'So I have to rescue them from the Tower.'

'Exactly.'

'That doesn't sound too bad, sir.'

 ‘I haven't finished yet. While this was going on the schooner came back, had a good look, and obviously made all speed for Macinaggio to raise the alarm. One of the Belette's lieutenants and a seaman were sent off to Bastia for help.'

'Where are they now?'

 'The seaman's dead - he fell down a ravine - and the lieutenant is in hospital: his feet are raw and he's utterly exhausted.'

'So I—'

'So you sail before daylight tomorrow with the cutter Kath­leen and get the Belettes out of that Tower.'

'Sounds more like a job for soldiers, sir.'

 'Oh, certainly: you can see we've hundreds to spare in Bastia.'

'Sorry, sir: I was thinking aloud.'

‘Well,' said Probus, 'you'd better think better than that. You can take it from me, as far as the Commodore's concerned, you're still on trial.'

 By the time the boat took him over to the Kathleen the sun had dropped below Mount Pigno and Bastia and the anchorage was almost in darkness. Ramage thought of Lord Probus's last words. He'd already a plan in mind for the rescue, and his remark about soldiers - which Probus had taken as lack of enthusiasm - was meant as a joke.

 Towers seemed to be looming large in his life these days: the Torre di Buranaccio, and now the Tour Rouge. Why red? Probably the colour of the stone used to build it. Towers and trials. Did Probus mean he was on trial in the sense the Commodore was trying him out, testing him? Or that he was expected to make a mess of this job as well and so... he delib­erately stopped himself thinking any more about it: if he wasn't careful he'd soon think every man's hand was turned against him.

WILLING AND requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and com­mand of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said cutter to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments, with all due respect and obedience unto you, their said captain ... Hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril...'

 Ramage finished reading his commission in as loud a voice as he could muster without shouting, the wind whipping the words from his mouth, and rolled up the stiff rectangle of parchment. He looked at the fifty or so men standing in a half-circle round him on the cutter's flush decks. Both he and they had heard a captain 'read himself in' many times before, legally establishing himself as commanding officer; luckily they'd never know his schoolboyish elation now he was doing it himself. Even the sonorous words took on a new significance - particularly the phrase about failing 'at your peril ...'

 Well, they looked an efficient ship's company. The Master, Henry Southwick, was middle-aged and tubby; he had a jolly face and seemed popular and competent, judging by the way the seamen responded when he'd ordered them aft as Ramage came on board. The Master's Mate, John Appleby, was a former midshipman waiting for his twentieth birthday so that he could take his examination for lieutenant. A cutter did not rate a bosun, but the Bosun's Mate, Evan Evans, was a thin and doleful Welshman whose nose, bulbous and purple, obviously had an unerring instinct for pointing into a mug of grog.

 After reading himself in, it was usual for the new captain to make a little speech to the ship's company which, depending on his personality, was full of threats, encouragements or platitudes. Ramage could think of nothing to say, yet the men expected a few words - it gave them a chance to size up their new captain.

 'Well, I'm told you're good seamen. You'd better be, because in a few hours' time the Kathleen's going to try something which'll either give you a good yarn to spin to your children or make 'em orphans.'

 The men laughed and waited for him to continue. Blast, that was supposed to be the end of his speech. Still, now was the chance to explain why they were going to risk their necks: it might well make them work that much faster when the time came. He described how the Belettes were marooned in the Tour Rouge and ended by saying: 'If we don't go and take 'em by the hand and lead 'em home, the French'll make butcher's meat of 'em - and if we make any mistake we'll be put down as "Discharged Dead" - that's if I remember to send the muster book to the Navy Board before I drown.'

 With that the men roared with laughter and gave a cheer - a spontaneous bellow of enthusiasm and amusement. The fools, he thought; already, on no better evidence than flatulent claptrap, they'd put their trust in him. But before sunset tomorrow, if he misjudged a certain distance by as much as a foot, they'd all be dead ... But fools or not, they were willing and loyal, which was all that mattered.

 'Very well,' he said. 'Fall out the ship's company. Carry on, Mr Southwick!'

He walked aft a few feet to the companionway and went down the narrow steps to his box of a cabin. Even with his neck bent so much that he was forced to look down at the deck he could not stand upright. The small lantern in gimbals on the bulkhead showed the cabin was furnished with a cot, a tiny desk, cupboard and rickety chair.

 He opened the only drawer in the desk and found the Kathleen's muster book. Looking at the names he saw they were the usual mixed bag - the column headed 'Where born' re­vealed a couple of Portuguese, a Genoese, a Jamaican, a Frenchman and, last on the list, an American. He glanced across the page at the name and saw it was Jackson's - he'd already been entered as cox'n, just above his own name, 'Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage ... As per commission dated October 19th, 1796 ... Bastia.' The Master had made sure the paper work was up to date, Ramage noted with relief: the Kathleen's previous commanding officer had suddenly been taken to hospital several days before.

 Glancing through the captain's order and letter book, he saw they contained only routine matters. Later he'd have to sign receipts for them and signal books, inventories and a host of other papers; but for the moment there were more important tasks. He called to the sentry at the door, 'Pass the word for the Master and tell him to bring his charts.'

Southwick was with him in a moment, a roll of charts under his arm.

 'What's the condition of the sails and standing and run­ning rigging, Mr Southwick?'

'Typical Mediterranean, sir,' Southwick said bitterly. 'Can't get a scrap of new stuff. All the running rigging's been turned end for end half a dozen times. Sails are as ripe as pears – and more patches than original cloths. The whole bloody outfit ought to have been condemned a year ago. Masts, spars and hull are sound though, thank God.'

'What about the ship's company?'

'First-class, sir, and I mean it. Being as we're so small, we've mostly been on our own and always at sea. None of the hanging around in harbour that rots the men.'

 'Fine,' said Ramage. 'Now let's have a look at the chart for this coast to the northward.'

Southwick spread it on the desk, putting the muster book on one end to prevent it rolling up.

 Briefly Ramage outlined their task while taking a pair of dividers from a rack over the desk and measuring off the distance to the headland on which the Tour Rouge stood, and comparing it with the latitude scale at the side of the chart. Fourteen minutes of latitude, so it was fourteen sea miles. The wind was now west and by dawn he could reckon on half a gale. Sails and rigging not too good; but the rescue was urgent. He needed daylight for the operation. A couple of hours from weighing anchor should see them off the Tower, allowing for a tack or two at the headland to size up the situation.