Rennick's whole stance showed that he considered this was a job for the Marines, and remembering how there had been no work for them as sharpshooters, Ramage told him: "All right, look into the cabins one at a time, starting at that end."

Rennick did not wait for Ferris or one of the Marines: instead he stepped forward quickly, pistol in his left hand, and flung the door open. Inside a man crouched on a small, folding stool that took up the space left by the cot and small chest of drawers.

"Out!" Rennick snarled, "slowly, with your hands clasped in front of you."

The deckhead was too low for a man to hold up his arms: everyone in the gunroom was having to crouch, and Ramage pulled round a chair and sat down. Whatever was going on, there would be no violence. The officer now coming out of the cabin which was neatly labelled "1st Lt" looked as if he had not slept for a month nor changed his clothes.

"Sit here," Ramage said, pointing to the form on his left. "If you are the Jason's first lieutenant, tell me your name and explain why you are skulking in your cabin."

"Ridley, sir."

"That answers my first question ..."

The man ran a finger along the grain of the deal table but avoided looking up at Ramage, who examined the man's pale and unshaven face closely.

"Ridley," he said quietly, "you haven't been up on deck for two or three weeks." He recalled the man's stiff gait. "And I doubt if you've been out of your cabin, either. Why?"

"My duties kept me down here," the man said sheepishly, his eyes still fixed on the table.

Ramage pointed to the next door.

Rennick flung it open and another man came out. Ramage glanced up at the lettering over the door and waved the man to sit next to Ridley.

"Are you the third lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir. Owens. Henry Owens."

"And what are you doing in your cabin at a time like this?"

"Captain's orders, same as Mr Ridley."

"When were you last on deck?"

"I... er, I'm not sure, sir. Within the last two or three weeks, I think."

Ramage sighed and looked up at Southwick. "Is everything all right on deck?" When the master nodded, Ramage signalled to Rennick, who opened the door over which was written "Master".

The Jason's master was, Ramage noted in amusement, the opposite to Southwick in just about every way: he was tall, thin to the point of being cadaverous, completely bald - his head seemed to be polished like the ivory top of a Malacca cane - and his nose was not just long but tilted up, as though something should be hung on it.

"If you're the master, tell me your name and the date of your warrant," Ramage said wearily, and then felt a finger poking into his side. He looked up to find Southwick signalling that he wanted to whisper something

"I know this fellow," the master whispered. "A good man."

Ramage looked at the man questioningly. "Well?"

"Price, sir. Warrant dated August 1793."

"Very well, go with Southwick - I believe you know him. Take your hat, the sun's still bright."

As Price collected his hat and then followed Southwick out of the gunroom, Ramage said impatiently: "All right, Mr Rennick, winkle out the rest of 'em - the second lieutenant, surgeon and purser, I believe." He raised his voice, so that they could all hear. "I'm getting tired of all this play-acting. None of you seem to realize you're probably going to spend the next few weeks in irons."

The first lieutenant's head jerked up. "But sir!"

"But sir, whatl" Ramage demanded, hoping to provoke him into revealing some details. "Do I need to remind you of the Articles of War? Numbers 12, 13, 14, 15 and 16 come immediately to mind, but no doubt 19, 20 and 22 could apply. You'll recall that most of them end up with the phrase 'shall suffer death'."

"But. . . but well, it's not like that, sir," Ridley wailed.

"What is it like, then?"

"Oh, I can't say!" the man said and, collapsing on the table with his arms clasped over his head, he burst into uncontrolled tears.

Ramage stood up, feeling completely helpless, and said formally to Rennick: "All these officers are under arrest and confined to the gunroom."

"The captain, sir?"

Ramage tried to look stern, although he felt more sympathy for the sobbing Ridley than it would have been proper to admit. "I'll decide about him later, after I've had a chance to talk with him."

Back on board the Calypso, with the Jason abeam as the two ships beat back towards the convoy, Ramage tried to make up his mind. There was a choice: although he had by no means finished questioning the Jason's officers and ship's company, he was still just near enough to take the Jason back to Barbados and hand over the whole wretched and puzzling business to Admiral Tewtin. Or he could keep the Jason with him, carry on with the convoy, and hope to get it all settled in England.

If there were six reasons why he should do one thing, there were half a dozen why he should do the other - and that was only choosing between returning to Barbados or going on to England.

There were plenty of variations lurking around to distract him. He could escort the Jason back to Barbados with the Calypso, leaving La Robuste and L'Espoir to carry on with the convoy and arranging a rendezvous for, say, a week's time. (But what hope was there of clearing up this business in a week? Tewtin would want dozens of depositions: Shirley, if he had any sense, would want even more. Very well, forget that choice.)

What about sending the Jason back to Barbados with, say, La Robuste, giving her captain a written report for Rear-Admiral Tewtin? How the devil could he describe all this in a written report that was not as long as the Regulations and Instructions, the largest volume a King's ship carried? And what yarn was Shirley (and his officers, whatever their role was) likely to tell, if Ramage and the Calypsos were out of sight and sound, even if not out of mind? Shirley could have the Calypso raking the Jason, and those officers of his would probably back him up, judging from the story Southwick brought back after his talk with the Jason's master.

Yet if he was honest, his main concern was that the Jason business was so unusual and complex that Rear-Admiral Tewtin was not the man to deal with it: this was something for Their Lordships at the Admiralty, and the Judge Advocate's department.

And he was involved in it only because he - well, first he had got married, then he and Sarah had had to escape from Bonaparte, and all that had led to him crossing the Atlantic to Devil's Island, to rescue Jean-Jacques, the Count of Rennes. In turn he had brought two French prizes into Barbados . . . and been stuck with the job of escorting this convoy back to England. But why - why, why - had the Jason chosen to interfere with his convoy? Why could she not have gone on to Britain, where her orders sent her?

He answered the Marine sentry's call and Southwick came into the cabin. Ramage waved him to a chair, and the master threw his hat on to the settee.

"I've been reading the Articles of War again, sir."

"They don't help," Ramage said, "unless you want to get into more of a muddle."

"But there must be something we can do, sir."

"There isn't," Ramage said shortly. "Not so long ago, while I was escaping from the French at Brest, none of you could do anything about a drunken captain sent to the Calypso. Their Lordships in their wisdom have drawn up the Articles of War on the assumption that a captain can do no wrong."

"A surgeon can have him replaced on medical grounds," Southwick offered hopefully but without much conviction.

"Oh yes. What do you suggest Bowen diagnoses in Captain Shirley's case? That the black coat proves he has a poor tailor? That a bulge in his right shoe shows he has a bunion? The fellow doesn't drink, doesn't smoke (or even chew tobacco in secret), he doesn't swear or keep a mistress on board. He seems identical with dozens of other post-captains, except perhaps he reads his Bible more frequently."