Thomas Jackson had carried it with him for more than three years, a genuine document which would stop a press gang hauling him on board a British warship or ensure that an American consul would subsequently secure his release. Yet for more than three years Thomas Jackson had served in the Royal Navy, and for most of that time he had been the captain's coxswain. For nearly two years his captain had been Lieutenant Ramage, and between the two men, so different in rank, age, temperament and background, existed that indefinable bond between men who have shared the same dangers and know that a French roundshot did not care whether it knocked the head off an earl's heir or the son of a Carolina woodsman.

Two of the other men, Stafford and Rossi, had served with Lieutenant Ramage for the same length of time; only the fourth, a coloured seaman named William Maxton, who came from Grenada at the southern end of the Windward Islands, was a comparative newcomer.

Will Stafford was a true Cockney, having been born in Bridewell Lane. He was now twenty-seven years old and stockily built with a round and cheery face and curly brown hair. An observant onlooker might have been puzzled by his delicate hands (the skin now coarsened by hauling on ropes) and a habit of rubbing thumb and forefinger together, as though feeling material. Before being swept into the Navy's net Stafford had been a locksmith, not a tailor, and he made no secret of the fact that much of his work on locks had been done by his sensitive fingers at the dead of night, unrequested and unpaid, though rarely unrewarded.

Alberto Rossi, nicknamed Rosey by his shipmates, was correctly described in muster books as having been born in Genoa and was twenty years old, plump and black-haired with flamboyant good looks. Like many Genovesi, Rossi spoke good English: hundreds of men from that great seaport had to seek employment in the ships of other nations because there were too few ships flying the flag of the Republic of Genoa, which had recently been occupied by the French and renamed the Ligurian Republic. Rossi maintained a bantering reticence about his reason for signing on in a British ship of war that happened to be in the harbour, although admitting it was the fastest and certainly the safest way of leaving the city without being asked embarrassing questions.

Although the other three had formed a tightly knit group under Jackson's leadership, and many times had risked their lives with their captain, they had accepted Maxton when he joined the ship because of his cheerful intelligence. In turn, Ramage had come to realize that he could rely on the quartet. In common with most of the men of the Royal Navy they gave their loyalty not to a flag or a vague ideal, but to an individual they could respect. It was a spontaneous and natural loyalty; not the loyalty demanded by the harshly worded Articles of War.

"Jacko," Stafford said suddenly, glancing round to make sure the potman was out of earshot, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand, "make sure I stay sober."

"Don't worry."

"But I do. I worry all the time. Just supposing these beggars don't come on shore from the packet. Say they don't get leave?"

"They will," Jackson said reassuringly. "You saw the first half going back on board twenty minutes ago."

"Aye, and three sheets in the wind, the lot o' them! Supposin' the captain decides he don't want the rest of his men blind drunk, and belays their leave?"

"Then we'll go on board and pull 'em out like winkles. Got a bent pin?"

Rossi tapped his mug of beer. "Seriously, Jacko, is a good question. Accidente - everything depends on it!"

"It's a good question all right," the American said calmly, "but if they don't get leave and come on shore, we can't do anything: it's as simple as that. You saw the first half had their run on shore, just like Mr Ramage said, so why should anything stop the second half? There's plenty of time for them to get their twelve hours before the Arabella sails at noon tomorrow."

"All right," Stafford conceded, "let's say they're here and we've got 'em all stupid drunk. Where's this bleedin' crimp supposed to meet us, so we can hand 'em over to him?"

"Down the other end of Harbour Street. At the Sign of the Pelican. He owns it."

"Can we trust him?"

"Yes, he's got only half the money and doesn't get the rest until morning. And I swore Maxie would slit his throat if he tried any nonsense."

"But a dozen drunken packetsmen," Stafford persisted. "Where the 'ell is he going to lock 'em up safe?"

Jackson sighed. "He's got a small building out the back like a big cell. Has a mahogany door on it two inches thick and a padlock as big as a melon. They'll be half drunk by the time we invite them along to the Pelican, and there it's free drinks on us. As they pass out we pass them out to the crimp who locks 'em up in his cell. I had a good look at it - they can shout until their tongues wear out and no one'll hear them."

"Like a purser's storeroom," Stafford commented, "only he sells seamen to shipmasters!"

"And then?" Rossi prompted Jackson.

"With all the packetsmen locked up for the night we sleep at the Pelican, and the other eight of our lads join us with their seabags. Then at nine o'clock tomorrow morning we lurk around the landing stage and wait for the word from Mr Ramage to go out to the Arabella and take the packetsmen's places."

Stafford shook his head doubtfully. "I don't like the idea of trusting that crimp."

"Don't worry about him," Jackson said contemptuously. "He'll do anything for money, and I've got it. He doesn't get the other half until we leave the Pelican to board the packet, and he's only to keep that cell door locked until he sees her sailing out past Fort Charles. Why, he's doing this sort of thing all the time, only usually he has to find the drunks to lock in his cell. Then he has to drag 'em off to a merchant ship that's short of men, get them signed on and collect his money from the captain before they've sobered up. I bet he's selling a couple of dozen men a day once a convoy starts forming up here."

"Is just kidnapping," Rossi exclaimed angrily, his accent becoming more pronounced. "Is a crook, this crimp!"

"Sure it's kidnapping," Jackson said calmly, "and it goes on in every port in the world. It's selling seamen to shipmasters, just like a chandler sells rope and candles. But every seaman knows the minute he sets foot in a bar that if he gets drunk the ladies of the town will get his money and the crimps or a press gang will get his body. It's the same in Genoa, isn't it?"

"No, is worse," Rossi said soberly. "Too many seamen and not enough ships, so you lose your money after getting a knife between the ribs."

"I'd sooner take me chance with a crimp," Stafford said complacently. "But Jacko, ain't what we're doing a bit sort of - well, irregular? We must be careful not to do nothin' that'd get Mr Ramage into trouble."

"Don't worry," Jackson said soothingly, "I've got my orders from Mr Ramage himself, and the money to pay off the crimp and buy some beer. Just remember that, as far as the packetsmen are concerned, we've just been paid some prize money and want to enjoy ourselves."

"Yus, but wot 'appens when we get on board the packet? Are we supposed to sign on?"

"Mama mia!" exclaimed an exasperated Rossi. "Is not bright today, eh Staff?"

The Cockney looked shamefaced. "It's the heat. I'd sort of worked it out like that, I just wanted confirmeration."

"Confirmation," Jackson corrected out of habit.

"An' I got it. 'Ow much drinkin' money did Mr Ramage give us, Jacko?"

"Officially, he hasn't given us any, and if anything goes wrong just remember we haven't even seen him: we've just got shore leave from the Arrogant and that's that."