The squeaking and rumbling of the sheets rendering through blocks; the metallic rasping of the rudder fittings as the tiller was put over; the change in the Jorum's motion, and then once again the noise of water swirling past: the privateersmen had the, schooner under way.

A few minutes later, conscious his clothes were soaking with perspiration caused as much by excitement as by heat, Ramage reckoned the Jorum was now sailing on much the same course as she was before the capture. The privateers' base was still to the northward.

So the two ships most probably sailed south to intercept the Jorum, keeping a certain distance apart to widen their field of view, spotted her before they were themselves sighted, and then turned on to her course. Neat—the one astern stopped her escaping to the south, forcing her to keep going northward if she tried to make a bolt for it; the one to larboard trapping her against the land, preventing her escaping to the open sea to the westward.

He whispered to Jackson as he pulled out his watch, and as the American snapped a flint he saw in the light of the spark it was half past eight. He tried to concentrate because he could rarely solve a mathematical problem without pencil and paper.

Now, when the last two small boats left, they would reach the land near the Pitons at about seven. They might pass a signal, but more likely they were supposed to make a signal only if the schooner did anything unusual. So, by half past six the men in the small boats were certain the Jorum was going to continue her course. At that time, as they disappeared from sight in the gathering gloom, Ramage had been able to see about a dozen miles up the coast and the Jorum was making six knots.

Now for the hard part, and he tried to shut out the noise of the sea, the noise from on deck, and the creaking of the schooner's hull as she rose and fell on the slight swell waves.

Just as darkness fell, at seven, there were no ships in sight. But the privateers had intercepted about quarter past eight, so assuming they and the forum had been converging at twelve knots—allowing for them to manoeuvre into position—they had probably sailed from a bay twelve miles to the north.

Twelve miles? But that was almost at Castries! Obviously he'd made a mistake. He started all over again, but for the second time came up with the same result. Well, his reasoning was wrong somewhere because there were only a few shallow bays before Marigot, into which he had looked carefully from the Triton, and then Castries itself and some rocky islets which couldn't conceal an open boat, let alone a privateer... Oh, the devil take it; the privateers could have come from anywhere—from the south side of St Lucia, he suddenly realized; in fact the two small boats might have met them after dark off the Pitons!

A sudden clatter on the hatch cover made him sit up with a start; then he leaned back, feeling foolish. The privateers-men must have put down some muskets or cutlasses—if they had been opening the hatches he'd have heard them hammering out the wedges.

Jackson whispered. 1 hope the skipper's all right.'

'Should be; I told him to surrender the ship as soon as he could, without making them suspicious.'

'He's a good man.'

'You ever served with him?'

'No,' Jackson said after a pause. "How did you know he'd "run", sir?'

'He's got "R" written all over him.'

'No, seriously, sir?'

'Jackson, it's always obvious when a man's served in the Navy. Phrases he uses, the way things are done—there aren't many schooners out here run Navy fashion. And I doubt if Gorton is his real name.'

The American thought for a while, then whispered: 'He "ran" before the war, sir.'

'It doesn't matter much whether an "R" is put after a name in peace or war, Jackson. Court martial and four hundred lashes through die Fleet—that's if he's not hanged at the foreyardarm.'

'But you won't------'

'I'll probably inform the Admiral, yes.'

'But, ski' Jackson's whisper was almost explosive.

'I'll probably inform the Admiral that Mr Gorton, skipper of the Jorum schooner, rendered exceptional service...'

'Phew, sir, for a moment I thought...'

'Stop thinking, Jackson; you'll make yourself hoarse.'

*

The Jorum sailed on without any sail trimming and, judging from the regular pitching and rolling, without changing course. Then, as Ramage heard shouting and, a few moments later, the noise of sheets being hauled and the squeaking of the rudder going hard over, he whispered:

'Quick, Jackson—flint!'

The sparks flashing over the watch face showed it was just an hour and a half since the schooner was boarded.

More shouts, then bare feet scuffling across the deck; soft thuds which Ramage recognized as coils of rope being dropped on the deck—halyards for sure, the coils taken off the belaying pins and then overhauled ready to run.

The schooner began to pitch more frequently as she came hard on the wind, butting into the waves which were shorter in the lee of the island. In fact----- 'Listen, sir!' Jackson whispered. Think I can hear breakers!'

Ramage heard them at the same instant; the thud and scurry of seas hitting the foot of a cliff, breaking and swirling back, the sucking noise echoing.

And several high-pitched squeaks from beyond the ship. Shouts—both distant and from the deck above. Oars creaking I Yes, several boats were rowing near-by, and the privateersmen calling to them—not angry or hectoring yells; more like greetings and replies.

Sudden shouts from the deck and the slatting of canvas and banging of blocks as sails were lowered. The Jorum lost way and began to wallow. More shouting, from forward now, and then the heavy rasping of something being dragged across the deck.

'They're passing a hawser,' Jackson whispered. 'Maybe the boats are going to tow us in.'

And they'd only do that if the schooner had to be manoeuvred into a berth or anchorage impossible for her to reach under sail, either because it was dead to windward or the channel too tortuous. Maybe both. Or perhaps high cliffs were blanketing the wind. Yes, Ramage thought, that was more likely.

High cliffs? Well, nearly all the west coast of St Lucia was high cliff, and the only bay he could think of was Marigot—the entrance to that was narrow. He recalled the view through his telescope as the Triton was hove-to a hundred yards off the entrance: the parallel-sided bay at the opening which narrowed suddenly with a sandspit jutting out from either side and the circular lagoon beyond. On the chart it looked, he remembered, like the stopper of a decanter. Yet although Marigot had seemed an obvious place— particularly on the chart—it had been empty ...

The creaking of many oars in their rowlocks—the tow had started. Occasional shouts from forward, replies from aft. Someone in the bow was conning the ship, shouting directions to the men at the helm.

Claire in St George, Gianna in London—or perhaps staying with his parents in Cornwall. The Governor would get his letter in a few hours. Southwick would be conning the Triton up towards the coast now—Ramage pictured him standing on the fo'c'sle, night-glass to his eye, scanning the black sprawl of the coastline, hoping for the sight of a sail, his brain automatically correcting for the fact a night-glass gave an inverted image so the sea and coastline, upside down, would look like the sky with black clouds low on the horizon.

Two privateers—probably fifty men in each. And how many more at their base, into which the Jorum, the Trojan sea horse, was now being towed? Probably not more than twenty. More important though was how many privateers-men were on board the Jorum at the moment, and if Gorton and his crew had been taken off?