The helmsman sealed the matter with a joyful shout, "Three cheers for Cap'n Marlowe, we've a weddin' aboard!"

Lunch was a hilarious pre-wedding feast, just two or three glasses of wine to test and taste the rare quality, not too much food, the rest put aside for later, all of them too excited and too anxious to begin. Once he had made the decision Marlowe ordered the ship out to sea under full sail and became their most enthusiastic supporter, wanting the ceremony to be memorable and perfect.

But before proposing a prenuptial toast at the end of the meal, he said gravely, "God knows if it'll really be legal, but I can find nothing in Naval Regs that says it won't be, or it can't be done, nothing refers to the age of the persons, only that both must formally agree before witnesses that they freely give their consent, and they sign an affidavit that's entered by me in the ship's log. Once we get ashore, all hell and or congratulations will break out and you may have to, perhaps should go through a church ceremony--both Churches will scream bloody murder at our effort anyway."

Angelique heard an undercurrent. "But, John, it's all right, isn't it? Malcolm's told me about oppositions and as to Father Leo ..." Her nose crinkled with distaste. "You won't get into trouble, will you?"

"Perish the thought, Admiral's given permission," Marlowe told her more grandly than he really felt. "Enough said, here's to your healths, and to future generations!"

Angelique began to get up to drink too but Struan stopped her. "Sorry, darling, it's bad luck to drink your own health, just an old custom, and aboard Royal Navy ships you drink toasts sitting down."

"Oh, sorry." Her sleeve caught a glass, tapped it against another and a bell-like ringing began. At once both Marlowe and Struan reached over and stopped it.

Malcolm said, "Sorry, darling, just another old seafaring superstition. If you let the ringing of a glass die of its own accord somewhere in the world a sailor drowns."

"Oh." Her face lost its glow. "I wish I'd known, so many times in the past..."

"Not to worry," Marlowe said quickly. "If you don't know, then the superstition doesn't count.

Right, Malcolm?"

"Yes, you're right again. I would like to propose a toast, Angelique, to John Marlowe, Captain, Royal Navy, gentleman and the best friend we have!"

The small cabin was filled with animated talk and laughter and then Lloyd announced that all was ready on deck. A last kiss, so tender between them, and they had gone aloft and stood there, hand in hand, both committed.

The ship was into wind, her sails and spars trembling. Those of the ship's company who could be spared were lined up, slickered and spruced, facing the quarterdeck where Malcolm and Angelique stood before the Captain. He was flanked by an honor guard of two Marines.

He opened Navy Regs to the right page and motioned to the Marine bugler who sounded a clarion call, the Bosun blew on his pipe and the company came to attention. "We are gathered here as witnesses to the marriage of these two people in the sight of God..."

The swell of the sea did not touch them, nor the wind that was gusting more than before. Around the horizon were nimbus clouds, not yet threatening but potentially dangerous. Overhead the sky was still clear, and Marlowe wondered, briefly, if the weather was an omen. No cause for alarm yet, he thought. The ceremony was quickly over, strangely fast for all of them, for Struan almost an anticlimax. He had used the signet ring from his little finger as the wedding ring. It was too big for her but she held it solidly, staring at it with disbelief. "I now pronounce you man and wife."

As they kissed there were three rousing cheers, Marlowe called out, "Splice the mainbrace!" the order for a tot of rum for all the company, to more cheers.

"Mrs. Struan, may I be the first to congratulate you."

Angelique threw her arms around him passionately, tears of joy on her cheeks.

"Thank you, thank you."

"Nothing," Marlowe said, embarrassed, then shook Struan's hand. "Congratulations, old man. Why don't we--" A short gust crackled the canvas. "Why don't you two go below and I'll join you in a moment," he said, then turned away and forgot them, tending his ship.

"Let her fall off the wind, Number One.

Set course for Yokohama, under sail until further orders. We'll steam to our moorings--we may be in for a wetting. Signalman, give me your pad. When we're in range of the flagship, send this."

Edward Gornt sat comfortably in the bay window of the Brock Building, his feet propped on a chair, idly watching the bay. The rim of clouds had spread and promised storm, though at this time of the year they could as quickly evaporate.

Behind him Norbert Greyforth sat at his desk engrossed in paperwork. They had seen Pearl sail off over the horizon but put no special meaning on it. "Part of their trial, suh, I suppose," Gornt had said. "Still can't figure what could be aboard that's so important."

Norbert had nodded, secretly amused, and returned to signing and checking documents and manifests. A Brock freighter was in harbor, due to sail in a few days and the last of her cargo from Japan had to be accounted for: fifty pounds of silkworm eggs for the French market--thirty to fifty thousand eggs to the ounce--bales of raw silk, and silk cloth for the London market, lacquer goods, barrels of sak`e they were trying to introduce into the English market, and also for Japanese in the Philippines, cheap pottery as ballast, coal--anything and everything that could find a market, together with the remains of her inbound cargo that had not been sold and would be traded on her return journey. Some guns and opium in special cases.

"Cigar?" Gornt asked.

"Thanks." They lit the thin cheroots, enjoying them.

"I've made a date with McFay to finalize arrangements for tomorrow, suh."

"Good." Norbert blew a cloud of smoke and signed the last of the documents. He rang a bell. In a moment his chief clerk and shroff came in. "This is the lot, Periera."

"Yes, Senhor." This small, fair man with slightly oriental eyes, was--as with most companies--Eurasian from Macao. "What about the specials, Senhor?"

"They stay off the manifest and in the Captain's care."

"There's a rumor that the Navy is going to board and check cargo at random."

"Let them. None of our specials are illegal, by God, whatever the hell the fool Struans do." Norbert dismissed him, then gave his full attention on Gornt. Something had made him suspicious. "Edward, perhaps I should call the duel off, tell Struan tonight I'll accept his compromise, the trap's baited, isn't it? I let him go to Hong Kong to get deeper in the shit, thinking he's won. Eh?"

"You could. But why spare him a night of fear?

He has to be afraid--why comfort him? Would he comfort you?"

Norbert looked at him and saw the thin upper lip and how it seemed to curl slightly with malicious delight. He laughed to himself, thinking about how special tonight could have been for Struan if Ketterer was a different man, and that, now more than ever, thought of the duel will take away what remained of Struan's sleep. "I didn't think you'd fit in with us, the Brocks. Revenge is sweet for you too?"

"Me, suh?" Gornt's eyebrows soared.

"I was thinking of you--I'm to serve you, wasn't that the idea?"

"It was indeed." Norbert hid his smile deep inside. "Tomorrow then, but now we'll..."

His sharp eyes caught a smudge on the horizon through the window behind Gornt. "Is that Pearl?" He got up and went to the window, also training his glasses. It was the frigate all right.

"Steady as she goes," Norbert said softly and Gornt wondered what he meant. Pearl was in the process of furling her sails, black clouds behind her. "Wind's picked up out there,"