Ramage's Challenge (11 page)

Finally, Rennick had turned the delighted seamen into a semblance of Britons of considerable importance who were being treated by the French as hostages and now being transferred from one prison to another led by Rennick.

It could work: even Southwick was agreed on that. But if the French discovered the deception, then the French “guards” and the Tuscan “soldiers” could be shot out of hand as spies masquerading in uniform. The “prisoners,” not being in uniform, might stand a chance of being made real prisoners, but Ramage doubted it; the plains and hills and mountains of Tuscany somehow lent themselves to backs-to-the-wall, firing-party-attenshun! answers.

Finally Ramage slid sideways, cradling his head against a hump of earth covering a root, and fell asleep.

S
OON AFTER DAWN the three groups of men were walking (Rennick would call it shambling) along the flat road running beside the river. They would reach the hills, which looked like sleeping turtles, just as the sun reached its zenith. Scorching sun, no breeze, more than a couple of dozen pairs of feet stirring up clouds of white dust lying on the rock and which formed the track … Thirst might become a problem. Each man carried a marine's water flask, and Gilbert's men and Ramage's had haversacks with ship's biscuits. But the farms along the way were going to suffer just as if this was a real French army unit: they would have to provide food and water, and there would be no payment, because Ramage had no local money—and, anyway, the French never paid.

The “prisoners” each carried arm irons. It only took a couple of moments to slip their wrists through and hold their arms as though marching in irons.

“Nice to ‘ave a walk in the country just as the birds is waking up,” Stafford remarked to Jackson.

“Yes, but when was the last time you did it?”

“Don't fancy it too often,” Stafford said airily. “Not that fond of the country. Mosquitoes buzzing most o' the night, scorpiongs waiting—”

“Scorpions,” Jackson corrected.

“S'what I said, scorpiongs lurking under the rocks to prod you—hey Jacko, wasn't it a scorpiong that did for that Egyptian doxy, her that danced for Caesar?”

“I think someone else danced, but Cleopatra did herself in by holding an asp to her bosom.”

“An asp? That the same as a scorpiong?”

“I reckon so,” Jackson said carefully.

“Then it must be big if she could ‘old it. Like a small lobster.”

“Maybe them Egyptian ones are, but those here don't run to more'n a couple of inches.”

“‘Ere, ‘old ‘ard. Mr Ramage said they just give you a nasty sting, but one did poor Cleopatra in.”

“Don't worry,” Jackson said reassuringly.

“S'trewth, I don't remember these scorpiongs when we were last here. And so help me, the mosquitoes are so much bigger.” He slapped the side of his face and then held out the palm of his hand. “See? Look at the blood in that one. ‘Ere, you don't arf look a sight. Your face is all swelled up.”

Jackson looked at Stafford and laughed. “My oath! You ought to see yourself. You look as though you've got gumboils all over the place!”

Stafford pointed to a small turning leading away to the left and crossing the river. “Where's that go?”

Jackson shrugged. “From what I saw of Mr Ramage's map, it goes across that valley and then twists and turns through those hills. See how the hills get higher and higher? Well, it goes on to the foot o' that mountain. Amiata. We have to keep the same distance and we'll come up on Pitigliano.”

“You've never been there, this Pitigliano, ‘ave you?”

“No. Mr Ramage says it's a hill town and very old.”

“Roaming, you mean?”

“No, older than Roman. Etruscan, I think he said.”

“Who? I thought the Roamings came first!”

“No, and the Etruscans gave this area its name, Tuscany. Very clever people, according to Mr Ramage. They built big stone-lined cellars to store the grain and dug caves and painted the walls with things like leopards and people; they painted the women one colour and the men another.”

Stafford looked at Jackson startled. “Why the hell did they do that? Couldn't they tell the difference? Must ‘ave been uncomfortable, covered in paint.”

As soon as Jackson realized Stafford's mistake he roared with laughter. “Different colours in the cave paintings! What did you think, the women were gilded and the men striped green?”

“Well, no,” Stafford said, embarrassed, “but don't forget the Druids in England—they used to paint themselves, didn't they?”

