'What about Elba?'

'I do not know: there were French plans to capture it after Leghorn: it is very near the coast. Oh yes, I forgot: the Spanish have signed an alliance with France.'

'Declared war on the British, you mean?' exclaimed Ramage.

She shrugged her shoulders. 'I do not know: I imagine so.'

Ramage envied her unconcern - if Spain joined the French, then the Royal Navy would be overwhelmed in the Mediterranean: the Admiral was fighting against heavy odds even now ... And a full-scale revolution in Corsica could mean the British would have to clear out because they had very few troops there. The capture of Elba would deprive them of yet another base. And the Spanish Fleet joining the French ... Well, there'll be enough battles and casualties to make every junior lieutenant a post captain before the war ends, he thought viciously.

He found himself tapping the palm of his left hand with his throwing knife: quite unconsciously he must have taken it out while listening to the Marchesa.

'Do you usually have such a knife up your sleeve?' she asked.

'Yes,' he answered sourly. 'Invariably. Like all good card players.'

'You mean you like to cheat.'

He imagined her outlined against the little door: and before he realized what he was doing, his right hand swung up over his head, then suddenly chopped down. The knife blade flashed for a moment before thudding into the door, the hilt vibrating for a few moments.

'No,' he replied, walking over to pull it out of the wood. 'Not to cheat: just to win. Too many kings, courtiers, courtesans and politicians think war's just a game of cards and realize their mistake only when they find an uncouth Corsican artilleryman has strolled across the Alps and trumped all their aces.'

'So we in Tuscany have been playing cards?'

'Madam, could we continue this discussion another time?'

'Certainly: I was really only interested to know if you cheated. Now,' she said, picking up her pistol and standing, 'shall we meet here this evening?'

"No - it will save time if you all come to the boat. Nino can guide you. Bring water, if you can, and food. But no possessions and no servants.'

‘Why?'

'Because servants take no risk by staying - they and possessions take up space in the boat. We have no spare space.'

'But jewellery, money?'

"Yes, within reason. So, Madam, will you be at the boat at nine o'clock: that should give you half an hour of darkness to get here. Are you hiding far away?'

'At—'

'No, don't tell me exactly where: the less we know, the less we could be forced to tell if we were captured. Just the direction and the time to get here.'

'Towards Monte Capalbio. Half an hour at the most.'

'Excellent: nine o'clock at the boat, then.'

'Yes. I will send Nino during the day to tell you what the others have decided. One of the party, Count Pitti, has yet to arrive: we expect him hourly.'

Ramage suddenly realized she already intended to come, whatever her companions decided.

'You anticipate difficulties?'

LYING IN THE SAND later that day, shaded from the fierce heat of the sun by a juniper bush, Ramage alternately dozed and woke, relieved that for the moment there were no decisions to make and no particular risks to run. All that bothered him for the time being were the flies and mosquitoes which attacked him with a determination quite alien to the country.

He ran over in his mind the plan he had already outlined to Jackson and the men. Just before nine o'clock - providing the wind did not come up and bring a bit of a sea with it - the gig would be hauled out to the sand bar, where it could be held by a couple of seamen so that the party could wade out to it. That was the easiest way of making a hurried departure in case of an emergency. But if there was no urgency, the boat could be hauled up the river again so the refugees could embark without getting wet.

Now all that remained was for Nino to arrive with a message from the Marchesa telling him how many of the men were coming.

How he hated these men he had never seen: these names, these (probably) scented fops, whose very existence had sunk the Sibella and decimated her crew. The violence of the spasm of hatred made him sit up, as if to shake it off, and when he lay back again he despised himself for being so irrational: they might well be brave men anxious to carry on the fight against the French.

'A drink of water, sir?'

The ever-wakeful Jackson: he'd miss that Yankee twang and cadaverous face when they reached Bastia and Jackson was sent off to some other ship.

He took the dipper and drank. It was warm and brackish; like all water stored in a ship it stank, but years of practice taught a seaman to drink with the back of his nose blocked, so the smell was delayed until after the water was down his throat, past regret or recall.

Maybe it was unfair to blame these refugees; but with their money and influence, surely they could have chartered - stolen, even - a fishing boat and made their way to Corsica, instead of requesting a British warship? Did they want a warship for comfort or security? If comfort, because they found the idea of a fishing boat too disgusting, then the devil take them. If security: well, they had lost their lands, their homes, and probably their wealth - temporarily anyway - so perhaps one could not blame them. But he had a suspicion it was for luxury; for pride; so that they should not make a brutta figura, cut a figure, the cheap vanity that was - and presumably always would be - the curse of Italy.

He thought, many Italians - but by no means all - are like Van der Dekken, the Flying Dutchman; only the curse on them is that they're doomed to roam the world, their vanity raw and exposed to every chill wind, open to every slight, until they find something to give them confidence and the natural dignity that goes with it.

Yet, apart from the brutta figura, if he was honest he was blaming them for his own forebodings: that much he admitted. He stared up at the deep blue of the sky. Foreboding... apprehension ... fear: the same commodity, but with different names stencilled on the casks. The fear was of - well, not so much when he thought about it: only the consequences of surrendering the Sibella. There were plenty of his father's enemies still carrying on the vendetta. He only hoped Captain Nelson would be at Bastia when he arrived; but if it was Admiral Goddard or one of his followers, which was quite possible - well...

He heard a man puffing and grunting, and as Jackson leapt to his feet, cutlass in hand, Nino came into the clearing.

'Ah, Commandante,' he said, 'this heat!' He rubbed his face vigorously with a piece of cloth, smearing the soot which always begrimed a carbonaio's face across the areas of skin which had been washed clean by streams of perspiration. 'Your sentry was not asleep this time!'

'What news, Nino? Sit down - we have no wine, only water.'

Nino grinned. 'In the name of my uncle at Port' Ercole, Commandante, I took the liberty of bringing you something.'

He untied the neck of a small sack and took out three bottles of the deep golden white wine for which the district was famous, followed by several cheeses and half a dozen long, thin loaves of bread.

'Those biscuits,' he said. 'The Marchesa told me of your ship's biscuits, and so I found you some bread.'

'It was kind of you, Nino.'

'Prego, Commandante; it was nothing, you are welcome. The bread is made from my uncle's grain.'

Drinking wine in the heat of the sun always gave Ramage a headache; but he knew Nino would be hurt if he did not. 'We'll have a little now and keep the rest for the voyage.'