Ramage's Challenge (14 page)

“I quite understand,” Ramage said. “But look over there—you see those scoundrels with irons on their arms? They are more
Inglesi
to join the others. If I can't find the rest of them, the ones who were held in the palace—I'll have to billet them here. Some in your house.”

“Accidente,”
the mayor sighed. He was stocky, bald and his face was sun-tanned. His hands were large and calloused. His face was open and his eyes met Ramage's squarely. An honest mayor doing the best he could for his little town, but like grain in a mill, caught between the upper grindstone of the French, with their new laws and demands, and the lower of his loyalty and duty to his own people.

“Do you have orders which I could see, to assure myself?”

“Of course, but they're in French.” He spoke in fast French to Gilbert, who pulled folded papers from a pocket and, opening them, offered them to the mayor, who examined the crest and the name of the ministry. “I don't speak French,” the mayor said helplessly. “You must understand, Major, that I am afraid I shall be shot if I reveal anything to you.”

The man's wife suddenly came through the door and stood beside him, arms akimbo and brown eyes glaring at Ramage. “It's all right for you,” she said sharply. “You make a mistake and your colonel shouts at you. My husband makes a mistake, and the colonel shoots him. Down there—” she gestured to where the road from the town made its sharp turn, “—on the day of
Ognissanti,
they shot three of our men. On All Saints' Day, three
paesani.
Why? I'll tell you why. They accused them of helping an
Inglese
to escape. How did the French know? Because they knew the three local men left the town after midnight, and soon after they could not find the
Inglese.

“The men must have helped the
Inglese,
the French said, so the three men—two of them my husband's cousins—were shot at once when they came back at dawn. You might ask how the French knew the
Inglese
had escaped? Because he did not attend the evening roll call.

“Later they discovered why. They found him dead in his bed. He was a sick old man who had a separate room and who had died alone. That was why he did not attend the roll call. And us? You might well ask. We were left to bury our dead. I tell you, Major, and I say it without fear: the
commandante
responsible for those
Inglesi
prisoners was a wicked man. An assassin!”

“Be quiet, Anna you've said more than enough!” her husband said, pushing her back towards the front door. He had not attempted to stop the woman, Ramage noticed, until she had completed her account. Yes, people of Pitigliano obviously had little reason to trust or help the French.

“Be sensible,” Ramage snapped. “The moment I know where the rest of the
Inglesi
prisoners are being kept, I shall march my company out of Pitigliano and you'll never see us again.”

The mayor thought for a moment and his wife, who was listening just inside the door, called, “Tell him, Alfredo. Anything to make them leave us alone!”

“Orbetello,” the mayor blurted, as though he could not withstand the agonizing pressure of thumbscrews any longer. “Orbetello first, but I think only to stay there for a day or two. Then I think— but this is just a guess—they were going to take them on a long journey.”

“Thank you,” Ramage said, and held out his hand, which the startled mayor shook.

“You understand my position?” the mayor muttered.

“Perfectly. You've told me all I need to know. I bid you farewell. My respects to your wife.”

Within five minutes Ramage was leading his column down the steep hill out of Pitigliano, explaining to Hill on one side and Aitken on the other what the mayor had told him. Paolo, marching just behind, said, “That explains that strange look the
contadino
on the road to Manciano gave us. You remember, sir, you asked him if there were French troops in Manciano, and then—implying we were going to Orvieto—if there were any in Pitigliano. He must have seen the Pitigliano garrison marching the prisoners to Orbetello …”

“Do we go there and look?” Aitken asked.

“The mayor said he thought they would only stay there a few days before starting on a long journey,” Ramage said. “I suppose we have to follow—if we can.”

“Mamma mia,”
Rossi muttered, “more marching. I worry about the marine whose boots I'm wearing. How do I explain I wore them out?”

As Ramage marched he thought first of the Admiralty orders, then of the hostages. Why were the French moving them? Taking them to more comfortable quarters, or to a place where they would be more secure? He had only guessed that the French were satisfied with the security of Pitigliano. Yes … there might even be yet another prison where important prisoners were being kept as hostages, and the French were now collecting them all together. But where? And why?