“Yes, at times,” Jackson said carefully, knowing he was out of his depth. “But most o' the villages round here were originally Etruscan, so Mr Ramage says. Most of ‘em have still got ruins to show for it. Huge rocks, specially carved so one fits perfectly into another. Puzzle how they did it.”

“My feet ache already,” Stafford announced. “They're swelling up. How much farther?”

“Only about twenty miles,” Jackson said. “By the time we get there your legs will be worn down to the knees.”

“All this marching is for the marines,” Stafford declared and, with the dust drying up his mouth, lapsed into silence.

At the head of the column, in the now rumpled uniforms of officers in the Archduke of Tuscany's army, Ramage and Orsini talked. Ramage was surprised to find that the Grand Duke's army of about three thousand men were very poorly paid, because the soldiers were allowed (indeed, expected) to carry on their own trade.

“That's why foreigners find it hard to tell private soldiers from the officers,” Paolo said. “The privates like to cut a good figure, too, and if they have successful businesses, they can afford good tailors.”

“I can see that. This uniform—” Ramage tapped his chest, “—makes me look like a general, and Rossi could be a colonel.”

“Perhaps the archduke is wiser than we think, sir. A man who can strut before the ladies in a smart uniform will be content with less pay.”

Ramage nodded. Pander to a man's vanity
or
put a guinea in his pocket. Ramage chuckled at the phrase, then realized he had missed a comment by Paolo. “What did you say?”

“I was saying, sir, that the archduke has done away with the death penalty. I'm not sure if it was the present one or his father. Anyway, Tuscany is one of the few states where you can murder someone without fear of execution. Mind you, that might be preferable to a lifetime in a Florentine jail!”

That reminded Ramage of another remark which Paolo had made but which, at the time, Ramage had not pursued. “You said we could have cut across the top end of the Maremma if we wanted to get at Pitigliano from the south-west. But what about the marshes?”

“The archduke is draining them, or he's made a start, anyway. You'll find grain growing where there was marsh. Rice, too. Mind you, it's a vast, marshy area to drain!”

“And the mosquitoes?”

“The
zanzari
are flourishing—at least they were when I passed through as I was escaping. They seemed as big as eagles …”

At the other end of the column, Gilbert led his Frenchmen, marching with Hill. He was thoroughly enjoying his role as the officer in charge of the escort, although Hill and the other three frequently teased him. Their uniforms were already baggy and creased. None of the five men had shaved for several days.

“Citizen,” said Hill, who was accustomed to shave every day, “my whole face itches with this damned beard. It's making my neck sore.”

Gilbert shook his head, as though exasperated. “A
sensible
soldier carries a razor, not a field marshal's baton, in his valise.”

“Oh, but I have both,” Hill exclaimed, much to the amusement of the others. “All I lack is water and some soap.”

“I'll speak to the citizen general about it,” Gilbert said. “Meanwhile, don't drag the butt of your musket on the ground.”

“I'm not!” exclaimed a startled Hill.

“I know; I was just warning you in advance. What a dust those Tuscans and English
aristos
are stirring up with their feet. We'll be dried out long before we reach Manciano.”

Louis coughed before saying solemnly, “Have I the citizen captain's permission to speak?”

“As long as you pay proper respect to my rank and age.”

“
Sacré bleu!”
Louis exclaimed. “Service in the English King's navy is preferable to being in this Republican army. Every officer and noncommissioned officer makes his own revolution!
Alors, mon général,
this citizen would like to point out with respect that there are several farms along this road. Look, two on the right, and one across the river on the left. I would not care to drink the river water here, because the river is in reality a stream, and a dozen cattle upstream can turn it into a veritable
pissoir,
but—”

“Hurry, citizen,” Gilbert said, “we shall be in Manciano before you've finished.”

“But, as I was saying before the citizen interrupted me,” Louis said with dignity, “where there is a farm there must be water. Water for the farmer, his oxen—”

“—his wife, his children, his aged mother, his thirsty aunt who won't take wine, the priest when he visits on feast days, the farmer's donkey—” Auguste interrupted.

“I understand,” Gilbert said. “A well, a rope, a bucket, and—”

“A shave, perhaps?” Hill said with mock plaintiveness.

