Ramage's Challenge (10 page)

“I'm talking of the
nature
of the people, of course. Most certainly there's a recognizable English type of man and woman. But Italian men—you could confuse them with Spaniards, maybe Frenchmen. The women, too. Not now, of course, after the Revolution. The Spanish women would be heavily chaperoned, while the French women would be dressed more freely. The Italian women—”

“Would be chattering away to their
cicisbei,
” Paolo said.

“I can't see
cicisbei
prospering under the present regime,” Ramage commented.

“Sir,” Jackson said. From the warning tone of his voice Ramage turned just enough to be able to see him holding the iron tiller under one arm.

And Ramage could smell it. Such a mixture of smells, in fact, that even if you were blindfolded and carried halfway round the world, you would still know you were in Italy, or approaching very closely. The faint scorching wood from the
carbonaio
's turf oven, the sharper, yet sweet, scent of pine trees. And was that rosemary or thyme? There was the all too familiar odour of seaweed washed up on the water's edge and drying in the sun and, at night, when the temperature dropped, absorbing the night damp. And the whine of insects and the distant hoot of a nightjar. It was like coming home, only this time he was unlocking the door knowing there might be a burglar in the house.

“Seems a long time ago—and yet yesterday,” Ramage murmured.

“Leaves me flummoxed, sir,” Jackson said. “To me it seems only last week we were landing at the Torre di Buranaccio to find the Marchesa. Yet another part of me hasn't been to Italy for years.”

Ramage turned to Orsini. This was Paolo's homeland. This would be the nearest he would get to Volterra until the war ended. “How about you?” Ramage asked quietly.

“The pines. Not because we have so many in Volterra, but when I escaped I worked my way down the coast through the pine forests. To me, now, they mean safety. But Volterra—the smells of a town. Donkey droppings, spilled wine and casks being cleaned, boiling pasta, sweaty woollen clothes …”

“Yes, the woollens. No Italian peasant on the hottest day will go without his woollen shirt …”

“That's because Italian peasants know the danger of catching a chill by losing the perspiration and letting in the poisonous night vapours.”

“They may be right, sir,” Jackson said to Orsini. “I don't see any Italians overheating themselves rowing round here at night!”

“We Italians are cleverer than we look,” Rossi said unexpectedly.

“Certainly you're not rowing,” Ramage said dryly.

He looked round and saw the other two boats following closely astern, and in the distance he could just make out the dark bulk of the
Calypso.
Good—the men rowing the three boats back here to meet them after the Pitigliano expedition would have no difficulty in finding their way.

As he surveyed the plan up to date, he was sure that the safest place for the
Calypso
to wait was out there in the middle of the bay, right in front of and between Talamone on the mainland and the Fortezza di Filippo Secundo at Santo Stefano, easily seen by every general, admiral, sailor, soldier, tinker,
avvocato,
or pimp taking the Via Aurelia to or from Rome. Who would think that an
English
frigate would be anchored there!
Accidente,
the
commandante
would have to be a
buffone!

There was the mouth of the river, reduced in summer to little more than a ditch, sluicing a path for itself through the mud and sand.

“Keep this side of it,” Ramage said quietly. “That'll save us crossing the bridge.”

“Aye, bridges could mean sentries,” Jackson commented, as though talking to himself. “Not that Boney would think much of this bridge.”

In the darkness, Ramage could see the faint white crests of the wavelets curling over on the sand, leaving a narrow line of white froth. Jackson gave an order to the oarsmen, and the boat slowed.

Ramage called to Martin, who was sitting in the bow, and the youth began scrambling aft over the thwarts. He would be in charge of the three boats once the Pitigliano party was safe on the beach and they could return to the frigate. It was all right for the
Calypso
to be openly anchored in the bay, but her boats must be hoisted on board: the French must not have any idea that she had landed men.

“Hold tight,” Jackson warned as the gig's stem scraped on the sand. “Grapplers over the side!”

“Grapplers” was Jackson's word for the four men who leapt into the water and, standing waist-deep, stopped the boat slewing and then helped pull it further up the beach, so that the men who were landing would not get so wet.

