He was just rolling up the chart when Southwick came down again. He came into the cabin and simply raised an eyebrow.

"Escorts' positions - and an extra ship joining the convoy," Ramage explained.

"Oh - I thought they were up to something."

"Not yet!"

"Extra ship? Where's she come from?"

"I don't know. Late arrival?"

"No," Southwick said. "They didn't lose anyone on the way out. Maybe a runner."

"I was thinking that."

"But why join the convoy now? His only chance of a profit is to get to Kingston a'fore the convoy and beat 'em to the market."

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "She's joined us, and one more to chase up won't make any difference."

Almost the last of the sixty-one names written in the Triton's current muster book, now locked in Ramage's desk, was Thomas Jackson, and the details entered in the various columns beside it recorded all that the Navy Board, Sick and Hurt Board, Admiralty and various other branches of the Navy would ever need to know about him. In the column headed Where and whether or not prest was written "vol.", showing that he had volunteered instead of being one of a press gang's haul.

In the next column, under Place and country where born, the neat copperplate handwriting recorded "Charleston, South Carolina" for Jackson. Compared with most entries in muster books, this was a wealth of detail, and showed that both the clerk making the original entry and the person it referred to could write and spell. A newcomer from a foreign town that was difficult to spell usually had only his country noted down. Various other columns yielded the information that Thomas Jackson, forty-one years old, was the captain's coxswain and had been serving since the beginning of the war.

Like any government form, the muster book failed to indicate that Thomas Jackson was a human being. It did not show, for instance, why a thin-faced, sandy-haired and wiry American was voluntarily serving in the Royal Navy, nor reveal that for the past couple of years he had rarely been more than a few yards from Lieutenant Ramage and had shared in all his adventures, narrow escapes and triumphs. Nor did it give a hint of the curious bond that existed between the two men as a result of those shared experiences.

Standing beside Jackson on the fo'c'sle just after dawn as theconvoy sailed from Barbados was another seaman who had had a share in many, although not all, of Ramage's exploits. Will Stafford, born twenty-seven years earlier in Bridewell Lane, in the city of London, was a true Cockney, with the perky humour that traditionally went with the accent. Stocky with curly brown hair, a round and open face, and a confident, jaunty manner, he had a habit of rubbing a thumb and forefinger together, like a tailor feeling cloth.

An observant person might well have been curious about Stafford's hands: although the skin was tough and coarsened by handling ropes, scrubbing decks, polishing brightwork with brickdust and a dozen other tasks, they were delicately shaped, and he was very proud of the fact that before he was pressed into the Navy they had been deliberately kept soft. His original trade was locksmith but he was not afraid to admit that he had not always worked in daylight, nor invariably at the request of the owner of the lock. Working at night was more risky but a lot more profitable.

"Nah," Stafford said, waving a hand at the merchantmen, "never did like all this work wiv a fleet."

"Hardly a fleet!"

"Well, there's an admiral, ain't there? Anyway, I didn't mean it literalilly." He paused a moment, cocking his head to one side, then corrected himself. "I mean literalally."

"If your tongue was a key, you'd never get a door open."

"Not a lock yet made..." Stafford said airily. "What I'm tryin' ter say, Jacko, is that I like it better when we're on our own. None of these admirals waving flags so's we run rahnd like kids at a Michaelmas fair."

"Count yourself lucky you're not like me and responsible for reading the blasted signals," Jackson said.

"Can't read nor write proper. Keeps me off jobs like that."

"You really can't read?" Jackson did not hide his disbelief.

"Well, I can akshly, but I don't let on."

"Why not?"

"Where I was born, mate, it don't always pay ter let on. 'Ere, Jacko, ever bin ter Jamaica afore?"

"No."

"Ain't it near where you comes from?"

"Yes - as near as Gibraltar from where you come from."

Stafford sniffed. "Hm. Ever thought of going back? Ter Charleystown, I mean. After all, yer got a Protection; they'd 'ave ter let yer go. Or y'could run."

"Nothing in Charleston for me."

"Wot, no family?"

"No."

"Only us lot, eh?" Stafford commented. "Mr Ramage an' Mr Southwick, an' me an' Rosey... ?"

Jackson nodded, and the moment Stafford realized the American was serious he said quietly: " 'Ere, Jacko, I was only jokin' about runnin'; never could see you desertin'. But yer mean it, about no family an' no friends?"

"Yes. The ship's my home. Gives me a big family, too," Jackson added dryly.

"Cor, well, s'funny you should say that, Jacko; that's 'ow I feel. In uvver ships I've always looked rahnd fer a chansk ter run. Now it'd be like leavin' 'ome."

"Ever thought why?"

"Well, got a good bunch o' messmates, fer once."

"Wrong," Jackson said. "Half wrong, anyway. You've got a good bunch o' messmates because Mr Ramage picked 'em. Trained 'em, anyway."

"I know that!" Stafford said scornfully. "That's wot I meant. It always depends on the capting whether or not a ship's 'appy. Speshly a small ship."

Jackson ran his hand through his hair, which was beginning to recede.

"Better stop that; you'll be bald soon enough," Stafford warned amiably.

Jackson laughed, and suddenly Stafford asked suspiciously: " 'Ere, wotcher keep lookin' at that ship for? Any women on deck?"

The American, watching the Peacock, said: "That's the one that's just joined the convoy. Her sails have got an odd cut - just look at the roach. And she's floating so high: can't be above half laden."

"Where'd she come from? 'Ere, you sure there ain't any women?"

"Yes. From the Atlantic, as far as I could see."

"Might be a light cargo. Bulky and light. Clorth, silk, that sort o' thing."

"Maybe she's a runner. But her sheer - and that forefoot. There's something -"

"Flagship," Stafford interrupted.

Jackson snatched up the telescope, looked at the flags flying from the Lion, glanced at his list, and called: "Captain, sir! Flagship to convoy: To bear away, and sail before the wind."

Ramage said, "Very well; repeat it."

Southwick walked over to him.

"'Bout time," he grumbled. "Thinks he's manoeuvring a squadron off Spithead. He'll never see this bunch of mules in such good order again."

Ramage grinned and pulled his hat forward. "If he does, he'd soon be ordering us to send over carpenter's mates to repair the damage after they ran aboard each other!"

"Captain, sir," Jackson called. "Flagship to convoy, For all ships to come under my stern."

"Repeat it."

The escorts simply repeated the Admiral's orders, hoisting the same signal so every ship in the convoy could see it.

"Follow father," Southwick grunted. "But let's hope he knows where he's going."

Once the convoy got out of the lee of Barbados it was much cooler on board the Triton: the damp, cloying atmosphere of Carlisle Bay was left behind as they sailed into the brisk freshness of the Trade winds.

The sea was now a deep blue and frequent shoals of flying fish emerged like silver darts, dropping back into the water after a brief flight a few inches above the waves. Out of the wind, the sun was scorching; the decks were still uncomfortably hot - no one stood still unless he had to - and the pitch between the seams was as soft as when the caulker first poured it. But in the wind seamen moved without bothering to seek out the shade and went less frequently to get a mug of water at the scuttle butt. The burly and red-faced Marine sentry guarding the water supply looked less wilted, although he was careful to hold his cutlass out of the sun. The heat could make metal unbearably hot to touch in less than a quarter of an hour.