“Citizen Hill,” Gilbert said gravely, “everyone must make some sacrifice for the Republic, One and Indivisible.”

“Oh, indeed,” Hill said promptly. “I'll sacrifice my beard! And my indivisible back will ache and my hands blister from the promptness with which I haul up that bucket!”

“I'll remind you of that, citizen,” Gilbert said, “and the other citizens are witnesses.”

“To be serious, do we spend the night in Manciano, or do we sleep in the fields again?” Louis asked.

Gilbert looked at Hill, who said, “Mr Ramage will decide when we get to Manciano. There'll be no inn in such a small town, so it'll probably be a choice of fleas in houses and sleeping on straw, or lying on the grass in a meadow, giving the mosquitoes a feast.”

“I prefer the mosquitoes,” Louis announced. “With mosquitoes you can put a jacket over your face and hands, and they go away in the day. Fleas bite worse, creep in anywhere, and travel with you.”

“He's right,” Auguste said, his voice sonorous. “We expect you to register our preference this evening when the citizen general from Tuscany calls you to his council of war.”

“There might be some pretty girls in Manciano,” Hill speculated. “You never know, in these remote towns.”

Louis gave a cynical laugh. “Citizen, a hill town in Tuscany, a market town in Brittany, a large village famous for its apples in Cornwall … they are all the same. All the eligible, unmarried young women are guarded more carefully than emperors guard their treasuries. You forget a reputation for virginity is more highly prized (among the possessors' parents, anyway) than bullion.”

“Well, it'd have to be for love anyway, because none of us have local money,” Hill said sadly.

“Don't worry, it's a long way to Manciano, and by the time we get there you may be more interested in sleeping than flirting with a young lady's grandmother, who will in any case be dressed from head to toe in black and trying to sell you wine about to turn into vinegar.”

“Wait, citizen!” Auguste said. “The revolutionary committee did not make you a captain to commandeer vinegar in the name of the Republic, One and Indivisible. No, you are expected to commandeer only good wine, and decent bread that has been ground properly and is not so full of husks it tastes like chewing a brush. The meat, too. Fresh, even if they have to slaughter a beast and the meat is still warm when they begin to cook it.”

“I'll do my best,” Gilbert said wryly, “but I think you have an exaggerated idea of the Republic's influence among these Tuscan hills. I should think of rice, or perhaps polenta, soft and soggy, washed down with the wine they were keeping to make vinegar.”

Auguste, hitching his musket on to the other shoulder, said sourly, “To think that every man we left behind on board the
Calypso
envied us, thinking we'd eat like kings and drink like seamen should. I never expected that one day I'd be glad to get back on board one of His Britannic Majesty's ships so that I could have a decent meal …”

“My heart
bleeds
for you!” Gilbert said dramatically, slapping his chest. “Here you are, seeing new sights, visiting yet another new country, collecting dozens more improbable stories to tell your grandchildren, and all you do is complain. Yes,” Gilbert said sadly, in the voice of a man discovering an unpleasant truth. “I have to admit it. You grumble with the skill and perseverance of an English sailor.”

“And we march with the perseverance of a charcoal burner's donkey bound for home,” Auguste added, then qualified it with: “Once you've got him started.”

At that moment Rossi, walking beside Orsini at the head of the column, pointed up the track. “Something is coming. You see the dust?”

Ramage, having to look into the glare of the rising sun, pulled down the peak of his cap. “Yes—one person, I think, on a horse or donkey. Yes, a donkey, because a horse would make more dust.”

“A farmer going to Orbetello?” Rossi suggested.

“No threat to us, anyway. He can tell us what there is in Manciano—always assuming there
is
something in Manciano!”

As it came nearer, the donkey seemed to be walking along by itself, head down, its large ears flapping and carrying a shapeless sack on its back. Then Ramage thought he could distinguish a barrel at the bottom of the pile, balancing on the wooden frame, shaped rather like a sawing horse, which served as a saddle or repository for whatever load it was carrying. The shapeless mass was, in fact, a man draped over the flanks of the donkey and partly over the barrel, a man who was either asleep or drunk.