John Jervis, now first Earl St Vincent, was a very lucky man. Lucky because he had little skill handling a fleet in battle, and his great victory against the combined fleets of France and Spain off Cape St Vincent was due to Nelson, then an obscure commodore, who had the guts to quit the British line to cut off the escaping enemy. But... the idea fluttered along the edges of his memory ... was not young Ramage involved in it? Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage? A cutter - the Kathleen, or some such name. Yes! Ramage had seen that Jervis had not realized the French and Spanish were escaping, and he sailed his cutter across the bows of the leading enemy ship, the San Nicolas.

The Spanish three-decker sank the Kathleen and, by a miracle, Ramage and many of his crew survived, but the unexpected move delayed the enemy long enough for Nelson in the Captain to quit the line to take advantage of Ramage's action.

Nelson had been followed by some other captains while Jervis sailed on, unaware of what was going on (or, more likely, unable to gauge its significance). But because the British fleet won the battle, its commander-in-chief received the customary earldom and Sir Jervis took his title from the cape, and Nelson received a baronetcy. Not a knighthood, Sir Henry recalled, which had no outward form, but a baronetcy, which gave him something to sew on the breast of his coat.

Yes, Nelson is an odd little man, quite out of the run of the usual flag officers. And that, he admitted, was an ambiguous remark because Nelson had put an end to the traditional idea that breaking the enemy's line of battle and capturing a couple of ships was enough to claim victory.

Yes, Nelson had recently introduced a new fashion at sea, when the complete destruction of the enemy's fleet is the objective: he started at Cape St Vincent, where he had captured three of the four enemy ships taken (leading the boarding parties against two of them); then at the Nile a few years ago, by then a rear-admiral (a promotion which several jealous admirals resented bitterly), he had burned or captured thirteen of the French fleet of seventeen ships. And then had come Copenhagen.

The man was brilliant, even if his high-pitched voice and high-flown opinions sometimes ruffled feathers. Luckily, Earl St Vincent had been magnanimous enough to accept Nelson's brilliance at St Vincent, and he had been responsible for Nelson being at the Nile and then Copenhagen. So the taciturn St Vincent, while not approving of Nelson's private life with Lady Hamilton (who did!), recognized him as the Navy's foremost fighting man.

What the deuce brought on those thoughts? Sir Henry thought back. Oh yes, wives being restored to husbands, and the Board's view.

Well, the Board's view would be a pale reflection of St Vincent's, since no member of the Board would dare to stand up to the earl, whose pithy, abrupt comments were passed round the Navy like children playing "Pass the parcel". "A naval officer who marries is an officer lost to the Service" - the earl (while still Sir John Jervis) had just about broken Sir Thomas Troubridge's heart with that letter, particularly since St Vincent was wrong and Sir Thomas did not intend to marry.

So how would the Board (which meant the earl) now regard Ramage's activities over the wives? Sir Henry realized that he too could be heavily involved in any recriminations, and so could Smarden and Keeler, although Keeler gave the appearance of being a trimmer. After a year's close observation of the man, Sir Henry had decided that Keeler would always be on the winning side - until the last moment, when he would make a fatal mistake which would bring him down. Glib, hale-fellow-well-met, quick to ingratiate himself with the wives of superior officers as he struggled to get to the top, Keeler was what Sir Henry privately regarded as a two of clubs: outwardly the same shape and colour as the card on which was printed the ace of spades - but worthless.

Wives. So if Ramage was delayed in completing the Admiralty orders to rescue the hostages because he was going back for the wives, or if going back meant a failure of any sort, then young Ramage would be done for: the earl would make sure that he ended his days either on the beach on half-pay (not that that would matter: once he succeeded his father he would be a very rich man) or as captain of a transport - the ultimate punishment for someone of Ramage's temperament and calibre.

As he ate, hardly noticing what it was, the admiral reviewed his thoughts. In the light of what he knew about Ramage's orders, and the views of Earl St Vincent, who had drawn them up, he should persuade Ramage to give up any attempt to rescue the wives: the second party of hostages, in other words. Because Ramage was under Admiralty orders, he could not order him, but by telling him (in writing) that in his view he should leave for Gibraltar at once, that would cover Ramage.

Sir Henry mentally shrugged his shoulders. From what he had seen and heard of Ramage, the youngster would do what he considered correct, cover or not. He had stood up to Cargill without knowing (or caring about) the opinions of three admirals and a lieutenant-general, and he did it because he had confidence in himself.

Sir Henry looked across the table at Ramage as Silkin began serving the next course. "A very creditable meal, Ramage. We must be dealing your livestock a crippling blow! So let's regard this feast as something special to celebrate our release, and from now on we take our chance with hard tack!"

The marquis looked startled. "I don't quite understand, Sir Henry: is this not the usual Navy fare?"

"Indeed not! The splendid mutton came from one of Ramage's own animals, killed for the occasion: likewise the fowl. And, of course, all the wine. The Navy lives on salt pork and salt beef; if captains want better, they buy it themselves and carry it on board. You commented to me earlier about hearing a sheep bleating. Well, you've probably just eaten the bleat! And although the seamen get wine twice daily in the Mediterranean, it isn't of the quality Ramage is serving you. The seamen call their tots 'blackstrap'. But Ramage, you seem to have drunk little or nothing."

Ramage looked embarrassed. He rarely drank wine and never spirits, but he had learned to keep the fact to himself because too many people regarded a man who never drank as a reproach to themselves.

Cargill belched contentedly and wiped his face with a napkin. "Wine's for women," he said contemptuously. "No guts to it. As much use as small beer to a drayman."

"I'm sorry sir, I haven't offered you gin."

The Earl of Innes glanced at Cargill, but the remark - an insult if Cargill understood its significance - had gone right over his head. Gin was cheap; it was rated the drink for fallen women, debtors and servants: it brought most relief from life's cares for the fewest pennies. Cargill merely belched again and shook his head.

"My steward will look after you now, gentlemen," Ramage said. "If you'll excuse me, I must see what is happening on deck."

"I'll join you," Sir Henry said. "I'm beginning to feel sleepy after such a fine meal."

As the two men began pacing the quarterdeck, both noted that the wind was whining in the rigging and the wave crests were beginning to tumble and break, while the horizon to the south was now joined by haze to the paler sky. Argentario was no longer a sharp mountainous outline but a blurred hump to the east while the mainland was almost indistinguishable.

Sir Henry waved an arm forward, to the south. "No mistaking that, Ramage: stand by for a scirocco!And it's going to last three days, just as it always does."

"Not all of them, sir," Ramage said cautiously.

"This one is going to, though. Just look at that cloud streaming to leeward from the peak of Argentario . . . and it's so damned clammy. The Arabs have the right idea about the scirocco."