No, he was not angry; in fact apart from the heat he was in a fairly good mood. Foxey (as the commander-in-chief was generally known in the Navy by everyone from the cook's mate to fellow admirals) had lived up to his reputation, but Ramage was thankful he had seen that copy of the Gazette half hidden among the papers - that had been the due to Foxey's manner: he wasn't going to be impressed by some young junior captain who had two dispatches printed in the same Gazette . . . For all that, Foxey had given him the schooner, and at this very moment was, no doubt, doing what he should have done earlier - examining the charts of the Main and discussing the problems with his second - in - command, who had been out here a year or more, before drawing up orders.

'You want to see me, Southwick?' he asked the master.

'Not me, sir,' the old man said, 'it's the purser. He's been cast into debt, I think, and wants to talk to you about it.'

Ramage grimaced. 'Very well, send him down in five minutes' time. And make the signal to the Creole for Lacey to come on board.'

Southwick waited, hoping for some hint of what the Calypso was to do, but his curiosity remained unsatisfied because of his own efficiency: all the frigate's water casks were full, all but one boat were hoisted on board and stowed on the booms, all sail repairs had been completed and the old foretopsail, worn and chafed beyond repair, had been sent down and replaced with a new one. The ship could be under way in the time it took to hoist in the last boat and weigh the anchors.

Ramage clattered down the steps of the companionway, acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute, and ducked his head under the deck beams as he went into his cabin. He tossed his hat on to the settee, took off his sword and sat at his desk as he took Foxe-Foote's written orders from his pocket He broke the seal and smoothed the paper, his hands sticky with perspiration. There were the usual cliches, and then came the orders: the Jamaica committee of merchants were complaining that ships plying between Jamaica and the Windward and Leeward Islands (which meant from Antigua down to Barbados) were being attacked by increasing numbers of privateers holding Spanish, French and Dutch commissions. These privateers were apparently using the Dutch islands as the market place for the cargoes in the prizes they captured.

However, the Royal Navy frigates patrolling off Cuba, Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, and in the Mona Passage, reported sighting fewer privateers than usual. From this it was apparent that the privateers had retreated southwards right across the Caribbean to the coast of the Spanish Main, and Ramage was to patrol that coast for two months, paying particular attention to the island of Curacao, 'and remove the threat'.

Ramage sighed, folded the paper and dropped it into die top right - hand drawer of his desk and, after finding his key ring, locked it. They were not the sort of orders one would ever need to refer to again. The more cynical of his brother captains referred to such orders as an 'admiral's awning' because they were so worded that they sheltered him from any criticism by Their Lordships at the Admiralty should anything go wrong.

He wanted to look over the charts, such as they were, before Lacey came over from La Creole, but first there was the purser. Rowlands was an old woman, as quick as a lawyer to spot anything that might be to his disadvantage as the ship's businessman and prevent him balancing his books. This would 'cast him into debt', as all pursers described making a loss, forgetting that anyone in business was likely to make a loss at some time or another.

Ramage smiled to himself as he remembered Southwick's face at the head of the companionway. The old man's flowing white hair stuck out from under his hat like a new mop, and the order to make the signal for Lacey had obviously left him wondering what orders the Calypso had received. Ramage had decided to tantalize him for the time being, knowing that as soon as Lacey came on board Southwick would, with the ship's other officers, hear all about it.

The sentry announced the purser and Ramage called the man in. He was not carrying a handful of papers - that was a good sign. His plump face with bags under the eyes looked mournful (like a village grocer saying farewell to his best customers as he was marched off to the debtors' jail) but Rowlands always looked like that, the result of the Welshman's firmly held view that most people had a far too frivolous attitude towards money. To him it was not a means of enjoying life, Ramage realized; acquiring it was the whole object of life, as though dying a rich man was the ultimate satisfaction.

The man was nervous - that was only too obvious as he ducked his head like a pecking pigeon as he entered the cabin although he was only an inch or so taller than the five feet four inches of headroom. He was nervous and he had taken particular care in dressing himself to see the captain. Past experience had shown Ramage that this was a bad sign, the preliminary to announcing trouble. But trouble without a handful of papers, long lists and inventories, surveys and account books? Could it be personal? A confession of fraud? Or bigamy?

Ramage gestured to Rowlands to sit on the settee, and twisted his own chair round to face the man. 'Southwick said . . .' he began encouragingly.

' 'S the water,' Rowlands said hurriedly. 'I dunno what to do with it.'

Immediately Ramage pictured more than thirty tons of water carefully stowed below in casks (and intended to last the Calypso's men more than three months) suddenly going bad, or proving to be brackish. Now, within a few hours of sailing, the bungs would have to be started and the water run into the bilges and pumped out over the side. Then would come the tedious and laborious task of ferrying the empty casks over to Passage Fort with the boats and filling them and then swaying them back on board again and stowing them below . . . And all the time there would be the sneers (if nothing worse) of Admiral Foxe-Foote, who would see it as a ruse to delay sailing because to him all orders involving going into battle could only be unwelcome. Having never smelted powder, Foxe-Foote attached too much importance to the experience.

'It's only a few casks, sir,' Rowlands said eagerly. Two dozen butts, in fact.'

'Is that from here in Port Royal or did we take it on in Antigua?'

' Twas on board when we captured the ship, sir. I suppose the French loaded it in France. Must have, come to think of it; they couldn't get it anywhere else.'

What on earth was the man talking about? 'Is France the only place that supplies water, Rowlands? Or is this spa water, so good for the liver?'

'No, sir,' Rowlands said dolefully, ' 'tisn't spa water. Wish it was. Nor is it plain water. No, it's brandy, sir, twelve tuns of it, which is three thousand and twenty - four gallons, wine measure.'

Ramage was so relieved that he asked with mock seriousness: 'I trust it is good brandy, Rowlands? The French haven't fobbed some new, raw spirit on us, I hope? The sort of spirit more useful as liniment for rubbing into bruises than drinking?'

'I can't be for saying,' Rowlands said miserably, although not so upset that his favourite expression was forgotten. 'No, sir, I can't be for saying, seeing as how I'm not a drinking man.'

Rowlands had a knack of being able to phrase an apparently innocent remark so that it put the other person in the wrong. No casual listener would guess that Ramage rarely drank even three pints of wine in a year, and detested spirits. But the purser had the ability to irritate Ramage more than any other man in the ship. He was smug, money - grubbing, self - righteous and self - seeking, and Ramage had done nothing about having him replaced because he was also reasonably (if tediously) efficient and, Ramage never co-operating in any of his hinted schemes, just as honest as he had to be.