'Langara's replacement?' Ramage exclaimed. 'I've heard nothing of that! Why, he's been back in port only two days.'

'Langara himself heard only when he arrived in Cartagena. In fact,' the Consul could not help adding, the brandy getting the better of discretion, 'I was in the curious position of knowing even before the admiral.'

Ramage nodded knowingly and said, 'You obviously have influential friends in Madrid - and a fast messenger!'

Would the Consul fall into the trap and, in correcting him, reveal his source?

'I have influential friends in Madrid, yes; but I don't need my own messenger,' he said enigmatically, then deliberately turned the conversation by adding, 'Aren't you interested to know the name of the new admiral, and why Langara was replaced?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Langara has gone to Madrid to be the new Minister of Marine: I assume to liven up the Navy. The new admiral is Don Josef de Cordoba.'

'Has he arrived here yet?'

'No, and I doubt if he'll hurry himself.'

'Why, isn't the Fleet going to sail again soon?'

'No - they've been given at least four weeks in which to refit, and from what I hear they need every minute of it. Anyway, I'm sure Admiral Cordoba won't want to arrive here until his house is prepared for him!'

The Consul spoke ironically and Ramage laughed. 'Yes - they must air the bed, polish the silver and stock the cellar. Is he going to be a neighbour of yours?'

'No - he's taken a house near the Castillo de Despenna Perros. But my dear young man, forgive me: your glass is empty!'

Again the servant was called, and again the glasses were filled.

'Your health, Mr. Gilray.'

Ramage raised his glass. The risk involved in calling on the Consul and revealing, by inference rather than a direct statement, that he was not simply a seaman, had so far been more than worth while. But he was curious to know if he'd been right in not risking telling the Consul his real name. If the old chap knew, would it lead to him sharing more of the information he was getting about the Spanish Fleet, or throwing Ramage out of the house?

'You spoke of Cornwall yesterday, sir. You were born there?'

The Consul put down his glass and settled more comfortably in his chair. 'Yes - I spent the first twenty years of my life there. Or most of it, anyway. My family were Bristol merchants and shipowners trading with America. My father went to Bristol once a week, otherwise we lived - well, in some comfort, at St. Teath, while his partner, my uncle, lived in New York running affairs there. And then the War came ... Soon we had lost all but one of our ships, and all our American market, so we could not do business elsewhere. Naturally we were quickly impoverished. Fortunately my uncle had foreseen much of what would happen - I fear my father tended to ignore his advice - and had begun other commercial enterprises in America which were not so badly affected by the war and increased considerably at Independence. He had no children, and I had no inheritance to come from my father ... so I joined my uncle in New York.'

'So you are an American citizen by accident, almost'

'Yes - but when I see a young Englishman like you, with your life of adventure, I think I envy you. Mainly, of course, I envy you your years!' he added with a smile. 'Yes, if I was twenty now, I think I'd like to be English again.'

Ramage knew at once there was nothing to be gained by revealing his real name; the Consul would help as much as he was inclined without that.

As if reading his thoughts, the Consul said quietly, 'You still have your duty to do, I suppose, hence the - ah, gentle subterfuge, Are you alone?'

Ramage shook his head. 'Mercifully, no.'

'But with three men...'

'Six - I have a Dane, a Genoese and a West Indian as well.'

The Consul laughed. 'The world - in a microcosm - in arms against the Directory! These men are reliable? They won't disappear in an emergency? After all, not one of them owes you any loyalty as far as the Spanish authorities are concerned, although you personally are safe enough while you have that - that, ah, Protection. Without it you could be shot as an English spy - you realize that?'

'Yes, but I think they are loyal. I hope so. The one real American, Jackson, certainly is.'

'I trust you'll forgive this question,' the Consul said, looking into his glass. 'You were genuinely captured? I mean, it was an accident of war? Your Protection...?'

'Or are the English deliberately planting spies in Cartagena?' Ramage said with a grin. 'No, I'm afraid it was all too much of an accident: we were caught by the whole Spanish Fleet: I have a Protection simply because one of the seamen had prudently acquired an extra one without the details filled in.'

'A wise move. All the Protections are genuine documents, incidentally, although I noticed the details of yours were written in a different ink from the notary's. I asked that man how much he paid for his merely to see his reaction. It was clear only one man was a genuine American.'

Again Ramage laughed and as the Consul joined in, looking up at the ceiling, Ramage emptied his glass into the tub. At this rate he'd soon be able to see the oleander growing - or swaying.

By the time Ramage left, to be back at the inn before curfew, the Consul was happily drunk and insistent that Ramage soon paid him another visit. All the men appeared to be asleep, but as Ramage crept to his bed he heard Jackson whisper, 'Everything all right, sir?'

'Yes - he's friendly enough.'

The small amount of brandy Ramage had drunk was not enough to soften the mattress. He tried to sort out from the rambling conversation exactly what the Consul had revealed. Admiral Cordoba had been given command of the Fleet and a house was being prepared for him. Typically Spanish, that: too fond of comfort to live on board his flagship, even though it was the largest ship of war afloat. With four weeks to refit, the Fleet would be ready to sail, allowing for a few delays, by mid-January. The admiral wouldn't be concerned with the refitting, so could arrive in early January.

The Consul's source of information was not from friends at Court and he'd given a curious answer when Ramage had referred to 'a fast messenger'. What had the old man said? - 'I have good friends in Madrid, yes; but I don't need my own messenger'. There'd been a slight and probably unwitting emphasis on 'my own', as though he relied on someone else's messenger. He wasn't relying on a spy close to Admiral Langara since he'd known of the replacement before Langara.

Ramage knew instinctively that the Consul had told him more than he intended and more than Ramage himself yet realized, and a little thought should reveal what it was. Not the Consul's messenger, but someone else's, and not a spy in Langara's staff: that much was certain. So - how did the information come to Cartagena? Start at the beginning. Probably the King decided. He would tell the Minister of Marine that Cordoba should replace Langara. Normally the minister would write to Langara - and to Cordoba, if he was not in Madrid. That letter would be sent by messenger here to Cartagena and given to Langara, or kept here until he arrived with the Fleet. Of course! Sent by a messenger... ‘I don't need my own messenger!''

Yet a messenger of the Ministry of Marine could not be in the Consul's pay because messengers would change: there was obviously a regular messenger service between Madrid and the main ports, Cadiz, Cartagena and Barcelona, just as there was between London and Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth. It must be all of two hundred and fifty miles to Madrid from here, mostly across the province of Murcia, which was fairly mountainous, with a high range running parallel with the coast. The condition of Spanish roads was notorious, so the messenger would ride on horseback rather than by carriage, and would probably stay at least two nights at regular inns. Could the Consul have someone at one of the inns who abstracted letters from the messenger's bag, opened, read and re-sealed them?