his bedroom would be flung open; a moment later Gianna would come in carrying a tray of food. She'd set down the tray, shut the door and run into his arms. He grinned to himself as he thought of the cold meals he'd eaten because the tray had remained on the table for so long before they remembered the ostensible reason for her visit to the sickroom.

When the time came to write to the Admiralty reporting he was fit for duty she'd been full of secret plans to prevent him getting an appointment; in fact his father had eventually —unknown at the rime to Ramage—warned her not to meddle. But, like Ramage himself, they loved her deeply; she'd become the daughter his mother always wanted. Yet when his mother had once hinted, when Gianna was out of the room, that she would make an excellent daughter-in-law, the old Admiral had pointed out that Volterra would be a turbulent state by the time Bonaparte was driven out of Italy; the spirit of revolution would linger. The people might be unwilling to return to the old, almost feudal system. Gianna might have a struggle to regain her place as Volterra's ruler, and a foreign husband would be a handicap. Grunts and the scuffling of feet on the companion ladder beyond the bulkhead interrupted his thoughts and told him the seamen were bringing dawn his trunk.

Stafford backed in first, holding one end, followed by the lanky Suffolk fisherman, Fuller, who was holding the other. Jackson brought up the rear with sharp but good-natured exclamations of 'Mind the table—steady, Fuller, you clodhopper I'

Ramage pointed to the after cabin. He'd have to find out if the captain's steward was on board; but for the moment, until he was sure of the man's loyalty, he didn't want him rummaging around.

After putting down me trunk both Stafford and Fuller relumed grinning, reminding Ramage of a pair of eager spaniels.

'Well, you two, I'm glad to see you again.'

' Twas a surprise, sir,' said Fuller; and Stafford's cockney face showed he meant it when he said, 'Never guessed we'd 'ave the 'onour o' servin' wiv you agin, sir!'

'From what I hear,' Ramage said dryly, 'it's an honour the rest of the ship's company don't wish to share.'

'Well, sir...' Stafford began, and Fuller's bony hands clenched and unclenched with embarrassment, the few yellowed teeth he still possessed showing as he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

'Very well,' Ramage said, and grinned. 'Carry on, Jackson, pass the word for Mr Southwick.'

'He's just coming, sir.'

Ramage heard shoes clattering on the ladder and as the three men left Southwick burst into the cabin.

'Heavens, I'm glad to see you, sir!' He shut the door. 'What a mess it all is!'

Ramage nodded. 'You've had an enjoyable leave?'

'Fine—though I'm glad to be back afloat again. And you, sir?'

'The same.'

'The Marchesa?'

'She's very well and enjoying England. She asked me to give you her best wishes.' He pointed at her portrait. 'She's still with us in a sense!'

Southwick grinned with obvious delight. 'It was good of her to remember me, sir. And that's a splendid likeness.

Your father, sir?'

'Very well. He enjoyed the tale of our scrap off Cape St Vincent.'

'Thought he would—and wished he was there with us, no doubt.'

'Now,' Ramage said briskly. 'Thanks for sending Jackson. How do we stand here?'

'Jackson was the only one I could send who'd be any use. That's how we stand...'

'As bad as that?'

'Well, that's how we stood a'fore you came on board.'

'How's my arrival affected the situation?'

Southwick ruffled his hair, obviously choosing his words carefully.

'Put it like this: the Tritons look to me like good lads who've just followed the rest of the Fleet, just as the Kathleens followed the Lively. What matters is that the thirty-six Tritons don't know you, and the twenty-five Kathleens do. They'd be a poor lot if they ever forgot what you've done for 'em.'