They would be little prepared for what they saw: Bonaparte's secret police, the near-starvation, the nearness of the guillotine, the sheer lack of an occasional coat of paint on houses - all had combined to give French towns the appearance of places that have been stripped by locusts, or at least occupied by an enemy army. In fact France's own army had taken so heavy a toll of able-bodied men that the inhabitants of towns and cities were mainly women - many in the eternal black of mourning - and old men. There would be many cripples, too; men who had lost a leg or an arm in battle or even in the ice and snow of the Alps or Apennines.

They would see - particularly in Amiens, where he had once been imprisoned and threatened with it - the Widow set up in most squares. The guillotine had become part of every French square; La Veuve dans la place, usually set up high on a platform so the crowds could watch the spectacle, a wicker basket to catch the head . . .

This the Herveys and Gianna would see - well, not the basket and not the darkened bloodstains, which the rains would have washed away, nor the heavy blade of the guillotine, which was removed by the executioner when not required, so the edge could be sharpened again and greased well to protect it against rust. They would see the gaunt, wooden framework and probably sigh that it had ever been used. It was all over now, they would say, the Treaty had been signed, the war was over. Would Hervey himself, or Gianna, realize that La Veuve had nothing to do with the war and with the Treaty; that it was used by the French government of the day against the French people?

Anyway, eventually they would arrive in Paris, and there they, along with all foreigners, would have to register their presence and their address at the Prefecture. So if they were waiting for her, Bonaparte's secret police did not have to look for the Marchesa di Volterra; she would come to them . . . Leaving the safety of England, she would have walked like the fly into the parlour of the spider Bonaparte. And all, he thought bitterly, in the completely mistaken idea that she was doing it for the good of Volterra.

What good was she to Volterra if she was lodged in a French jail? What influence could she have on Bonaparte when he had her behind a locked door? She argued, of course, that while in England she had no influence on Bonaparte, and both Ramage and his father had immediately pointed out that while she was free she had an influence on Bonaparte: he always knew that the rightful ruler of Volterra was waiting patiently to return; that his French regime there were simply puppets.

There was only one way that Bonaparte eould destroy the Kingdom of Volterra, and that would be by destroying its rightful ruler, and Ramage found he had crushed the quill pen with which he had been tapping the pile of papers representing the other half of his problem.

Destroy . . . another word for murder. And murder was another word for what? Not the guillotine, that would be too public. The garotte - did Bonaparte's police favour the Spanish garotte for simple killings of women? Or perhaps just a pistol shot in the head. God help him, he was considering the fate of the woman he had loved. Yes, he had to admit now it was in the past tense. Had loved but still respected, like a favourite sister. Yet now was hardly the time to think about it any further. He had to keep the door shut in his mind. otherwise dreadful thoughts sneaked out. Gianna dead, murdered on Bonaparte's orders; Gianna locked in a cell, wasting away in darkness and subsisting only on sparse prison fare, and no one knowing what had become of her, outside the upper circle of Bonaparte's police . . .

Deliberately he picked up the top pages. They were the reports of four days' watch on the prizes, four pages for each of the five ships. He selected another quill, found it had been cut to give too broad a tip, and took a knife from a drawer inthe desk and cut it again. He then found the ink, removed the cap, found a blank sheet of paper, and on the left side wrote down the names of the five ships. To the right of the names he drew four more columns, and at the top of them he wrote, in sequence, 'Passengers', 'Guards', 'Crew', 'Flag'.

Starting with the Earl of Dodsworth, he saw that each day Bowen had reported seeing sixteen passengers (eight women and eight men) and he filled in the first column. Eight guards - he saw the same eight men each day, so it was reasonable to suppose they were the only eight on board, and that filled in the next column.

Southwick's four daily reports on the Amethyst and the Friesland showed the same consistency. Yorke's ship - Ramage found himself picturing the young shipowner as he read the name - had three women and seven men on board as hostages, and four guards. Southwick noted that on the second day he had seen only three guards, but the fourth man, easily recognizable by his red hair, reappeared next day and was there on the fourth day. Ramage filled in the appropriate columns, and then worked through the Heliotrope and Commerce, slowly filling in the columns.

Then he drew a line across the bottom and filled in the totals: exactly forty passengers (seventeen women, twenty-one men and two children), and twenty-four guards.

But most important: in four days, no boats had visited the prizes. No one had come round from the Lynx; no men from one prize had visited another. It would be such a normal and commonplace thing for them to do so that obviously Tomás or Hart had forbidden it.

Southwick's estimates of the sizes of the ships' companies of the five prizes before they were taken agreed with his own and showed there should be ninety-five or a hundred British, Dutch and French ships' officers and men held prisoner in what Wagstaffe had called an amphitheatre on shore.

The John Company ship, apart from being the most valuable, was physically the nearest: the Earl of Dodsworth was anchored about two hundred yards away. Close enough, he noted ruefully, for him to see that at least four of the women were young, two were elderly, and two had been impossible to guess at because they wore large, flopping hats, presumably to keep the sun off their faces.

The problem, he thought to himself, was going to be keeping the hostages out of the way when the fighting started.

He unrolled the first rough draft chart of the bay. There was the outline of the shore, from the headland forming the southern side to the other peninsula forming the northern. From each of the two rocks being used as starting points, a series of straight lines radiated out to seaward; they represented the compass courses steered by the soundings boat, and along the lines, at ten yard intervals, were written numbers, some with a large figure followed by a small one. The larger figure represented fathoms, the smaller feet. Also marked in were the positions of the five prizes, the Lynx and the Calypso. The nearest sounding to the Lynx was four fathoms and three feet, or twenty-seven feet. The inner bay itself, Ramage noted, was quite shallow; none of the soundings showed more than forty feet, although many more runs were needed before the boat had got out as far as a line joining the two headlands.

The big reef to larboard was a long and slightly crescent shaped sausage, lying east-west and almost cutting the bay in two, with all the ships anchored in the southern half. The reef, made up of rock and staghorn coral - so named because it grew up from the bottom like the horns of a stag, flattening out near the surface - varied from a couple of feet over the coral to two fathoms over the rock. Martin had marked each end with a dan buoy, and once the sun was up it was easy to see the brown patches formed by the staghorn.

Ramage then unrolled the rough map showing the small section of the island surveyed so far. Williams and White had, at his suggestion, begun by concentrating on a broad band between the landing beach and signal hill. This included the approaches to the amphitheatre, where the crews of the prizes were kept prisoner, and the two sources of fresh water.