Martin came aft to report that all six swivels could be fired and, thanks to a liberal application from the greasy slush found in the cook's slush bucket, the swivels now turned easily in the fittings in the bulwarks, and the trunnions of the guns moved freely in the swivels. There was no shot gauge to ensure that no shot was oversize or swollen by rust but it had been easy enough to try every shot in a gun: matter of rolling in the shot and then - with the muzzle inboard - tilting the barrel down so that the shot rolled out again into waiting hands. All the socket fittings for the swivels in the bulwarks looked sound enough. 'The guns have just been neglected for the past year: they were originally fitted well enough', Martin reported.

A year, Ramage thought: just a little less than the length of time the Royal Navy left the Mediterranean because of the demands for ships of war in other seas and other oceans. Clearly no Algerine pirates came far enough north to persuade this tartane's master that his swivels needed anything more than canvas covers by way of maintenance. Or, more likely, the tartane usually hugged the coast.

The schooner was still holding her course: obviously the Britons on board were either curious or uninterested in the tartane - staying on a course which would very soon have them crossing tracks could mean either.

Martin examined her with the glass, wiped the objective lens with a piece of cloth to remove specks of spray, and looked again.

'That hull hasn't seen a paintbrush for a year or two', he commented. 'And her jibs have an odd cut to them. Like flour bags, they belly so much.'

'I noticed that', Ramage said, taking another bearing of her across the top of the Passe Partout's steering compass.

'And those quarterboats - they weren't built in a British yard: look more like bananas.'

'Probably lost her own months ago and took those from an Algerine prize.'

'Still, she has British colours, so we shouldn't have any problems, sir.'

Ramage looked astern and saw that the last of the ships of the convoy were now two or three miles away, and Jackson, Orsini and Stafford were standing by the line reeved through a block at the after end of the lateen yard and used as a flag halyard.

He then looked across at the Magpie and called to Orsini, who promptly gestured to the two seamen and the French colours came down at the run. Another glance forward reassured him that on this tack the curve of the Passe Partout's sail made a big enough belly of canvas to hide any flags from the convoy.

As soon as the Tricolour was down and removed from the halyard, it was replaced with a flag twice as large, one which Jackson, Stafford and Rossi had hurriedly cobbled up from a bolt of canvas found in the bosun's tiny store in the fo'c'sle.

'Hoist it slowly', Ramage said, and a large white flag - as white as sail canvas could ever be - rose to the end of the yard.

Ramage took the glass and watched the afterdeck of the Magpie. A white flag was accepted universally as a flag of truce, and on the matter of colours, Ramage noted, the Magpie's were faded. There was just enough for it to be recognizable as a Red Ensign, but - there were a lot of swarthy faces on her fo'c'sle. She must have shipped a crew from - where? And there were many more men with swarthy faces on the quarterdeck, too. Swarthy! They were Arabs! They even had the Red Ensign upside-down, something he had only just noticed because it was flapping spasmodically in the Magpie's soldier's wind.

'Go about', he snapped at Rossi and with seconds counting leaned against the tiller.

'Man the swivels, she's an Algerine!'

The Passe Partout spun round to the northwest, away from her rendezvous with the schooner, and almost at once Ramage heard the faint pop-pop-pop of muskets and then the deeper boom of 6-pounder guns.

There was a heavy crash of spars and flapping of canvas as the Magpie wore round to try to intercept the tartane on her new tack and, with Rossi now holding the tiller over, Ramage was able to use the glass once again.

Yes, the larboard side of the Magpie, hidden until she wore round, was damaged and had been temporarily repaired but not painted - and now the Red Ensign was coming down and the green-and-white crescent flag used by the Algerines was going up in its place, an enormous flag that seemed more suitable for a fortress than a ship.

'Jackson - signal flags - British: hoist number sixteen where the Calypso can see it. Martin, Orsini, get those swivels firing - don't worry about hitting the Magpie, make plenty of smoke so that the Calypso sees it!'

'Number sixteen, "Engage the enemy more closely" goingup, sir', Jackson yelled, overhauling the halyard.

'Yer gotta laugh', Stafford said gloomily as he slid a flannel cartridge into the muzzle of a swivel. 'Here we are, British mustering under Frog colours, and there they are, a crowd of h'Arabs musterin' under British colours to attack the Frogs.'

'Yes', said Paolo indignantly, pushing in a wad and rolling a shot after it, 'but you heard what the captain said – they had the British flag upside-down: they're just damned Saraceni. Barbarossa's brood.'

'Barbey Rossi - I'd forgotten 'im', Stafford said. 'You'd think he was an Italian with a name like that, just like our Rossi.'

'No', Paolo corrected him. '"Barba" means "beard" and "rossa" is red. Redbeard was his nickname, not his true name.'

Ramage watched the Magpie as the Algerines trimmed the sheets of the big mainsail and foresail. Obviously they were much more used to the lateen than the gaff rig, but reaching as she now was, with the wind on the beam, they would not need the sail-trimming skill necessary to get her moving fast to windward.

She came round into the Passe Partout's wake and about half a mile astern. Her masts were now in line.

'Martin! Your quadrant. Give me the elevation of the Magpie's foremast!'

The young lieutenant opened the mahogany box as the first of the tartane's swivels fired. By the time the third had fired he was balancing, sighting the Magpie in the quadrant's mirror. A few delicate movements with the quadrant's arm and Martin was reading off the minutes and degrees.

Ramage looked at his watch and said to Rossi: 'Keep her masts in line: I want to see how quickly she can overhaul us on a reach.'

'Very quickly', Rossi muttered. 'Only to windward can we escape!'

And that, Ramage knew, was the irony of the situation. The only ship with the guns to deal with the Magpie was the Calypso, at the far end of the convoy and who could only get to the Algerine vessel by beating to windward - a long, slow task in this light wind.

The Passe Partout could not escape from the Magpie by running away before the wind to join the Calypso; the schooner would overtake her long before that. If she raced away on a broad reach, north or south, taking the Magpie in pursuit, she was making it a little easier for the Calypso, whose speed would increase with every point she could sail free. But the Magpie would catch the tartane long before the Calypso could get near.

Only by beating to windward, away from the Calypso, could the Passe Partout escape. Would the Magpie continue chasing her? If so, it would keep her out of the Calypso's hands but - ironically enough - save the French convoy.

The fifth swivel fired. It was absurd to waste the shot when the whole point of firing was to make smoke to attract the Calypso's attention because at this range a 3-pounder shot would not harm a privateer schooner any more than a soggy dumpling.

'Fire blank charges', Ramage shouted. 'Don't waste shot. Just make smoke!'

He looked astern across the convoy at the Calypso and just managed to steady the glass in time to see the frigate wearing round, sails shivering as she steadied on a course hard on the wind. Aitken and Southwick were going to be busy as they tacked back and forth through the convoy. There were bound to be at least three merchant ships whose masters lost their nerve at the sight of a great frigate, guns run out, racing in their direction and, instead of holding their course, they would do something silly and risk a collision...