"Dinner . . . today . . . you . . . nephew . . . Southwick ... as many officers as you ..."

And then, as Ramage waved an acknowledgement, the Calypso was past her and angling across the bow of the ship leading the next column, which had her rail lined with white faces - it must be disturbing to have a frigate steering at you, even though for only a minute or two.

Then the Calypso was out ahead of the convoy and just as Martin was going to bring her about, to tack round the eastern side of the convoy again, Ramage stopped him. "That was well done, but we'll carry on and do a circumnavigation of the whole convoy. Won't do any harm to let the mules know we can turn up alongside 'em while they're busy having breakfast. Hey, what's the matter with you? You look as though you're going to faint!"

"I'm all right now, sir; it was just those last few minutes!"

A startled Ramage stared at the youth. "Blower" treated musket shot and cannon balls with contempt. What on earth could make him go white like that? "What 'last few minutes'?"

"Passing under the stern of the Emerald so close, sir. I know the owner is a friend of yours, and the lady was watching, too."

Ramage smiled as he shook his head. "Martin, remember this: the fact the owner of that ship is a friend of mine didn't make her one foot nearer or farther away."

"No sir," Martin agreed, "but if we'd hit her the crash would have sounded a thousand times louder."

Poor "Blower", he had been determined to bring the Calypso close enough for them to hear the Emerald's hail, even if he scared himself to death. He did not realize that if there had been a collision the responsibility would have been Ramage's but, Ramage realized, this was not the time to point that out: "Blower" had handled the ship splendidly under the impression that one mistake would see him court-martialled and dismissed the Service. It was an experience which added to his confidence.

"At least a thousand times louder," Ramage said.

Southwick knew he had eaten too much but the dinner given by Mr Yorke was more like a banquet than anything he had eaten on board a ship for a long time. Those John Company fellows were supposed to live like pashas (indeed he had eaten some good meals on board ships of the Honourable East India Company), but nothing to compare with what the Emerald had to offer. John Company masters ran to heavy and highly-spiced food; a curry so hot you lost the taste in the furnace created in your mouth, and found comfort in the stream of perspiration erupting on your face. A course like that, Southwick thought sadly, was the kind of thing that "old India hands" loved, and once they had caught their breath again they could make half an hour's animated conversation out of the piquancy. Well, usually they had not much else to discuss, so curry often became a staple subject, the rules and standards as well defined (and as boring) as a political speech.

Yes, he was going to pay for this present meal in an attack of wind, but it would be worth it. It was curious that on board a John Company ship the master felt it necessary to emphasize India instead of wanting a change. Yet by the same token in the West Indies everyone seemed to drink the local rum -  anyone offering something else like gin was assumed to have bought a few cases cheaply.

Curious ... the thought struck Southwick as he reached for his glass of port that the real curry lovers, the men who became excited at the prospect and then discussed the memory as though recalling a loved one, were almost without exception extremely dull fellows. Was there any relationship between brains and a liking for a particular food? He was just parading people he knew and putting them in categories when he realized someone was speaking to him.

It was Mr Yorke's sister, and she wanted to know if the sherbert had been too sweet for him.

"No, ma'am, it was just right."

"But you hardly ate any; you left most of it on your plate!"

"No discredit to the sherbert, ma'am: I have to admit I've eaten too much of everything - or nearly everything. The meal is a credit to -" he hesitated: could such a beautiful young woman arrange a dinner like this? Would she? Or would Mr Yorke leave all the details to the purser and the cook - to the chef, rather?

She gave him a mischievous smile and Southwick blessed whoever had arranged the seating for having put her next to him. She guessed the reason for Southwick's pause.

"You can give me the credit for choosing the menu. My brother deserves credit for finding the chef -  he is a Scotsman who had a French mother."

"A remarkably successful combination, ma'am," Southwick said. "I have never eaten so well afloat before."

She whispered: "Do you think that Captain Ramage has enjoyed the meal? I mean, is it the kind of food he likes, or would he have preferred curry, or anyway spicier food?"

Southwick thought for a moment. This was going to be a long and probably slow voyage, and Mr Ramage would be dining on board the Emerald several times before they reached the Chops of the Channel. It was worth the risk of being tactless.

"Ma'am," he whispered back, "I was praying you wouldn't give him curry or food that's too heavy or spicy. He really hates curry. Leastways," he qualified the remark, "I've never been too sure whether it's really curry or the people that eat it. Anyway, take my word for it, ma'am, he's not one for too much spice."

"He likes more.subtle food?"

"That's just the right description," Southwick assured her.

"'Subtle' - that's just the word. Not that we ever eat anything subtle in one of the King's ships! The galley is just a big copper."

"So you can boil clothes and plum duff, but that's about all!"

Southwick grinned again, running a hand through his mop of white hair. "So you've heard about duff, ma'am. Best thing to fill a hole when you're hungry and warm you up on a cold day!"

"You've served with Captain Ramage a long time?"

"Since he was a young lieutenant given his first command," Southwick said. "You were a little girl then!"

"He's not so old," she said unexpectedly, and Southwick glanced at her in time to see her blush.

"Depends how you measure time," the old master said dryly. "In many ways he's as old as Methuselah."

"And in others?"

Southwick shrugged his shoulders. He was getting into shoal waters in what could be a twisty channel. "In others? Well, he's been at sea in wartime since he was a young lad, so there hasn't been much time for social life or horseplay."

"Just killing Frenchmen?" she teased.

"Yes," Southwick said seriously. "And trying to avoid being killed by them, too. He's been wounded enough times; I've mistaken him for dead - oh, half a dozen times or more."

"The voyage you both made with my brother in that Post Office packet - that was dangerous."

Southwick suddenly realized that Miss Yorke must know a good deal more about Mr Ramage than she had let on, and he knew he was being used to satisfy her curiosity. Well, the captain was a handsome man and attractive to women, and she was one of the most beautiful and lively young women that Southwick had ever met; a mild flirtation with Mr Ramage on this voyage, whether Mr Ramage was married or not. . . Anything, Southwick thought, that took the captain's mind off the fate of Lady Sarah. After all, Mr Ramage had always regarded Mr Yorke as one of his best friends (although they had little chance of seeing each other) and Southwick had been surprised to find that Mr Ramage and the sister had never met before. He found himself speculating about what might have happened if they had met before the Calypso had sailed for Ilha da Trinidade, where Mr Ramage had met Lady Sarah.

"Captain Ramage must miss his new wife," she said, her voice carefully flat.

"Yes. It's a terrible worry for him, not knowing if she's alive or not."