And how right the old man was. Yesterday the ship's corn-many were mutinous in everything except actually taking over the ship. Last night (but for Jackson and the rest of the group) they'd have done that too. Yet this morning, for reasons he couldn't explain, there was a completely different atmosphere on board. The men hadn't been singing or laughing before being piped aft to witness punishment; but —well, he sensed the atmosphere was now fresher, as though some hidden menace and tension had gone.

Perhaps it was more significant that every man had obviously taken particular care with his appearance—they'd all shaved, although it was Tuesday and they were required to shave only twice a week, on Sundays and Thursdays. And there was no order for them to appear in fresh clothes. Certainly they could not wear dirty, but there was a difference between clean and fresh. He was sure it wasn't a bizarre gesture to the men being flogged; a curious defiance of authority. The men weren't subtle enough for that.

Everyone was watching him; he'd been staring at the carved crown on the top of the capstan for several seconds— more likely a couple of minutes. He wondered what they'd think if he told them he'd just recalled his father's advice so that although five minutes ago the prospect of flogging some men nauseated him, he was now going to order the floggings knowing it was both necessary and right.

Suddenly he realized why the atmosphere had changed: the men had known it all the time: three of their number had been caught planning a mutiny and naturally they must be punished.

He felt foolish and inexperienced and hurriedly glanced at the piece of paper, beginning the ritual 'William Dyson!'

The master-at-arms stepped smartly alongside Dyson as the man took three paces forward.

'Aye aye, sir.'

Ramage had been surprised at the man's appearance—he too was shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes. Now his manner was slightly defiant—no, perhaps not: Ramage admitted he didn't know the man well enough to be sure.

'William Dyson, you were charged by the Master with breaking into the breadroom being drunk and disorderly, fighting and trying to resist arrest'

To the corporal, Ramage snapped:

'Seize him up!'

Two Marines put their muskets down on the deck. One picked up a capstan bar lying beside the companionway coaming and slotted it into the capstan head; the other led Dyson the few steps to the capstan. His shirt was stripped off, the thick leather apron was produced and tied over the lower part of his back, his arms were stretched out horizontally along the capstan bar, and within two minutes he was ready for the flogging to begin.

But mere was still more ritual.

Ramage opened the Articles of War. For once he was thankful for Article Number Thirty-six, nicknamed the 'Captain's Cloak' and so worded that it could be used to cover any villainy that ingenious seamen might devise.

As Ramage removed his hat, South wick bellowed: 'Off caps!'

'Article number Thirty-six,' Ramage began in a clear voice, as soon as every man was bareheaded. ' "All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the Fleet, which are not mentioned in this Act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished according to the laws and customs in such cases used at sea."'

Dyson was lucky, since even the drunken night in the breadroom left him open to more serious charges.

'Two dozen lashes—bosun's mate, carry out the punishment!'

After twelve lashes—which Dyson bore without a murmur—Ramage signalled for the flogging to be delayed a minute or two, calling to the surgeon, Bowen, to examine the man. If the Triton had carried more than one bosun's mate, another would have taken over from Evans.

The surgeon was obviously at least half drunk and he shambled over. After looking at the cook's mate's face and feeling his pulse he stood back and mumbled, 'Fit for punishment to be continued, sir.'

'Carry on, bosun's mate.'

The tails of the cat were bloody and for the last few strokes me bosun's mate had to run his fingers through them to remove the tangles.

Just before the last stroke was laid on, Ramage said quietly to Southwick: 'Have some men take him down to the sick berth. The surgeon will be down as soon as I can spare him.'

The bosun's mate stood back and the corporal reported:

'Twenty-four, sir.'

'Very well: cut him down and get him below.'

As the Marines released Dyson's arms and unstrapped the apron, Ramage glanced at Brookland and Harris. The former was obviously still feeling the effects of the night's drinking, but Harris, although white-faced, was standing stiffly to attention.

Dyson stood back from the capstan. Suddenly he bent down to pick up his shirt and put it on. Since his back looked like raw liver the movement must have been agonizing, but two Marines, not realizing for a moment what he was doing, stepped forward, the bayonets on their muskets pointing straight at him.

Then, equally unexpectedly, Dyson turned to face Ramage, who groaned inwardly. Oh no, he thought: for God's sake no insults and defiance: you'll have to be given another dozen if—

'Permission to speak, sir?'

Ramage nodded.

'I want to apologize for my behaviour, sir.'

'Very well, I accept it,' he said quietly, knowing that Dyson was referring to the planned mutiny. 'Now get below and clean yourself up.'

Ten minutes later Brookland was walking forward unaided, his punishment administered, and Harris was seized to the capstan bar. For the third time Ramage read out the wording of the 'Captain's Cloak'; once again Evans opened a red baize bag and took out a new cat-o'-nine-tails; once again Ramage said:

'One dozen lashes. Bosun's mate, carry out the punishment!'

Once again the swish of the tails flying through the air; once again that noise like a wet towel hitting a baulk of timber; once again a grunt as the blow knocked the breath from a man's lungs; once again the corporal intoned the number of the stroke.

'One...

'Two...

'Three...'

Then, from aloft, a sudden shout:

'Deck there!'

As Ramage snapped, 'Bosun's mate—wait!' Southwick yelled, 'Deck here—what've you sighted?'

'Sail dead ahead, sir. Can just see her t'gallants.'

Southwick looked round for Appleby, gave him the telescope and pointed up the mainmast.

Ramage said to the master-at-arms, 'Cut him down and get him below, Mr Southwick! Beat to quarters, if you please!'

In time of war, and particularly in this position, every ship was potentially an enemy. For the moment Ramage thought little beyond the fact it meant he was now able to stop, and could later remit, the rest of Harris's punishment.

'Have our pendant and the private signal ready, Mr Southwick,' he said quite unnecessarily.

Southwick was already bellowing orders and the men were already running to their stations. The little drummer began thumping his drum with more eagerness than skill; the corporal hurriedly slashed at the seizings round Harris's arms, eager to resume his other role as a Marine; and the Marines themselves still standing to attention, obviously uncertain whether they should obey the drum or wait for their corporal's orders.

Ramage saw the surgeon lurching towards the companion-way and called to him to attend to Dyson, Brookland and Harris. But the man did not pause, leaving Ramage unsure whether he had heard or understood but already decided that the surgeon was his next problem—if the ship ahead was not a French sail of the line.

Whatever she was, she was to leeward and Ramage dare not lose the advantage of being both to windward and being between the ship and the English coast. He ordered Southwick to bear up, and while men ran to the sheets and braces and the Master stood by the helmsmen, Ramage looked up at Appleby perched high in the mast and steadying himself against the roll of the ship, which at that height was exaggerated by the inverted-pendulum swing of the mast. The master's mate hailed that she had three masts, was heading north-east and 'looked large'.