Free Ramage's Challenge by Dudley Pope

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 round shot 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, 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