"Steady," Yorke murmured when they were out of earshot. "Just listen a moment: this fellow's acting out a play!"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Well, so far we've thought he hasn't known what the devil to do next, but now I'm dam' sure that not only has he done exactly what he wanted so far, but he knows exactly what else he wants to do."

Ramage turned and stared at him. "You realize the significance of what you're saying?"

"Yes," Yorke said soberly, "and I've a fancy the same thought has crossed your mind, too."

Ramage nodded as he looked around the Arabella's deck. "They all seem to know the routine..."

The men were obeying Much's order, but judging by the almost lethargic way they were moving about preparing for action, the prospect of a few score screaming French privateersmen leaping on board was not filling the packetsmen with the spirit of butchers; indeed, Ramage noted, they looked more like complacent grocers. But was he misjudging the men because he was more used to the cheerful bustle and controlled excitement of a man-o'-war preparing for battle?

Mr Much now had the men casting the lashings from the guns, overhauling train tackles, removing tompions and scattering sand on the deck to prevent men's feet slipping. Just enough spray was coming over the weather bow and washing aft along the deck to make it unnecessary for men to sprinkle water on the planking to douse any stray grains of powder and to stop the sand blowing away. Other men were opening a large wooden chest and taking out heavy, bell-mouthed musketoons as well as regular muskets. An opened case of pistols stood near by and two seamen, each with an armful of cutlasses, were going round the guns, calling to the men to collect their weapons.

There was little disciplined movement about the men at the guns - obviously they were rarely if ever exercised at quarters. And while there was no sign of excitement, there was no sign of fear, either. Surely there should be one or the other?

Yorke nudged him. "Come on, let's collect our musketoons, and a brace of pistols too!"

As they walked towards the arms chest Ramage once again looked at the privateer over on the starboard quarter, heeled over as her captain tried every trick he knew to work his ship up to windward. He pictured him watching the luffs of the great fore and aft sails and keeping his men working at the sheets, taking advantage of every gust to steer a few degrees closer to the wind - the old trick of "luffing in the puffs" - like a conductor determined to get the best out of his orchestra. By contrast, the Arabella now seemed to have even less life in her. He glanced up at the set of the sails, and then at the helmsmen, who avoided his eyes.

"Stop daydreaming," Yorke said. "Just look at our soldier friend!"

Wilson was standing at the arms chest with Bowen,- busily loading musketoons. A dozen or more muskets, obviously already loaded, rested against the side of the chest.

Ramage said nothing. Instead he looked at the privateer for a good half a minute. Now he could make out the details of her rigging, which meant she was a mile away, perhaps less, and closing fast. The combination of the packet sagging to leeward and the privateer working her way up to windward meant she was almost sailing in the Arabella's wake. And at a guess she's sailing a couple of knots faster. In half an hour or less, she'll be alongside...

To carry out my orders, Ramage told himself once again, I should do nothing. The complete answer to the Admiralty's question is hidden somewhere on board this damned packet. And I'm pretty sure I have half the answer already. Not neatly worked out, admittedly, because there's no time to sort out the significance of everything that's happened since the privateer lifted over the horizon. Between now and the time she catches us and makes us all prisoners, something must happen that provides me with the other half of the answer.

But what the devil can happen that I can't predict now? She'll range alongside, send over a swarm of boarders, and that will be that. As a prisoner, how can I get the information to the Admiralty? What about the next year or two - or three or four - in a French prison? I've gone over all this dozens of times since we left Jamaica, and I decided what to do. I decided I would let myself be taken prisoner if necessary. Lying comfortably in my bunk at night or sitting in an armchair talking with Yorke, the decision was easy and seemed to be the right one.

Now, staring at the privateer - which previously was only an abstract idea - it's damned obvious I'm wrong: utterly and completely wrong.

I am wrong for three reasons - all of them blindingly obvious now that black hull is slicing along in our wake. First, even the most obsessive gambler would not bet tuppence that I'll be alive a moment after those privateersmen swarm on board, so the chances are Their Lordships will never hear what I have found out so far - albeit a mixture of observation, conjecture and suspicion. Second, even if I am taken alive I will not be able to get the word to the Admiralty from a French prison. And third, what more can I find out in the time it will take that privateer to get alongside - half an hour, perhaps - that I don't know now?

All that thinking while lying in my bunk did not allow for one thing. It was the only mistake I made - but it was enough. I never suspected Stevens would behave like this. He has, and so have the rest of the packetsmen. That is half of the answer to the Admiralty's question. And half a loaf is better than no bread - providing the half gets to the Admiralty.

By the time he turned back to Yorke and Southwick his mind was made up. There was no time to get Sir Pilcher's letter and wave it under Stevens' nose: words weren't going to help now, whether written by a commander-in-chief or the First Lord of the Admiralty. Speed was the only thing that might save the Arabella - speed and surprise.

"Keep close to me," he told the two men, and walked over to the binnacle. He glanced down at the compass and then at the luffs of the sails. "Steer north," he snapped at the helmsmen, "and God help you if you let her get half a point off course."

Before the startled men could say a word he turned to Southwick. "You have pistols? Good - watch these men. If they don't obey you, shoot them."

He looked round for the Mate and saw him standing by the mainmast.

"Mr Much," he called, "As a King's officer I'm relieving Captain Stevens of his command. Get those sails trimmed properly!"

Motioning Yorke to cover Stevens, he bellowed, "Tritons! Stand by Mr Much!"

As he turned to go to Stevens at the taffrail he saw the man glancing round wildly. Suddenly Stevens snatched the cutlass at his side and, holding it high over his shoulder, ran to the starboard main brace to try to slash through the heavy rope so that the main yard would swing round out of control.

Ramage leapt towards him and a moment before Stevens could wield the cutlass, managed to trip him. As the Captain toppled forward his head banged the bulwark and he crumbled to the deck.

Ramage tugged his sword from the scabbard and, not sure whether or not Stevens was still conscious, stood over him.

"Captain Stevens, you are charged with treason. I am assuming command of this -"

An urgent warning yell from Yorke made Ramage turn in time to see the Bosun only a couple of yards away, eyes bulging, and leaping at him with a cutlass held high in the air and already beginning a great downward chopping movement aimed at Ramage's head.

A blur of impressions: perspiration beading the man's upper lip and forehead, knuckles white as he gripped the cutlass handle, the absolute silence except for the pad of his bare feet and hoarse breathing.

The parry of quinte, Ramage thought almost irrelevantly as automatically he swung his sword blade up almost horizontally just above the level of his head, bending his left knee slightly, and thanking God the man had never been to a fencing master.