A
S THE COLUMN passed through Manciano on the last leg of its journey back to the coast, it seemed to Ramage that he had spent his life marching and coughing, as white dust swirled up from the track like fog and made his throat raw.

Orbetello was a walled town and the Via Aurelia, on its way to Rome, passed just to the east. A town with a big jail— he, Jackson, Stafford, and Paolo had become familiar with the piazza at the time they attacked Porto Ercole with the bomb ketches. Yes, Orbetello could provide temporary lodging for hostages and their guards if they were on their way to Rome. Or perhaps not so far—Tarquinia, maybe, which was just short of halfway to Rome. And the port of Civita Vecchia was less than halfway between there and Rome. But why go all that way to find a port when within ten miles of Orbetello there was Santo Stefano at one end of Argentario and Porto Ercole at the other? It made no sense, and Ramage realized that he was not thinking clearly, as though the thudding of his heels on the hard track was numbing his brain.

As if understanding his problem, Paolo said, “Why Orbetello, do you suppose, sir? I can understand the French using the town jail to punish people, but it's a bad place to keep important hostages. They're likely to die of prison fever. I should have thought that Pitigliano and the Orsini Palace were just right.”

As they marched along the track, the setting sun was ahead of them, glaring in their eyes. Now Paolo had rounded it all off. Why Orbetello? It was convenient for Santo Stefano or Porto Ercole, and that was that. Ports meant ships.

Except … yes, except that Santo Stefano had the large Fortezza di Filippo Secundo. That would be a good place to lodge hostages. And Porto Ercole had at least two suitable fortresses. But … the more Ramage considered the merits of either place, the more the “but” intruded. Two of them, in fact. The first was, “But why move them from Pitigliano?” and the other, “But why Orbetello?”

Paolo said, “Perhaps they wait in Orbetello until a ship arrives at Porto Ercole or Santo Stefano.”

“I've thought of that,” said Ramage, “but to take them where? If the French wanted them up in the north, they'd make them march—they probably haven't enough ships to spare to carry them to Genoa by sea. Or down to Civita Vecchia, come to that. There'd be no point in taking them to Corsica or Sardinia: the bandits and guerrillas make enough trouble already.”

“The islands off the coast?” Paolo ventured.

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “If it was Elba, the French would have marched them north to Piombino, not Orbetello, and put ‘em on board the ferry. Giglio? That's possible and only a few hours' sail from Santo Stefano. A small, mountainous island, small harbour, at least one fort … but enough room to house the hostages and their guards? Vulnerable, too: don't forget the Barbary pirates still raid such places, and I don't think the emperor would be very pleased if his valuable hostages became galley slaves.

“That leaves Montecristo—yes, possible: sticks up out of the sea like a back tooth, just like Pitigliano in the valley. Then Pianosa and Capraia to the north. All vulnerable to pirates.”

He shrugged his shoulders again as he marched. “Who the devil knows. We're looking for logical moves, but generals and admirals and emperors are usually more quirkish than logical. Damn and blast this sun; the glare makes my head ache.”

“We're not due back at the beach to meet the
Calypso
's boats until tomorrow night, sir,” Paolo reminded him.

Which meant, of course, that now they were clear of Manciano, they could stop and rest, after a meal from the provisions he had commandeered in the town, rest, starting again tomorrow when they had the whole day for the march. It would be wiser to halt well this side of the Via Aurelia, crossing it and getting to the river mouth only an hour or so before the
Calypso
's boats arrived. Providing the
Calypso
had not been trapped and sunk or captured by a couple of French frigates which happened to be passing … I'm very tired, he told himself. As soon as it is dark the ghost of Hamlet's father will appear from among the dark-green cypress to tell me ever sadder stories of death and duplicity.

He took a few quick paces to get ahead of the column, turned to face it, and held up his hand. As soon as the men halted he pointed to the row of cypress just back from the road and told the men to fall out for the night.

While Jackson and Stafford and Rossi issued the rations, Ramage sat with his back to a tree with Aitken, Hill, Rennick, and Orsini sitting in a half-circle round him.

