Ramage waited, thinking Probus had more to say about the letter, but the Captain glanced up and said, 'It's all right, you can go; I'm not writing it to you. Good night.'

When the gunroom steward woke him next morning with a cup of tea, Ramage had the usual brassy taste in his mouth and headache resulting from sleeping in the tiny, almost airless cabin. He knew the tea would be tepid and taste awful; it always was, and presumably - for lieutenants, any­way - always would be. His trial was due to begin in an hour or so: the condemned man drank a hearty breakfast.

 The steward returned. 'Mr Dawlish said to give you these, sir,' and he put a sword and hat on top of the small chest of drawers. 'There are some other things I've got to get, and there's this, sir: it came off from the shore just now, sir.'

He handed Ramage a letter which had been closed with a blob of red wax but bore no impression of a seal. In the half-darkness of the cabin it was difficult to read, but he saw the writing was bold but jerky, and the calligraphy indicated the writer was probably Italian: certainly not English.

 He climbed out of his cot to read the letter under the gunroom skylight There was no greeting, and no signature. Just three lines of writing:

'Nessun maggior dolore,

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria.'

He recognized Dante's words from the Divine Comedy: there is no greater sorrow than to recall a time of happiness in misery.

 True enough, he thought; but who wants to remind me on a morning like this. He held the page to the skylight and could just distinguish a watermark: a crown on a sort of urn, with 'GR' beneath it. So the writer had access to official notepaper ...

 Suddenly he was back in the Tower, standing before a beautiful girl in a black cape who was pointing a pistol at him and demanding: "What's all this about L'amor che muove il sole e l’altre stelle?’So she'd sent the letter, writing jerkily because of the wound in her shoulder, on notepaper borrowed from the Viceroy. But what 'time of happiness' was she recalling?

 The steward entering the gunroom brought Ramage back to the present with a start: finding an officer standing naked under the skylight stopped the man as effectively as if he had walked into a wall, and he simply held out an armful of clothing.

 'Mr Dawlish, sir. One pair o' shoes is his, but the uvvers belong to uvver officers. Question of which of 'em fits, sir.'

'Quite - leave them in the cabin.'

 'And Mr Dawlish said to say for you to pass the word when you was ready, sir, 'cos the Provost Marshal's arrived, and the boat's due to leave in fifteen minutes, sir.'

In fifteen minutes one of the Trumpeter's cannon would fire, and the Union Flag would be run up at her mizen peak: the signal that a court martial was to be held, and warning everyone concerned to repair on board.

 Under the Regulations and Instructions, when the senior of five captains ordered a court martial he could also act as presi­dent; so that Croucher would preside today and be in the fortunate position of both accuser and judge.

 But, Ramage reflected, why think about it? Realizing he was still naked, he hurriedly washed: the water was almost cold because he had not noticed the steward bring it in.

 The surgeon, no doubt, was examining Lord Probus and writing the certificate which, by law, was necessary to excuse him from attending the court martial; the Master would be carrying out the usual morning routine of seeing the yards were squared, inspecting the rigging, and probably arranging for empty water casks to be sent on shore to be refilled; while the purser would be preparing to issue victuals. The lieutenants would have made sure the ship was spotless: the decks had been scrubbed at dawn, the brasswork polished with brickdust until it gleamed, and awnings rigged to keep the hot sun off the decks.

 The stockings were silk - a thoughtful gesture on Dawlish's part, since lieutenants could rarely afford them - and Ramage straightened them out, heaved on the breeches, tucked in the shirt and carefully tied the stock. The waistcoat and coat fitted quite well and were obviously Dawlish's best; but the shabbiest pair of shoes were the only ones that fitted. He could im­agine Pisano having difficulty in getting himself rigged out for the trial - there'd be nothing sufficiently elegant and gaudy to suit the Count's taste in Sir Gilbert's house....

Well, he was ready for the Provost Marshal, and he called to the sentry to pass the word for him to come down to the gunroom. Interesting to see whom Croucher had appointed, since only a flagship had a regular provost marshal.

 Someone came clattering down the after ladder and he heard the sentry salute. Suddenly there was a thump and a body hurtled headlong through the gunroom door. In the split second before the man fell flat on his face, cocked hat flying out  ahead of him and sword caught between his legs, Ramage recognized the pimply young lieutenant from the Trumpeter, Blenkinsop. Ramage swiftly snatched up the hat and hid it behind him. Blenkinsop, his face red, stood up, extricating from between his legs the offending sword which had catapulted him through the door, pulling his coat straight and tugging at his stock. He glanced round for his hat, barely con­scious in his embarrassment that Ramage was standing only a few feet away. He looked like an owl on a branch of a tree: the similarity was striking.

'Are you looking for this?' Ramage asked innocently, offer­ing the hat. 'It arrived a few moments before you.'

 'Thank you,' he answered stiffly. 'You are Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage?'

'Indeed I am,' he said politely.

 'Then I—' he paused, looking for the paper he had been holding as he fell.

 'I think you'll find that the warrant appointing you "Pro­vost Marshal on the occasion" has slipped under the table.'

 Blenkinsop went down on his knees to retrieve it, his hat falling off in the process. Finally, hat back on his head and the warrant unfolded, he began reading:

 'To Reginald Blenkinsop, a lieutenant of His Majesty's ship Trumpeter. Captain Aloysius Croucher, of His Majesty's ship Trumpeter and senior officer present at the port of Bastia, having ordered a court martial to be assembled to try Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, formerly of his late Majesty's ship—‘

'His Majesty's late ship,’ interrupted Ramage.

 '—formerly of His - His Majesty's late ship Sibella, for the loss of the said ship: the aforementioned Captain Croucher hereby authorizes and appoints you to officiate as Provost Marshal on this occasion; and you are to take the person of the said Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage into your custody, and him safely keep, until he shall be delivered by due course of law; and for so doing this shall be your warrant—'

 'Oh stow it,' Ramage interrupted impatiently, 'you must like the sound of your own voice.'

 'I'm duty bound to read this to you,' Blenkinsop said primly.

 'No, you're not. You are supposed to present it to the Captain of this ship as your authority to remove me. But you've already done that, naturally.'

 Blenkinsop looked embarrassed. 'Oh - well, I - I say, do I really have to?'

'Well, it's not for your prisoner to tell you what to do; but his Lordship might take a serious view of you removing one of his officers without showing him your authority.'

'Oh dear. Well, I'd better go and do that.'

 'Excellent! Capital!' said Ramage. 'But keep your voice low - his Lordship is on his sick bed. Run along, now: I'll wait for you on the gangway.'

 Ramage picked up Dawlish's sword, and collected the few papers he had to take with him. There was a letter from the Deputy Judge Advocate which had arrived the previous evening informing him - with an unbecoming briskness, he thought - that of the witnesses he had requested for his de­fence, only the Bosun and Carpenter's Mate would be avail­able. Ramage had noted down some facts about the wind and weather, times and casualties, and the courses steered before the Sibella’s surrender, but had not prepared the usual written defence, since he had no idea what accusations he would even­tually be facing.