He tugged his whiskers again, and said: 'I suppose every commander-in-chief complains he doesn't have enough frigates, whether he's commanding a fleet or a station, but I'm supposed to keep a watch on the Windward Islands - including blockading Martinique - and assemble and sail convoys to England, providing the escorts, as well as covering the whole of the Main. All this with four or five frigates, a couple of seventy-fours, and a brig or two. Their Lordships ignore my requests for frigates - in fact I often have to sail convoys with the same escorts that brought them out, which isn't really fair on the frigates, which are doomed to sail back and forth across the Atlantic escorting convoys and never getting a penn'orth of prize money.'

He paused for a minute or two and then said briskly: 'Well, my problems don't concern you. I'll have your orders ready for you by tomorrow morning. You've got to water and provision, so I hope you'll be on your way to Martinique in a couple of days.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Windward and Leeward Islands lay in line north and south like the blade of a sickle, with Grenada at the southernmost point. Next to the north came St Vincent, on almost the same latitude as Barbados, which was nearly a hundred miles to the east, a lonely outpost in the Atlantic.

Just north of St Vincent was the mountainous island of St Lucia, and then came Martinique, followed by Dominica, Guadeloupe, Antigua and then the group of French and British islands forming the north end of the Leewards.

From Barbados, Martinique was about 125 miles to the northwest, and a few hours after sailing, the Dido was rolling and pitching her way along with a brisk quartering wind from the east, with the white cotton balls of Trade wind clouds scudding along overhead in their relentless march to the westward.

The Dido had left Carlisle Bay in the darkness, and as soon as dawn broke and the ship's company stood down from general quarters - where they always went to meet dawn and dusk - the washdeck pumps were rigged over the side while seamen collected buckets of sand and holystones ready to scour the decks. The holystones were blocks of sandstone about the size of housebricks and once the deck had been swilled down with water and sprinkled with sand, the men on their hands and knees used the holystones to scour the planking. It was backbreaking work, but since it was done daily the men were used to it, thankful that they were doing it in a warm climate, instead of the Channel, where often there was a bitterly cold wind as well as icy water spurting from the washdeck pumps.

'Holystoning is almost a pleasure in the Tropics,' Rossi commented to Stafford as they worked the blocks back and forth.

'Where's the pleasure?' demanded the Cockney.

The Italian seaman sighed. 'Nothing ever pleases you, Staff. The water's warm, the wind is warm, and soon the sun will be up, bringing another nice day. Be cheerful!'

'That'll be the day,' growled Stafford. 'You'll never find me 'appy 'olystoning: you oughta know that by now, Rosey. It's m'knees. I must be getting old: the joints creak.'

Rossi called across to Jackson, who was holding the hose of a pump. 'Here, Jacko: we need more water.' Then he waved at Gilbert, who was holding a bucket. 'Come on, we want some sand over here, or we'll never get these decks clean.'

'I swear we'll wear out the wood afore we've finished,' Stafford said, giving the holystone he was holding an extra flourish.

Finally the deck was scoured and Jackson directed the stream of water from the pump to wash the excess sand over the side. While some men had been holystoning the deck, others had been polishing the brasswork, using strips of cloth and brickdust.

The men were just beginning to go below for their breakfast when from the masthead came a familiar hail. 'Deck there!' Martin, who was officer of the deck, snatched up a speaking trumpet and answered.

'Sail dead ahead, just lifting over the horizon.'

Ramage, who was listening, said: 'What does he think it is?'

Martin shouted up the question and the lookout answered: 'Probably no bigger than a frigate but on the same course as us.'

Ramage looked round aloft. The Dido was sailing along under courses, topsails and topgallants. 'Rig out the stunsails, Mr Martin,' he ordered. 'There's no British warship around here.'

It took time to rig out the studding sails, which were extensions to the ordinary sails, the head extended by a short yard with a boom which slid out along the yards to hold out the foot.

As soon as they were trimmed, Ramage could feel the effect: the Dido had increased her speed by a couple of knots. Southwick had come to the quarterdeck and he said: 'Whoever she is, she seems to be steering for Martinique. But she's come from the south. From French Guiana, perhaps.'

'Maybe she's a privateer,' Ramage said. 'Anyway, we shan't know until we get a closer look.'

Orsini, sent aloft with a telescope, was soon hailing that the sail was a frigate, on the same course, and that she had just set her royals.

'That settles it, she's French,' Ramage said. 'If she was British she wouldn't set royals just because a two-decker came up astern: she'd be certain the two-decker had come from Barbados: it's obvious from the course.'

But, Ramage wondered, what was a French frigate doing out here? As Southwick had speculated, she might be coming up from French Guiana, but it was unlikely. Cayenne, the only town in French Guiana, had only one use and that was because Devil's Island, just up the coast, was used as a penal colony. The ships visiting Cayenne were usually frigates or transports carrying royalist prisoners from France. Usually they were frigates armed en flûte, in other words carrying only a few guns, the rest of the space being used as accommodation for the prisoners.

Ten minutes later Paolo Orsini was hailing again. The frigate was definitely French, judging from the cut of her sails and her sheer, and they were gaining on her rapidly: she seemed to be a very slow sailer. He stopped talking for a few moments and then added: 'She's just rigging out stunsails.'

Ramage could see the ship clearly with his glass and he could distinguish that the frigate was beginning to look wider as the stunsails were set. Aitken had come up to the quarterdeck and Ramage nodded to him. 'You've arrived at the right time: I was about to tell Martin to beat to quarters. Bend on the challenge.' A minute later the Dido's two Marine drummers were striding up and down the upperdeck, thudding away at their drums, and at once the ship's company ran to their stations, reminding Ramage yet again of a disturbed anthill.

Again it was the same procedure: the washdeck pumps, only just put away after holystoning the deck, were brought out again and rigged, the gunner collected the big bronze key of the magazine and went below, and the crews began hauling on the lanyards that raised the gunport lids. As water was sprayed over the deck men scattered sand, and soon Ramage heard the report from Aitken that all the guns were loaded and ready to be run out. 'Can I bring Orsini down now, sir, so that he can look after his carronades?'

'Yes, we can see what we're about from down here.'

He could imagine just how the French captain felt now, with a seventy-four rapidly overhauling him. There was no chance of him reaching Martinique in time to seek shelter: even now the island was just coming into sight, a bluish bruise on the horizon to the north-west.

Now, with every stitch of canvas set in the Dido, it was only a matter of time before they ranged up alongside the frigate and started firing broadsides into her.

He saw Orsini coming down from aloft and watched him hurry up to the poop, to take command of the carronades. He knew that the three lieutenants, Kenton, Martin and Hill, were standing by at their divisions of guns, as were some of the senior midshipmen. He knew that every available telescope on board the French frigate was trained on the Dido. 'Run out the guns,' he told Aitken. It would depress the French even more, once they saw those stubby black fingers sprouting out along the Dido's sides.