'The master was complaining to his officers in Spanish, not realizing I could understand, that one frigate was not much of an escort, and with the Golondrina's bottom so foul, shewas going to have the frigate alongside of her most of the time firing guns and screaming at him to set more canvas, but as they were so short of sails the French - he used a very strong word, sir - would have to put up with it.'

Ramage looked up. 'How many men apart from officers?'

'Only five that I could see, sir, and the master, mate and someone who would be a master's mate in the Royal Navy. Very undermanned, except in light weather.'

'The next?'

'A very nice brig, the Bergère, captured from us by the French in mid-Atlantic, brought into Toulon, refitted and commissioned as a transport. Three hundred tons, and carrying great guns for ships, carriages for land artillery, harnesses for horses, and bales of hides which have been cut out and now need stitching to make them into harnesses. Very short of men, she was: the master and the mate are doing watch and watch about, and they have only eight men.'

Ramage had heard, as a dismal descant sung by all captured French officers, that they were always short of men, and this was proof enough: undermanned ships in the West Indies could be explained by the loss through sickness and the distance from France. Yet, here, along the Mediterranean coast, they were sending ships to sea with so few men that any master carrying topsails at night - let alone topgallants - in unsettled weather would be asking for trouble: four men trying to furl or reef a topsail in a sudden Gulf of Lions squall might just as well stay in their hammocks and let the sail blow out; they would be unlikely to beat the wind.

'Any of the rest of those ships worth mentioning?' Ramage asked.

'Five of them are carrying quantities of powder. Some for Genoa, most for Leghorn and a certain amount for Civita Vecchia.' He read out the names of the ships and the amounts.

The quantities look like the normal replacement onewould expect', Ramage commented, half to himself.

'Yes, sir. I wonder what sort of quality it is.'

'Hmm... why not have one ship carrying all the powder?' Ramage mused, and then provided his own answer. 'Probably put on board whichever ship happened to be loading as the convoys of carts arrived in Barcelona.'

Ramage looked up at Paolo, who was obviously trying to pluck up enough courage to say something.

'Well, what ship has taken your fancy?'

Paolo's jaw dropped at the way the captain seemed to have read his thoughts. 'She's a tartane, sir, the Passe Partout. Laden with olive oil in hogsheads. Master, mate and four men. Pierced for four guns, but at the moment mounts only six swivels, 3-pounders, I think.'

'PassePartout, "the master key"', Ramage mused. 'What lock do you hope she'll open for you?'

'If we took her, sir, she'd make a fine tender for the Calypso: tartanes go to windward so well that she'd double the area we could search. Or ... well, sir, I could sail her to Gibraltar as the Calypso's prize.'

'Paolo', Ramage said affectionately, the first time he had used the boy's name on board, 'would your navigation stand up to a 700-mile voyage?'

'Yes, sir', Paolo said stoutly and, before a startled Ramage could contradict, he added: 'To Gibraltar, anyway. From wherever we took her - I suppose it'd be near the destination - even though it's 700 miles to Gibraltar, I have only to sail west. If I see land to starboard, I keep it there; if to larboard, I keep it there. That way I'm bound to sight Europa Point and sail into Gibraltar Harbour.'

'Like water poured into a funnel, eh? It has to go down and come out of the spout.'

'Yes, sir', Paolo said lamely, wishing the captain had chosen a less mundane comparison.

'I'll bear it in mind. Why a tartane, as a matter of interest?'

'This one was built in Italy, sir, and her master reckons she's the most weatherly afloat.'

'Never believe a master or owner's description of his vessel', Ramage warned mockingly. 'Criticize his wife, his mistress, or his house, but never his ship... Now', he said, pulling out his watch. 'Ah, nearly time for our convoy to get under way. Go and tell Mr Southwick that you have orders from me to check the trim of the poop lanterns and make sure the glasses are clean.'

Ramage knew that either Southwick or Aitken would have done that already - the novelty of carrying three lanterns on the stern, one on each side of the poop and one higher in the centre to make a triangle, would have been enough for them to check that the lamptrimmer had done his job properly. He could not remember when they had last used a poop lantern. He could only hope that the quality of the stone-ground French glass was good enough that it did not crack in the windows so that the flames blew out.

He picked up his hat and went on deck. It was dark but cloudless, the stars reflecting just enough light for him to be able to see that the Calypso was almost surrounded by merchant ships. He noticed that they had let go just enough cable from the anchor to hold and not a fathom more; not one of them would have a single man to spare while weighing anchor. Even the cook in some of them would be heaving down on the windlass or straining at the capstan.

He found an angry Southwick on the quarterdeck, peering anxiously from one side to the other with the nightglass.

'Some of these beggars haven't anchored, sir', he exclaimed. 'Too damned lazy to weigh an anchor. They've been drifting across the bay and then tacking back up again ... it's only a matter of time before one gets caught in stays and hits us.'

'All of them short of men, it seems. The sooner we get under way the better.'

'Aye, sir, otherwise we'll find ourselves with a brace of tartanes on the end of our jibboom; it'll be like spitting pickled onions with a skewer.'

'We'll weigh and get out of the bay before we light the poop lanterns; that'll give us a lead of half a mile', Ramage said.

Aitken, who had joined them in time to hear the last few words, laughed and said: 'I was going to suggest that m'self, sir: it's like being surrounded by fifteen drunken bullocks.'

'Or nervous old ladies clutching smoking grenades', Ramage said. They're so scared of collision that at first most will be out of control because they daren't set enough canvas to have proper steerage way.'

'We'll play the highwayman, then, and make a quick escape. Starting now, sir?'

It was a good half an hour before the sailing time Ramage had put in the orders, a copy of which Paolo had delivered to each ship, but by that time the Calypso must be well clear of the bay, steering the correct course and the triangle of poop lanterns acting as a guiding star for the merchant ships.

Ramage, knowing that a collision tearing away shrouds and bringing down a mast would not only wreek this operation but bring the whole cruise to a stop and result in them being made prisoners, gave the order. Southwick went forward while Aitken passed the word for the bosun's mates to rouse out both watches without using their shrill calls and without hearty bellows in English. Their voices would carry a long way on a night like this.

The topmen had already been instructed that all they would hear from the deck would be a sequence of numbers hailed in French. In fact - although Ramage had not made the point - it did not matter if they forgot the actual words for the numbers as long as they remembered the sequence. The third order, or hail, for instance, could only mean 'Trice up booms'.

Ramage silently ran through the list of things to be done or checked before going to sea. He had done it hundreds of times in the past when, as a midshipman or lieutenant, some of the tasks had been his responsibility. Now he had three lieutenants and a master to make sure they were done; butif even one was accidentally omitted and the ship damaged or endangered, the court martial would find the captain guilty of negligence. That was what captains were there for...