"They have approved my negotiations to secure the release of the ship. The result is that instead of ending up in a French prison, we'll all be back with our families in England in a few days.

"While I am in command of the ship, Mr Southwick will be the Master. The Surgeon is Mr Bowen. Mr Much will have a well-earned rest, but will stand watch if needed, as will Mr Yorke."

He looked round again. He had every packetsman's attention, that much was sure. Whether he had their loyalty was a different matter.

Ventures! He suddenly realized that was what the packetsmen wanted to hear about. Hellfire, ventures were forbidden by the Post Office, so he could hardly mention them as such. But there was an easy way out of it.

"If any of you men had any of your property taken and kept by the privateersmen, give me a written list before we arrive in England. Apart from that, keep your possessions stowed away tidily, just as you would on a normal voyage."

"We are sailing within an hour. There'll be a guinea for the first man to sight the English coast."

He turned and with a curt "Carry on, Mr Southwick!" strode to his cabin, where Yorke joined him, after politely knocking on the door in a tacit acknowledgement that, now Ramage commanded the ship, their official relationship had changed.

"I wouldn't bet on it," he said, "but I think you've got 'em!"

"I thought I heard some shuffling of feet and sucking of teeth," Ramage said doubtfully.

"There was at the beginning, but the 'at your peril" stopped that: I saw at least two men glance up at the fore yardarm, as though they already saw a noose hanging there..."

Ramage laughed grimly. "Well, the sooner we get 'em to sea the better: a month at anchor rots any but the best of men."

He unbuckled his sword and put it in the rack, then took his Commission and locked it in a drawer. He was - from force of habit - just going to call to the Marine sentry to pass the word for Southwick when he realized that he was commanding little more than a cosmopolitan bumboat: no Marine, no steward ... Well, until he knew more about the mood of the packetsmen, there would have to be an armed Triton at his own cabin door and also Southwick's. A thought struck him and he said to Yorke, "Would you mind continuing to share a cabin with Southwick?"

"No, of course not. Hadn't occurred to me I wouldn't, though now I think of it we do have plenty of accommodation."

"Sentries," Ramage explained tersely. "The same man can guard you and Southwick in one cabin, and Bowen and Wilson in the next, and the Marchesa too."

"Don't forget Much: doubt if he's very popular among the packetsmen..."

"I had forgotten him," Ramage admitted. "But yes, the same sentry could see that fourth cabin - Much had better move in there."

"Nasty feeling, isn't it, when you aren't sure of all the men."

Ramage nodded. "We have the Tritons," he said simply.

He walked to the door and called for Southwick and Much, and when they arrived he quickly gave them their instructions concerning accommodation and sentries. Then he added, "You should all sleep with a brace of loaded pistols close at hand - warn Wilson and Bowen, too. And only packetsmen at the wheel."

The Mate looked puzzled.

"Men at the wheel are helpless, Mr Much, and it's easy to keep an eye on them!"

Much grinned, "Yes, indeed, sir; the Devil makes work for idle hands!"

Ramage looked at Southwick. "Very well, we'll get under way as soon as you've finished the watch bill. I don't want to lose the ebb."

An hour later the anchor had been weighed and catted, and the Lady Arabella was reaching down the Tagus towards the open sea, Southwick giving occasional orders to the men at the wheel to avoid fregatas beating up against the ebb. The clouds were clearing and as they approached the bar the wind veered slightly.

Gianna had come up on deck as soon as the ship was under way, walking aft and standing at the taffrail, out of the way of the bustling seamen yet in a position to see everything that was going on. She caught Ramage's eye and he knew she was happy; content to be left on her own until he had time to be with her. She had his big boatcloak over her shoulders, the hem nearly touching the deck; a silk scarf of blue and gold - Ramage recalled they were the national colours of Volterra - held her hair against the tug of the wind and the downdraught of the sails.

Yorke walked up to him and said quietly, "I don't think I've ever seen such a beautiful picture."

And Ramage did not have to turn to look: Gianna was standing against a background of the pale blue sky and the city of Lisbon spread over rounded hills, the hard vertical lines of its monastery and church towers softened and tinted oyster pink by the early sun. He was taking her back again - to his home, not hers. A home she had left without hesitation because she thought she might be able.to help him in Lisbon. It was a humbling thought that a woman such as this would coldbloodedly risk her life for him.

Yorke, as if reading his thoughts, said softly, "She took a fearful risk coming out here." When Ramage nodded he added, "What would the French do if they got their hands on her?"

"Murder her, I imagine. While she's alive she's a threat to them. She could rouse three-quarters of Tuscany if the people knew she was in the hills waiting to lead them."

"It'd be a massacre, though," Yorke said. "Peasants with pitchforks against Bonaparte's Army of Italy."

"A massacre now," Ramage said. "But maybe not in a few years' time. The French fighting troops being used elsewhere, and the garrison troops grown soft and slack by inactivity ... Curious place, Italy: it rots the weak and inspires the strong."

The familiar thumping footsteps warned them Wilson was approaching. "Morning, Captain," he said almost shyly, as though unsure how he should treat Ramage in his new role. "Just going to take my exercise. Wondered if the Marchesa might care to join me. Permission to ask her, as it were?"

Ramage stared at him blankly for a moment, and then grinned. "Of course. She probably heard you," he said with gentle irony, since the soldier's confidential whisper was probably audible on the foredeck.

Gianna gathered up the folds of the boatcloak. "How thoughtful of you, Captain Wilson: I was feeling cold and the exercise will do us good."

"A mile before dinner, Ma'am," Wilson said as he fell in step beside her. "Have to you know; it's the porter. Drink too much of it and it makes..."

Yorke winked at Ramage. "Seems half a lifetime ago we first heard him say that. I say," he said suddenly, "how long is it really?"

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Seven or eight weeks, I suppose, but it isn't the sort of time you can measure with a calendar."

"I wonder what's happened to Stevens and Farrell?"

"I was thinking about them last night. Probably in a French prison by now. I expect the Rossignol put them on board her next prize."

Yorke gave a bitter laugh. "While we were prisoners in Lisbon, the French may have exchanged the pair of them by now..."

"I've thought of that too," Ramage said firmly, "and in case your imagination is sluggish this morning, I've thought of them making an official protest against me to the Inspector of Packets, and I've tried to guess what Lord Auckland says to the First Lord of the Admiralty when he reads their version."

"Stranger things have happened," Yorke commented. "But the Rossignol may have been caught by one of our frigates, and a British roundshot may have knocked both their heads off."

Southwick came up. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to get on with that survey of the stern. If I could have Much to help me, too."

"Carry on," Ramage said. "Make it detailed!"

The Arabella was making good time: the village of Estoril had dropped out of sight behind Punta de Salmodo, and the Citadel at Cascais, with Fort Santa Marta on the point, would soon be hidden by Cabo Raso as he headed the packet north for the long slog almost the length of the Peninsula. For once the wind was being helpful, veering as the Arabella rounded each headland so that it stayed just abaft the beam.