The orders were dated - Ramage paused, working out the new French calendar - four months ago. It had been a long voyage for the two galliots, all the way round the Spanish peninsula from Brest. Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor . . . that name was a special date, but what the devil was it? The first of September was the fifteenth of Fructidor, so the eighteenth was the fourth of September. What had happened then? It did not give the year, either. The new Revolutionary calendar began on 22 September 1792, and introduced a ten-day week. So the 18 Fructidor could be the birthday of the galliot's original owner's mother-in-law.

Ramage searched his memory. Several years ago Robespierre had fallen and the new government had exiled to Devil's Island everyone suspected of being lukewarm towards the Revolution. Within a year or so there had been revolts against the revolutionaries (the Convention, rather) . . . Then there was the Paris rising, which was put down when a young General Bonaparte fired on the Paris rebels with grapeshot, and a new Constitution came into force. The currency collapsed, food prices went up like celebration rockets, and never came down again. The new Directory was not popular. Then General Bonaparte returned from Italy, marched on the capital and scores of deputies were arrested and exiled to Devil's Island.

That coup d'état, or whatever it was called, had been on 4 September 1797, which was le dix-huit Fructidor in year five of the Revolution? Well, Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor, galliot, named after the event, was herself going to suffer a coup d'état within the next half hour. As far as she was concerned the revolutionary wheel would have turned a complete revolution. The thought made him smile, and he realized that Renouf was smiling back rather uncertainly, wise enough to know that junior officers always smiled when their seniors smiled.

Renouf, however, was looking too comfortable. The narrow Gallic face with its olive skin, the hair black and wavy, the queue long and tightly bound, the eyes brown but bloodshot and trying to avoid the glare from the rising sun now beginning to come through the stern lights behind Ramage, needed shaking up. Renouf needed reminding that his head throbbed, that he felt shaky from the night's wine bibbing. He had to be unwary and weak: unwary while he still thought that the Calypso was French; weak when he found that he was a prisoner.

Ramage coughed in the way that most superior officers did before finding fault or blaming juniors. Renouf glanced up nervously to find that the Calypso's captain had folded the page of orders and was using it to tap the table top.

"Citizen Renouf - you seem to be taking your time over this voyage. When the Chef d' Administration at Brest gave you these orders, I'm sure ..."

"But the additional orders," Renouf protested. "From Toulon - they modify those."

"What additional orders?" Ramage demanded heavily, deliberately sounding doubtful, as though accusing Renouf of lying.

Again the Frenchman ferreted around in his pocket and, with the clumsiness of a man not used to handling papers, came out with another folded sheet, which he handed to Ramage after opening and smoothing the page.

Obviously the bomb ketches had called in at Toulon to repair damage or get supplies, instead of making the passage to Italy direct from the Strait of Gibraltar, and, all navies being the same, the unexpected arrival of a couple of extra ships had to be turned to some advantage, however brief. Then Ramage read the extra orders again more carefully and discovered that his first glance had given him the wrong impression. Apparently the ketches were far more important to the French than he had thought, and they were to be escorted by two frigates. These frigates would meet them just down the coast on the other side of Argentario at Porto Ercole. He cursed the revolutionary calendar but worked out that it meant in five days' time. The two frigates were going there after landing some stores at Bastia, in Corsica. The ketches should by then have watered, taken on what provisions they needed (and which were available locally), and then be waiting at anchor outside the harbour because the frigates would then enter to water as soon as they arrived and embark cavalry, infantry and field artillery and transport them to Crete while escorting the bomb ketches.

Ramage considered the dates as he folded the letter. It was now the 8th, and the two bomb ketches had to be watered, provisioned and anchored outside Porto Ercole by the 13th, when the frigates were due. By then cavalry and field artillery would have arrived at Porto Ercole from somewhere nearby, ready to be embarked. Presumably they would bring forage for the horses. But why on earth were the French sending a couple of bomb ketches and a couple of frigates to Crete with cavalry and artillery?

"You have the charts for Crete?" Ramage asked casually.

Renouf grimaced expressively and shook his head. "The frigates are bringing one. I don't even have a chart showing where it is; just a latitude and longitude written down."

"You sound as though you do not even know why you're going to Crete!"

"I don't," Renouf said bitterly, thinking that Ramage's little trap was an expression of sympathy. "All I know is that since we left Brest we've sailed as far as across the Atlantic by the southerly route, and we still have a long way to go. They must have some important fortresses to knock down in Crete, that's all I can think." He scratched the back of his head and added viciously: "I hope so, anyway; we deserve to have something to blow up, after all this sailing."

"Crete is larger than Corsica," Ramage said casually. "A squadron of cavalry, a few field guns and two bomb ketches are not going to make much impression. You'll probably meet a fleet there and go on somewhere else. Back to Egypt, perhaps ..."

Renouf looked alarmed at the mention of Egypt. The defeat of the French fleet there - Nelson had captured or burned eleven ships of the line out of thirteen - and Bonaparte's narrow escape (at a cost of abandoning his Army of Egypt to its fate) was still fresh in every Frenchman's memory, and the prospect that the Dix-Huit de Fructidor and the Brutus might be part of a new plan by Bonaparte to return to those scorching sands (even though the Royal Navy had quit the Mediterranean) did not appeal to him. Then he composed his face - it was an expression Ramage had often read in books, but he had never previously seen someone actually doing it. Clearly Renouf had suddenly realized the danger of letting a senior officer glimpse his feelings: charges of treason made as the result of a look, let alone a careless word, had led to a man making the short walk to the guillotine or the long voyage across the Atlantic to Devil's Island, just a few miles north of the Equator. "The convoy to Cayenne", meaning transportation, was as common an expression in France these days as "taking a ride in a tumbril" and "marrying the Widow" were for being guillotined.

Renouf saw that his companion was nodding and smiling understandingly, so no harm had been done, but the mention of Egypt was enough to turn a man's stomach. One could not trust such a fellow as this too far, however. He was from Paris, judging by his accent, or maybe from the Orléans area. Obviously once an aristo - Renouf could tell that from his voice. But he, or his family, must have done good work for the Revolution, or else paid a lot of money, to keep his head on his shoulders, and even more to have obtained and kept command of a ship like this frigate.

Renouf admitted that the ship was in good order: he had seen enough while being rowed over, and the decks were spotless: he had noticed that in the brief walk from the entry port to the companionway. As scrubbed as they always said English ships were!

Still, the damned man might at least offer him a drink. His mouth tasted as coppery as a moneylender's leather pouch. There was something he did not understand about this young man. He had the face of an aristo: high cheekbones, a slightly hooked nose, dark brown eyes very deep-set under thick eyebrows. Not really a French face - but then what was a French face? Long and narrow with crinkly black hair and a boasting tongue like a Gascon? Leathery, the body wiry, like a man from one of the provinces along the Pyrenees? Or stocky, round-faced from too much eating, like those living close to the Swiss border, neither men of the mountains nor the plains? There was no really typical Frenchman, but nevertheless this capitaine de vaisseau looked different. Perhaps his mother was a foreigner.