"Where do you think they're bound, sir?" Southwick persisted.

"Probably not Italy at all. They might be on their way to the eastern end of the Mediterranean on some wild scheme of Bonaparte's. Don't forget he tried to capture Egypt; in fact he'd still be there but for the Battle of Aboukir Bay."

Southwick pretended to shudder. "Don't mention the name, sir; when I think we missed that action . . ."

"We'll have to make do with what we've got. The Battle of Punta Ala - or do you prefer the Battle of Punta Hidalgo, that's this point close to us."

"Ala," Southwick said firmly. "Hidalgo sounds foreign. It's not an Italian word, is it, sir? Seems more Spanish to me. Haven't I heard it in connection with horses, or estates or something like that?"

"Gentleman. Just a gentleman. Perhaps you're thinking of a gentleman riding round his estate on a horse."

"Why should there be a Punta 'Hidalgo' here, then?" Southwick asked, gesturing towards the headland to seaward of them, which had Punta Ala beyond to the westward.

"Not so long ago the Spanish owned all this. Most of these castles and watch towers along the coast were built by the Spanish, by Philip II. Just down the coast here, at Santo Stefano, there's one of his splendid fortresses which is named after him, the Fortezza di Filipo Secundo."

"But what did the Spanish want with all this land in Italy?"

"The Spanish want land wherever they can get it! Anyway, the Grand Duke of Tuscany is a Habsburg. He's a weak man who just buckled under to Bonaparte. Don't mention his name to the Marchesa! Her mother reckoned that every Habsburg should be hanged with a thin rope from a tall tree."

Ramage picked up the French signal book and began flicking over the pages. He had a personal rule never to trust his memory, so he looked through the signals again. There was only one that could be applied, "All captains to report immediately to the flagship." The Calypso, even while pretending to be French, was certainly no flagship; but obviously her captain was by far the senior officer present - at most the galliots would be commanded by lieutenants and if the one that had emerged briefly during the night was anything to go by, they were former mates or even bosuns of coasting craft pressed into the Navy to serve the new Republic.

Ramage held up the book and pointed out the flags to Southwick. "You're right; I suppose we might as well hoist them now. The captains will be wakened eventually and they'll get nervous because they won't know how long the signal's been up."

Southwick sniffed, a quiet but contemptuous sniff which in one brief indrawn breath revealed his opinion of the French Ministry of Marine, French naval officers in general, and commanders of galliots in particular. "When do we let them know we're British, sir? I mean, do you want all the officers to wear trousers and shirts, not uniforms?"

"Yes, then they need not stay out of sight of the ships. Marines had better dress as seamen. I could send Renwick over now with his men, but we might just as well make it a bloodless capture. Renwick won't thank us, but we're more likely to find out what we want from the French officers this way, because the alternative is being put back on board their ships and having one of our broadsides follow them."

Leaving instructions that he was to be called the moment there was any sign of movement on board either ship, Ramage went below to shave, change into a shirt and Nankin trousers, and have his breakfast. One thing that could be said in the Mediterranean's favour was that, as in the West Indies, it was easy to get fruit and vegetables - in the summer, anyway.

Ramage had just finished shaving, in cold water because the galley fire was out, and was tying his stock when Southwick called down the skylight: "Couple of fellows moving about on deck in the galliot to starboard, sir. They haven't noticed the signal."

His steward was handing Ramage his shoes (the fourth best pair with silver buckles) when Southwick reported a man relieving himself over the side of the other ship to larboard without, apparently, even noticing the Calypso. Ramage had just finished his breakfast and was dawdling over a cup of green tea when Southwick called down that there were now half a dozen men on board the vessel to starboard and they had just noticed the signal.

"I hope you're not in uniform," Ramage said, irritated that he had not finished his tea.

"Pusser's shirt and trousers, sir," Southwick answered. "I look as though I've just been elected by a revolutionary committee. Ah, that looks like the master, or captain. Yes, he's gesturing to have the boat lowered. Seems to be in a fine fury. The boat in the transom davits seems to be the only one they have. Yes, he's run down to his cabin - back he comes with his hat. And rubbing his face with a wet cloth. Hah! Sword in one hand, wet cloth in the other, and his headache thudding, too, I'll be bound. Phew, they let the boat drop with a run - marvel it hasn't stove in some planks. The captain heard it and he's fairly dancing round with rage. In fact he's just hit a man with the flat of his sword. Now the rope ladder's been let fall... he'll be on his way in a few minutes."

Some ten minutes later Southwick whispered a hoarse warning through the skylight and then the sentry gave a double knock and pushed the door open. A slim man with a wrinkled, tanned face and wearing a faded blue shirt and well-patched white trousers, a broad leather cutlass belt diagonally across his shoulders, walked nervously into the cabin, looking left and right like a bird fearing a trap.

The Frenchman had reached this far without anyone speaking a word: as he came up the side he had been met by Southwick, who pointed to the companionway, and then the sentry had pointed at the open door.

Suddenly the man caught sight of Ramage sitting at the table, a cup and saucer in front of him. He smiled uncertainly, careful as he walked towards Ramage not to bump his head on the deck beams above. There was considerably more headroom than in his galliot, but still not enough to allow him to stand upright.

"Renouf," the man said by way of introduction, "lieutenant de vaisseau ..."

Ramage stood up with just the right pause to be expected from a captain in the Revolutionary Navy. "Ramage," he murmured, giving his name its French pronunciation and turning an old Cornish surname into the French word for the music of birds. He held out his hand and the Frenchman shook it as though it might bite him and then sat in the chair to which Ramage had gestured.

"You have your orders?" Ramage asked in French with suitable brusqueness.

Renouf burrowed into the pocket sewn inside his shirt and brought out a twice-folded sheet of paper. He opened it, smoothed it carefully on his knee and then handed it to Ramage.

The orders told Renouf, commanding Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor, bomb vessel, to proceed to Candia, on the island of Crete, and there await further orders. (Ramage was amused to notice that despite the Revolution, French orders were written in the same dead language contrived by British government officials.) Each ship was commanded by a lieutenant, but the two were treated as a little squadron of which Renouf was the senior officer.

The paper was coarse, and at the top was a circle with an anchor in the centre surrounded by "Rep. Fran. Marine" with "LIBERTĖ" in capital letters printed separately to the left and "EGALITĖ" to the right. The unbleached paper, an economy measure or perhaps just poor papermaking because it soaked up the ink like cloth, had a faint greyness as though the colour of communications from Le Ministre de la Marine et des Colonies in Paris was always like this, even when the actual orders came from the Chef d'Administration de la Marine, Brest (although given in the name of the Minister and la République une et indivisible).