Southwick slapped his knee with delight - he'd obviously been thinking of a few seconds - and the men were laughing as the Master dismissed them. Southwick and all except those on watch went below. Ramage, disappointed Gianna did not stay on deck now the Kathleen was under way once again, decided against sending for her to enjoy the breeze with him because she might be sleeping. Then for no apparent reason he suddenly felt uneasy, and he remembered how his mother sometimes shivered and said, 'Someone's walking over my grave!'

When he was sober, John Smith the Second looked sly and foxy, an impression heightened by his small, wiry body; but once he had sunk his tot of rum - and any others he'd won by gambling - his features softened and the shifty eyes settled down so his drink-mottled face had the blissful look of a poacher after a successful night's raid on the squire's game preserves. Rated in the muster book as an able seaman, and listed as 'the Second' to distinguish him from another seaman of the same name, Smith was also the Kathleen's band. He had a fiddle which, as long as he was not sober, he enjoyed playing, and Sunday was his busy day. He played hymns for the service in the forenoon, and in the afternoon sat on the barrel of the windlass scraping away as the men danced.

Ramage had been on watch for half an hour and although he valued Smith both as a seaman and a means of keeping the men happy, the sawing of the fiddle was an outrage to a musical ear; so much so that Ramage felt he could cheerfully shoot the fiddle out of John Smith the Second's nimble fingers.

Suddenly he remembered the case of duelling pistols which the Viceroy of Corsica, Sir Gilbert Elliot, an old friend of his family, had sent on board at Bastia as a present when he heard Ramage had been given his first command. He had not yet had time to try them out, and now was a good opportunity. He passed the word and a few moments later Jackson had the brass-edged mahogany case open on the cabin skylight, wiping off the protective film of oil from both the pistols. They were a beautiful matched pair made by Joseph Manton, whose lion and unicorn label was stuck inside the lid of the case. Each gun had a long hexagonal barrel and a rich-grained walnut stock.

Ramage picked up one of them. It was perfectly balanced. The stock fitted into his palm as though the pistol was a natural extension of his arm; his index finger curled round the trigger as if the gun had been specially made for his hand. And the mahogany case was fitted with a mould for casting shot, a stamp for cutting out wads, flasks of powder and a box of extra flints. The set was, Ramage thought, a credit to the gunmaker of Hanover Square, and he richly deserved the proud announcement on the label, 'Gun Maker to His Majesty'.

In the meantime Jackson had loaded the other pistol.

'It's a lovely piece, sir,' he said, handing it to Ramage. 'I'll go down and get some bits of wood from the carpenter's mate to use as targets.'

'And pass the word to ignore the sound of shots!' Ramage said.

A few minutes later Jackson was back with a bundle of wood under his arm. Ramage, who had loaded the second pistol, climbed up on to the breech of the aftermost carronade, balancing himself against the roll of the ship. He sighted with the pistol in his right hand, then tried the left.

'Right, Jackson, throw over the largest piece!'

The wood arched up into the air and splashed into the sea several yards off and began drawing away as the ship sailed on.

Ramage had cocked the pistol and brought up his right arm straight from his side, sighted along the flat top of the barrel, and squeezed the trigger. A tiny plume of water, like a feather, jumped up two yards beyond the piece of wood.

'All right for traverse but too much elevation sir!' Jackson called.

Almost at once Ramage fired the second pistol with his left hand. The wood jumped and the shot whined off in ricochet.

'Phew,' commented Jackson. 'Left-handed, too!'

Ramage grinned. It had been a lucky shot because usually he had a tendency to pull a pistol to the left when firing with his left hand.

He gave both pistols back to Jackson to re-load and as he jumped down from the carronade he saw Gianna coming up the companionway.

'Accidente!' she exclaimed. 'Are the enemy in sight?'

'Target practice - I'm trying out the pistols Sir Gilbert gave me.'

Southwick came up, and then Antonio joined them and watched Jackson as he rammed the shot home.

'Duelling pistols, Nico? Surely they're rather long in the barrel for use in a ship?'

'Yes - but a pleasant change. Our Sea Service models are so heavy on the trigger you need to jam the muzzle in a man's stomach to be sure of hitting him. But these - just a touch on the trigger.'

Gianna took the pistol Jackson had loaded.

'Careful,' Ramage warned.

She looked at him scornfully, lifted her skirts and scrambled on to the carronade.

'Look, you see that bit of weed? I'll hit it! You'll wager me?'

'One cestesimo.'

'More. Two - hurry!'

Without waiting for a reply she cocked the pistol and fired. The shot sent up a tiny spurt of water several feet beyond the piece of floating weed.

"The ship moved!'

'You didn't allow for the roll!'

'It's not fair. I do not pay. Let's have a proper match. You and your knife and me with this pistol.'

'Match or duel?' Ramage asked wryly.

'Match - to begin with.'

'Be careful, Nico,' warned Antonio. 'Don't forget her mother wanted a son and brought her up as a boy! She shoots like a hunter, rides like a jockey and gambles like a fool!'

Gianna gave a mock curtsy from atop the carronade. 'Thank you, cousin Antionio. You see, Nico how close are the family ties among Italians!'

'Tell me, Nico,' interrupted Antonio, 'surely throwing a knife isn't part of a sailor's training?'

Ramage laughed. 'No - that's Italian training! When my parents lived in Italy - they did for a few years - we had a Sicilian coachman. He taught me.'

'Come on,' Gianna exclaimed impatiently. 'Jackson will throw something into the sea and I hit it at the count of ten. You, Nico,' she looked round 'you have to hit the mast with your knife while standing by that steering stick thing.'

'The tiller.'

'Yes, the tiller. That's fair, I think. And the stakes?'

'Un cestesimo.'

'You are a gambler. Can't you afford more?'

'I'm only a poor lieutenant, Ma'am!'

'You can afford more, though.'

Although her voice was still bantering he knew she was not joking. He looked puzzled and she pointed to his left hand. When he lifted it she indicated the gold signet ring with the rampant griffin crest on his little finger.

'All right, then,' he said reluctantly, 'my signet ring against—'

Still holding the pistol, she had turned her right hand just enough to let him see the heavy gold ring she was wearing on the middle finger.

'—against the ring you are wearing.'

'Oh no!' she exclaimed. 'That's not fair!'

He knew her too well. 'That or no match.'

Shrugging her shoulders with apparent ill grace she said, 'Very well. But if you win the first time you give me another chance.'

Ramage was just going to refuse when he realized her subtlety: if she lost and then won, they could exchange rings without anyone knowing. It was childish but he felt elated: their secret was a secret yet they took pleasure in almost flaunting it.

'All right, but Antonio must hold the stakes,' he said, pulling off his signet ring. He turned to call for Jackson and saw he and Southwick were standing near by, Southwick holding a small wooden cask.

'This do as a target, sir?'