There they were, three flat-topped islands still grey in the distance and overlapping so that there appeared to be only two. That would be Île du Diable just coming clear on the left while Île Royale and Île St Joseph merged to the south. As his body swayed with the rolling of the Calypso, making it difficult to hold the telescope steady, they moved from side to side in the circular lens as though being viewed through the bottom of a drinking glass.

He turned aft to train the glass on La Robuste's quarterdeck. Yes, they too had sighted the islands; there was Wagstaffe hunched with the telescope to his eye and Kenton, Martin and Orsini standing in a row beside him at the quarterdeck rail like inquisitive starlings.

It had been disappointing at dawn when the first light seemed to spread outward from the ship and nothing had been in sight. The traditional cry of 'See a grey goose at a mile' had brought in the six lookouts stationed on deck round the ship and sent two aloft, and they had reported a clear horizon.

Then suddenly, as though a bank of fog had drifted away to reveal them (though the fog familiar in higher latitudes was of course unknown in the Tropics), they were ahead. Obviously there had been a haze hiding the coast until the sun lifted over the horizon and burned it up.

Ramage sighed, a natural reaction but one which led Southwick to ask: 'You expect trouble, sir?'

Trouble? They were too far off for him to be sure. If a frigate's masts showed up behind Île Royale, revealing that L'Espoir had arrived (and had time to send her prisoners over to Île du Diable), then yes, they had trouble. The idea, plan, gamble - he was not sure what to call it - that had come to him several days ago like a wind shadow, and the outline of which had since sharpened, as though someone had used a quill to run an inked line round it, would have been a waste of thought if L'Espoir had beaten them in.

More important, Southwick's question merely emphasized that the idea was just a gamble. You could put other fancy names to it, he told himself sourly, but it was still a gamble: he was like some pallid player putting a small fortune on the turn of a dice in the final desperate throw that could lose or save a home which had been in the family for generations and was a son's rightful inheritance. So if there were masts, he had lost; if there were no masts, he had won.

Won? That was nonsense. If there were no masts, then he had not yet lost, which was a far cry from winning. No, what Southwick's innocent and well-meant question emphasized, Ramage admitted to himself with bitterness, was that by pinning everything on beating L'Espoir to the Îles du Salut, he had not fully considered the consequences of losing the race.

If L'Espoir had not arrived, then the prisoners were still on board the frigate, and frigates were not invulnerable. But if L'Espoir had arrived, then the prisoners by now would be imprisoned on the Île du Diable in what the French pilot book called a 'fortified enclosure', and the whole purpose of these fortifications was to keep people (rescuers, in this case) out.

Southwick was still awaiting an answer.

'If L'Espoir is here, yes,' Ramage said.

'Because she'll have put her prisoners on shore?'

'Yes. There must be hundreds of prisoners on the island - perhaps more than one island. We can't be sure they still keep all the criminals on one island and the political prisoners on another.'

'I wonder if Bonaparte sees any difference in the two sorts,' Southwick commented. 'He's just as likely to put 'em all together.'

'That would mean our fifty would be among perhaps five thousand others; and five thousand prisoners means how many guards?'

Southwick gave one of his famous sniffs. They came of a standard strength, but he could give each one a particular meaning. This one indicated that the whole thing was absurd and not for the serious consideration of grown men.

'Even at one guard for every twenty prisoners, plus all the camp followers and cooks and administration people, we'd never stand a chance,' the master said. 'To find out if L 'Espoir's there we've got to get in sight of that fort on Île Royale, so they'll sight us and we lose surprise.'

'Yes,' Ramage said, and changed the subject, which was thoroughly depressing him. 'Now, we'd better start working out the positions of those reefs and shoals.'

'Aye, I have 'em noted from the pilot book,' Southwick said. 'The main bank is over there, between one and two miles nor'nor'west of Royale.' He pointed over the starboard bow.

At that moment Ramage saw Renwick down on the maindeck and called him up to the quarterdeck. The Marine captain's face was as usual burned a bright red from the sun and the skin of his nose was peeling, but he gave a smart salute.

'How are the prisoners?' Ramage asked.

'Very subdued, sir. They haven't forgotten that man Gilbert. I don't know what he said before they were brought over here, but it frightened them!'

Ramage nodded. 'Keep them subdued.'

Supposing there were no masts. Oh yes, he had this wonderful idea, but what about the pilot? The garrisons on the islands? He shook his head and left a puzzled Renwick standing on the quarterdeck as he clattered down the companionway to the great cabin, nodding to the sentry.

He sat down at his desk and looked at the sketch he had made of the three islands based on the information in the pilot book. Why was he looking at it? He knew the outlines and positions by heart. He pushed the sketch aside and took out the French pilot book and began reading the reference to the Îles du Salut. The words blurred into meaninglessness: he knew them by heart, so why was he reading it yet again? He put the book back in the drawer and stood up impatiently. What the devil was wrong with him? Impatience, he told himself, that's what's wrong. It needs patience to wait until we are closer to the islands so that we can be sure about the masts.

Islands! Even at this distance that was obviously an absurd word for three long lumps of rock lying like broken grindstones half a dozen miles off a flat coastline fringed with mangroves, marshy land and almost stagnant water and buzzing and whining with biting insects.

At least the islands do not suffer from a shortage of water: the rainfall must be so heavy that perpetual dampness and mildew, not drought, is the problem.

Up on the quarterdeck he said to Southwick: 'Hail the lookouts. No, better still, send a man aloft with a glass.'

'Yes, sir,' Southwick said, but added: 'You did say that Royale was 216 feet high, and Diable 131, didn't you, sir?'

Ramage glared at him. 'Yes, and the truck of a frigate's mainmast won't show clear from behind 'em.'

'Yes, sir, so I was thinking ...'

'Nevertheless send a man aloft with a glass.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Southwick knew the strain of waiting. They had left the Channel Fleet how long ago? Nearly three weeks. For twenty days they had looked for L'Espoir and the captain had shown no sign of strain. Now all the tensions and anticipations of three weeks, when everyone had wondered if they would catch L'Espoir or beat her to Cayenne, were being compressed into an hour.

The new lookout soon hailed the quarterdeck. With the bring-'em-near he could make out some buildings on the largest island. They were low down on the seaward side, he added.

Ramage nodded: that would be the fort on Royale, and by now the French lookouts would be reporting the approach of two frigates. Was there one préfet in command of the three islands? Or was he a soldier, a garrison commander? It did not matter a damn, really; Ramage knew he was just trying to keep his mind occupied. He turned and began to walk back and forth along the few feet of deck between the quarterdeck rail and the taffrail, occasionally looking astern at LaRobuste and allowing himself a glance at the islands only once every hundred times he completed the stretch.