'Jacko's right, sir,' Gorton said. 'Surely------' he broke off, correctly interpreting the American's expression, and added cautiously: 'What had you in mind, sir?'

'The quickest way of getting yourself killed is to assume your enemy can't work out what you'll do. Particularly as— in this case—you've only one course of action yourself. What you've described is the only thing the privateer can do.'

Both Jackson and Gorton nodded like penitent schoolboys, but a few moments later Gorton said:

'I can see that, sir, but I'm afraid I can't see what else the Triton can do either!'

'Forget the Triton for a moment and try to guess at what point the privateer's virtually defenceless!'

'Just as she's going out through the entrance!' Jackson interrupted promptly.

'More than that,' Gorton corrected. 'From the time: she passes us until she gets to the entrance, sir? That's about three hundred yards.'

Ramage nodded, feeling embarrassed at his earlier pomposity.

'Yes. and from where she's anchored now to here is a good six hundred yards. So if the Triton's waiting hove-to six hundred yards off the entrance and gets under way at the same time, she can beat in...'

'And catch the privateer in the entrance and either drive her on the rocks or blow her to pieces with a broadside!' Gorton said triumphantly.

'Preferably both!' Jackson added 'Preferably both,' Ramage repeated. 'Now listen, Gorton, the Jorum's cable isn't likely to help this time—they might see it and panic, but I doubt it. Yet for the Triton to have the best chance—she's going to have trouble weathering the headland if the wind doesn't shift—the Jorum's going to have to make a diversion; just enough to stop the privateersmen from concentrating too hard!'

'We didn't do too badly last time,' Jackson said.

'No—but that was in the dark. How many rockets left?'

'Only two,' Gorton said, 'I counted 'em just now. Plenty of powder and shot for the swivels and musketoons, and we can make some smoke with false-fires.'

By now Ramage was hardly listening. He'd been putting off the decision for some time, but now he had made up his mind. Whoever was commanding the Triton if she hit a rock or was put aground, so the privateer escaped, would face a court of inquiry and probably a court martial. It was not fair to leave Southwick to face that.

But—and this was the reason for delaying the decision— Southwick would be very disappointed if Ramage resumed command now. Yet Ramage knew he should: the chances of intercepting the privateer without damage were—well, slender. Southwick might hesitate to ram, for example; but losing the brig would be a small price to pay if it finally squared the privateer's yards.

'Gorton, I'm returning to the Triton and you'll------' he broke off, remembering for the first time since they'd escaped from the lagoon that Gorton was by no means under his command, and corrected himself. 'I propose leaving some Tritons on board here, and I'd like you to remain with your men and take command of the whole party.'

'Fine, sir!' Gorton exclaimed excitedly, 'we'll do the best we can!'

'Very well. I'll take Jackson, Stafford, Evans and Fuller. How many Tritons do you want?'

Twenty minutes later Ramage was standing on the quarterdeck of the Triton, relating to Southwick everything that had happened since he'd boarded the Jorum off Grenada, and then hearing the Master's report of what he had done with the Triton. Southwick rounded off his report with a reference to the usefulness of the bonfires on the headland and then added:

Two seamen under open arrest, I'm afraid, sir.'

'What charges?'

'Fighting, sir.'

'Fighting?1

'Yes sir—while at quarters.'

Ramage sighed. Seamen fighting with each other while the ship was cleared for action...

'What were they fighting about?'

'We had the grindstone up on deck to put a sharp on some of the cutlasses, and the men lined up for their turn. Seems these two started arguing about who was in front of which...'

'Not fighting with cutlasses, for Heaven's sake?'

'Well, in a way. One punched the other who fetched the first man a dip on the side of the head with the flat of his cutlass.'

'Drunk?'

'No, neither of 'em.'

'Hmm. Well, that can wait.'

Ramage picked up a telescope and looked at the entrance to Marigot. On the southern side of the outer bay he could see the Jorum quite clearly, with the first privateer grounded on the north bank opposite. Beyond them the gap in the palms where the raft had been smashed aside gave him a good view of the second privateer on the far side of the inner bay, directly in line with the gap. It wasn't quite light enough yet to distinguish men moving about.

Southwick joined him, 'Having a look at the lie of me land, sir?'

Ramage nodded. 1 was just dunking how the raft of palm trees fooled us.'

''Twas a good job young Stafford told me about it when he came on board: if I'd seen that gap in daylight I'd have wondered why the hell we never sent a boat in to look when we were up this way last week.'

'I still don't know why we didn't spot mere was something odd.'

Southwick chuckled. 'Don't fret over that, sir. I had a good look at the chart. What happened is our chart's a bit out—it shows the lagoon smaller than it really is. And both those sandspits have each grown out another ten yards. The chart's fifteen years old...'

'Where did we get it from?'

'Master of one of the frigates in Barbados gave me a sight of his and I made a copy. Original survey was by the Jason' 'I wish there'd been time to get my father's charts before we left England.'

'Yes,' Southwick growled, 'but it's time Their Lordships started issuing charts. We'd have been in a mess if I hadn't been able to copy that one. And this damned coral sometimes grows a foot a year, so if the chart's fifteen years old a shoal can have fifteen feet less water over it.'

'We need an Irish pilot,' Ramage said dryly, and South-wick laughed at the memory of a story well known in the Fleet of a frigate bound for an Irish port several miles up a river. The pilot seemed such an odd fellow that the captain asked if he knew the river well. Just as the pilot assured him he 'Knew every rock in it,' there was a thump that shook the ship, and he'd added: 'And that's one of 'em, sorr!'

After telling Southwick to shift the Triton's position by five hundred yards, keeping her hove-to farther to the north so that she could lay the entrance with the present wind, and call him the moment there was a sign of movement on board the privateer, Ramage went below to his cabin for a brisk wash and shave and change into clean clothes.

One look in the mirror startled him: the reflection showed a stranger with bloodshot; wild-looking eyes, cheeks sunken with new wrinkles slanting out down either side of the mouth. This stranger staring at him had the look of a man hunted—like a Seeing privateersman who'd stolen the tattered and dirty uniform of a King's officer.

The steward came in with hot water. He refrained from asking how it had been boiled since, with the ship at general quarters, the galley fire had been doused. An hour ago on board the Jorum, he mused, the idea of dean clothes, hot water and a sharp razor seemed remote, just a memory of a way of life led many years earlier. Now, vigorously brushing the lather on his face, the hours in the Jorum seemed equally remote. Opening the razor and nestling his little finger under the curved end, he took the first stroke and swore violently as the blunt blade seemed to be ripping the skin from his face. The damned steward—he could get boiled water without a fire, press clothes splendidly, serve at table so unobtrusively as to seem invisible. But stropping a razor was beyond him.