"The men you captured, " Ramage asked Aitken, "what were their ratings in the JocastaT'

 "Two topmen, a quartermaster and a steward, sir - or so they claim. They were rated ordinary seamen in the American ship."

 "Where did they join the American?"

 "La Guaira and Barcelona. They left the Jocasta - she has a Spanish name now, of course - several months ago. A year or more, in fact."

 The Admiral grunted and took the glass of punch that a steward was offering him. "Very well, then. I've told Aitken to transfer the Junos to the Calypso tomorrow in the forenoon, so you get your men and your First Lieutenant back again. I can't see the trial starting for a couple of days." He took out a large watch and grunted yet again. "My guests will be getting impatient: I must go back to the Dockyard. Tell you the truth, staying on shore is a mixed blessing. All those people - and twice as many mosquitoes. Don't know which are more irritating."

 On board the Calypso next day everyone's temper frayed. More than 150 men had been brought over from the Juno and the purser had to enter details of each one of them in the muster book. There, in twenty-seven columns, were recorded all the details that the Admiralty, Navy Board and Sick and Hurt Board would ever want to know about a man - including whether he was a volunteer or "prest", where he was born and his age, his full name and rank, and what clothing, bedding and tobacco had been issued. The last column on that page, headed "D., D. D., or R.", would not be filled in by one of those abbreviations until the man left the ship by one of only three possible ways: Discharged (to another ship or to a hospital), Discharged Dead (death from battle, accident or illness) or Run, the Navy's phrase for deserting.

 Ramage paced round the deck, pausing occasionally at the table set up by the purser in the shade of the awning. The men were filing past fairly quickly and the list of names in the muster book was lengthening. Looking over the purser's shoulder at the first few names, Ramage was once again reminded of the cosmopolitan nature of the Navy in wartime. The first five names in the book, filled in several days earlier, were of men from various parts of Britain, the sixth was Thomas Jackson, an American volunteer from Charleston, the seventh Alberto Rossi from Genoa, the eighth the Londoner Will Stafford, who served as apprentice to a locksmith and then became a burglar until a press-gang swept him into the Navy. The ninth was a Dane, the tenth an Irishman.

 All the men seemed to be glad to be on board: at the table and as he walked round the ship he saw grinning men who were hoping that the Captain would give them a nod. After telling Jackson how much prize money each man was likely to get, he had the impression that the word went round the ship faster than if he had mustered them all aft and announced it. Prize money did not make such men fight any better; they needed no inducement. But it was a satisfying bonus after the battle. Many of them would spend the money in a few days' carousing, cutting a dash with whichever fortunate doxies first hooked a grapnel when they went on shore. Others would save it towards the day when they gave up a seaman's life. When would that be? The war had gone on for years, and there was no end in sight. Politicians in London talked loudly, and listeners to the voices booming with such authority could choose between forecasts of defeat for Bonaparte in one year or fifteen. Pitt was a fool or a genius; Fox a hero or a traitor.

 Whatever their politics, Ramage thought bitterly, they all cheered when one or other of these spice islands of the West Indies was captured, yet the value was only the cheers it brought in Parliament because the cost in garrisoning the islands was enormous. Regiments came out and within a few months half the men were dead from the black vomit. Such losses in battle would start a row in Parliament . . .

 The Devil take the gloomy thoughts. He walked away from the purser's table. So far - and this was the second time he had commanded a ship in the West Indies - he had managed to keep his men fit, but he knew he had been lucky; stories of half a ship's company dying of fever in a couple of weeks were legion. He was doubly lucky, because Bowen was a fine surgeon.

 In fact, he reflected, a captain was no better than the men serving him. Southwick was a fine Master; he had good lieutenants, particularly Aitken, the First Lieutenant. Aitken had dumbfounded the Admiral who, because of the young Scot's distinguished behaviour in the recent action off Martinique, had proposed making Aitken post and given him command of the Juno, but Aitken had asked permission to continue sailing as First Lieutenant with Ramage. Both Admiral Davis and Ramage had been puzzled - it was the first time either of them had come across a man not wanting to be made post.

 The obvious explanation had been that Aitken was scared of the responsibility, yet he had fought well while commanding a prize frigate. And the obvious explanation had proved wrong: Aitken had explained - much to Ramage's embarrassment - that he still had much to learn and wanted to continue serving with Captain Ramage.

 Bowen was perhaps the best example of Ramage's luck. Bowen had been a doctor in Wimpole Street, one of London's most fashionable physicians. Then he had started drinking heavily and soon, a gin-sodden wreck, was reduced to serving in the Navy as a surgeon.

 His first ship had been commanded by Ramage. The prospect of having the health of his men in the hands of a drunkard - and concern about what might happen if any of them were wounded in battle - had led to Ramage and Southwick effecting a ruthless cure of Bowen's drink problem. Now, a couple of years later, Howen was one of his most valued officers - a fiendish chess player, stimulating company, and a man devoted to the health of the ship's company. He never touched a drop of liquor. He had since been back to London, where he could have returned to treating wealthy dowagers for non-existent complaints, but instead he had asked only that Ramage allow him to continue serving as his ship's surgeon. Well, better one volunteer than three pressed men.

 Ramage reached the fo'c'sle, paused by the belfry and looked aft. What a mess! There was not a square foot of clear deck: sails were stretched out like collapsed tents with men busy at work on them with needles and palms. Southwick was prowling round looking for worn canvas and marking out where he wanted extra patches sewn on to take care of chafe.

 The bosun and his mates were working on a pile of blocks, with a carpenter's mate driving out the pins so that they could be greased. As soon as men left the purser's table and stowed their sea bags they were being given jobs. The decks were dirty, the brasswork green with verdigris, but a morning's work would see all that cleaned up, though it would need a week to get it sparkling. It was important now that running rigging should rend freely through blocks, that sails should not chafe holes on rigging or spars.

 The gunner had the locks of all the guns up on deck, spread out on a sheet of canvas, and was checking them one by one. He had a large box of flints and a seaman was sorting through them, putting aside any that did not have a sharp edge that would ensure a good spark.

 Three men who had not been on board more than half an hour were manhandling the big grindstone into position while others were collecting the cutlasses - more than two hundred of them - ready to give them all a sharp edge. More men were taking boarding pikes from their racks round the masts - the heads, exposed to the spray, were rusty. Once they had been sharpened they would be given a coat of blacking and the wood of the staffs would be oiled to stop it splitting in the heat of the sun. All small jobs and all tedious, requiring a lot of men, but vital if the Calypso was to be an efficient ship.