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  Orsini studied her with his glass. She moved with the controlled power of a galloping stallion. Black hull unrelieved by a different-coloured sheer strake; sails patched but clearly serviceable. The lower part of the jibs dark from spray. Her port-lids were down, so obviously the French were not anticipating action, otherwise the lids would be triced up and the guns run out. The courses were neatly furled on the yards and so were the royals, and the topsails were drawing well. No gilt-work anywhere; not a glint of sun flickering on polished brasswork. The black hull had hints of purple in it, revealing aged paint exposed to too much hot sun and salt sea.

  “Not such a nice sheer as the Calypso,” Baxter commented to Rossi.

  “Paint in a white or yellow strake and she’d look better,” the Italian said.

  “Yes … white would best bring up the curve, I think,” Baxter said judiciously. “An’ look at the rust marks down ‘er side. And the rusty boom irons on them stunsail yards … Cor, Mr Southwick would go mad!”

  On board the Matilda, Rennick had completed his preparations. Grapnels were ready to hoist from the yardarms, two men at the wheel had been reinforced by two more, in case any were wounded, and Rennick found that, faced with what seemed certain death within the next fifteen minutes, he was curiously resigned; there was none of the feeling of panic that he had always anticipated in the many occasions he had thought about such a situation. It was rather more an acceptance that he had made his plans, given his orders, and there was nothing left now but wait with as much patience as possible. He was sorry not to be seeing his parents again; he regretted no farewell handshake with Mr Ramage. But his men were cheerful, and it was up to him to make sure they continued cheerful until the very last moment when the Matilda rammed the Frenchman. He was puzzled that the Caroline had gone up to the Sarazine and hoped all was well with young Orsini. He liked the lad; it was a pity he was getting caught like this, at the beginning of such a promising career.

  At first Aitken had been delighted with Orsini’s plan but the more he thought about it the more it seemed a three o’clock in the morning idea that emerged after the brandy bottle had tilted too often and was embarrassing when looked at in the cold light of dawn. Still, beggars could not be choosers, and even if the attempt failed some ships might have a better chance of escaping as they dispersed in different directions. Might. If he commanded that frigate, no one would; still, the Frenchman might be content securing one prize instead of going on to the rest. He then dismissed that possibility, remembering Mr Ramage’s warning that in war the most dangerous habit was to underestimate the enemy’s strength, cunning or ability.

  Kenton looked across at the French frigate as she came up fast on his starboard quarter, obviously intending to pass close abeam and then cut across his bow to get into position ahead of the Golondrina and Sarazine. He too found himself resigned to it; there was not a chance of these slow, tubby merchantmen doing anything except trying to bolt like hobbled cows when Aitken gave the order to disperse. The loss of this convoy, he suddenly realized, would wipe out all the Calypso’s officers except Wagstaffe, who was away in Gibraltar, and Southwick. The First, acting Second, and acting Third Lieutenants, Lieutenant of Marines, Midshipman and bosun. And he knew Mr Ramage would feel the loss even worse because he would not be there when it happened. Orsini was the Marchesa’s nephew; he would have to tell the woman he loved that her nephew and heir …

  Paolo Orsini found he now had a tendency to tremble. Well, not tremble, but there was a shaky sensation in his knees and his hands, and his stomach was knotted as though he had eaten a sour apple too quickly. Yet he knew it was not fear: he was just nervous about the timing, which had to be preciso.

  He looked at Rossi, still acting as quartermaster and keeping a sharp eye on the two men at the wheel. Rossi looked just the same—a big, kindly Genoese with black curly hair and a little overweight, a friendly, round face and gleaming white teeth. Kindly to his friends, Paolo amended. He was full of good humour and had a collection of funny remarks which were just what a midshipman—just what the captain of a ship, Paolo corrected himself—needed at a time like this.

  The French frigate was heeling to a puff, showing dark green weed on her bottom, despite the copper sheathing. As she heeled again he saw she had several sheets of copper missing round the bow. Not uncommon, of course; in most ships it became thin there, slowly dissolving away. There must be some scientific explanation.

  “Getting close now, sir,” Rossi said, with all the anticipation of a highwayman watching an approaching coach. The frigate was about eight hundred yards away on the Caroline’s starboard quarter, and still steering a slightly converging course that would take her close across the Golondrina’s bow.

  But if he, Paolo Orsini, midshipman, acted too soon or too late they would all get sunk or killed or captured; it needed a little—well, a little finesse, to place the Caroline in the right place at the right time. Machiavelli, Borgia and—Orsini!

  The right time to start, he decided with a calmness that astonished and delighted him, was now.

  “Very well, Rossi! Andiamo!”

  The Italian hissed an order to the men at the wheel and involuntarily walked closer to them, at the same time glancing frequently at the French frigate.

  Slowly—too slowly? Paolo wondered—the Caroline swung to starboard out of the column as though intending to sail right across the bow of the French frigate. Baxter was calling orders to tend sheets and braces and Rossi, pausing a minute or two to compare the frigate’s course and the Caroline’s, nodded content-edly.

  Over in the Matilda, Rennick did not know whether to cheer or curse; Orsini had obviously had the same idea and, being nearer the Frenchman, the first opportunity.

