"PM 3 wind SE by E, light, swell from E, ship's company employed a.t.s.r., convoy making 4 knots..." He hated abbreviations, but the phrase "as the service required" was used so often there was no choice. "Opened cask of salt beef, marked 54 pieces, contained 51," a common indication of the dishonesty of contractors. Then he settled down to the previous evening's events.

"7.45 sighted number 78 (Peacock) leave her position, subsequently opened fire on her to prevent attack on 71 (Topaz), 10.20 resumed original position, wind ESE, light..."

He read it over again. It was as brief as he dare make it, but there was almost bound to be a court-martial, and as far as he could see it would be a matter of luck who would be accused. If Goddard had his way, it would be Lieutenant Ramage: if Sir Pilcher Skinner was intelligent and impartial, it would be Rear-Admiral Goddard.

Ramage was beginning to realize that the Topaz carried one of the most powerful of the French families in exile. A wise commander-in-chief would sacrifice a rear-admiral to placate such influential people, but from all accounts Sir Pilcher was not intelligent; he would probably agree with Goddard that a lieutenant was a more suitable sacrifice.

Ramage shut the journal, screwed the cap on the ink bottle and wiped the nib of his pen. If there was a court-martial, his journal would be needed as evidence. All the previous entries were taciturn or lazily brief, depending on one's point of view. The words he had just written gave nothing away, but did not reveal too obviously that they'd been written with the possibility of a court-martial in mind.

He found himself staring at the column of mercury in the weather glass. It had dropped slightly for the third day running. No longer was there the slight, twice daily rise and fall; now there was only the fall.

Within a few hours the whole sky was covered in a high haze which left the sun looking like a whorl of red paint made by the thumb of a violent and insane artist, and long high streaks of cloud started moving in from the east. The surface of the sea seemed oily and heavy with menace. The wind had died away fitfully until finally every ship in the convoy was lying lifeless, each ship's bow pointing in a different direction. Lifeless but not still: the swell waves persisted after the wind waves died away, still not high but long, measured from crest to crest. Ships lying west and east pitched heavily as the crests passed under them from stern to bow, or bow to stern; but ships lying north and south rolled violently without the wind pressing in the sails. In every master's mind was the danger of his ship rolling her masts out; the whiplash movement of a ship swinging violently like an inverted pendulum put an enormous strain not only on the masts but on the long yards. The thick rope of the rigging vibrated as the loading alternated with the rolling.

Ramage sent for Southwick to come to his cabin and, when the Master arrived, looked up from the seat at the desk.

"I was just setting the men to overhauling tackles," Southwick said. "I don't think we've a lot of time left."

"That's what I wanted to talk about. As we are part of the escort I can't do anything until the Admiral hoists a signal. The signal might be later than we'd like so we're likely to have a number of things to do in a hurry.

"First will be small sails out of the tops. Then down t'gallant yards and masts. I want them properly lashed down on deck: assume a sea might sweep us clean. Studding sail booms down off the yards ... spanker boom and gaff - down and well lashed below the bulwarks. Preventer braces on the yards ... relieving tackle on the tiller, and make sure the spare tiller is where we can get at it ... all the axes available. Issue tomahawks: they'll serve as small axes ... Can you think of anything else?"

Southwick had been counting off the items on his fingers and shook his head. "No, but I wish we'd worked out something for the boats."

The boats, stowed over the hatchways, were hoisted in and out by tackles on the main yard. Ramage and Southwick had tried to devise a safe way of dumping them over the side in an emergency, but had been unable to think of anything.

"It shouldn't be too difficult to relieve ourselves of the carronades."

Southwick grimaced. "Hope we don't get as far as doing that: I reckon that's about the last goodbye to mother."

"Our fore and main trysails - I hope they're not as mildewed as those in most ships."

"The bosun's mate is going over them now. Material is sound enough; he's checking over the stitching and reef points. He's strengthening wherever he can."

"It's not being left to him to decide?"

"No, sir - I've just gone over both sails with him. We're laying a few more cloths on the tabling. Doubtful whether it'll do any good: just making tack, clew and head stronger than the rest of the sail."

"Well, if the roping holds, it makes it easier to mend. Just panels going!"

"Just panels." Southwick sniffed. "Finest and heaviest flax there is!"

"It might never blow, Mr Southwick, in which case we'll never know."

"I'd be happy to die of old age completely ignorant of hurricanes."

"Me too, but the longer we stay at sea, the more the odds turn against us."

Ramage picked up his hat and the two men walked back up on deck.

The sky to the west was a cold, coppery colour - a colour so unlike anything normally occurring in nature that its very strangeness was frightening. The reflection of the sky gave everything a coppery hue: the flax sails, normally raw umber with a touch of burnt sienna, the bare wood of the decks, the brasswork of fittings. Even the bright red, royal blue and gilt of the small carved crown on top of the capstan was distorted by the sun's strange lacquering.

Southwick sucked his teeth and shuddered. "Horrible. You can almost taste it. Like sucking a penny."

That's about it, Ramage thought, a colour that gives the impression of taste; a physical presence, like cold, only instead of chilling it frightened. There was a curious tension on board the Triton - something he'd never really seen before in a ship of war - it was not the same when they went into action. There was a slight rounding of men's shoulders as they walked the deck doing various jobs. They hadn't the jauntiness that was normally so obvious. Each man seemed in the grip of a private fear.

Up on the fo'c'sle, Jackson was working with Rossi, Stafford and six other seamen, stitching reinforcing patches into the fore trysail. The men were sitting on the deck, their legs under the sail, looking like old women mending nets on a beach. Each had a heavy leather palm strapped to his right hand to help drive the needle through the cloth.

Jackson leaned back and groaned. "My back ... I feel like an old man."

"It's not me back; it's me 'and," Stafford grumbled. "This 'ere palm 'as blistered me 'and."

"Don't tell the bosun," Rossi said. "It is the proof you never do any work."

Stafford sniffed. "Ever been through an 'urricane, Jacko?"

When the American shook his head, another seaman said, "What d'you think it's like?"

"Windy," Stafford interrupted as he dug the sail needle into the material.

"Not in the middle," Jackson said. "They say it's flat calm in the eye and the sun shines."

"Ho yus," Stafford exclaimed. "An' all the women 'anging their washin' up ter dry, no doubt."

"Well, you'll soon meet one..."

" 'Ere, Jacko, you reckon - reely?"

Jackson nodded. "Yes - you'll see, it blows like the devil until you're in the middle; then the wind drops, it stops raining, the sun comes out and everything's lovely."

"You said the middle," Rossi said warily. "Then what happenings?"

"Well, just as soon as folk like Staff are out there hanging up their washing, it comes on to blow even harder from the opposite direction."