Suddenly Jackson was at his elbow. "Mr Southwick said to wait before we winkle out the packetsmen, sir. Says they've kidnapped the Marchesa."

He was speaking in the dull monotone which Ramage had heard only once or twice before but knew was the warning that the American was sufficiently roused to kill without compunction. We are a pair, Ramage thought sourly; maybe it is the quietness that misleads people.

"Stand by me a moment," he said, and did a quick sum. The Bosun, Harris and three men by the binnacle: five accounted for. One of the packetsmen had been killed when the privateer arrived. That left six packetsmen below, and a couple of boys.

One Triton was dead, one was there at the wheel, two were guarding Harris and one guarding the three packetsmen. Two more were needed as lookouts. That left five Tritons plus Yorke and Wilson. He needed Southwick to handle the ship, and Much would have to act as quartermaster and help at the wheel if it became too much for one man.

Seven men against six packetsmen holding Gianna as a hostage. Think, he told himself savagely: a few moments of clear thought now may save her life; the slightest mistake will kill her. He gripped the pistol butts as though trying to crush them.

Very well, try to guess what the packetsmen - the mutineers, rather - planned. Obviously they intended to use Gianna and me as hostages to force Southwick to hand over the ship. Or perhaps, since they could not be sure they could make prisoners of the Tritons, force him to sail the Arabella to a Spanish port - only a few hours' sailing from here. Right, now they have lost the Bosun and Harris. Does that leave them without a leader? Probably: with such a small group of comparatively unintelligent men, the leader would carry out the most difficult part of a plan, taking the most reliable man with him. That pointed to Harris, because the Bosun was genuinely terrified of him.

Right, six mutineers are down below holding Gianna. Presumably Harris handed Gianna to them before coming to my cabin. Those six men heard a shot. They still don't know who fired it: all they do know is that Harris and the Bosun haven't returned, and the ship is still under our control.

Their only offensive weapon is Gianna, and Gianna alive. And their only defence, too. If they kill her they know they'll never get control of the ship: we will simply guard the hatch and sail the ship into Plymouth with six mutineers trapped down on the messdeck.

The six of them are probably arguing about that now. Even the most stupid of them must know Gianna has to stay alive to be of any use. Can I be sure of that? I have to be; it's a risk I must take because Harris is the man with the answers and I need ten minutes to make him talk. If I try to loosen the Bosun's tongue, I will have Bowen protesting. Yet the Bosun's tongue will be easier to loosen than Harris's. So I'm going to start with the Bosun, and if Bowen wants to get soft-hearted about it he can go and sit by the belfry for an hour or two: my questions and the Bosun's answers may be the only things that will save Gianna's life.

Have I forgotten anything? Gianna's face keeps getting in the way of the thoughts.

Ramage walked over to the binnacle and gestured to Southwick, Yorke, Much and Wilson to gather round. Quickly he told them what little he guessed and then gave his orders.

"Southwick, you have the conn and keep Much with you and one man at the wheel. I want two lookouts, one forward and one aft. These men" - he motioned to the three packetsmen lying by the binnacle, covered by a Triton with pistols -"put them in irons: we can't spare a man to guard them. I'm taking Jackson and Stafford with me and I want Rossi. Maxton can guard Harris. Pick two men to help Captain Wilson. Keep the rest with you.

"Now, Wilson: I want you to cover the forehatch with a couple of men. Take musketoons but be careful: I don't want any shooting. They may send up someone to talk with us, but don't let more than one man on deck at a time. Is all that clear? Very well, carry on."

He tapped Jackson on the arm. "Fetch Rossi and tell Maxton to keep a close watch on Harris. If he gives any trouble, he can knock him out, but I want that man kept alive..."

Turning to Yorke, Ramage said quietly, "Have I forgotten anything?"

"Not that I've spotted. I reckon you've got half an hour before those mutineers make up their minds what to do next. Shall we go down and have a chat with the Bosun?"

As Ramage hesitated, Yorke thought: he's a cool one. The Marchesa is down on the messdeck, probably with a mutineer's pistol stuck in her ribs, and he's as calm as if she was still in Cornwall. But he's changed in the last few minutes: now he's as cold and supple as a rapier blade.

Then Ramage looked straight at him and said, "I'm taking Rossi and Stafford down with me. Either the Bosun or Harris are going to talk. It might be-"

"A trifle messy," Yorke interrupted. "I should hope so!"

They found the wounded Bosun lying on the table in the saloon, secured by lines across his chest and hips against the rolling of the ship. The big gimballed lamp swung with the roll of the ship and weird shadows slipped back and forth across the saloon. Bowen was standing over the man's leg, the table holding him against the lee roll.

He glanced up as they came in and Ramage saw his face was dripping with perspiration. "Ah - just too late to lend me a hand. I'm about finished. Then perhaps I can have a couple of men to lift him into a cot; he'll be more comfortable swinging; the rolling makes the leg jerk on this table."

" 'Swinging' is the right word," Ramage said sourly. "Have you stitched him up?"

"Yes, both sides."

"Both sides?"

"Yes, sir; the shot went right through, of course. Missed the bone and the femoral artery: if that had been severed, he'd have been dead in a few minutes. At first I feared it was - the light is bad in your cabin, sir," he explained.

The Bosun groaned, looking up at Ramage. "A drop o' rum, sir, to take the pain away?"

Yorke sniffed. "I can't see you offering the Captain a tot of rum if you'd fired first."

"Oh, I would, sir," the Bosun protested. "And you too, sir."

"Thanks," Yorke said dryly. "But as far as you're concerned, dead men tell no tales, and they don't drink either."

"But I'm not dead, sir."

"Not yet," Yorke said ominously, "and neither are we."

Ramage grinned to himself: he would have given the Bosun a tot, and he realized Yorke had guessed that. But Yorke was right; giving a murderous mutineer a tot made little sense, and from what Bowen said it was only a flesh wound. At that moment there was a knock on the door and Jackson came in with Rossi and Stafford.

Ramage moved to stand over the Bosun. "Some more questions," he said. "You might as well answer them now."

The Bosun gave a heart-rending groan. "I'm not in a fit state..."

"You're alive," Ramage said. "That's enough, and be thankful. Now, whose idea was the mutiny?"

The man's eyes darted from side to side of the saloon; his hands gripped the edge of the table. Then he watched the lantern as it swung with the ship's roll. He swallowed several times but said nothing.

Ramage said, "The mutiny has failed. There's nothing to stop you talking."

"I ... I daren't, sir, an' that's the honest truth."

"Why not?"

"They'd do for me!"

Ramage was certain that the man was both terrified and telling the truth. But terrified of whom? Certainly not the ship's officers, since with them he felt safe enough to ask for a tot. Ramage made a quick guess. "Harris is in irons."

"He'll find a way, though," the Bosun muttered. "I know he will."

Ramage nodded significantly to Yorke: they had a definite answer to one question.

"What did Harris intend to do once he had the Marchesa and me as hostages?"