“She's all yours, Martin,” Ramage said and, gripping the bulwark, lowered himself into the water. It was warmer than he expected, and he teased himself that once again he was caught: frequently on what seemed a cold night in the Tropics it would feel warmer in the water than out—and frequently, it was: the sea would be 80° while the air was 76°. Of course, even a slight breeze made it seem chillier, in the same way that putting milk or butter in a pottery dish covered with muslin soaking up water kept everything cool by evaporation.

Now the men of the landing party were leaving the boat, first scrambling barefoot over the side into the water and running a few paces up the beach to put their boots in a dry place, then returning to the boat for pistols, muskets, and swords.

A few yards to larboard the cutter grounded, and a couple of moments later the jolly-boat nosed up to starboard. Ramage, having put his boots under a bush, went back to the boat to collect his sword and brace of pistols.

He counted the men in his party who were all waiting on the sandy beach. He gestured to the “grapplers” and called to Martin: “Right, now you can be on your way. Make sure the other two boats follow.” With that he helped the “grapplers” push the boat out, giving it a final thrust as they swung up over the bulwarks and wriggled back onto the thwarts. “Good luck, sir,” the nearest man whispered. “Wish I was coming with you.”

Finally the beach was clear of boats and the three groups of men were among the pine trees, except for two who, under Jackson's guidance, had cut branches from the bushes and, using them as brooms, were sweeping the sand to hide the many footprints. The rise and fall of the tide was only a few inches (leading poets and others to assume the Mediterranean was, in fact, tideless), but it was still rising and would soon smooth out the three grooves made by the stems of the boats. Half a day's sun and some wind whiffling along the beach would have the sand completely smooth again, except for the lace-like footprints left by the wading birds that strutted along the shoreline, pecking up their food.

Ramage found a small and stubby bush without thorns to squat down on as he pulled on his boots, leaving his sword and pistols on the next bush. Bitter experience had taught him that a mere hint of sand was enough to cover a uniform, make a sword grate as it was pulled from its scabbard, and block the touch-hole of a pistol.

Hill came up in the darkness to report. “My party's ready, sir. The prisoners are ready with Mr Aitken and Rennick …”

Ramage grunted as he gave the last boot a tug and then stood up. “No packs of barking dogs or squadrons of French cavalry patrols yet, eh?”

“You can't trust these foreigners to be punctual, sir,” Hill said mildly. “Shall I get my party up to the road?”

“Yes, cross to the other side, and tell Mr Aitken to follow you.”

He stood for a couple of minutes, staring seaward and breathing in all the scents that made Italy. Over there, the black shape blotting out the stars behind it was Argentario, and to his left he could make out the curving causeway, the Tombolo della Giannella. What was the southern one called? Yes, of course: the Tombolo di Feniglia, which swept round to Porto Ercole. The pine trees of Giannella at the back of the half-moon of beach (scimitar shaped, really, considering its length) were black, almost menacing. He could pick out the peak of Monte Argentario, but the shadows were too distorting to be able to sight Santo Stefano. No lights visible at this distance—no lights anyway, in all probability: men who rose with the sun to farm their strips of land and tend the grapevines on the terraces went to bed with the sun.

The occasional quark of the nightjar … the insects … a splash a few yards out to sea as a small fish leapt in a frantic attempt to escape a predator. When did a fish rest? Dare it ever? How could it stop, motionless, knowing that at any moment it might be gobbled up by its next largest neighbour? It must be like that if you belonged to a country close to France … Genoa, Switzerland, Lombardy, Piedmont, Venice, Tuscany, the Papal States, the Netherlands … the minnows of Europe had been gobbled up, one by one, in the last dozen years.

“Mr Aitken's compliments, sir,” Jackson muttered apologetically, knowing the captain's memory was slipping back over the years, and unwilling to break in on his thoughts, “but his and Mr Hill's party are waiting on the other side of the road now, alongside a row of cypress. He wants to know if the prisoners with Mr Rennick should put on their irons.”

