Ramage took off his coat and untied his stock, bundling both up with his hat and stuffing them under one of the guns.

'Mr Aitken ... Mr Southwick ...' he pointed at what he was doing, and each man hurriedly removed his hat, coat and stock.

Now the master, his white hair caught by the wind, could pass for - well, a rural dean, an amiable grocer, a tenant farmer who was now leaving the heavy work to his sons ...

'You still don't look like a Republican, sir,' Southwick said doubtfully. 'Perhaps the hair? Too tidy?'

Ramage ran his fingers through it. 'You have the advantage of me, I must admit,' he said wryly.

'The breeches and silk stockings, sir?' Southwick said, his voice still doubtful. 'Don't forget those whatever they're called, the sans cullars.'

'Sans-culottes. No, don't worry, we don't need to dance on top of the hammock nettings!'

With that Ramage left Aitken and Southwick on the quarterdeck and went down to the entryport where Auguste stood watching the canoe, which was now beginning to round up to come alongside, one of the men casting off the sheet and stifling the sail by standing up and clasping it to him as he reached for the mast. The other two blacks picked up paddles and began paddling the canoe the last few feet in the calm water provided by the Calypso's bulk.

Ramage gestured to Auguste, who took the telescope Ramage held out to him. Tucking it under one arm and straightening his shoulders, the Frenchman said with a grin: 'I shall find it hard to be an ordinary seaman again, sir.'

Ramage stood to one side beside a gun while Auguste went back to the entryport and Gilbert, Louis and Albert stood close to him.

There was a faint hail and Albert hurried forward with the coil of rope he was holding. From the top of the hammock nettings he threw an end down to the canoe and one of the blacks seized it. The canoe was almost level with the entryport when the pilot began to stand up.

Auguste leaned over slightly to shout down at him. 'M'sieu, listen carefully. This frigate and the one astern have come from Brest, and a third is due any day - we lost company with her.'

'Very well, captain,' the pilot answered. 'There is plenty of room in the anchorage. You bring us many prisoners, eh?'

'We bring you possible sickness and death,' Auguste said sadly. 'Brest has la peste. We lost five men from it the day after sailing. The other frigate' - he gestured astern - 'lost nine. I dare not think what has happened with the third frigate: I suspect we lost sight of her because she had so much sickness...'

'The plague? Brest a plague port? Nine - no, fourteen - dead? Quarantine! You must stay at anchor! No one to come on shore. Six weeks from the last case. Here, cast off!' he snapped at the seaman, who let go of the rope as though it was a poisonous snake.

As the canoe drifted away the pilot stood up and shouted: 'I will report to the governor, but six weeks you stay -'

Auguste and Gilbert screamed back at him: it was an injustice, it was mocking their misery, it would leave them short of medical supplies and provisions ...

Louis and Albert joined in. There was no wine and very little water left. Now they would get the black vomit, as well as having the plague, and anyway what authority had the pilot to give such orders?

'I'll show you!' the white-faced pilot screeched back as the canoe drifted away. 'No one is to come near the shore: you stay on board. Tell the second frigate and the third when she comes in because I am not coming out again for six weeks. I know the governor will order sentries to shoot at anyone approaching the shore. That's an order; I have the authority!'

'Assassin, cuckold, pederast, Royalist traitor!' Auguste bawled and stood aside to give the others a chance while he thought up more insults.

'You wait until the Minister of Marine hears of it!' Gilbert bellowed. 'Then you'll be a prisoner here, not the pilot!'

The pilot knew he was far enough away to be at a disadvantage shouting against the wind, but he took a deep breath. 'Perhaps - if you live long enough to get a message to Brest. But you'll all leave your bones on the beach over there ...'

'Your mother was a careless whore!' Auguste yelled and then shook his head. 'It's a waste,' he grumbled, 'he's too far away.' He handed the telescope back to Ramage. 'Was that satisfactory, sir?'

A grinning Ramage patted him on the back. 'Perfect. As I watched you all it was obvious the Calypso had at least four captains!'

'Sir,' Aitken called anxiously, 'we're running out of sea room!'

'Bear away and anchor when you're ready!' Ramage shouted and hurried back to the quarterdeck, passing Southwick on his way to the fo'c'sle. By now the pilot was a quarter of the way to a jetty which was just coming into view on the south side of Île Royale.

As he climbed the steps Ramage was thankful his idea had effectively ensured that no one would be coming out to the anchored ships, but he wished the pilot had not taken fright so quickly: Auguste had not been able to ask the pilot to remain in his canoe but lead the way to the anchorage.

Aitken shouted to a seaman standing in the chains, ready with the lead: 'Give me a cast!' Then he gave orders to brace up the yard and trim the foretopsail sheets so that the Calypso turned for the last few hundred yards to the anchorage.

The leadsman reported. 'Six fathoms, soft mud.'

Ramage had already explained to Aitken the importance of the Calypso anchoring in the right place, so that La Robuste could position herself, and he kept both topsails shivering so that the Calypso had little more than steerage way.

Ramage watched the luffs of the sails and kept an eye on the quartermaster, who would signal the moment the Calypso was going too slowly for the rudder to bite. He glanced astern and noted that Wagstaffe was handling his ship perfectly.

'Five fathoms ... five fathoms ...' the leadsman's chant was monotonous but clear. He heaved the lead forward so that it dropped into the water and hit the bottom just as the mainchains passed over it. A quick up-and-down tug on the line confirmed that the lead was actually on the bottom, and by the feel of the piece of leather or cloth in his hand, marking the depths, he sang out the fathoms and feet.

The Calypso was now moving crabwise to the unmarked spot where Ramage intended to anchor, and Southwick's upraised arm showed that all was ready on the fo'c'sle. The anchor, stowed high up and parallel with the deck when on passage, had been lowered almost to the water. Ramage's eyes swept the luffs, saw the men at the wheel, and said: 'Down with the helm!'

Had he left it too late? Was the Calypso now going too slowly for the rudder to work effectively, or had the quartermaster (very sensibly) given the warning a few seconds early? In fact they could lower the anchor and, as soon as it held, the cable would swing the frigate round head to wind. Effective, but not very seamanlike, and the cable going under the hull was likely to wrench off copper sheathing.

But the Calypso's bow was coming round ... one point, two, three ... speeding up now ... six, seven, eight ... fourteen, fifteen, sixteen ... And with the wheel amidships and the foretopsail once again aback, because the yard had not been hauled round to compensate for the turn, the Calypso slowed.

Ramage walked to a gunport and looked over the side. The water was muddy and several pieces of palm fronds and odd branches were floating. But they stayed in the same place: the Calypso was stopped. Then they began moving towards the bow ... the frigate was beginning to move astern.

Ramage signalled to Southwick and heard first the splash of the anchor and then the thunder of the cable running through the hawse. And yes, the usual smell of burning as the cable, finally dry after being stowed for weeks in the cable tier, scorched itself and the wood of the hawsehole as it raced out.