"I'm staying here."

"General, you have the choice: the fo'c'sle or your cabin."

"What the devil do you mean by that?"

"The captain of this ship has given the guests the choice. He has given an order," Ramage said, speaking slowly and clearly. "The choice is contained in an order - that the guests will go either to the fo'c'sle or their cabins."

"And if I choose to ignore the order of some whippersnapper and stay here?"

Ramage turned and waved to Rennick, who promptly began marching forward, followed by Sergeant Ferris at the head of a party of three men.

As soon as Rennick stamped to attention in front of Ramage with a questioning "Sah?", Ramage turned to Cargill.

"General, I repeat; you go to the fo'c'sle or your cabin."

By now Ramage could sense the tension throughout the ship. From the fo'c'sle the rest of the former hostages watched, looking down and able to hear every word spoken since Ramageand Cargill were standing only a few feet from them. The seamen forming the guns' crews were now standing with resentment showing in their stance.

"You be damned, Ramage," Cargill sneered.

As Ramage turned towards Rennick, he saw Sir Henry watching from the quarterdeck. Rennick had a confident look on his face and Ramage had the impression that Sergeant Ferris would quite happily toss Cargill over the side.

"Lieutenant," Ramage said formally to Rennick, "escort the general down to his cabin."

Cargill had gone white. Did he realize he had gone too far? Had he realized that neither Sir Henry on the quarterdeck nor the other two admirals on the fo'c'sle had interfered on his behalf?

"Oh, very well," he said ungraciously, "I'll go to the fo'c'sle."

Ramage knew that now was the time to establish who commanded the ship: Gibraltar was many hundreds of miles and many lives away. "No," he said, "you'll go to your cabin." He nodded to Rennick, who said to Cargill: "If you'll come this way . . ."

"Ramage!" Cargill exclaimed, "you don't dare put me under an arrest! I've warned you, I am a general in the King's service."

"You have disobeyed the lawful command of the captain," Rennick said quietly, "with the third lieutenant and the lieutenant of Marines of this ship, and three admirals, one general, a marquis, two earls and a viscount as witnesses . . . sir," Rennick added as an afterthought.

Cargill looked round like a trapped animal and then walked to the ladder leading down to the gunroom.

As soon as the Marines had clumped away, Ramage walked the few paces to the breech of Jackson's gun. He looked at the frigate and then, after telling Jackson to carry on, went to the next gunport.

Jackson, with the long lanyard in his hand, stood behind the gun, far enough back to be out of reach of the recoil, and peered along the sight. Stafford stood close to the flintlock and Rossi and Gilbert were beside the breech, ready with handspikes.

Jackson gestured with his left hand. Both seamen slid the metal tips of their handspikes under the breech end of the carriage and levered it over a few inches. Jackson held his hand up, and they stood back. So much for traverse, Ramage thought to himself: always train "left" or "right" in gunnery orders. Now for elevation. Jackson signalled again, and the two men put their handspikes under the breech and raised it slightly as Stafford pushed in the wooden wedge, better known as the coin, which governed how high or low the breech was raised from the carriage, and thus controlled the range by the angle of the barrel.

Jackson gave another signal, and as Rossi and Gilbert stepped clear and Stafford cocked the lock, Ramage realized that Jackson must have been almost ready to fire before Cargill interfered.

The American went down on his right knee, with his left leg stretched out sideways to its full extent. Slowly he tightened the firing lanyard, his eye still along the sight. The anchor cable and the spring held the Calypso steady, with little more than a hint of a pitch and a roll. Jackson was obviously waiting a few moments for the combined pitch and roll to bring the target precisely into the sight.

Then in one flowing movement the lanyard went tight, the gun leapt back in recoil, spewing a flash and a stream of black smoke from its barrel and giving an enormous grunt which half deafened Ramage.

As men began coughing from the coiling smoke which the wind swirled across the deck, the rest of Jackson's crew moved with the speed that came from constant practice. In went the mop, the "woolly 'eaded bastard" as it was more familiarly known, sopping wet and both extinguishing and cleaning out any burning residue left in the barrel. A powder boy ran up with the new charge which Louis grabbed and slipped into the gaping muzzle, standing to one side as Albert thrust it home with the rammer. Gilbert stood by with a wad, which was rammed down, and Louis lifted up the cylindrical grapeshot, starting it off down the barrel. Albert's rammer thrust it down on to the wad and powder charge, and then rammed home the final wad.

Gilbert gave a bellow and the men grabbed the tackles on each side of the gun and hauled, running the gun outboard again. The ship was rolling so slightly that there had been no need to hold the gun inboard with the train tackle while the men reloaded.

By now Stafford was ready: he thrust the thin, skewer-like pricker down the vent to make a small opening in the cartridge to expose the powder; then, seeing that the loaders were clear of the gun, he pushed a quill - a tube of fine gunpowder - down the vent, shook priming powder into the shallow pan, and then turned to Jackson.

The American had seen that the first round had missed by about ten feet: all the grapeshot had spattered round the frigate's quarterdeck just forward of the boat hanging in the quarter-davit.

Ramage, who had come down to the gun with his telescope under his arm, examined the frigate. Yes, one accurately aimed round of grapeshot would do it. The first round, hitting just forward of the boat, had sprayed the hull planking and every one of the shot showed up in the telescope as a rusty mark. There was no need to say anything to Jackson: the shower of dust which had been flung up (the splinters moved too fast to be seen) would have shown the American just the correction he needed.

Jackson looked across at Ramage, who realized that the American was worried in case Ramage let the other guns begin firing. Was it pride or concern over spotting the fall of shot? Ramage nodded reassuringly, and in that nod Jackson read all the message he needed. The captain understood the need for a sighting shot: now for the correction.

Jackson's gesture with his left hand set Rossi and Gilbert to work with the handspikes. Under the carriage went the shoes and both men heaved down on the opposite ends to lever the carriage sideways an inch or two. Both men watched the crouching Jackson as once again he peered along the sight. A small, impatient gesture to the left, as though the movement of his hand would be enough to train the gun the slight amount necessary. Gilbert and Rossi gave the carriage little more than a nudge and, as Jackson shouted, they leapt back and Stafford cocked the lock before he too jumped smartly back.

The firing lanyard twitched - Jackson had tautened it the moment he saw Stafford had cocked the lock and stepped clear -and again the gun erupted flame and smoke, leaping back in recoil as it gave a loud, asthmatic grunt.

This time a random gust of wind swirled some of the oily smoke back through Ramage's port and, by the time he had finished coughing, number four gun had been loaded again and run out, with Rossi and Gilbert busy with their handspikes, pausing at the end of each thrust to look at Jackson. Stafford had his tin of quills open, ready to take a fresh one and then push it down the vent, and the powder horn from which he took the priming was slung round his neck.