Ramage raised his eyebrows, and Sir Henry said: "If an Arab murders his wife when there's a scirocco blowing, he's not blamed. How about that, eh?"

"I'd heard that, sir, but since an Arab has a harem with several wives, it mightn't be the advantage that Christians think."

"Hmm . . . never thought of it like that," Sir Henry said. "Anyway, it'll be knocking up a sea below Forte della Stella..."

"The fishermen don't leave Port' Ercole when there's a bad scirocco. Those caught out usually make for Santo Stefano and wait there in the lee for it to blow out. There's a fish market..."

Sir Henry guessed that Ramage was talking only to avoid the main problem. "It means we can't do a dam' thing for three days - more, if we have to wait for a heavy swell to ease down."

"Yes, three or four days, sir."

"And you should be making for Gibraltar, not hanging round here to collect wives."

"Hostages, not wives," Ramage said gently.

"Lord St Vincent won't like it if anything goes wrong as a result of your waiting."

"My orders cover it, sir," Ramage said.

"Wives?"

"No, 'hostages' sir. My orders, signed by four members of the Board, are to rescue the British hostages at Pitigliano. However, I found they weren't there. Instead half were at Giglio and the other half are - we hope - at Port' Ercole."

"If anything goes wrong, they'll flay you and use your skin as parchment," Sir Henry said. "You realize that, don't you? I couldn't help you: I'd be an involved party. In fact my skin might be nailed up alongside yours." He thought for a moment. "Were the hostages named?"

"Some of them. But neither of us can leave this coast with the wives still in Forte della Stella, or wherever they are, can we sir."

Sir Henry recognized it as a comment, not a question. "Not that many wives," he said bleakly. "Mine, the Earl of Innes's, the other two admirals' (tho' I think Admiral Keeler doesn't feel the separation as strongly as the rest of us), and the wives of the marquis, our two earls and the viscount."

"But not General Cargill's wife?" Ramage asked carefully.

"He's not married - or, at least, his wife wasn't with him when he was arrested," Sir Henry said. "Odd, I don't know for sure whether he's married or not."

"Eight wives," Ramage said. "Not a large party. I'm surprised the French kept you apart."

"Oh, I think there are more than eight hostages in that party," Sir Henry said, "and I don't think they're all women. It's just a feeling I have, but I've always considered our wives simply to be part of a second group of hostages."

"You mean, sir, that there could be other naval and army officers?"

Sir Henry shook his head. "No, I think the hostages referred to in your orders (however you interpret the wording) are the ones you have rescued. I know that because I know which flag officers left the country when peace was signed - as you well know, no serving naval officer can go abroad in peacetime without the Board's permission. Same goes for the soldiers: they have to ask the Horse Guards, and the earl knows who applied. So any men held hostage with our wives must be civilians - people like the marquis."

"Why were the marquis and the others separated and put with you then?" Ramage mused.

"The French probably have a scale," Sir Henry speculated grimly. "After all, there's a scale both countries use when exchanging prisoners: a post-captain equals six lieutenants; a lieutenant equals ten midshipmen, and so on."

"And a marquis?"

Sir Henry laughed. "This one is probably the first the French have ever taken. Obviously they don't value them too highly because he's been put in with admirals, generals, earls and a viscount!"

"The marquis is lucky," Ramage said. "In France before the Revolution, the title was not ranked as highly as in Britain. There are many more of them, of course, and the French didn't have earls."

Sir Henry's thoughts returned to Port' Ercole. "You have to waste three days, perhaps more . . ."

"I intend to wait here," Ramage said. Both men noted the use of the the word "intend"; this was what Ramage was going to do, and he was telling the admiral, not suggesting (when he would have used the word "proposing"). "We can anchor off the north side if it grows too rough here. No one suspects our identity: to the garrison we are a French frigate . . ."

It wanted an hour to sunset when Ramage stood at the fore end of the quarterdeck with Aitken, Hill and Orsini. By now the wind was much stronger, with the ship pitching heavily in the swell which had come up from the south, sliding in under the wind waves. Each time the Calypso snubbed at her anchor cable she groaned as if in protest. Each jerk was felt through the whole ship: deck beams moved a fraction of an inch, bending to absorb the weight of the guns on the maindeck: each gun and its carriage meant a couple of tons pressing down on the deck planking at four points, where the four wooden wheels, or trucks, rested.

The pitching of the hull jerked the masts back and forth a distance almost imperceptible to the untrained eye but increased by the weight of the yards and the sails furled on them. However, the thick hemp rope of the standing rigging stretched naturally, giving the masts a certain amount of play. The movement of the hull and of the masts, as Paolo Orsini had learned during the first few days after joining the ship (a wide-eyed and very nervous "Johnny Newcome"), was what gave the Calypso her strength. Southwick had explained it to him quite simply: you could bend a bundle of thin sticks across your knee without breaking them, but a solid stick of the same diameter would snap.

As Paolo now watched the rigging slackening and tautening he remembered Southwick's words, and although he had sailed thousands of miles since then, he was still grateful for the old master's quiet explanation: coming when it did, it meant that a young lad yet to make his first voyage as a midshipman was never again frightened by the creaks and groans of a ship working in a seaway.

"We'll move round to the north side of the island and find a lee," Ramage told Aitken. "There's no point in waiting, and I don't want to start feeling my way round in the dark. Man the capstan, and let's have the fiddler play a few tunes: with this sea the men will need some forebitters when they set their chests to the capstan bars."

Southwick bustled up. His station was on the fo'c'sle when weighing anchor, where he could see how the cable was growing (the indication of where the anchor was lying on the sea bottom, in relation to the ship). Skilful use of topsails and the rudder meant that the ship could sail up until she was almost over the anchor, thus taking much of the weight off the cable and so making it easier for the men at the capstan, who would otherwise be hauling the ship bodily ahead.

Many captains, the master recalled, did not bother to help the men, taking the view that a seaman was a seaman, and straining at a capstan bar was part of the job.

As Southwick made his way forward to the fo'c'sle, the boatswain's mates were busy with their calls, the shrill, twittering notes interspersed with orders sending men running forward while the topmen, the most agile seamen in the ship, went to the shrouds, awaiting the orders which would send them aloft and out along the yards ready to untie the gaskets holding the sails tightly furled so that at the shouted words "Let fall" the canvas would drop like blinds.

Ramage looked up at Castello with his telescope. "Nothing," he commented to Aitken. "No one on the battlements. Still having their siesta, I expect. No hostages to guard ... sleep, eat, play cards and read the Moniteur. I wonder how many of them can actually read?"