As the boat came alongside, Southwick growled that he would go down and meet it to keep Aitken company, commenting: "It's one of those lieutenants that never go to sea: they dance attendance on the port admiral's wife and her dog, and any daughters and nieces ..."

The lieutenant was tall and willowy: he stood up in the boat swaying like a slender plant in a gentle breeze. He had that foppish air that Ramage knew always infuriated Southwick and aroused the contempt of Aitken.

Five minutes later, Aitken brought the lieutenant up to the quarterdeck, saluted Ramage and said, making no attempt to disguise his voice: "This individual claims to be Lieutenant Hill, or Hillock, and he says he has business with you, sir."

The lieutenant gave a languid salute and asked: "Captain Ramage?"

Aitken immediately said, his Scots accent very pronounced, always a sign that he was losing his temper: "You insert the word 'sir' between the name and the question mark."

The young man nodded graciously. "I do beg your pardon. You are Captain Ramage, sir?" When Ramage nodded, he held out the letter he had been carrying. "It is my duty to deliver this."

Ramage took it and thanked the man, who continued standing there. "You may go," Ramage said.

"Oh, I shall: but you come with me." The lieutenant was smirking and Aitken, without a moment's hesitation, walked to the quarterdeck rail, looked down at the Marine sentry and shouted: "Pass the word for Mr Rennick."

He continued waiting at the rail, obviously not intending to move until the Marine lieutenant arrived.

"I am Lieutenant Hill, sir," the lieutenant said nervously.

"Are you, by Jove," Ramage said. "Luck of the draw, I suppose."

"Er, who is your first lieutenant summoning, sir?"

Ramage thought, anyone else would have used the word "calling" but this fellow would also use "prior to" instead of "before" and "decimate" when he meant almost destroyed, quite unaware that it meant one in ten, from the Latin decimus, a tenth.

"He's calling for the Marine lieutenant. He may be going to arrest you for insolence, but I think he suspects you're an impostor."

"An impostor? Why, sir, I have just received my orders direct from Rear-Admiral Goddard and the deputy judge advocate. I, sir, am the provost marshal."

" 'Upon the occasion'," Ramage said.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Hill said uncertainly.

"Someone has been rash enough to appoint you 'Provost Marshal upon the occasion'. I was just correcting your temporary title."

"Oh, yes indeed, and thank you, sir."

"Not at all," Ramage said politely, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Rennick and two Marines had arrived on the quarterdeck and Aitken was clearly bringing him up to date. Hill then noticed them and said even more nervously: "I do wish you would read the letter, sir: it explains everything."

"I know what it says," Ramage said. "My first lieutenant and I are trying to save you and your admiral some embarrassment."

"Me, sir? And Admiral Goddard?" Hill hitched the scabbard of his sword round and stood stiffly. "My orders are to take you into custody and deliver you to the court on the appropriate day at the appropriate time."

"Yes, indeed," Ramage said agreeably, "but if either you or any senior officer -" Ramage was careful not to identify Goddard, "- think that you will take me from my own ship, which I still lawfully command, and shut me up in a cell or cabin, then you had better bring a file of Marines. I shall present myself (in your company, of course) on board the Salvador del Mundo in good time for the trial on Monday. So unless you want to find yourself locked up on board this ship, guarded by Marines, under suspicion of being an impostor as neither my officers nor myself can credit that you really hold the King's commission, I suggest you leave the ship."

Hill took one more look at Ramages deep-set eyes, which seemed to be boring into him, saw that Aitken, the Marine lieutenant and the two Marines were now marching towards him, gave a hasty salute and bolted for the quarterdeck ladder, having the presence of mind to grab his sword scabbard so that it should not trip him up.

As Aitken reached him, Ramage smiled. "Your bird has flown, but you timed it well. Mind you, we might have a file of Marines coming on board in an hour, but..."

"I have my doubts, sir: I think we've made the point!"

Promptly at seven o'clock on Monday morning Ramage followed Aitken, Wagstaffe, Bowen and Southwick down into the cutter. A cloudless sky and a light wind from the northeast left the Sound calm and the row to the great Salvador del Mundo, anchored half a mile away, would have been a pleasant outing, but for its purpose.

Jackson climbed from thwart to thwart, draping a piece of tarpaulin over the officers. The routine letter from Goddard to the officers who would form the court and those due to give evidence ended with the sentence, "and it is expected you will attend in your uniform frocks." This set stewards busy pressing their masters' frock coats and white breeches. Aitken, Wagstaffe and Southwick found their best stockings had been the dining room for moths so they were now wearing spare pairs belonging to Ramage. All four men had their swords, but Ramage alone had been careful to make sure that the two clips on the scabbard worked freely.

The boys who looked after the officers, and Ramage's steward Silkin, had been busy shining shoes and sword scabbards, and all of them had taken care in tying their stocks.

The result was interesting, Ramage thought, and as they sat in the sternsheets, being draped with Jackson's tarpaulins, Southwick looked (if one ignored the uniform) like a very prosperous farmer setting off on Lady Day to settle up some accounts; Aitken, from his serious expression and rather long face, could be a clever young surgeon not long ago qualified at Edinburgh. Wagstaffe looked just like a naval officer. Bowen, dressed in a pearl-grey coat with matching breeches, had the vaguely debauched air of a portly landowner come up to town either for a few days' gaming or to spend a night or two with his mistress.

Jackson looked at them all carefully as he placed the tarpaulins, watching for missing buttons, creased stocks, grease spots that might have been missed, and his memory went back several years, as though slipping back the pages of a book. He realized with a shock that all four men had aged: for years he had seen them every day and, he supposed, never really saw them, instead seeing only what he expected to see. But Mr Ramage was no longer the deceptive-looking young lieutenant: of course he was still taller than he looked, his shoulders were still wider than one expected. Those brown eyes were still deep-sunk under eyebrows that if anything were bushier. Hair still black and even with his hat on there was no sign of grey hair, except for that tiny circle of white that grew where the pistol ball caught him down in Curaçao. High cheekbones, slightly curved nose, face still tanned from the Tropics, a small web of wrinkles at the outer corners of the eyes caused by having them half closed against the bright sun. Yes, he had matured rather than aged; now he looked what he was, the heir to one of the oldest earldoms in the kingdom, and one of the most famous frigate captains in the Navy. But all that was not helping him now. He was about to be court-martialled, Jackson knew without a moment's doubt, because the vendetta against his father, Admiral the Earl of Blazey, was still being waged by old men with long memories and younger men like Rear-Admiral Goddard who were trying to advance themselves by pandering to them. How long would all this go on? Jackson was far from sure. When the old Admiral retired, the vendetta had already passed on to people like Rear-Admiral Goddard, so the old grudge against the father was already born again and carried on as a vendetta against Mr Ramage, who had been a child when it all started.