"I have, sir! I don't know how they do it. Each jug holds several gallons, and the women walk so gracefully."

"There's no reason why our men don't get their own water: they can borrow jugs."

"Unlimited water," Rennick said seriously. "I hope it won't get them into bad habits when they're back on board the Calypso." "It doesn't matter if it does," Ramage said shortly. "There's the daily water ration and that's that!"

Rennick looked over the wall of the battlements and inspected the port spread out in front of him. "This place is well sited. I wonder who built it?"

"The Spaniards, I expect," Ramage said.

"You have a good view of the 'killing ground'," Rennick commented.

"That's why I chose it as my headquarters," Ramage said. "I can look down on everything. It is the only way of making sure the timing is exact."

Rennick nodded: he had already realized that it would be difficult to judge the timing from the level of the quay.

Ramage said: "I shall make an inspection this evening: every gun position and every house in which we have men. You will accompany me."

"Very well, sir," Rennick said enthusiastically. "The men will be glad to see you."

With that he saluted and departed, and Ramage resumed his pacing.

What was Sarah doing at this moment? Say she was at Aldington and it was late afternoon. She might be riding round the estate because she loved riding. She might have neighbours visiting for tea. It might be raining so that she would be sitting in an armchair sewing or embroidering, or reading. Whatever it was, he could picture her, and he felt a great longing to hold her in his arms. Naval service was a cruel one for married men; it took them away from their wives and never told them for how long, as though determined to tantalize both of them. Until he had married, Ramage realized, he had not given a damn where he was serving -the Mediterranean, the Channel or the West Indies. Now, married to Sarah, the parting would be more bearable if there was a term to it; if he knew he would be back in England, say, by the autumn.

The Aldington house would look beautiful now in the early spring, with the hitherto bare branches of the trees sprouting green leaves and blossom. Of course, Sarah might not be there: she could be staying with his parents in Cornwall or London, or with her own. It was the hell of not knowing that made separation so unpleasant. If he only knew for certain where she was he could fantasize; but being unsure added an element of unreality to the fantasies.

Paolo Orsini was standing at one end of the battlements, telescope under his arm, keeping a lookout with a seaman. The youth looked miserable and Ramage paused and beckoned him over.

"Your face is as long as a yard of cold pump water," he said.

"I was thinking of Volterra," Paolo admitted.

"Worrying about your aunt won't help much."

"I wasn't really worrying about her. I'm afraid I've given her up for dead."

And Ramage knew he could not blame the lad: the chances of Gianna surviving the attentions of Bonaparte's secret police after being caught in Paris by the resumption of the war were negligible: Bonaparte would be unlikely to let the Marchesa de Volterra, the ruler of the tiny state, return to Italy alive. And Paolo was her heir; by now he could be the legitimate ruler of Volterra - a role, Ramage thought grimly, about as dangerous, if not more so, as serving in action as a midshipman in one of the King's ships in the Mediterranean.

But Paolo did not know for sure. Ramage knew that he loved his young aunt and that he had no pretensions as far as Volterra was concerned: the lad was happy serving in the Navy, and his happiest time had been when Gianna lived safely in London with Ramage's parents while the French occupied her kingdom. Then his aunt had been safe, and knowing Volterra was occupied meant there was no point in worrying about it.

But Gianna's decision to return to Volterra the moment the Treaty of Amiens was signed, despite warnings from Ramage and his father, had smashed Paolo's little world as effectively as dropping a china jug on to a stone floor.

"What was bothering you, then?"

"I was just thinking of the mess there will be in Volterra after the French have been driven out - especially if my aunt is dead."

"If you have inherited, you mean?"

"Yes, sir. I know nothing of politics or statecraft. All I know about is ships and the sea, and that isn't going to help me get Volterra back on its feet."

"No," agreed Ramage, "and I expect the French have set up a puppet government, and those fellows won't want to give up power when the French are chased out."

"The thing is, sir," Paolo blurted out, "I don't really care about Volterra. I am much more concerned about passing for lieutenant. Why, already I can't really remember much about the place, and I certainly don't want to go back there and play politics. It's such a dirty game."

"Well, it's all well into the future: the French aren't going to be chased out of Italy that quickly, and you'll probably have been made post by the time you have to go back to Volterra."

But Ramage's heavy attempt at joking did nothing to cheer up Orsini and he changed the subject.

Ramage said: "I want at least two lookouts on duty at night. Have you enough men up here?"

"Yes, sir: six. Two hours on and four off means they'll stay alert."

Ramage nodded. "I think the Saracens will come in daylight but there is no need to tell the sentries that. Now, moonrise is about midnight, so there'll only be three hours of real darkness."

"The wind has been dropping away at nightfall this last week," Orsini offered. "If they're not in sight on the horizon at nightfall, it'll be four or five hours before they could get here. Even then they wouldn't be sure of their position."

"You're assuming they'll be sailing," Ramage said. "Don't forget they have rowing galleys, and a flat calm is just the weather for them to slip along."

"What sort of speed can they make under oars, sir?"

"I've no idea. Say five knots, perhaps more. And don't forget they may have fresh slaves at the oars - some of the men they've just captured."

Orsini shivered even though the sun was still warm. "I still can't get used to the idea of these heathens using Christians as slaves," he said.

"Remember that while you're keeping a lookout," Ramage said. "When you start feeling sleepy, just think of those slaves chained to the oars."

At that moment Ramage realized he had nearly made a terrible mistake: he had visualized opening fire on the Saracens' vessels as soon as the killing ground was clear, but if he fired into the galleys he would be killing slaves.

Well, the choice was a truly dreadful one. If he fired into the galleys to prevent the Saracens escaping, he would kill innocent slaves. If he let any Saracens escape, they would soon be back at their pitiless work of capturing more slaves. Which should it be?

It was a decision which he had to make, Ramage knew; what was more he had to make it now; there was no delaying until the situation arose, when he would have only seconds in which to decide.

He turned away from Paolo and walked along the battlements, hands clasped behind his back, his mind a torment. Fire on the slaves or not? Let Saracens escape or not?

And then, without any further conscious effort on his part, his mind was made up: he would fire at the galleys: the slaves would have to take their chance. When the death of a few of them was put in the scales against the fate of many in raids on the couple of dozen ports still left in Sicily, there was no question.

That evening Ramage left Orsini in charge at the castle and went with Rennick on an inspection of the gun positions and the seamen in the houses with their muskets. The men were in high spirits; it was the first time they had been on shore for a very long time, and in most cases the Sicilian families were being very hospitable. Although neither could speak the other's language they made do with signs, and the men's rations of salt tack were leavened with helpings of pasta and vegetables.