By mid-afternoon Much took the conn to allow Southwick an opportunity to give Ramage his written survey. As the Master sat down in the Captain's cabin, groaning and complaining of aching muscles after crawling round down below and reaching into almost inaccessible places to test the hardness of the wood, he was shaking his head. He held out several sheets of paper. "My written report, sir."

Ramage took it. "Just tell me the worst of it."

Southwick sniffed. "If we were in England, the dockyard people wouldn't have let us sail. The sternson knee, wing transom knee on the starboard side, several cant frames and the deck transom are all spongy. The sternpost - where I could get at it - was soft. Like cheese in some places. It's all in the report, sir," he said miserably. "Unsettles me to talk about it, specially since we can't do anything about it."

Ramage reached over and patted the old Master's knee."Cheer up; if it was action damage you wouldn't let it worry you!"

"That's true," he admitted cautiously. "But roundshot just breaks the wood up: you can see the extent of the damage. Rot - it's insidious: you can't measure how far it goes or how much the ship's weakened."

"As long as she'll get us to Falmouth..."

"Aye - well, as long as the sternpost holds, the rudder will hang on. Just remember we can't fire the stern-chasers - not that we're likely to forget that."

"Forget about the rot, then," Ramage said cheerfully. "I've just remembered I forgot to clear Customs in Lisbon. That damned Agent will think that's far more serious!"

Immediately after the mid-day meal, Ramage told Gianna to stay in her cabin and had the whole ship's company mustered aft. As he looked around at the men he could see that the resentment was there all right: the packetsmen's sullen stance was emphasized by the cheerful bearing of the former Tritons.

"The decks look a little better," he said harshly, "but in the time you've taken you could have sanded half an inch off the planks. Well, now you have a meal inside you, we'll have some exercises at the guns - I trust you packetsmen can remember the drill. Just to refresh your memories, you'll be shown how it should be done."

He took the key of the magazine from his pocket, and his watch.

"I want the packetsmen over there, by the mainmast: the former Tritons stand fast."

As soon as the ship's company was divided into two groups, Ramage called for the two ship's boys. "Do you two lads know what powder monkeys are?"

Crimson with shyness and embarrassment, the two boys said they did.

"Very well, you're going to have to take those charges and run twice as fast as you ever thought possible. Mr Much!" The Mate stepped forward and Ramage handed him the key to the magazine. "Will you stand by to take over below?"

Ramage turned to the former Tritons. "Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and Maxton. You will be the crew of number one gun on the starboard side. You're captain, Jackson; Stafford you'd better be second captain. Rossi, you are sponger and Maxton rammer. But leave the gun secure and you four men and the boys stand fast. The rest of you Tritons hoist up the tubs, fill them with water and get the decks wetted and sanded."

Quickly two small, low tubs were brought up from below, put one each side of the gun, and filled with water. Half a dozen buckets of water were swilled across the deck round the gun and between it and the hatch from which the boys would emerge with the powder charges, so there would be no chance of stray grains of gunpowder igniting as the wide wooden wheels of the carriage spun back with the recoil. A man then hurried across sprinkling sand so that feet should not slip on the wet planking.

With the gun still secured to the ship's side, the tackles were tight and seized so that it could not move no matter how much the ship rolled in heavy weather. The sponge - in effect a large mop fitted to a short wooden handle - and the rammer, a similar handle with a round wooden plug at one end only slightly smaller than the bore of the gun, were still lashed along the bulwark. Two handspikes - long wooden levers with wedge-shaped iron tips, used for levering the gun round to train it - were lashed near them.

Half a dozen roundshot nested like black oranges in semicircular depressions cut in a piece of timber bolted to the bulwark on each side of the gunport. Ramage had inspected the shot earlier. They had been painted within the past few months, but he had wondered idly when they had last been passed through a shot gauge to check whether several coats of paint over small bulges of rust meant they were no longer spherical, so they would jam in the bore of the gun or, when fired, would not fly true. There was no shot gauge on board, so he could do nothing about it.

He looked at his watch and held up a hand. Much and Jackson watched him closely. Suddenly he snapped, "Load and run out number one gun, starboard side. Roundshot!"

It was not an order from the drill books - such as they were - but it was a good exercise. Much, after almost diving down the hatch, followed by the two boys, would now be unlocking the magazine and unrolling the fire-screens, the rolls of heavy material which hung down like curtains to ensure that neither flash nor flame could enter the magazine to ignite the powder stored inside.

Much would have kicked off his shoes by now and be fishing around in the darkness down there. He would be cursing the fact that he had forgotten (as Ramage guessed he would) a fighting lanthorn to put in the V-shaped double window which ensured a light shining into the magazine from the outside without an actual flame anywhere near the powder. And he would be trying to find a pair of felt slippers that anyone working in the magazine was supposed to wear - again as a precaution against accidents from grains of powder.

If he had any sense he would work in his bare feet. He'd grab some empty cartridge boxes and pass them out to the boys, who would slide up the lids on the cylindrical boxes. Then he would pass out a powder charge, a boy would grab it and put it in his box, slide the lid down on the rope handle and head for the ladder clutching the box.

Now the men working under Jackson had cast off the lashings, overhauled the train tackles, thrown the lashings off the sponge, rammer and handspikes and run the gun in. Maxton was just removing the tompion from the muzzle of the gun when a boy arrived breathless with the charge.

Ramage wondered how long it would be before Jackson realized his two - no, three - mistakes so far.

They snatched the charge from the boy and eased it into the muzzle. Maxton slid the rammer in to push it right home, then gave it two smart thumps. Suddenly one of the former Tritons was standing by Jackson and passing several things to him. And Ramage knew he had underestimated the American - Rossi had slipped below unnoticed and brought up wads, pricker and powder horn, all of which were kept in the magazine. Rossi grabbed a wad and that was rammed home; a shot followed a moment later.

In the meantime Jackson, who had earlier checked the spark from the flint in the lock, jammed the long, thin metal pricker into the touch hole and made sure it had penetrated the covering of the powder charge, then shook powder from the powder horn into the pan and made sure it filled the touch hole. The long trigger lanyard to the lock was already coiled up on the breech.

At a word from Jackson, the gun was run out and Maxton and Rossi leapt back, each grabbing a handspike, ready to train the gun. Jackson stepped back smartly, uncoiling the lanyard and Stafford stood with his hand over the lock, ready to cock it. Jackson gave the word and the Cockney cocked it and jumped sideways out of the way.

Jackson dropped to his right knee, his left leg outstretched to the side, and called "Number one gun ready, sir!"