Ramage put the letter down. He felt no anger or resentment, which surprised him. Just how did he feel? Hurt? No - you could be hurt only by someone you respected. Disgust? Yes, just plain straightforward and honest disgust: the same re­action as when you saw some drunken whore caressing a be­sotted seaman with one hand and stealing his money with the other. She would justify her behaviour by saying a girl had to eat and the sailor could afford the loss, forgetting he'd probably earned the money fighting in half a dozen actions, and for less than a pound a month.

 Pisano obviously felt an urgent, overpowering need to save his own reputation, even if it cost a British officer's career; and his justifications would be that a Pisano's reputation and honour (bella figura, rather) were of far greater value. Yet, Ramage thought ironically, Pisano's honour was probably like the drunken whore's virginity — she'd lost it without regret at an early age, later sentimentally mourned it, and then for the sake of appearances declared daily she still had it in her possession.

 Well, his own report had to be written. How much notice was Probus taking of Pisano's complaint? Or, more to the point, how much notice would Rear-Admiral Goddard, or Sir John Jervis take?

 After signing his report, he folded it, tucked the left-hand edge of the paper into the right, and stuck down the flap with a red wafer which he took from an ivory box - he could not be bothered to send for a candle and use wax.

 Returning to the smelly depths of the gunroom, he found Dawlish writing his report on the cutting-out expedition. After they exchanged news of their own activities since serving to­gether in the Superb, Ramage asked him about the attack on Santo Stefano.

'Simple,' said Dawlish. 'We were a little annoyed you didn't  stay up to help us count our chickens! By the way, I hear you've been rescuing beautiful women from the clutches of the Corsican monster. What's she like?'

Remembering Dawlish's reputation as a womanizer, Ram­age said warily, 'Depends on what you call beautiful.'

'His Lordship seems impressed, and old Sawbones hasn't stopped talking about her.'

 'Any female patient would make a change from a row of venereal seamen.'

'I suppose so,' said Dawlish, disappointment showing in his voice. 'But the chap with her - who's he?'

'A cousin, name of Pisano.'

 'Well, you watch him: he had the old man up half the middle watch calling you every name under the sun.'

'I know.'

'Been misbehaving yourself?'

'No.'

'Kept calling you a coward.'

'Yes?'

'You're being very cagey, Nick.'

 'So would you be! Don't forget I surrendered one of the King's ships - admittedly to a 74-gun Frenchman. But size doesn't matter: one Englishman equals three Frenchmen, so a frigate should deal with a French line-of-battle ship without inconvenience. And now I've got this damned fellow Pisano yapping at my heels. As if that isn't enough, I hear Goddard's at Bastia.'

 'I know,' said Dawlish sympathetically. 'At least, he was when we left.'

 When Dawlish went out, Ramage sat down at the gunroom table, thankful that the owners of the cabins on each side were busy about the ship: he was in no mood for questions.

 Probus, Dawlish - both were sympathetic; neither tried to make light of the danger of Goddard's enmity and the con­sequences if he was still at Bastia when the Lively arrived in a few hours, since it would be his duty to order the trial.

The fact both Probus and Dawlish thought he was in a dangerous situation showed he was not being childish and  worrying unnecessarily. Maybe he'd soon be regretting a shot from the Barras hadn't knocked his head off....

 Ramage began to realize how lonely one was at a time like this, and began to understand better his father's cynicism: the old man had said that when trouble comes, friends melt into the shadows, unwilling to risk giving a hand, yet ashamed to admit it; making polite conversation, yet staying at arm's length.

 And the enemies stayed in the shadows, too, using their circle of sycophants to do their dirty work for them.

 Neither Probus nor Dawlish owed anything to Goddard's 'interest'; but that didn't mean either would risk Goddard's enmity: he was acknowledged as one of the Navy's most vin­dictive and politically powerful young flag officers. His power rested on the fact that his own and his wife's families, with their friends, controlled twenty or more votes in the House of Commons. In the last year or so, according to the gossip from London, Goddard had added another name to his list of enemies, that of Commodore Nelson, who seemed to be a pro­tege of Admiral Sir John Jervis and now an object of Goddard's jealousy. Did it mean Goddard and Jervis were enemies? Or likely to become so? Ramage thought not.

'Old Jarvie' was one of the few admirals who had taken a fair stand over his father's trial. He was not directly concerned in it, but apparently made no secret of his disapproval of the Ministry's behaviour.

 Still, Ramage thought to himself, before Sir John reads my report - he was based at San Fiorenzo Bay, on the other side of Corsica, and would probably be at sea anyway - the trial will be over and sentence passed..,.

 A midshipman was knocking on the gunroom door, as if for the third or fourth time.

 'Captain's compliments, sir: the lady wishes you to visit her.'

 He found Gianna propped up in the cot, leaning against a bank of cushions. She had been crying: even now a sob shook her, and she winced as the involuntary movement gave her a spasm of pain. She motioned him to shut the door quickly.

'Oh,Nico...'

‘What's the matter?'

 He hurried across the room and knelt beside the cot, reach­ing for her hand.

'My cousin - he came to see me.'

'And—?'

He is making the trouble for you.'

'I know, but it's nothing: he's overwrought'

'No - e molto serioso. Lord Probus thinks so, too.'

'How do you know? Did he say so?'

'It was what he did not say that worries me. My cousin in­sisted Lord Probus came with him to see me, and he asked me many, many questions.'

'Probus or your cousin?'

'My cousin.'

'About what?'

That night at the beach beside the Torre di Buranaccio.'

 "Well, that's nothing to get upset about: just tell them what you know.'

 'But what do I know?' she wailed. He says you deliberately left our cousin Pitti behind; he says you are a coward; he says—' she was sobbing now and, finding it difficult to con­tinue talking in English, lapsed into Italian ' —he says your father was... was accused of cowardice...'

Our cousin: the tie of blood: the divided loyalty. No, Ram­age thought bitterly, not even divided, since both men were her cousins, but where he was concerned, she'd probably just been indulging in a mild flirtation.

'Pisano is quite correct: my father was accused of cowar­dice.'

'O, Madonna aiutame!’she sobbed. ‘What am I to do?'

 She was in both mental and physical agony, and Ramage suddenly thought that perhaps it was not a mere flirtation for her. But nevertheless they'd reached a crisis in their brief re­lationship. How detached he was: as he knelt watching her sobbing he seemed to hear another person inside him whisper­ing, 'If she has any reservations about you; if she thinks you  could leave Pitti like that, then you're better off without her ... How can she think you'd quit him after all the risks you'd already taken to get to Capalbio?'

 The cold-blooded other self was still in control when, watch­ing her closely, he said in a low voice, 'I've already told you your cousin was dead. Why do you still think I left him wounded?'

 She was looking down at the cot cover, and when he saw her right hand, despite the shoulder wound, plucking distractedly at the material, he realized he was still holding - gripping, in fact - her left hand, and he released it.