'How long do the prisoners stay on board?'

'Who knows? They won't be short of potatoes, anyway,' Auguste said.

As soon as the last sacks were pulled off the net, the French bosun mopped his forehead with a dirty piece of cloth and mumbled drunkenly: 'English rum - we all deserve some. Follow me.' He stumbled aft and went cautiously down the companionway to the gunroom.

Ramage felt he was walking back in time: the Murex was almost identical with his second command, the Triton brig. There was more fancy work covering handrails, all of it well scrubbed until a few days ago, and the captain must have an obsession for turk's heads: the knots were neat but there was one on every spoke of the wheel, whereas usually there was only one on the spoke which was uppermost with the rudder amidships.

The brasswork was dulling now because it had not been polished with brick dust for several days, presumably since the mutiny. The deck was reasonably clean but unscrubbed, stained here and there by the French seamen who chewed tobacco.

He followed the others down the companionway. The gunroom was stuffy because the French did not believe in keeping skylights open. Why did they not use the captain's cabin? Probably not enough chairs: brigs were sparsely furnished and the gunroom made a better centre for meals and card playing. It was a rectangular open space formed by a row of cabins on each side. The cabins were little more than boxes made of canvas stretched across light wooden frames, and the only substantial parts were the doors. Over the top of each door was painted the rank of its normal occupant - the lieutenants, marine officer, master and surgeon.

The table filling the centre of the gunroom was filthy now, spattered with dried soup, crumbs and crusts of bread and dark stains of red wine. The racks above several of the doors had once held the occupants' telescopes and swords, but were now empty - the first Frenchmen to board the mutinous ship must have done well, probably relieving the mutineers of their loot before they were taken on shore.

The bosun gestured to everyone to sit on the two forms beside the table, on which stood a large wicker-covered rum jar whose fumes filled the gunroom.

The bosun and three guards. Four in all, and he had counted seven, a figure confirmed by the lieutenant. So now three Frenchmen were guarding the prisoners. There was a muffled groan from one of the cabins and Auguste, Gilbert and Ramage all looked inquiringly at the bosun, who grinned.

'The English captain. His rheumatism is bad. Saves us guarding him because he can't move.'

Gilbert reached for a battered metal mug and the bosun took the hint, lifting the rum jar and beginning to pour into a sorry collection of mugs. A French seaman said: 'One of the mutineers spoke some French, and before he was taken to the Château he told me the captain had been in his cot since the day after they sailed.'

'Why did they mutiny?'

'The rheumatism made the captain bad-tempered, so this rosbif said. He used to order many floggings. Hurting other people seemed to ease his own pain. He should have tried this,' the seaman said, lifting his mug of rum. 'But they said he did not drink. Prayed a lot, though it didn't seem to ease his problems.' The man gave a dry laugh. 'In fact praying seems to have brought him many troubles!'

'The mutineers - they are Frenchmen now, eh?' Gilbert asked as he raised his mug in a toast to the bosun.

'Frenchmen?' The bosun was shocked. He considered the matter, taking hearty sips of his rum. 'No, not Frenchmen. After all, if they mutinied against their own officers, they could mutiny against us. They have no loyalty to anyone, those buffoons.'

Ramage was startled to hear the man talk such reasonable sense. So, the mutineers were not welcome in Brest.

'But you are glad to have the ship!' he said.

The bosun shrugged. 'For me, it is of no importance: we have enough ships now - you can see the fleet we are preparing. This brig I do not like. It goes to windward slowly.'

'But surely the mutineers will be rewarded?' Ramage persisted.

'Oh yes, they'll be given a few livres each at the Château, and thanked. Who knows, if the English Navy hear that they get a good reception at Brest, perhaps they'll bring in some frigates, or maybe even ships of the line!

'We'll thank them for their ships,' the bosun continued, topping up his mug from the rum jar, 'but I expect we'll make sure the men leave the country after signing up in neutral ships. The Americans will be glad of them - they speak the same language. And the Dutch and the Danes are always glad to get prime seamen.'

'So these men that refused to join the mutiny,' Ramage persisted, managing to introduce a complaining whine into his voice, 'they won't be punished? Not executed or flogged?'

'Of course not,' the bosun said impatiently. 'They'll be taken off to the prison at Valenciennes or Verdun or wherever it is that they keep them. The first prisoners of the new war,' he added. 'Come on now, let's drink to thousands more!'

The Café des Pécheurs, halfway along the Quai de la Douane and overlooking the entire anchorage, was aptly named: at least twenty fishermen, most of them in smocks as liberally coated with red ochre as Auguste's, were playing cards, rolling dice or sipping wine at the tables outside. And arguing. Ramage listened to some of them and was amused by the vehemence that the most innocent of subjects could provoke among these bearded and rough-tongued men.

They eyed Sarah curiously: few women other than whores ever came to such a café, but because she was with Auguste she was accepted and spared any teasing or coarse remarks.

For the moment the three men and Sarah were sitting silently, looking across at the Murex over on their right hand and L'Espoir to their left. Boats were going out to the frigate, unloading casks, and returning empty to the Quai de Recouvrance, on the other side of the Penfeld river. It was from there, Auguste told them, that ships were supplied with fresh water and salt meat and fish.

The fishermen's café was a good place to talk. The few people who did not want to play cards or roll dice naturally went to the tables along the edge of the quay, and Ramage had already noted that no one could get within a dozen feet of their table without being seen, so it was impossible to overhear their conversation. And that, Ramage thought to himself, is just as well...

'Alors, Charles,' Gilbert was saying, hesitating over the name because he was really addressing a formal question to Captain Lord Ramage of the Royal Navy. 'What do you think about Auguste's proposal?'

While Ramage had sat in the gig telling Sarah what he had learned from his visit to the Murex, Auguste and Gilbert had walked down the road and the fisherman had taken the opportunity to tell Gilbert that he wanted to escape to England: that he and his brother Albert were completely disillusioned by the Revolution and had heard enough from Gilbert to know that England was preferable. But, he had asked, knowing nothing of their plans, hopes and fears, how was he to get there?

Ramage knew that for the moment it boiled down to one single question: did he or did he not trust Auguste, whom he had met only two or three hours earlier?

Obviously Gilbert did - he had known the man from boyhood, long before the Revolution. But Gilbert had been in England for several years. Did he know what Auguste and his brother had been doing here in Brest during those bloody years following the Revolution?

'Tell me, Auguste, were you a fisherman during the Revolution?'

Auguste told him what he and his brother had done: they had smuggled out Royalists, taking them half a dozen at a time, concealed in their fishing boat, southwards to Portugal and safety. They had continued to do that until a few months before Bonaparte signed the Treaty with England - then they had had a running fight with a cutter of the French Navy, finally escaping. 'That was when I collected this,' Auguste said, pointing to the scar on his face.