Ramage glanced up at the sky. From the position of the stars it must be about midnight. Strange, seeing the Pole Star so high after the years in the Tropics, where it was usually less than a dozen degrees above the horizon. If you know the altitude of the Pole Star, you know your latitude—that must be about the first thing a midshipman learned when he began navigation. Well, he was standing at about 42° 30' North, and since that was his latitude, it was also the altitude of the Pole Star.

“My compliments to Mr Aitken: I'll be with him in a moment. Lead our party over to join him.”

An hour later Ramage and his men were resting a mile along the road to Pitigliano. Most were asleep beside another cypress grove which had been planted more than a century earlier as a windbreak for a farmhouse, long ago deserted. The roof was falling in, the last of the whitewash flaking off the walls, the doors either hung by the remains of a single hinge or were lying flat on the ground, a shelter for scorpions hiding underneath among pebbles and in grass growing wild. Ramage had warned the men against the small, black scorpion which was ready in an instant to bring up its tail in an arc over its body to jab with the sting at the end.

One of the “prisoners” sat against a tree trunk, acting as sentry, and at his feet was the canvas bag containing all the arm irons that could be found on board the
Calypso.
Fortunately, there were just enough to shackle the “prisoners” together when the time came to march.

Ramage sat against another cypress, alone with his thoughts and vaguely conscious that a surprising number of the men snored very loudly. Even more surprising, he thought, was the fact that most of them seemed to find the hard ground as comfortable as a down-filled mattress.

Yes, he could just see Gold Belt, low on the horizon. Strange, after all the months in the Tropics, when those stars passed high to the south, often overhead.

Now he had reached the track to Pitigliano he was becoming more confident about this bizarre expedition. On board the
Calypso,
with the men snipping and stitching at the make-believe French and Tuscan army uniforms, it was like play-acting: there seemed no chance that a French cavalry patrol or guards at the gate of Pitigliano itself would be fooled. But now, having made the men parade in their three sections before being dismissed to sleep by the cypress, the whole affair began to develop a strange reality of its own.

First there was Gilbert and his three fellow Frenchmen. They looked genuine in their uniforms. Much too smart, perhaps, but sleeping in them for a few hours (as they were now doing) would make them seem more authentic, plus another day's growth of whiskers. On this kind of escort duty, French soldiers would look more like bandits in stolen uniforms. When the four Frenchmen and Hill spoke French and pretended to quarrel among themselves, they sounded just like the French soldiers he had seen a few months ago in Brest; in fact, Ramage was hard put to restrain a shiver.

It was many years since he had seen any of the Grand Duke of Tuscany's troops, but he was willing to accept that Paolo had made no mistakes in the patterns he had drawn for the uniforms. Anyway, Paolo, Rossi, and Ramage himself had looked impressive (in the darkness, at least), although for the moment the uniforms were also a little too smart: they needed creasing and a light coat of the white dust that they would soon be kicking up along the road.

The prisoners—yes, they looked just like admirals, generals, colonels, and civilians who had been on holiday when caught up in an unexpected resumption of war. Jackson, wearing Ramage's oldest pair of breeches, woollen stockings, an old frock coat and a torn stock, with the buttons replaced and the epaulettes removed, could pass for a stranded admiral. He had agreed when Ramage said his queue looked out of place, and his sandy hair was cut short and combed back. Jackson looked like a man who, although a prisoner for many months, had tried to keep up appearances. Stafford—well, Stafford was dressed in some of Kenton's civilian clothes, and the fact was (as Jackson had announced) that he looked more like a prosperous pimp who had been caught by a highwayman on his way back from the races.

The remaining eight prisoners seemed, Ramage thought, reasonably authentic. He had quite deliberately chosen men who, by their faces or way of walking, would not be mistaken for labourers and who, by nature, carried themselves with something of a swagger. All of them had spent several hours on board the
Calypso
practising under Rennick's sharp eye—Ramage recalled with a smile the instructions Rennick had shouted. “No, no—walk as though you had a smell under your nose … Damme, man, treat him as though he's a card-sharper flirting with your wife … No, no, he's a poacher that your gamekeeper has just caught! … Think of him as the husband who knows you've cuckolded him but daren't do anything about it …”