'Welcome back, sir', Martin said. 'That was quite a gale.'

'Yes, I half expected to hear your flute', Ramage said teasingly.

'It wouldn't have been my flute, sir', Martin said, almost crossly, 'it'd have been that damned tower: the wind goes through it like an abandoned windmill: all creaks and groans and whistles. Hard to sleep.'

By now Ramage was leading them towards the signalmen's hut.

'Much signal traffic?'

'Our hands are raw, sir: needed three men at each halyard to raise a shutter in that wind, and Toulon and Barcelona have been signalling like neighbours chatting over the fence.'

'They probably have fine weather: ours was just a local Gulf of Lions gale.'

Ramage turned to Rennick. 'Well, what have the Marines to report?'

'All well, sir - except for the sand: this dam' wind drives it in under doors and gets it into the men's muskets - until the rain came and settled it down. At least we haven't had to water the gardens.'

'Had any trouble with discipline?' Ramage asked Martin casually.

'None, sir: even though the weather was bad the men seem to enjoy their run on shore. They scrubbed the floors and tables in their barracks before I could stop them; now they're having the devil of a job drying them out.'

By now they had reached the signalmen's hut and Martin led the way in. A lantern on the table showed the signal log and beside it, under a brick used as a paperweight, were the original signals copied down by the men on the platform.

Ramage motioned the three men to sit and said to Paolo: 'Did you have any trouble understanding the signals?'

'No, sir. I've written translations under each signal for the benefit of Mr Martin.'

'And very useful it's been, sir', Martin said emphatically, obviously anxious that Paolo should not miss any credit.

Ramage nodded and opened the signal book. The signals were written in neat copperplate, giving the time that Aspet or Le Chesne began sending, the time the last word of the signal was received in Foix, and the similar times when it was passed on. Beneath each signal was the translation, each one signed with a flourish, 'P.O.'

It took Ramage a few moments to remember the day and date the Calypso sailed, and then he read slowly through the signals, first in French, then Paolo's translation to make sure neither of them missed some nuance. There had been a signal to the east or west roughly every half an hour in the two days of daylight. That meant the men had been hauling on the shutter halyards almost continually, able to rest only when a signal was being received.

So eleven merchant ships were now assembled in Barcelona, bound for Marseilles, Genoa and Leghorn. And the final two signals, passed in the last of the light that very day, complained that the two frigates had not arrived to escort the convoy, which was now being delayed.

Ramage read for the third time all the signals concerning the assembling of the convoy. Martin, Rennick and Orsini watched him, each man perfectly still. Each was watching Ramage's face which, in the light of the lantern, with its flame flickering in the draught from the wind and throwing dancing shadows, seemed as if it had been carved from a block of mahogany, the sun-and-wind tan emphasized by the candlelight.

Paolo did not know whether to be disappointed or elated. Certainly the captain was pleased with the way they had received and passed the messages, and Blower had been good enough to praise him. The translations of the signals - well, they were simple and he knew he had made no mistakes. Yet the captain was now reading the signals - which seemed routine enough - for the third time. Fourth, in fact, because he had just turned to the first page again, and was reading even more slowly, running his finger from word to word, like a schoolboy.

Martin's original confidence too was ebbing fast: the captain had not spoken for ten minutes: he just continued reading the signals, turning back to the first page as soon as he finished the last.

He was reading both the original French and Orsini's translations, but Orsini's translations could not be faulty because the midshipman would by now have received an angry blast.

Ramage's head was still; just his eyes moved from word to word along one line and flicked back to the beginning of the next. The eyes were bloodshot, as one would expect in a man who had spent the last couple of days at sea in a gale: indeed, there were still grains of dried salt on his cheeks. The eyes seemed more sunken than usual, but that could be tiredness or, more likely, the shadows thrown by the lantern.

What was fascinating the captain about the signals? To Martin they seemed routine; the same as the dozens and dozens of signals passed in the previous year and which Orsini had skimmed through to make sure he understood the French system.

Rennick was soon intrigued enough to begin watching Martin and Orsini. He had very quickly recognized what was going on in the captain's mind because he had seen the expression many times before, that fixed position and just the eyes moving, but he was interested to see that neither of the two lads understood: from Blower's expression, clearly he thought he had done something wrong; Orsini, on the other hand, was fairly certain he had made no mistakes but the captain's continued silence was raising doubts in his mind.

All three jumped as Ramage suddenly flipped the signal book shut, smiled pleasantly, and said: 'Very well, lads, carry on; I'm going back to the ship now, but I'll be over again at dawn.'

He was just walking to the door when he turned and said to Martin: 'Those halyards for the shutters: you're watching them for wear, I hope.'

'Yes, sir', Martin said thankfully. 'Jackson is the last man off the platform and he climbs down the framework, checking it all - blocks, tackles, the frames in which the shutters slide ...'

Ramage knew he should have guessed Jackson would leave nothing to chance. He looked across at Rennick, remembering the Marine officer might be feeling left out of it. 'I'll be inspecting your men at daylight', he said. 'A glance with a lantern now will satisfy no one.'

The grin on Rennick's face showed that just being remembered was reward enough, and such was human nature that the Marines would enjoy polishing their equipment before dawn in anticipation of the captain's inspection.

The row back to the Calypso in the gig lasted long enough for him to realize how tired he was. He made his way down to his cabin, stripping off his wet boatcloak as he went.

Waving away his steward, who wanted to serve him a bowl of hot soup, he sent for Aitken and when the first lieutenant arrived he said: 'A convoy is waiting to sail from Barcelona. Eleven ships. The French escort of two frigates has not yet arrived.'

'That's too bad', Aitken said in his soft Perthshire accent. 'Delayed by this same bad weather, perhaps; or just late ... they'd be sailing from Toulon, and we've seen nothing of them - I wonder if they'd go direct or keep in with the coast?'

'Keep close in with a mistral', Ramage said. 'That is, if they've sailed at all.'

'Aye, that's the puzzle', Aitkenmused. 'Ifthey've sailed at all ...'

Quickly Ramage described the gist of the signals that had passed between Barcelona and Toulon. Then he told Aitken of the wild idea he had had and was slightly disappointed that the Scotsman's only reaction was a brief nod and the comment: 'We can start that going first thing in the morning. We'll look daft if those French frigates get to Barcelona first.'