"List of prisoners to be transferred to the prison ship." He took the list from a drawer and put it with the survey. "List of invalids to be transferred to hospital." Well, the Bosun would not need the sick ticket normally given to a genuinely sick or wounded seaman: he needed only a Marine guard.

Weekly accounts, "specifying the numbers borne or petty and able, separately...". He took out his muster book and copied out the details normally entered on a special form. He had made out a paybook that would end up in the Navy Office in London, where the clerks would have a fit because the entries were not on the usual printed forms. Well, by the time their complaints had filtered back to Plymouth, Ramage hoped he would be at sea again.

Finally he wiped the pen and screwed the cap back on the inkwell, putting them both in a drawer with the reports and lists. Then, cursing himself, he remembered he had not done the most important one of all, the report to the Admiral in Plymouth: the one explaining why a Post Office packet anchored in the Hamoaze was manned by eleven navy seamen, commanded by a naval officer, and with nine of its original ship's company in irons and a tenth wounded.

One way and another, he thought grimly, the Admiralty's lawyers - perhaps even the law officers of the Crown, now no doubt sitting comfortably in their offices in London - were going to be scratching their heads in a few days' time.

It took him half an hour to write a ten-line report to the Admiral, and to save himself writing yet another letter he included in the last paragraph a request for leave to go to London to report to the First Lord "according to orders previously received".

Picking up his hat, he made his way on deck to find a frigate coming up fast astern, but he knew her captain would have recognized the Lady Arabella as a Post Office packet as her hull started lifting over the horizon, even though he would be wondering why she was passing Falmouth. In such a position, the correct answer to the private signal would be enough.

By nightfall the Lady Arabella was under top sails only, deliberately slowing down so that two hours before dawn Rame Head would be fifteen to twenty miles ahead. At midnight Mr Much, who was on watch, turned up all hands until a good deal of shouting from the darkness revealed that the packet was in the midst of a small fishing fleet out of Fowey. By six o'clock next morning Rame Head was fine on the larboard bow and the Eddystone Rock was on the starboard beam, Mr Smeaton's great lighthouse standing up stark in the early light, a hundred feet high. The Tritons were allowed to go below for fifteen minutes, three at a time, to shave and smarten themselves up for entering harbour, and at nine o'clock the Lady Arabella rounded Penlee Point to reach across Cawsand Bay and into the Sound.

The Commander-in-Chief of the Channel Fleet was at sea: that much was obvious to Ramage since his flagship was not at anchor and the port was almost empty. That made things a lot easier. Port admirals were usually busy enough not to want to bother with anything that did not directly involve them, whereas commanders-in-chief seemed to take a malicious delight in badgering any ship not under their direct command.

No sooner had the Lady Arabella anchored than Jackson identified the Port Admiral's flagship - an old vessel acting in effect as a floating signal station, since the Admiral had an office in the Dockyard. A moment later Southwick was pointing out that they did not have enough men to guard the prisoners and at the same time row Ramage in the packet's boat to the Admiral's office. The old Master seemed to regard hiring a local boat for such a task as an insult to the ship, and because the local boats usually waited at the West Pier he had to hail a frigate's boat that was passing and ask the lieutenant in it to send a boat out. /

Although it had been a long time since Ramage was in Plymouth, he vaguely remembered that the coach usually left for London at half past six in the evening. However, since Yorke and Much would be travelling with him, he would have to hire a carriage: there was no hope of getting three seats on the London coach at such short notice, and anyway he wanted to get to London without stopping. He was thankful that Gianna was anxious to go to St Kew to reassure his parents that they were both safe: he had expected to have to persuade her not to accompany them to London.

He saw Yorke and asked, "You're all packed, I hope?"

"All ready. Just waiting for the Customs before I strap my trunk."

"Well, I'm going to report to the Admiral as soon as I've dealt with the Customs officers. Then I'd like to hire a 'chaise and be on our way."

"That suits me. Much is coming with us, I presume?"

Ramage nodded, but warned, "Providing we can get horses, I want to stop only for meals."

"Is that wise?" Yorke asked. "There's no point in you arriving at the Admiralty so tired you can't think straight. An extra day for the journey won't hurt. After all, we spent weeks waiting in Lisbon..."

Yorke was right, of course. The Port Admiral would report to the Admiralty that they had arrived, and the nightly messenger would take the report to London on horseback. If they arrived at the Admiralty two or three days later, that would be time enough. A night's sleep before they set off from Plymouth would be good for all of them.

Two hours later, having said goodbye to Gianna, who intended spending the night on board, giving Southwick a chance to hire a carriage to take her to St Kew next day, Ramage reported at the Port Admiral's office.

The portly and jovial owner of the King's Arms came up to Ramage's table and gave a slight bow - a lieutenant's bow, Ramage suspected; it would be six inches lower for captains and twelve or more for admirals - and said, "The carriage is ready, sir, and the baggage has been loaded."

Ramage looked round at his guests, Yorke and Much. "Has anyone an appetite left?" When both men shook their heads, he said to the innkeeper, "That was an excellent breakfast: now, if you'll bring me the bill..."

Fifteen minutes later the door of the carriage slammed shut, the coachman cracked his whip and yelled, "Hup, hup, hup now!" and in the darkness before dawn the coach clattered along the cobbled street in Briton Side heading for the Exeter Road. They had, Ramage thought gloomily, another 250 miles to travel before they reached the Admiralty: they would change horses a couple of dozen times, and stop to pay the toll at twice as many turnpikes.

They reached the turnpike at Ivybridge by daybreak and Much gave a sigh of relief. "Always wanted to see the road to London," he said cheerfully.

"You've never been to London?" Yorke asked incredulously.

"Never farther than Plymouth," he said. "And then only once, when an uncle was took ill. My wife's father's brother, it was. Had a small tavern in North Corner Street, in Plymouth Dock. Just by the Gun Wharf. Took ill and died, and I had to go and bury him and settle everything with the lawyers. A pack of rascals they were," he said crossly.