Aitken gave the course to the quartermaster, who asked for it to be repeated. Southwick muttered: "There you are, sir, people think you've gone off your head!"

Aitken picked up the speaking trumpet and was already shouting orders to trim the yards and sheets as the four men at the great wheel turned it, two standing to windward and two to leeward, while the quartermaster kept an eye on the nearest of the two compasses and the weather luffs of the sails.

Slowly the Calypso's bow swung round to starboard, putting the wind nine points on the starboard quarter. Such a change in course would hardly go unnoticed in the French frigate, even though the visibility was closing in rapidly as night fell.

There was no mistaking the tension in Ramage as he watched the frigate astern. She had not altered course: instead she ploughed on to the north, sails bellying, bow shouldering aside the waves in great smothers of spray. No phosphorescence, Ramage noted thankfully. But no hint of her altering course either: she is ignoring the Calypso. And that is ironic - but no! The outline of her hull is changing, her yards are being braced up, the distance between her three masts is narrowing . . . Finally the masts were in line. Once again the frigate was following in the Calypso's wake.

"Wonder what they're thinking now," commented Southwick.

"Her captain has probably just remembered that we never answered his challenge," Ramage said. "I was hoping he'd carry on to the north and leave us alone so we could go back to wait in the lee of Giglio."

"It's an odd feeling, running away from a Johnny Crapaud," Southwick commented, "even if it's not really running away."

"You sound like that damned general," Ramage said coldly. "To him battle is 'a direct frontal attack in regular order' - no matter that the Austrians lost every battle where they tried it against the French." Ramage thought for a moment and added bitterly: "Why should I be responsible for killing even one Calypso if I can capture or destroy that damned frigate without losing a single life?"

"You know me well enough that I don't have to argue, sir. I'm not responsible for the present fashion at the Admiralty of judging a captain's skill in action by the size of the butcher's bill. I've seen that it's usually just the opposite: stupid captains have the heaviest casualties. Will you be challenging that general?" he asked in studied casualness.

"It won't be necessary. The man's a coward and a bully himself: he'll apologize." He nodded towards the quartermaster. "Tell him that if he steers a quarter point either side of the course I'll have him flogged."

"Aye, that'll scare him," Southwick muttered as he walked across the deck, trying to recall the last flogging that Ramage had ordered. Yes, Spithead, many years ago, a mutineer, and even then only a few lashes . . . Strange that some captains regularly ordered at least a couple of dozen lashes every week, yet Mr Ramage has never flogged a man since he was made post. Was it the ships' companies or the captains? That's a daft question; give a captain three months in command, and then it was rule of thumb: a bad ship's company pointed to a bad captain.

He warned the quartermaster, who warned the men at the wheel, but as he walked back, Southwick believed the quartermaster when he had exclaimed that they were holding the course so carefully it looked as if the compass needle had stuck.

"How far off is she?" Ramage asked Southwick, nodding at the frigate and wanting a second opinion.

"Half a mile. Hard to judge in this light, but I reckon no more. Another ten minutes and it'll be too dark to see her."

"It's more important she sees us. Get the lamptrimmer to inspect the poop lantern: I might decide to use that, and I don't want it smoking."

"But then the damned Frenchman will follow our every move!" Southwick exclaimed. "We'll never escape!"

"Exactly," Ramage said coolly. "Not only that: if by now he suspects we might be British, he'll be even more puzzled when we show a poop lantern for him to follow us. Might even convince him his suspicions are wrong . . ."

Southwick shrugged, borrowed the speaking trumpet from Aitken, and bellowed forward the order for the lamptrimmer to lay aft at once.

Ramage beckoned to Aitken. "Keep a lookout aloft when it gets dark, and we'll have the regular half dozen night lookouts on deck - one on each bow, at the mainchains, and on each quarter. Warn them particularly to watch for land - along the coast north from Talamone: they've seen it before."

Aitken nodded as Ramage said: "I'm going down to the great cabin for five minutes: call me if there's any change up here. Watch our friend, in case he claps on more sail."

With that Ramage went down to his cabin and, after pulling a chart from the rack, sat down at his desk. He unrolled the chart and weighted down the ends. It covered the area from Giglio to Argentario, then over to the mainland by Orbetello, northwards to Talamone, the mouth of the river Ombrone, and on far enough to show Castiglione della Pescaia, Rocchette and finally Punta Ala.

And there, almost in the centre of the chart, just about midway between the island of Giglio and the mouth of the Ombrone, were the three rocks and attached shoals that were neatly marked "Formiche di Grosseto". He took the parallel rulers, dividers and a pencil from the drawer and spent the next three minutes measuring off courses and distances, noting them on a small piece of paper which he tucked in his pocket before rolling up the chart and returning the navigational instruments to the drawer.

He did some calculations after checking depths of water, realized that the odds were against the great gamble he was about to take, and finally shrugged his shoulders. Often lack of an alternative made a man brave. This was a good example. He picked up the lanthorn to return it to the Marine sentry on duty at the great cabin door. The nuisance of being at general quarters was that lanthorns, giving a very dull light, replaced the glass-fronted lanterns.

Up on the quarterdeck he was surprised just how dark it had become while he was below. Looking astern, he could just make out the French frigate, a dark blur in the Calypso's wake. But could the Frenchman still see the Calypso? The British frigate was sailing into the darker eastern sky and, even though the visibility was bad, it was still lighter to the west, where the sun, despite having long since ducked below the horizon, still gave some reflected light.

"We'll have the poop lantern, Mr Southwick."

The lamptrimmer, a hulking man, was carrying a lanthorn, and he opened the front so that he could use the flame of the candle to light the wick. The wind blowing hard over the quarter seemed to fence with the flame, although the lamptrimmer did his best to shield it with his body. Finally the big poop lantern was lit, and Ramage saw that Sir Henry was still standing at the taffrail. He turned to Aitken. "Send someone for my boatcloak: the admiral must be soaked with spray."

"It's all right, sir," Aitken said, "I had some oilskins brought up for him while you were below in your cabin. I have the impression," he added quietly, "that the old gentleman is enjoying himself: it's probably a quarter of a century since he rushed round in a frigate!"

The sight of the lamptrimmer making his way back down the quarterdeck ladder reminded Ramage, and he called over Southwick so that he he could give both the first lieutenant and the master their orders at the same time.

"Mr Southwick, first, when I give the word I want four or five strong men sent down to the cable tier, with a couple of boys holding lanthorns, so they don't fall over each other or get tied in knots."

Southwick nodded but was puzzled, although he knew better than to start asking questions at this stage.