Jackson and Stafford led the man away, and as Yorke walked aft Ramage joined him.

"How was that?" Yorke muttered.

"Masterly! I liked the touch about Harris. But let's get hold of Rossi; I couldn't hear what Gianna said."

Yorke called the Italian seaman and followed Ramage down to the Captain's cabin. Rossi reported that apart from bruises the Marchesa was all right. She had a leg-iron round one ankle, with the other part secured to an eye-bolt, but her hands were not tied.

The mutineers were nervous of her tongue, Rossi said proudly, and all of them were very frightened of what Harris had done. When they presumed from what Mr Yorke said that Harris was dead, one of them wanted to surrender and would have persuaded the others had the man who was now the hostage not come down and argued against it. Yes, he said in reply to the question from Ramage, he had passed both sets of instructions to the Marchesa, and by now she should be weeping and wailing and accusing the mutineers of killing the Arabella's Captain. "She said to tell you, sir," Rossi added with a grin, "that you make the trouble for her every time she goes to sea."

Rossi had no sooner left the cabin than Southwick arrived, reporting that Much had the conn, and asking if the Marchesa was safe. Ramage brought him up to date, and then the old Master ran a hand through his white hair. "Now what, sir?"

"We wait for daylight. Get some sleep. Early breakfast..."

"I'll stand a watch if you like," Yorke said. "Otherwise neither of you is going to get much rest."

Ramage nodded. "Much, too. Highly irregular, of course; the Admiralty would not approve. But we seem to be in a highly irregular ship!"

"Aye," Southwick said heavily, "this ship is one of the bad ones. People can laugh at the idea, but some ships are just bad: they get bad men on board, and bad things happen to them. I felt it the moment I came on board in Kingston."

By daylight next morning the Arabella was stretching northwards along the Portuguese coast in a fresh south-westerly wind, with Porto broad on the starboard beam and forty miles away and Cabo Finisterra some 130 miles ahead. The cloud was well broken and, Ramage noted thankfully, the glass was steady.

By now Gianna and the mutineers would have eaten the breakfast Ramage had arranged to be passed down to them. The Tritons had received their orders, and Jackson, after inspecting the prisoners and the hostage, reported that Harris, locked in one of the cabins, had pleaded that Maxton should not guard him again. Apparently the West Indian had reduced the man to a state of gibbering terror before being relieved by another Triton.

Although thankful that settled weather meant he did not have to keep his meagre crew busy reefing or furling sails, Ramage was far from pleased that this late in the season it was going to be a sunny day. The mutineers had only to look up the hatch or skylight to see the sun's direction and know immediately which way the Arabella was heading, so there was no chance for slowly bearing away and running up the River Douro to Porto, or turning back for Lisbon, telling the mutineers the wind had shifted. But for the sun, it would have worked, though there was the risk that running into a neutral port would make the mutineers panic when they suddenly discovered what had happened.

If those five men down on the messdeck panicked, there was no telling what would happen to Gianna: men in a panic ceased to be human. Ramage had spent a good five minutes drumming the point into the Tritons that the only hope of rescuing the Marchesa was to apply a steady but mounting pressure on the mutineers. A gradual pressure, which would lead them to surrender; not a sudden pressure that would make them behave like rats in a trap. It was only a fine distinction; one he knew he would never dare to make unless the alternative was - he forced himself to face it - the murder of Gianna.

As he paced up and down the weather side of the after-deck - after listening to Yorke conduct a brief funeral service for the dead sentry Duncan - Ramage tried to drive away the depression, doubts and fears by telling himself that if he had ever been asked to name the dozen or so men he would want with him in a situation such as this, he would have named those he had. Even Wilson, with his staccato speech and love of porter, was proving reliable, and the Tritons liked working with him.

And in the Admiralty at this moment the First Lord considered Lieutenant Ramage had made wild allegations about the Post Office packets which he would never be able to prove. Well, he thought bitterly, I may not live long enough to get the word to Lord Spencer, but there will be proof enough if just one of the Tritons or the Arabella's passengers survive.

Southwick interrupted his thoughts. "Not a sail in sight, sir. What time do you want to make a start?"

Ramage took out his watch. Three minutes to seven o'clock. The horizon is clear, the wind is steady ... There's no excuse for putting it off any longer.

"At seven o'clock, Mr Southwick. Pass the word quietly."

As the Master strode away, shoulders braced back, hat jammed square on his head and a picture of confidence, Ramage wondered if he dare call him back and cancel it all. It was a damnably desperate attempt. Yet Yorke was right: if it did not work, they were no worse off - unless the mutineers panicked.

Yorke joined him. "By now you're scared stiff."

"Does it show?" a startled Ramage demanded.

"No, on the contrary, you look your usual arrogant and assured self," Yorke said lightly, "but you'd hardly be human if you weren't scared!"

"What about you?"

"The same. Does it show?"

Ramage laughed. "No, you look your usual debonair self, the idol of-"

"Deck there! Sail ho!" came a shout from the foremast, and Ramage recognized Stafford's voice.

"Deck here - where away?" Much hailed.

"Four points on the larboard bow, sir, just on the 'orizon."

"What can you make of it?"

"Too far off, sir."

"Keep a sharp lookout."

Ramage nodded approvingly: Much was doing well.

"Pass the word for Captain Yorke!" the Mate shouted.

A seaman took up the cry at the companionway leading to the Captain's cabin.

Yorke hurried over, waited a minute, and then called, as though he had just come up the ladder, "What is it, Mr Much?"

"Strange sail, sir, on the larboard bow. Wouldn't expect to see anyone out there unless she was up to mischief."

Ramage knew that at least one of the mutineers would be crouched on the ladder, listening carefully.

"Well, send a man up with a telescope, Mr Much: we don't want to get taken by another French privateer, do we."

"Indeed not! We've enough trouble already."

That, Ramage thought, is the Machiavelli touch: to raise the mutineers' hopes of rescue with the idea that a French ship was on the horizon.

While Much ordered one of the Tritons to take up a telescope, Stafford called again. "May be fairly big, sir, an' I think she's steering east."

Two minutes later the man with the telescope hailed, "Deck there! She's bigger than a privateer an' - oh, there she goes: she's letting fall her royals, sir."

"Very well," Yorke shouted, "let me know the moment you have an idea what she is."

Much had walked forward to the foremast, as though to be nearer the lookouts overhead, and called back to Yorke nervously, "I don't like it, Captain; seems to me anyone out there and on that course must be a ship-o'-war or a privateer."

"Let's hope she's one of ours, then."

"Aye - but could be French or Spanish, hovering off the coast to pick up someone like us."

"You think I ought to send the men to quarters?"