That is how we should arrive in Pitigliano, he decided: swift and unexpected. They must leave the French guards content and unsuspecting, because no one should raise the alarm for the couple of days it was going to take to shepherd the freed hostages back to the beach and on board the Calypso. They would need more than two days if an alarm was raised.

An alarm would mean they could not risk using the roads (even at night they might walk into ambushes), and leading the hostages across this rough country would be difficult. For a start, few would be wearing suitable footwear. And, he realized wearily, there was bound to be some damned admiral or general who would try to take command of the party. Well, Ramage had made up his mind about that right from the start: the Admiralty orders put him in command, and anyone, of whatever rank, who disagreed would be given the time and position of a rendezvous near Orbetello and told to make his own way. Orbetello would be near enough - Ramage had to take into account that such hostages, not speaking Italian, would almost certainly be captured, and the French would not take long to extract the rendezvous from them. Men who had faced broadsides and barrages without flinching would quickly discover it took a different type of courage to withstand torture, although, come to think of it... yes, give two rendezvous, the second a false one which would sound plausible when "revealed" to the French.

When he woke, a glance at his watch showed he had slept for nearly two hours, and already Hill was sitting up, pulling on his boots.

Before the three groups of men fell in on the road - which was no more than a layer of white dust settled on the rock, distinguishable as a road only because no trees or bushes grew on it, and mule and donkey droppings marked the way like pencilled dots on a map - Ramage looked round carefully. The contadini still dozed; there was no sign of a French cavalry patrol.

As soon as they were formed up, Ramage inspected his men: not with the eye of a Rennick, but with the eyes of Frenchmen and Italians. Starting at the rear, he looked at Hill. His chin and cheeks were covered in black stubble; his hair was tousled beneath the cap. His coat was creased and dusty with a grease mark round the collar where the hair touched. The trousers needed a hitch, but there was no dust on his musket. Ramage nodded. "Napoleon the First, Emperor of the French, is proud of you: beneath your feet -" Ramage glanced down at the dusty boots, "- Italian states have crumbled into white dust. Austria cringes. The English tremble with fear."

"Yes, sir," Hill agreed. "It's because these feet throb so much they must sound like five armies marching . . ."

He spoke in French and the other men laughed. "Auguste," Ramage said, "wearing that uniform, do you feel any nostalgia?"

"For Brittany, yes, mon capitaine. But -" he waved a hand towards the fields, "- when I think of what my people are doing to these poor people I am ashamed."

Ramage nodded but said: "Don't feel too guilty: not 'your people', just a few men who seized power. Meanwhile try to think of yourself as one of the Emperor's soldiers - just in case we are challenged!"

He looked at Louis. He would put him among a thousand French soldiers and defy anyone to be suspicious. His chin was greasy from the salami: crumbs lodged among the bristles; his musket was slung over his shoulder with all the nonchalance of an old soldier who had marched across many hills and plains and fought many campaigns.

Ramage grinned at him. "Marengo with Bonaparte," he said, naming the famous victory. "Then he reorganized Italy, and made the Grand Duke of Tuscany the King of Etruria, and you've been here ever since . . ."

"Indeed, citizen captain. Pay months in arrears, eating only what we can forage, welcome nowhere, hated everywhere - but nevertheless a soldier of the Republic, One and Indivisible!"

Ramage laughed drily. "Well spoken; the Emperor is proud of you.

"And as for you," he said turning to Gilbert, "you have the harried look of a veteran of Osterach, Cassano and Jovi." In all three battles the French had been beaten by the Austrians.

"That's true, sir," Gilbert said sorrowfully. "I intend to learn German: none of these Austrians speak French."

"Very wise of you," Ramage commented and walked on to inspect the prisoners. He looked them over and said: "You hostages are supposed to be aristocrats and naval officers of flag rank and army officers of field rank, but to me you look like pimps and panders and unlucky gamblers on the run from creditors, cuckolded husbands and cast-off mistresses!"

"If I'd known it was goin' ter be like this," Stafford said contritely, "I'd never 'ave cast 'er orf. . ."

"It's those French guards," Aitken said haughtily, "they bully us. They don't treat us with the respect due to our station in society. They all seem infected with a most noxious revolutionary fervour. Most disturbing. I'd complain to our ambassador, but I can't find him."

"One can never find an ambassador or a consul when he's needed," Ramage said sympathetically. "It's their training. They must avoid responsibility, never take sides, never give an opinion, always smile and employ a good chef."

Ramage inspected the rest of the "prisoners" and then had a hard look at Paolo and Rossi. They were Italian all right, combining raffishness with an easy-going stance and a realistic approach to war. To a casual onlooker, the sound of a distant pistol shot would seem enough to send them scurrying into the hills for cover. Which, Ramage thought, just shows how clothes and a few days' growth of whiskers can be deceptive.

The march continued and the road twisted and turned but generally trended to the south-east along a valley. Finally, at nightfall, they reached a river, the Fiora, which started life somewhere up near Santa Fiora, among the mountains near Amiata, and snaked its way across Tuscany, crossing the road a few miles short of Pitigliano and going on to meet the sea near the Torre Montalto. But as spring had turned into scorching summer, so the Fiora had now shrunk to little more than a stream. But at least there was some water, and Ramage gave permission for the men to bathe. As soon as they were dry again and dressed, the remaining rations were issued and all the men, with the exception of a sentry, hid hands and faces under their jackets and, still able to hear the whine of hungry mosquitoes, went to sleep.

Just before the sentry was posted, Ramage spoke to Orsini, Hill, Aitken and, to make sure the Frenchman understood that he would be in command of his section if anything happened to Hill, Gilbert.

"We start tomorrow as soon after dawn as we can. Apart from what's left in our haversacks from the Calypso, we've no more food. But it's only five or six miles to Pitigliano, and you all know what to do when we get there. Don't forget, Gilbert - your men answer any friendly shouts from other French troops. We've got to march through the Porta della Cittadella as though we own the place. It is a big gateway, but leave Hill and me to argue if we are challenged: the rest of you keep marching (as smartly as you can) towards the Palazzo degli Orsini, which is large and obvious. What we do after that depends on whether we've been recognized or not. You know the plan if we are accepted as genuine; you know the plan if we are discovered. I hope we shan't need to make up a new plan . . ."