“Before we start, sir, I'd like to ask Orsini a question.”

Ramage nodded to Aitken, and Paolo looked startled.

“That Orsini Palace in Pitigliano—is that your family?”

“A distant branch of it,” Paolo said just as Ramage realized that he had not connected Paolo with the palace.

“So you won't inherit it,” Aitken commented.

Paolo looked embarrassed. “Well, it's not quite the same as England—or Scotland,” he added tactfully. “The big English and Scottish families usually own single castles and estates, which pass from eldest son to eldest son. Here in Italy we do not have primogeniture; the eldest son has no more (and no fewer) rights than his brothers. If—I take an imaginary example—the Count of Orbetello has three sons, then all three are counts, and so are each of their three sons. When the father dies his estate is divided into three, and so on when each of the sons die. In two generations it will have been divided twelve times—three times, and then three times for each of their sons.

“So the Palazzo degli Orsini in Pitigliano has not been passed from eldest son to eldest son. Quite apart from primogeniture, the Orsini family is large and owns many palaces (what, in England, would be called large country houses), and when the head of a particular branch of the family dies, his property is divided among many people.”

Aitken asked bluntly, “How does this affect you not having a claim on that place in Pitigliano?”

Ramage realized that the real explanation was embarrassing Paolo, who was afraid that Aitken and Hill would think he was boasting. “What Orsini hasn't told you is that he's the present head of the Orsini family. He might well be the ruler of Volterra, if his aunt—the Marchesa, whom you know, Aitken—is dead. The Palazzo degli Orsini in Pitigliano probably belongs to a distant cousin who fled when the French came.”

Aitken's curiosity was aroused and both Ramage and Orsini realized that the
Calypso
's first lieutenant was genuinely interested, not prying.

“So if—if anything has happened to the Marchesa and you are now the ruler of Volterra, where—what, rather—is your home?”

“The palace in Volterra. Or would be if the French had not occupied Volterra, along with the Kingdom of Tuscany.”

“So you own a lot of land,” Aitken commented.

“My aunt does—or did. If she is dead, I inherit a kingdom. But to no purpose. At the moment, everything I own is stowed in my trunk in the midshipman's berth on board the
Calypso.
”

Aitken nodded and said quietly, “I'd never thought about this very much. We're really marching across your land.”

“Not quite that,” Paolo said hastily. “All this area belongs to the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Or did. Who knows what Bonaparte has done now he calls it the Kingdom of Etruria.”

“But it's as though we were marching across the hills of Perthshire,” Aitken said. “I come from near Perth,” he added. “Aye, laddie, you carry a heavier weight on your shoulders than I realized.”

The youth shrugged. “If I'd stayed, the French would probably have shot me—or at least let me rot in some prison. By escaping I can at least—” he gave a dry laugh, “—pay occasional visits.”

“Aye, this'll be your second that I've been on. Porto Ercole's not that far away.”

“But out of range of a bomb ketch,” Orsini said, and moved over as Jackson came up with food and the flasks that were full of water when the marines used them, but now contained wine.

That night Ramage slept fitfully: mosquitoes seemed to whine past him in line ahead, and from nearby a nightjar kept up its drearily monotonous “quark … quark …” Occasionally a nightingale began singing, and Ramage found himself wakening fully so that he could listen to its song. One of the few drawbacks of life at sea was that apart from the mewing of gulls when they were close to land, the sea was barren of birdsong.

For too many nights now waking meant only lying and thinking about Sarah. He recognized that the worst part was the uncertainty. If he knew for sure that the
Murex
had been sunk in a gale or by the French, he could mourn her. She would be dead and (the thought seemed harsh but was not) that would be that, because she could not still be suffering in any way. But because she might have been captured (perhaps by privateers) anything could have happened. He forced himself to think about it, even though it made him shudder. If by privateers, they could have raped her and now be waiting for a chance to ransom her. If captured by a French national ship, she would be a prisoner, and given that Bonaparte appeared to be collecting the important and the famous as hostages, she might be a closely guarded prisoner in Paris.