It would take half an hour or more to get the slashed rigging repaired, and-

He jumped sideways, sword raised, startled by something overhead; something large which fluttered down out of the sky. Then he saw Farrell standing by the ensign halyard, cutlass in hand, watching the flag settling on the deck in an untidy heap in the classic signal of surrender.

There was a stream of hoarse Italian and a moment later Rossi had flung Farrell to the deck, jumping on his stomach before pouncing on him with his hands round the surgeon's throat.

"Tritons, Tritons, lay aft all you Tritons," Ramage shouted, but Yorke was shaking his arm.

"Wait a minute or two," Yorke hissed, "let our chaps settle their accounts."

"I don't want unnecessary bloodshed," Ramage snapped, "we've enough trouble as it is." Southwick came aft, driving a stumbling Stevens before him, followed by Jackson and Much. The Captain was holding his throat and breathing in hoarse, convulsive gasps; the Mate was dusting the wet sand from his clothes. Ramage noticed that as the Tritons came aft, the packetsmen were grouping round the Boatswain on the foredeck. A bloodcurdling yell from just behind him made Ramage spin round. Rossi, sitting astride the surgeon, had the blade of a knife pressed down on the surgeon's throat, and from the jumble of Italian Ramage realized the Surgeon was being given a few seconds to say his prayers before the blade cut down.

"Rossi! Don't kill him!" Ramage seized the seaman's shoulder. "Leave him - he'll swing from a gibbet before long."

As he stood up Ramage knew it was improbable. The privateer was now lying hove-to a hundred yards to windward of the crippled packet.

"Any casualties?" he asked Southwick.

"A packetsman lying dead by one of the guns, and one or two cut. Stevens here has a sore throat, sir, and-"

"He's lucky to be alive to enjoy it," Much said angrily. "That man" - he pointed at Jackson - "stopped me finishing my job."

"There are a lot of unfinished jobs," Ramage said, looking at Stevens and down at Farrell, "but we'll all be prisoners in a few minutes." He turned to the group of Tritons and gestured to include Much, Yorke and Wilson. "Thanks - but for our friends we'd have beaten our enemies!"

The privateer was the Rossignol schooner of St Malo, armed with ten double-reinforced 4-pounder guns, manned by ninety-three Bretons, and at sea for seventeen days. As wild-eyed and raggedly dressed men swarmed over the Lady Arabella's bulwarks from three boats, Ramage was reminded of a horde of starving rats running into a granary.

Few were seamen and most were drunk - that much was obvious the moment they jumped on deck - but they were highly skilled looters. They stripped the passengers' and officers' cabins of valuables in a matter of minutes. To begin with, Ramage did not understand the men's haste in the cabins until he realized they were all from the leading boat.

One of the first on board from the second boat was a man who hastily introduced himself as the Rossignol's Mate and, after formally taking possession of the Lady Arabella, he dashed below with four men following him, pistols in their hands.

A minute or two later a shot was fired. Yorke and Ramage looked at each other in alarm. Was it Bowen? Southwick and Wilson were on deck. Then there was a second shot, and suddenly two dozen frightened privateersmen ran up on deck and went forward, where they stood like a group of naughty schoolboys.

They were followed by the French Mate, who immediately began shouting at them in a fury, his cutlass sending splinters flying as he slashed at the forebitts to emphasize each word.

"What the deuce is he saying?" Yorke exclaimed. 'His accent is too much for me!"

"Breton," said Ramage, and began translating. "He's cursing the men for looting ... Says they were forbidden to go below - no need for it since the prize surrendered ... The dead man - he knows the dead man was the ringleader. They can regard that as punishment for them all... Next time the Captain will make examples and hang every fifth man."

"Hm, so the men are only just under control," Yorke commented as the Frenchman finally stopped talking. "Thank goodness we have Jackson!"

As soon as the privateer hove to and hoisted out boats, Ramage had run below to Stevens' cabin to find the private signals and destroy them, and the American seaman had joined him. "You're all going to lose your watches and rings and everything for sure when they board, sir," he said. "If you'd all like to give me your valuables, there might be a sporting chance of seeing them again, unless they transfer us."

Yorke and Southwick had already handed over their watches and rings without, as far as they could see, anyone noticing: all eyes were on the privateer. Jackson had slipped away as unobtrusively as he came, and now, looking at his left hand, Ramage wondered if the privateersmen would think of checking. His whole hand was suntanned, except for a thin band of white skin on the little finger where his signet ring had been.

With the looters under control and remaining on the foredeck, the French officer went back to Stevens again. Ramage watched the Falmouth man tensely. What would he say? There was a dead packetsman lying on the foredeck, but as far as the French were concerned he could have been killed in the brief action with the privateer. The one or two packetsmen wounded by Tritons had their cuts bandaged by now. If Stevens had any sense he would keep his mouth shut and let the Frenchman assume it was a normal surrender.

Ramage suddenly wondered if - as far as the Frenchman was concerned - it was a normal surrender. Stevens (and Farrell: he was sure of that now) had wanted to surrender without even trying to evade the privateer, which had ignored the Arabella's sternchasers. Would Stevens now explain to the French that the single broadside from the Arabella was due to an interfering naval officer? Did Stevens or Farrell know - or had they guessed - that Ramage was under Admiralty orders to investigate the losses?

He would soon have the answer: if they knew, then Ramage was a threat to them, and a word to the privateer captain would ensure that he had already seen his last sunset.

The Frenchman gave Stevens a slight bow and smiled. "Forgive me," he said in good English, "my men were overzealous. Now, Captain, your papers: certificate of registry, manifests - everything."

"We were carrying mails."

"That is all?"

"Was all," Stevens said significantly.

The Mate shook his head. "My Captain isn't going to like that. I thought I saw you pushing bags through the ports. All that chasing after an empty ship! Have you a surgeon on board?" he asked suddenly.

"Two," Stevens said. "The ship's surgeon and a passenger."

"Good, one of our officers is ill. I'll take the ship's surgeon back to the Rossignol. Now, get your papers and come as well. But first, tell your Mate to start getting these sheets and braces repaired." He waved at the yards swinging noisily overhead. "Tell them to make a good job of it - we have a long way to go."

Ten minutes later Stevens, still clutching his battered hat, and Farrell, his clothing torn from Rossi's assault, were on their way to the Rossignol, which had remained hove-to up to windward. Ramage noticed the privateersmen on board the Lady Arabella stayed on the foredeck. Their officer's threats had been effective. In the meantime Much set the men to work furling the sails before beginning the long and tedious job of splicing the sheets and braces.

An hour later the boat returned with the Mate and another Frenchman who sat on a thwart wrapped in a blanket, and who had to be helped on deck. After he had been taken below the French Mate came back on deck to demand, "Who is Mr Much?" When the Mate stepped forward he said, "Your captain and the surgeon are staying on board the Rossignol as prisoners. You are responsible for the Lady Arabella's men. I see you've made a start on the repairs. Now, point out Mr Bowen."