It was smoothly done and Ramage was grateful: Stevens had been told once again that the Lady Arabella should now be stretching off to the north, leaving the privateer down to leeward, and that his passengers took it for granted that in the unlikely event of the packet being overtaken they would fight.

"Most civil of you to offer, Mr Yorke," Stevens said quickly, "but I hope it won't come to that. I know Mr Ramage is also anxious that we should bear up, and although it won't help us much I was about to do so when I had to calm down Mr Much. Well, we mustn't waste any more time," he added, like a schoolmaster regaining control of an unruly class, "we'll turn north - see to it, Mr Much."

Even before Stevens had finished speaking the Mate was shouting the orders that sent men running to sheets and braces, ready to trim the sails as the brig altered course.

Ramage turned away with a feeling of relief: it had taken too long for Stevens to decide to turn north - they were at least a mile nearer the privateer by now, a valuable mile lost when yards might count by nightfall - but at least the damned man was at last doing something.

Suddenly the whole horizon lifted and sank again as the Arabella heeled: the helmsmen had put the wheel over and aloft blocks squealed as the yards were braced round and the sheets hardened in to trim the sails with the wind just on the beam.

Slowly the privateer seemed to slide aft along the horizon as the Arabella turned, finally ending up just forward of the beam, steering an almost parallel course four or five miles to leeward. Almost parallel, Ramage thought grimly. Almost, but not quite: parallel lines never meet. But because the privateer could sail closer to the wind than the Arabella, the ship's courses were converging slightly. As he would explain later to Gianna, continuing the coach-and-highwayman analogy, the highwayman's road was four or five miles away on the right, converging gradually on the coach's road, but with luck they would not meet until after nightfall.

As he stood with Southwick's telescope watching the privateer's narrow hull, the unrelieved black glistening wetly and the foot of every sail dark from the spray, Ramage felt the worry over Stevens' behaviour slowly ebbing away. In its place the excitement and tension of action was gradually seeping in, like a fire slowly warming a room. He lowered the telescope to find Yorke standing beside him.

"Happier now?" the young shipowner asked.

"Hardly happier. Less unhappy, perhaps."

"How so?"

"I'd be happy if I was in the Triton brig so I could run down and capture that chap!"

"There's no satisfying you. Just be happy that Stevens eventually did what you wanted."

"Did what he should have done from the start," Ramage said impatiently. He glanced round to make sure no one else was within earshot and then said with a quietness that did not hide the bitterness in his voice, "I hope I never get orders like these again. It's ridiculous - I have to chase up Stevens to do the obvious thing so that the Arabella isn't captured, but it's beginning to look as if capture is the only chance I'll have of carrying out my orders. If I succeed in one thing I fail in the other."

"All very sad," Yorke said lightly, "but I can't see Their Lordships - of the Admiralty or the Post Office - thanking you for helping one of His Majesty's packet brigs get captured!"

When Ramage continued looking glumly at the distant privateer Yorke added, a more serious note in his voice, "Don't despair of capture too soon: when you've a spare moment, cast an eye aloft. Southwick's prowling round the binnacle as though he'd like to strangle the helmsmen."

A quick glance round the ship confirmed Yorke's warning - and jolted Ramage into realizing he had been so absorbed in his own problems that his seaman's ears had stopped functioning: instead of the sails being tautly flattened curves, every seam straining with the pressure of the wind, they looked like heavy curtains hanging over a draughty window, the luffs fluttering.

"What the devil is Much up to?"

"He's been exiled to the fo'c'sle," Yorke said heavily. "The Captain has the conn."

"But ... just look..."

"That's what I mean: don't despair too soon!"

"And for all that, we must be sagging off a point or more!"

"More, I suspect" Yorke said sourly.

"Have you or Southwick said anything to Stevens?"

"No. Much was just getting the sheets hardened in when Stevens began an argument with him. I couldn't hear what was said, but then Much was sent forward."

"What orders did Stevens give the helmsmen?"

"Didn't say a word while I was there: just left them to it. Much had told 'em to steer north, but when he went forward they just let her sag off. They don't seem to give a damn."

"Do we start seamanship lessons for Stevens?" Ramage growled.

"You're just a passenger, Mr Ramage," Yorke said with mock sarcasm. '"We don't want any of these smart Navy gentlemen interfering with the Post Office Packet Service!'"

"I can hear him saying it," Ramage said miserably.

"What are you going to do?"

"Join Southwick and just stare at the compass: see if Stevens can take a hint. Come on!"

He walked over to the low, wooden box that was the binnacle and, standing to one side, looked at the compass. The lubber's line representing the ship's bow was on north-by-east and the card was still swinging towards north-north-east.

Ramage turned slightly and looked directly at the two helmsmen, one standing each side of the wheel.

"She's a bit heavy on the helm, eh?" he asked sympathetically.

"Aye, she is that!" one of the men grunted. "Very tiring, sir."

Stevens had been standing aft by the taffrail and now walked up to Ramage, but before he could speak Ramage said, "These men are tired, Captain; perhaps they could be relieved?"

Stevens stared at the two men, who avoided his eyes and gave a half-hearted heave at the spokes of the wheel.

"Are you tired?" he demanded.

"Ain't complainin'," the nearest man said. "The gennelman was axing if she's 'eavy on the 'elm."

"Very kind of the Lieutenant to inquire," Stevens said heavily, "and I know you men appreciate it. But" - he turned to Ramage - " 'tis a strict rule in any ship I command that no one talks to the men at the wheel."

"So I see," Ramage said sharply. "I'd expect someone to tell them to get back on course."

"They are on course," Stevens said smoothly.

Ramage looked down at the compass.

"They're steering north-by-east."

"Well?"

"They should be steering north."

"By whose orders, pray?"

"Yours, I should hope!"

"When I want your advice I'll ask for it, Mr Ramage," Stevens said acidly. "Until then I'll continue as my own navigator."

With that he walked back to the taffrail and stood facing aft, as if absorbed by the sight of the Arabella's wake.

Ramage eyed the two helmsmen, who had an almost triumphant look in their eyes. Perhaps they were just pleased at seeing their captain snub a naval officer. He turned to Southwick and said casually, "It'd be interesting to see what sort of course they steer, eh?" The Master nodded, and Yorke followed Ramage as he walked back to the starboard side.

Yorke had lost his flippant manner; his left hand was rubbing his chin as though tugging at a goatee beard.

"When I look at that damned privateer I hear the prison gates at Verdun creaking open."

"Stop looking, then," Ramage said unsympathetically, putting the telescope to his eye. He counted five gun-ports. Four-pounders? Probably, for a schooner that size, and double-fortified too, so they can be packed with grape or canister shot without fear of bursting. But a count of guns, the Lady Arabella's single broadside against the French schooner's, hardly gives a true picture: Johnny Frenchman's strength lies in the horde of a hundred or so privateersmen who, at this very moment, are arming themselves with pistols, cutlasses, tomahawks and pikes, and waiting eagerly for the moment their schooner crashes longside the Arabella so they can swarm on board and overwhelm these Falmouth men.