"French prisoners, sir?" Paolo asked.

"No, they'll all be British."

*

At dawn, Argentario was lying fine on the starboard bow, standing four-square like a rocky island close to the shore, the causeways hidden by its bulk. Ramage held the telescope steady and examined it, finding that almost every headland and mountain nudged a memory. There was Monte Argentario

itself, towering over the rest of the island and, for the moment, Punta Avoltore at the southern tip was in line with it. Just round to the east there was Port' Ercole, which he had attacked with the bomb ketches not so long ago, and for the moment Orbetello was out of sight, hidden like the causeways by Argentario itself. On the mainland to the south was Torre Montalto, the next one down the coast from the Torre di Buranaccio. In a moment he had a picture of Gianna, hidden in the shadow of the doorway inside the candlelit tower, heavily cloaked and suddenly aiming a pistol at him until she was satisfied he was not an enemy, not one of Bonaparte's officers.

Argentario . . . yes, that almost-an-island, with Port' Ercole at one end and Santo Stefano at the other, always seemed more of a home to him than St Kew. Would his father ever understand that a small piece of Tuscany could in many ways mean more to him than the estate in Cornwall that the family had owned for generations?

It was not because here he had fallen in love with Gianna: that was all over long ago, and he was married to Sarah, if she was alive. If Gianna was alive, if Sarah was alive ... So many question marks, all of which finally asked: were the women he loved and had loved now dead?

The early light now showed up the whole of the mainland, from the mountains inland from Argentario, with Monte Amiata the distant queen and not yet crowned with snow, to where it dropped away as the land trended south to the tedious flats of the Maremma marshes where a paddled duck punt or, on the occasional track, a galloping horse stirred up clouds of mosquitoes that would linger like smoke and sting like demons. But on the Tuscan edge of the marsh there were always bluish-white plumes of smoke, or, if it was windy, the faint hint of it. The busiest man in Tuscany was always the carbonaio, the charcoal burner. Anything wood was a living for the carbonaio. Trees, bushes, twigs - put into his ovens made of turf, which sat on the ground like gigantic anthills with twists of smoke escaping here and there, and turned the wood into the charcoal that everyone used for cooking. The carbonaio stripped the macchia more effectively than the goats which, wrenching up roots instead of grazing, destroyed the shrubs and bushes completely. At least the carbonaio only lopped off the growth.

Here he was standing at the quarterdeck rail of the Calypso with dawn now broken over the Italian mainland, the tiny whitehorses tinged red, and the few streaks of cloud a light pink, a maiden's blush if ever he had seen one, and he was thinking of charcoal burners (who usually looked like rural chimney sweeps) and of blushing maidens. In the meantime the Calypso's ship's company was still at general quarters, standing by the guns, even though the lookouts had already given the familiar hail, "See a grey goose at a mile", and the men sent to the mastheads had reported no ships or vessels in sight. Not even, Ramage noted, fishing boats from Port' Ercole or Santo Stefano returning with their catches after a night out. Or did Bonaparte forbid that now?

All the watch towers scattered round Argentario, perched on top of cliffs and headlands, had been built by the Aragonese or later by Philip II when he ruled this part of Italy and was planning to send the great Armada against England. The position of the towers, each in sight of the next on either side or in view of a central tower, meant that signals, presumably warning fires, could be passed either round the coast, as though round the rim of a wheel, or directly like one of its spokes when a valley gave a sight of a central tower. Did Bonaparte now use some of the towers to give his troops warning of enemy ships approaching? Most probably not, because the Royal Navy was so stretched that there were very few British warships in the Mediterranean today: in fact, the Barbary pirates, forever lurking in their fast galleys, and rowed by Christian slaves, must be more of a threat to the local people.

However, if anyone of consequence did see the frigate passing northwards under easy sail he would almost certainly report her as French, and no one could blame him, although anyone with an eye for a ship would be puzzled by the cut of her sails. An experienced sailor would wonder, because they were British cut. But the wind was so light that now they flapped and thumped and jerked the yards, occasionally hanging like heavy curtains until a random gust bellied them.

Ramage called to Aitken: the ship's company could stand down now. Once the guns were run in, cutlasses, pikes and tomahawks replaced in their racks, cartridges returned to the magazine and decks swabbed, then they would all go to breakfast.

Then, Ramage decided, His Majesty's frigate Calypso will become a vast tailor's shop. Instead of the rumble of the trucks of the guns being run out for exercise and the thump of roundshot being rammed home, there will be the snick of scissors and a silence punctuated by curses as needles slip and prick fingers. Men will be cutting, stitching and fitting: hands more accustomed to thrusting thick sail needles through stiff canvas, using a rawhide palm for leverage, will be sewing with the comparatively dainty needles, making clothes.

They would be stitching five French uniforms (for an officer and four men), plus those for an officer and two men from the Grand Duke of Tuscany's forces. The rest of the men would not need any special clothing. It was fortunate that it was summer; even more fortunate that the purser had a few rolls of cloth very similar to the colour favoured by the French Army - when its soldiers were not still dressed in the old clothes they were wearing when they were swept into the Republic's armies.

As soon as the men finished their breakfast, Ramage told Aitken to furl the courses and topgallants: the Calypso would make her way along the coast under topsails alone, cutting her speed to a couple of knots if the present wind held, and this would not put them too far north of Argentario by nightfall. As Aitken picked up the speaking trumpet, Ramage gave him a list on which were written several names. "I want these men sent aft in an hour's time."

He had finally included Rennick. It was simply cowardice, in a way, but it would be unfair to leave the Marine officer behind. There was not much that Rennick could do, but on the other hand it could easily be misinterpreted in a despatch to the Admiralty if anyone wondered why the Marine officer was left behind. And Rennick, with his red face and jovial manner, was one of the bravest men in the ship. The Marines remaining would be under the command of Sergeant Ferris - who would also be indignant at being left behind, but the safety of the ship was the prime consideration, whatever the Admiralty's orders about hostages.

Southwick was already grumbling, refusing to admit that a sixty-mile march would be too much for him - and Ramage could guess the reason: the old master was hoping there would be a good fight somewhere along the way, not realizing that the moment a shot was fired or a sword drawn in anger the whole expedition would be doomed.

He went down to his cabin, sat at his desk, and pulled out of the overhead rack the chart which Southwick had made some years ago of the coast between the little fishing village of Talamone and the deep bay sweeping south round to the causeway which curved in a half moon out to Santa Liberata, on Argentario itself.

The Via Aurelia passed two or three miles inland of Talamone itself but because of the sudden curve of the land it soon met the sea at the hamlet of Fonteblanda. The road then hugged the coast just behind the sandy beach although the sea was often obscured by small woods of pines. Near the northernmost causeway the Fiume Albinia ran into the sea close by a big square tower, Torre Saline. Just a wide-mouthed stream, in fact, which spent the summer dried up and in the winter prevented nearby fields flooding. More important now, however, was the fact that it met the coast (and, with Torre Saline, would be as good as a signpost in the dark) only a hundred yards or so from the turning on the Via Aurelia for Marsiliana and Pitigliano.