The drunken First Lieutenant shouted 'Caps off!' as Ramage removed his own hat and, tucking it under his left arm, unrolled the scroll, and began reading it aloud. He pitched his voice so that the furthest men had to strain their ears above the wind humming through the spars and rigging. From long experience he knew that was the best way of getting their attention.

'By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral ... to Captain the Lord Ramage ... his Majesty's frigate Juno . . . willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain . . . strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said frigate to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments . . .'

It was a long document and from time to time he paused deliberately. He wanted to be sure they all absorbed the full significance of the last line, however many times they had heard it before. He glanced round and saw he had the men's attention all right. 'You will carry out the General Printed Instructions and any orders and instructions you may receive . . . hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril...'

He put on his hat, rolled up the commission, tucked it in his pocket, and then stood with his hand clasped behind his back. A ship's company always expected a new captain to make a short speech after 'reading himself in', something that set the keynote and gave the men a chance to have a good look at the person who now had more direct power over their lives than their King. More than most ships' companies, this one needed some indication of what they could expect from their new Captain. They were going to be warned that from now on things would change, radically and abruptly. They all knew why their previous captain had left the ship and they had seen that Southwick was the new Master. They did not yet know that the rest of the officers were being replaced.

He took a deep breath. The men saw the swell of his chest, and they interpreted it as Ramage intended: as a sign of exasperation.

'The Juno is supposed to be a King's ship,' he said loudly, his voice a complete contrast from the even tone he had used when reading the commission, 'but just look at her. The first thing I see even before I get on board are badly-furled sails, and the yards aren't squared. The first thing I touch on boarding are greasy manropes. The first thing I see on deck are untidy men lounging round and tripping over uncoiled ropes. I get the impression that this frigate has just been recaptured from a couple of score of bumboat. women . . .'

He paused because he expected at best that the men would give nervous giggles, but instead he heard genuine if somewhat embarrassed laughter.

'Tomorrow everything changes. Tomorrow any sentry or lookout who has not reported a boat heading for the ship the moment he sights it will spend the next five hours at the masthead. Any man in dirty clothes - unless he is doing a dirty job - will find himself scrubbing the messdeck for a week. If any man thinks he will get away with that in future -' Ramage half turned and gestured up to the badly-furled sails on the yards, 'he is an optimist. By noon tomorrow I don't expect to find a speck of dirt or grease on any deck or in any locker, nor any piece of brasswork without a shine ...'

He had their attention all right but he was damned if he was going to end up on a conciliatory note: the former Captain had been at fault and the First Lieutenant had taken advantage of it. The remaining lieutenants might have done their best, but the previous Master had obviously let everything slide, regarding it as a holiday in disguise, and the petty officers had slacked off. Every commission, warrant and petty officer in the ship had taken advantage of the situation. They might just as well have spent the last six months on shore. So they were being warned, and from tomorrow morning onwards no man would have an excuse. He looked at the men again. They had stiffened themselves up already; here and there a man tugged his shirt straight.

'There is plenty of work for the bos'n's mates, but I warn each and every one of you: there is not so much that they will be too busy to sew a few red baize bags if they are needed.'

He looked slowly at the men and glanced round at the First Lieutenant and nodded, then turned and strode below.

As he made his way to his cabin he knew that the last sentence had struck home. It was useless talking to a ship's company and using abstract terms like discipline, loyalty, responsibility - they treated them as mere words. What had really made every man straighten his shoulders had been the new Captain's last remark: a red baize bag was something that every man recognized and feared.

Some of the old traditions were useful, and this was one of them. The sight of a bos'n's mate sitting on deck methodically making a cat-o'-nine-tails, carefully splicing the nine thin tails into the thick rope handle, and probably covering the splice with a Turk's head, had a fascination for the men, who always knew the man who was to be flogged. The sewing of the red baize round the handle was part of a ritual which was rounded off by the bos'n's mate stitching a small bag from the red baize just large enough to hold the coiled cat-o'-nine-tails. With his work completed the cat was put in the bag and the whole thing handed over to the master-at-arms. The expression 'letting the cat out of the bag' had a grimmer origin than landsmen realized.

Since a new cat-o'-nine-tails was used for each flogging, if the captain was a harsh one then indeed the bos'n's mates were kept busy. As Ramage reached his cabin and walked through the door - that damned fool of a First Lieutenant still had done nothing about a Marine sentry - he found he did not want to think any more about flogging.

It was frequent enough in many ships; setting up a grating vertically at the gangway and lashing a man spreadeagled to it, or putting a bar in the capstan and securing a man to it by roping his outspread arms ... He was certain that it rarely served its purpose as a punishment. Captain Collingwood had once said that it spoiled a good man and made a bad man worse, and Ramage agreed. He had ordered only three floggings in his career so far, all three officially for drunkenness, though in fact two were for mutiny. The men should have been court-martialled, and if a court had found them guilty, as it certainly would have done, they would have been hanged, so they were grateful for the floggings. Ironically, Ramage reflected, by ordering the floggings and logging them for drunkenness instead of requesting a court martial for mutiny, he had laid himself open to be court-martialled . . .

There seemed to be irony all round. Ironic that the first time he entered the Captain's accommodation on the Juno he had been so furious at finding the First Lieutenant the worse for drink that he had had no time to enjoy its spaciousness. Ironic, too, that as he approached in the cutter, instead of proudly surveying the ship, largest he had yet commanded, and as a frigate one of the most coveted commands, he had been eyeing her critically, noting badly-furled sails, lounging men, dirty topsides, gossiping officers ...

For all that, his accommodation was excellent. The great cabin right aft, the full width of the ship, was bright and airy, lit by the stern lights, with a settee, a large table athwartships and half a dozen chairs. A mahogany sideboard had been built in to the bulkhead on the forward side with a lead-lined wine cooler to one side covered in matching mahogany. The cabin sole was covered with canvas which had been painted in black and white squares, a chessboard pattern, yet the whole cabin was long overdue for more work with a paintbrush. But by the standards of the ships Ramage had previously commanded, it was a spacious great cabin. Of course it was all comparative; calling it the 'great cabin' would strike most landsmen as sarcasm, but the name referred to its function rather than its size, and even when in it no one could forget that the Juno was a ship of war. There was a 12-pounder gun on each side, the barrel and breach gleaming black and the carriage and trucks painted deep red. The train tackles of each gun were neatly coiled; both were secured for sea. Out of curiosity Ramage went over and ran a hand over the breeching and tackles, and then glanced down at the painted canvas beneath the wide trucks. Obviously the gun had not been run out, in practice or in action, for many months; the wide trucks had not been rolled over that paintwork . . . He glanced across at the gun on the other side. That too had its ropes neatly coiled, but had not been moved for months.