  Paolo was sure that the frigate bore away slightly the moment she saw the Caroline haul out of the line, to steer the same course as the convoy.

  Mama mia, the two ships, merchantman and frigate, were closing quickly!

  Rossi gave a sharp helm order, Baxter shouted more orders to the men at the sheets and braces, and in what seemed moments the Caroline and the French frigate were sailing side by side twenty or thirty yards apart, and Baxter was jabbing him in the side and hissing: “The bluddy trumpet, sir; yer need the speakin’-trumpet!”

  Paolo grabbed it and ran to the side, waving at the group of French officers who were gathered on the quarterdeck and staring down at him.

  “Attention!” he shouted in French. “For your own safety keep your distance—we are in the most terrible distress!”

  “What has happened?” came back a startled hail.

  “La peste! La peste! Every ship of the convoy has la peste!”

  “The plague?” came back a horrified shout. “Where have you come from?”

  Damn, he could not remember the place name Aitken had shouted, and he turned to Rossi. “Quickly, where was it Mr Aitken said?”

  The seaman told him.

  “Mostaganem—half the city seemed to be dying when we left!”

  “But what were you all doing on the Barbary coast?”

  “The Algerines! They captured the whole convoy, eleven ships. Six of us could pay the ransom and they let us leave. Then la peste struck. Every one of us has buried half a crew!”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “We do not have the strength to beat to windward—to Valencia or Cartagena. We are running for Málaga to quarantine there and get medicines!”

  Paolo waited a few moments. He sensed it was working; that his story was being believed because the frigate’s officers could see how few men were handling the merchant ships. Right, now for the last throw of the dice.

  “We cannot in all humanity ask you for men to handle our ships, but can you go on to Málaga and ensure the authorities have the hospitals prepared for six ships struck with la peste?”

  “You will not be allowed to land the sick, but yes, I will go ahead and warn them. How many dead so far?”

  “Thirty-three dead up to
last night. I do not know how many more went today in the other ships. But for myself, I have lost seven. You can see—five of us left. We hope la peste left the Caroline with the last burial yesterday. But—who knows?”

  Already orders were being shouted from the French ship’s quarterdeck and first her forecourse and then the main course tumbled down as the gaskets were untied and the sails let fall. While both sails were being sheeted home and the yards braced up, the royals were being set.

  The frigate bore away a point and began forging ahead. At the last moment the man Orsini took to be the Captain shouted a course to him. “You are steering a full point too much to the south!”

  “Thank you,” Orsini bawled back, “I will bring the convoy round. Thank you; meeting you was our lucky day!”

  An hour later the French frigate’s hull had disappeared over the horizon ahead of them. In the Matilda, Rennick felt curiously cheated but nevertheless relieved; he was unsure what Orsini had done, but it had worked.

  In the Caroline, Rossi said: “You know, sir, if we had got the plague on board, it wouldn’t matter whether we was French, Spanish, Dutch or anything: in Málaga or anywhere else they wouldn’t allow anyone on shore or on board; we’d have to stay at anchor, or at a quarantine buoy, until everyone with the plague had died and then another three or four weeks had passed.”

  “I know,” said Paolo. “Still, the two words, la peste, were the only things that could have saved us from that frigate. By the time she has Málaga prepared for our reception, we should be in Gibraltar.”

  “Deck there—foremast lookout here!”

  “Deck here.”

  “Sir, there’s another frigate coming up fast on the same course as that last bahstid.”

  Paolo felt almost sick. The last trick had been too easy and it was unlikely he could play the same ace twice in one game.

  “Get aloft with the glass, Baxter,” he said, not trusting his own knees to get him up the ratlines. “Make the signal to Mr Aitken for a strange sail, and the bearing,” he told Rossi.

  Two minutes later Baxter hailed.

  “Deck there!”

  “Hurry and report!”

  “It’s a French frigate, sir!”

  “I guessed that!”

  “She’s steering for us, every stitch of canvas set, and another sail just astern of her!”

  Two frigates. Paolo shrugged his shoulders; there was limit to what one’s brain could accept. He turned to Rossi.

  “As soon as Mr Aitken acknowledges, hoist ‘Two strange sail.’”

  “Mr Aitken has already acknowledged the first signal, sir.”

  “Mama mia! Then make the second,” Paolo said impatiently, but Rossi did not move. Instead he was looking up at Baxter.

  “Deck there!” the man hailed.

  “Deck here,” Orsini answered wearily.

  “The first sail is a frigate, sir, and the second is a tartane.”

  “Very well,” Orsini said and as he turned to Rossi he said: “Give me the signal book—I don’t think the French have a signal for ‘tartane.’” As Rossi handed him the handwritten sheets which had been sewn together to make a book, Orsini knew his hands were shaking, but he was surprised that Rossi should be grinning at the fact.

  As he began to look through the signals Rossi murmured in Italian: “Sir—a frigate and a tartane … you remember!”

  The Calypso and the Passe Partout! Accidente! Paolo glanced round at the other ships and then began giving helm orders: Captain Ramage would expect the convoy to be in regular order by the time the frigate and tartane caught up.

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