'I've merely tried to kill them from time to time.'

'Now, now sir,' Southwick chided, surprised at the bitterness in his captain's voice. 'You always take on so. In war some's got to get killed, and the men know that. Still...'

'Still what?'

'Well, you'll be wanting to know if the Kathleens will get this brig under way, even if the original Tritons won't lift a finger.'

'More than that: would the Tritons try to stop them?'

'I've been trying to find out, and to be honest I'm not sure; nor is Jackson. The Kathleens are torn between loyalty to the mutineers—you can understand that, though I'd like to see all those dam' delegates dangling from the foreyardarm —and their loyalty to you.'

'And what happens when the strain comes on both loyalties at once?'

Southwick, looking at him directly, said in a flat voice:

'It's entirely up to you, sir. That's Jackson's opinion—and he's a seaman among seamen—and it's mine, too.'

Ramage had known that only too well, even without the First Lord saying it. But coining from Southwick so bluntly it jolted him. It's entirely up to you! This was the loneliness of command. From the First Lord of the Admiralty to me old Master of the Triton came the same verdict.

'Any idea what my attitude should be?'

'None, sir, more's the pity. I was talking half the night with Jackson on just that point.'

'But you must have some idea: harsh and threatening, friendly and appealing to their loyalty, just laughing at the whole thing?'

'I'm not backing and filling to avoid the responsibility of advising you, sir. I simply don't know. None of us has ever seen open mutiny before!'

'True . . . Jackson mentioned a ringleader among the Tritons?"

'Well, not exactly a ringleader; mere's one of them who's a sort of spokesman.'

'What's his name? An out-and-out mutineer?'

'Harris. No, not a real mutineer; in fact the sort of man I reckon you'd probably rate a petty officer after a couple of months. Just intelligent and literate. The rest of me men turn to him to read and write their letters and so on.'

Ramage grinned. 'Very well, Southwick. Now, do you know anything about my orders from the Admiralty?'

The Master shook his head and Ramage quickly explained them, concluding: 'We must get under way tomorrow morning: high water is six o'clock. I want to weigh an hour before and we'll get the most out of the ebb. I'll spend the rest of today wandering around. Make no attempt at enforcing discipline; just leave the men alone, so I can take a good look at them. How about the Marines?'

'No sergeant: just a corporal and six men. They're all right, but they can't do anything even if they wanted to because they've no arms: the seamen have taken the keys to the arms lockers, though not for those in my cabin.'

After the Master left the cabin, Ramage went to the sleeping cabin, unlocked his trunk and took out a pair of half boots. He checked the right one, which had a sheath for a throwing knife sewn inside, and pulled them on in place of his shoes.

There was much to do: before sailing he should go through all the papers left by the previous captain. There were inventories to check and sign, letters and order books to read, a dozen and one other things a new captain had to deal with as soon as he took over command to satisfy the voracious appetities of the clerks at the Admiralty and the Navy Board.

And then, with Southwick, he'd have to check over the ship: masts, yards, sails, hull, stores, powder, shot and provisions ... small wonder the poor old Triton was floating on her marks: she was carrying enough food and water to feed more than sixty men for half a year; enough powder and shot to fight a couple of dozen brisk engagements; enough spare sails and cordage to keep her at sea despite wear, tear and damage from battles with both Nature and the enemy.

He went to bed early that night. It was obvious, after a couple of hours spent on deck, that there was little to be done while the ship was still in sight of the rest of the Fleet. His steward was too terrified even to unpack his trunk and stow the contents; the Marines dare not resume their duties, so he slept without a sentry at the door. By nine o'clock, after half an hour spent giving instructions to Southwick, Ramage was lying in his cot going over his plan once again.

It was all or nothing. If it failed he'd be a laughing stock and, since he'd received his orders direct from the First Lord, be might just as well resign his commission since any chance of further promotion—or even employment—would be nil. He'd be the comic hero of the saga of Spit Sand shoal.

Southwick woke Ramage long before daylight. Holding a lantern in one hand and tapping the side of the cot with the other, the Master whispered, 'It's half-past three, sir. Wind's fresh, north-west. Glass has fallen a bit, but nothing significant. Jackson's bringing your shaving water and a hot drink. Everything you mentioned is hidden away ready.'

The old man's cheerfulness was contagious, almost comforting, but, at this time of the morning, tiresome as well. His flowing hair and plump features lit by the lantern reminded Ramage of a genial Falstaff seeing if the Prince was still sober.

Scrambling out of his cot as the Master hooked the lantern on to the bulkhead, Ramage realized sleepily that the Triton was rolling quite heavily and the cot swung, catching the back of his knee joints so his legs almost jack-knifed.

'Last of the flood, sir,' Southwick said. There's quite a sea running.'

'Good. Blast this cot. And a north-west wind... couldn't be better.'

'Let's hope it holds, sir: don't want it to back or veer for another hour.'

As Southwick left, Jackson came in with a jug of hot water and a large mug of tea.

'How are things, Jackson?'

'Our crowd were quiet, sir, but there was a lot o' chattering among the Tritons. I daren't seem too interested... If Harris suspected anything, I'd wake up with a knife in my ribs. You can count on Stafford, Evans and Fuller, sir: I've had a chat with them. Rossi, too, after what you did for the Marchesa. He told all the Tritons a long story last night about how you and I rescued her. Then he told 'em how we rammed the San Nicolas.' 'How did they react?'

'Impressed. Very impressed. I think that's what started them all chattering. If you'll excuse me saying it, sir, my feeling is—well, it all depends on you now, sir.' With that Jackson was gone, leaving Ramage stropping his razor, the American's sentence echoing again and again in time with the slap of steel against leather. He sipped the tea, poured water into the basin and lathered his face. Wiping the steam from the mirror he stretched the skin and was agreeably surprised that me reflection showed the hand holding the razor was trembling only slightly.

It all depends on you now, sir. Blast Jackson for the reminder at this time of the morning. Did anyone ever feel brave before dawn—apart from South-wick? He'd said almost the same thing—It's entirely up to you. Jackson, Southwick and the First Lord...

He began shaving and found himself glowering into the mirror as the features emerged from the anonymity of the lather. As he wiped steam from the mirror again, he realized that in the next half an hour everything would depend on the impression that face made on the thirty-six Tritons.

He wasn't worried about the former Kathleens because, as Jackson had made clear, each of them had to sleep with a Triton in the next hammock. Each was realistic enough to know his captain couldn't save him from being knifed in the dark.

So, he told himself mockingly, it all depends—he pushed up the tip of his nose to shave the upper lip—on this face and this tongue. He stuck it out for a moment like a rude urchin, then cursed as he tasted soap in his mouth.