By now the men were heaving round on the capstan and he glanced across at the Surcouf. She too was heaving in, with Bevins the fiddler perched on the capstan. He was thankful he had spent the previous evening with Aitken and Wagstaffe going over everything he and they could think of. It should save a great deal of signalling. La Créole reports the French in sight by hoisting a Tricolour and whichever of the two frigates spots the signal first fires a musket shot and both frigates heave in to long stay. After that, the Surcouf follows the Juno's movements until they are approaching the Diamond. Then it would be time for the signal book, but both Aitken and Wagstaffe now understood so well what he anticipated would be his tactics that few signals should be needed. There was another hail from aloft. 'Schooner, sir. She's hoisted a single flag.'

Ramage had barely acknowledged the hail before Paolo, telescope to his eye, was calling, 'Number seven, sir. That's Enemy convoy comprises seven merchant ships or transports.'

A big convoy whose ships would carry enough to keep Martinique going for several months. Ramage took off his hat and wiped his brow, although now the perspiration suddenly felt cold. A big convoy meant a big escort and Wagstaffe's next signal would tell him how many frigates there were. The signal after that, if there was one, would tell him how many ships of the line were down there off Pointe des Salines.

'Deck there! She's lowered that flag and hoisted another!'

'Number four, sir!' Paolo shouted excitedly. ‘The escort includes four frigates.’

'Watch for the next one,' Ramage growled, and felt time slowing down as tension knotted his muscles.

'They're hauling the second one down, sir!' the masthead lookout reported.

Were they bending on another flag or simply taking the last one off and making up the halyard on its cleat? A minute passed, and then two. The capstan was groaning, and Jackson was watching him rubbing the scar on his brow, while Paolo kept his telescope trained on La Créole.

Aitken had seen the two signals and, like Ramage, was waiting anxiously to see if there was a third. Like Ramage he knew that it would be a death sentence for them all, whether it reported one ship of the line or ten.

He had often wondered how he would feel if he received orders that would probably cost him his life if he carried them out. Now he thought he knew. Many times in the past few years he had been given orders that had sent him into action where there was a chance of being killed or maimed. Although that was always frightening, death was far from certain. The thought in most minds was that death took the next man and left you, so there was a good chance of getting through alive. It was vastly different when the orders told you in effect that the odds were so enormous you were most unlikely to survive.

Such orders were like a long-faced and mournful-voiced judge sitting bewigged in his high chair and passing a death sentence on you. A flag signal from La Créole saying there was a ship of the line as well as four frigates with the French convoy would mean that by sunset there would not be a dozen men left alive in the Juno or the Surcouf. If Wagstaffe carried out his instructions he would survive because he had been given strict orders that if things became desperate he was to escape and get to Barbados to warn the Admiral.

So here he was, a damnable long way from Dunkeld, waiting to see if the judge was going to sentence him and the Surcoufs. Surprisingly, he felt no fear, or at least not the kind of fear he had known before, when his stomach seemed filled with cold water, his knees lost their strength and he wanted to run into a dark corner and hide. Perhaps it was another sort of fear he had never met before. He did not feel it in his body, really, although there was no denying that his stomach muscles were knotting. It was lurking at the back of his mind, like a mist forming in the valley at Dunkeld of an autumn's evening, slowly and gently soaking his jacket and kilt. But it did not make him want to run into a dark corner. In fact it was having the opposite effect, making him a little impatient, perhaps, much as a man sentenced to be hanged might want to get it all over as quickly as possible.

This was not how he had imagined it, and the more he thought the more he knew that although the final effect would be the same as receiving a death sentence from a judge, the way he felt now was not the way he would feel if he was about to be marched off to a condemned cell.

The sunshine and bright colours, the deep blue of the sea, the diving pelicans and slowly wheeling frigate birds made some difference. So did the palm trees along the white sandy beach and the fact that he was commanding his own frigate, however briefly. When he took her into her last battle he would be the captain, and he would be unlikely to revert to being a first lieutenant again because there would be no ship left for anyone to command. Yet it was not really any of those things that accounted for his mood, although admittedly if he had to die it was satisfying to do so commanding his own ship.

He had been watching the Juno's anchor cable through his telescope, noting how it had been hove in until it made the same angle as her mainstay. He glanced back to her quarterdeck and saw a man standing there motionless in white breeches and blue coat, a cocked hat on his head. A man who, with his wealth and social position, could have been standing in a fashionable London drawing-room, with every mother of an unmarried daughter circling him, the girls laughing gaily at his slightest joke, the mothers exclaiming with delight and planning a wedding at Westminster Abbey. Or he could have been in Cornwall, where the Ramage family had big estates, living the life of a wealthy landowner, with nothing worse to bother him than an occasional raid by poachers on the pheasant runs.

There was also this Italian Marchesa. After naming the battery on the Diamond after her the former Tritons had said she was the most beautiful woman most of them had ever seen, with the spirit of an unbroken Highland pony. The men could not understand why Captain Ramage had not married her yet, because there seemed little doubt that they were both in love.

Instead of staying behind in London or on the Cornish estate, Ramage was in the West Indies, two hundred yards away, standing on the quarterdeck of his frigate with deadly danger two or three hours away. But this danger was of his own choosing too, because no one would expect him to take two frigates into action against such odds with not a ship's company shared between them.

Yet he was going to, and it was his own decision. The previous evening Aitken had been appalled and not a little frightened when Captain Ramage had begun by explaining the possibilities open to them, the ways that at least some of the convoy could be destroyed. Gradually he had become interested in the way the Captain outlined the alternatives open to the French and to themselves, then fascinated by the man's words, fascinated by the way he took a sheet of paper, pencilled in a few lines showing ships' tracks and the wind direction, and showed that what had seemed impossible could perhaps be done, using surprise. That was the word he had used frequently, 'Surprise', with the corollary that if you could not find it naturally, you created it.

Looking back on the evening, Aitken realized that the solitary figure on the Juno's quarterdeck was responsible for his present unlooked for but welcome state of mind. It was marvellous that his old fears had vanished in such a way that he felt sheepish ever to have felt them all the times he had previously been in action. Down in the Juno's cabin in the dim lanternlight, listening to the Captain's quiet voice, watching old Southwick nod, hearing the answers to questions from Wagstaffe, fear somehow became remote: something that might be felt by lesser men in other ships and squadrons, but certainly of no interest to any man in the Juno, the Surcouf or La Créole.