So, his ears ringing with admonitions, Maxton had left the priest's house no wiser than when he entered, except that the priest had almost brushed aside the drums' message while the witch doctor threatened him with death over it. And he'd arrived back home to find the witch doctor had been back in his absence and reduced the whole family to a state of terror; so much so that one brother and two sisters swore they'd already seen two loupgarous flying among the trees, watching and obviously waiting for them to go to sleep before they began their bloody work.

But none of the others, priest, witch doctor, mother, father, brother or sister, thought of the third factor. Maxton feared the God of the priest; he did what the priest told him because the alternative was Hell fire and damnation. And he also feared the gods of the witch doctor.

Ramage, as he watched Maxton, saw the direct conflict between the priest's orders and the witch doctor's and guessed Maxton would obey the witch doctor for the very practical reason that whereas the priest only threatened eternal damnation after death (but without any threats of instant death) the witch doctor's threats were very much more positive and immediate: he promised prompt death at the hands of a loupgarou, not only for Maxton but for the whole family.

Yet neither witch doctor nor priest—and least of all Ramage—knew that there was this third factor in Maxton's life; almost a third god, a man whose orders he obeyed not because they were accompanied with terrible threats, but because he wanted to.

And that man was Lieutenant Ramage.

So now, on his knees in the Captain's cabin, his mind a whirl of conflicting fears and loyalties, Maxton was terrified. Not for himself, he now realized, but for his family and for his Captain, both threatened by the same dreadful powers.

Ramage looked down at the man and, recalling how Max ton bad grinned at the approach of the Spanish Fleet at the Battle of Cape St Vincent and watched Ramage steer the little cutter Kathleen straight for the San Nicolas with the same grin, knew that whatever terrified the West Indian was now beyond the comprehension of a white man.

'Maxton,' he said gently, but speaking slowly and dearly, 'there's a way out of this which can save us all. Tell me honestly, can you read the drums?'

Maxton nodded dumbly.

'Very well: is it difficult to learn the language they talk?'

The man shook his head.

'Could Jackson learn enough to send a particular message —not read one—in an afternoon?'

The head nodded.

'The witch doctor didn't say you couldn't teach Jackson, did he?'

'No sah.'

'Will you, then? And show him how to make one of these drums?'

Maxton scrambled to his feet: the fear had gone and in its place was enthusiasm. With the speed of a Caribbean thunderstorm clearing to reveal bright blue skies, Maxton had stopped trembling and was eager to help.

'Yes sah!' he exclaimed eagerly. 'But the witch------'

'The witch doctor will never know—or guess. And rest assured, Maxton, my ju-ju is stronger than his: that I promise you. Now, you'd better report to Mr Southwick.'

After making sure that Maxton was provided with the barrel he needed to make the drum, and that he and Jackson were down in the orlop where the American could begin his first lesson in complete secrecy, using the Marine drummer's drum, Ramage had gone on shore to visit Fort George.

The Colonel was in his office and greeted Ramage with as much enthusiasm as a considerable thick head from too much rum would allow.

Ramage had given a lot of thought to how he would tackle the task of finding the spy. He'd also thought a lot about Wilson. The Colonel had been very free in his talk about the Governor—but was that because he was an old gossip or because be was shrewed enough to realize Ramage needed to know all about Sir Jason if he was to be able to handle him? Ramage had decided it was the latter.

And for that reason his first call was on the old soldier who looked askance at Ramage's first request—that one of his most trusted soldiers should, as secretly as possible, buy a cured goatskin.

Maxton had specified the size and quality needed for the drum and Ramage passed them on to the Colonel, but to preserve secrecy offered no explanation for the strange request. Wilson asked no questions, sent for an aged corporal and despatched him on the errand, explaining the man had a native wife.

'Well,' he said to Ramage, 'now we've sent the best man in my little army on the trail of goatskin, what's the Navy doing this fine morning—apart from not sleeping off the after-effects of the Governor's Ball?'

'The Navy's brought bad news: the privateers will capture that schooner within the next twelve hours.'

'Will they, by Jove! And why can't you stop 'em?'

'Because they've a head start of a couple of dozen tomtoms, a dozen bonfires—and a spy who was probably a fellow-guest at last night's ball,' Ramage said flatly.

Wilson looked up calmly at Ramage to make sure he was not joking and saw the brown eyes were alight with what might have been anger or excitement, but was certainly not amusement.

'Hmmm. Well, I've spent enough years out here not to let anything surprise me; but the King's enemies have recruited some damned odd allies, I must say!'

It took Ramage less than five minutes to tell Wilson how he'd heard the tom-tom while the Governor's guests danced, followed by Appleby's arrival from Carriacou before dawn reporting the signal bonfires.

Ramage, concentrating on his story, did not look up at Wilson until he'd finished, and was startled at the change in the man's face: the puffy look had vanished; the watery eyes were now sharp. His face was different—and so was his posture. The whole air of flabbiness had vanished: Wilson was once again a soldier, mentally and physically alert. And his first few words were spoken with a new briskness.

'Glad the Admiral sent you, m'boy. Misjudged you at first —I admit it. Admiral's son and all that: thought you'd got your command through "interest"—not unknown, you know!'

He grinned with an affection Ramage did not notice and continued:

'Now m'eyes are opened. You were quick enough to spot the tom-toms—and you had the wit to leave lookouts at Carriacou. Never occurred to me—nor to those two nitwit frigate captains the Admiral sent earlier.'

He took a quill, knife, bottle of ink and sheets of paper from a drawer and put them on the desk. He spent a few moments sharpening the quill—not because it was blunt, but because he obviously wanted time to think. Dipping the quill in the ink and squaring up the loose pages, he wrote several words one beneath the other and then read them aloud:

'Colonel Wilson ... Lieutenant Ramage ... Sir Jason Fisher... Edward Privett... and the schooner's master. Now, who else knew you'd given permission for the schooner to sail at ten o'clock?'

'No one, if Edward Privett's the schooner-owner. But that document I asked Sir Jason to draw up for him to sign: I wonder if Sir Jason wrote it, or if a clerk made a fair copy?'

Wilson's brow furrowed. 'No, I was in the study all the time. Just me, Sir Jason and Privett. Sit Jason—yes, he sat down at the desk and wrote it himself, then read it out aloud. Privett took the pen and signed it. The door was shut. No, only the three of us heard—or saw.

'The signed document?'

'Sir Jason locked it in his desk.'

'What did Privett do after that?'

Wilson scratched his nose with the tip of the quill.

'We talked for a few minutes; then Privett wrote a note to his captain telling him he was to sail at ten but impressing the need for secrecy. He read the note aloud and sealed it I had it sent down to the schooner by one of my officers.'

'The officer?'