Ramage's Challenge (16 page)

Ramage stared blankly, then realized what the old master meant. “He'd never have forgiven me!”

When Aitken looked puzzled, Ramage explained. “Some years ago, when we were rescuing Orsini's aunt, Jackson and I had to walk round Santo Stefano without anyone realizing who we were. You'd better take Jackson in the cutter—he'll be able to point out various landmarks to Orsini and Rossi, though there's no need for him to land.” He looked round at Hill. “Pass the word for Jackson as well.”

When Orsini and the two seamen arrived, Ramage explained what they were to do. When he had finished, Orsini asked, “What arms do we carry?”

Ramage shook his head. “None. As I've just explained, the pair of you are supposed to be from Lucca: you spend half the year traipsing round Tuscany, just pruning olive trees. That story will be convincing to the French provided your clothes are ragged enough, your hands grimy enough, and your pruning knife sharp enough. And you have a sharpening stone tucked in your belt, too.”

“We're out of pruning knives, sir,” Southwick said ironically. “A few handstones, yes; pruning knives no. You didn't tell me about the olive trees when we were commissioning …”

“Do you know what a pruning knife for olive trees looks like?”

“Well, no, sir. I suppose it's a short knife with a curved end.”

“That's for pruning grape vines and disembowelling rabbits; it'd take you a month to prune an olive tree with a small blade like that. No, you need something like a short cutlass, or the machete they use in the West Indies for cutting sugarcane.”

“We're out of them, too,” Southwick said lugubriously. “You didn't mention sugarcane, either.”

Ramage sighed, as though despairing. “I need a new master for this ship. A young man with imagination.”

“Maybe,” grunted Southwick, “but all that's the gunner's job.” With that Southwick knew he had played a trump card, because the
Calypso
's gunner was a useless man, who fled to his cabin rather than accept responsibility for anything. Because he was appointed by the Board of Ordnance (which was controlled by the army), it was almost impossible to replace him, so Ramage simply ignored him.

Ramage, remembering it was early in the season for pruning but guessing that French soldiers would not know that, looked up at the deckhead as though thinking. “Ah yes. That two-handed sword of yours. We could put that on the grindstone and grind it down to half its length, and then shape it up.”

In a moment Southwick was on his feet, remembering just in time to duck so that he did not bang his head. “Sir! You can't be …” His voice tapered off as he realized the other officers were laughing. He had made the rare mistake of taking Ramage seriously when he made a straight-faced joke. To recover himself he said, “But of course, for the King's service I'd be willing to sacrifice it.”

“Good, thanks. That settles it,” Ramage said. “Rossi can have that. Now Orsini, your dirk is about the right length.”

“It will be fine, sir,” Orsini assured him. “Wrapped in a greasy cloth, it'll look just right.”

By now Southwick had sat down again and was scratching his head. “I'm sure we could find something like Mr Orsini's dirk … the cook must have a big knife. The butcher, too.”

“But they need them so that we can eat,” Ramage said. “No, don't bother your head. Your sword will do, and you might get the men to hoist the grindstone up on deck. I expect most of the cutlasses need sharpening as well.”

“If you say so, sir,” Southwick said, knowing he was beaten.

He had owned the sword for many years; it was the only one he had ever found that had just the right balance. “If you'll excuse me, I'll see to the grindstone now.”

Ramage nodded, and Southwick made for the door. Just as he was going through, Ramage said, “Oh, Southwick. It'll take hours of grinding to shorten your sword. Have some men grind down a cutlass to a couple of feet, and round up the point.”

The master grinned. It was not often the captain caught him twice.

“We'll go up on deck and survey Argentario's beaches with the glass, and it'd be a good idea,” Ramage said to Hill, Orsini, Rossi, and Jackson, “if you get those little headlands fixed in your memory.”

For the next half an hour the five men passed the telescope between them. Ramage found the names came back easily. From where the northern causeway joined Argentario, as the telescope swung to the right towards Santo Stefano, there was the Torre Santa Liberata at the end of a small headland; then, still going westward, the land cut back into a small bay next to a larger one, Cala del Pozzarello, with Torre Calvello guarding it. Then came three small headlands, the last of which was Punta Nera, and then the land sloped sharply down into Santo Stefano itself.

The little port was scooped out of the hills, with several fishing boats hauled up on the only stretch of beach. Looking down on it was the bulky, four-square, and curiously dignified Fortezza di Filippo Secundo. And then, at the western end of Argentario (or as far west as they could see from the
Calypso
), was Punta Lividonia.

Ramage let his memory take over. Just round that headland, the third or fourth bay to the south, was Cala Grande. Some years ago he and Jackson and a few men in an open boat had rowed into there from the Torre di Buranaccio on the mainland with Gianna, badly wounded, a pistol or musket ball still lodged in her. They had put into Cala Grande in the darkness, and he and Jackson had climbed up the cliffs and over the hills to Santo Stefano, looking for a doctor to kidnap and take down to the beach. Was that doctor, who had in fact proved to be a loyal Italian, still alive and living in his house just by the Fortezza? What was it called—ah yes, the Casa di Leone. Yes, that plump, little doctor had a lion's heart; his house was aptly named.

Ramage caught Jackson's eye. The American seaman had guessed where his thoughts were. “That doctor, sir. Casa di Leone, wasn't it?”

Ramage nodded. But it was all years ago. Gianna had recovered, spent years in England, and then left for Volterra at the signing of that wretched peace treaty. Now her nephew was going back to Argentario—like Ramage and Jackson, he would be disguised. It was curious how Argentario played such a frequent part in all their lives.

The cutter's stem grated as it nosed up on the sand and Rossi jumped over the bow, boots and cutlass in hand. He turned to make sure that Paolo Orsini did not slip as he too jumped. The two of them, after putting their gear higher up the beach out of reach of the wavelets, returned and helped shove off the cutter. The arrangement was simple: the cutter would stay a hundred yards off the beach, out of sight in the darkness, until Hill heard a nightjar call four times, pause, and then call again. Paolo was very proud of his imitation of a nightjar, a trick he had learned as a boy in Volterra, where a nightjar regularly hooted from a tree below his bedroom window.

After the boat, oars muffled, disappeared into the night, the two men sat down on long strands of
fico dei ottentotti,
which grew flat, spreading like a thick net over the sand and in places as deep as a mattress.

“You've got your cutlass?” Orsini asked.

Rossi held up a canvas roll. “All ready, sir.”

Rossi was a proud man. He knew he had been singled out by Captain Ramage from some two hundred men on board the
Calypso
and that his orders were to go into Santo Stefano and find out,
at whatever cost,
if the hostages were in the Fortezza or had been taken away by sea.
At whatever cost:
Rossi liked the phrase and rolled it over in his mind again. English was a good language for being exact. Not like French, for instance. No wonder (judging from what Gilbert and his mates said) that French was the language of diplomacy. It seemed to Rossi that in French you could make a violent speech lasting an hour and, even though it was full of bold words and fine phrases, at the end of it you could have promised nothing nor announced anything that mattered, yet leave your audience impressed and inspired. Perhaps that was how the seeds of revolution were sown.

Italian was different. Yes, you could also make long-winded speeches, full of fine words, but your listeners would soon spot that, although you were throwing up a lot of spray, you were not making a yard to windward. With English, you could distinguish the “blow-hard” (another splendid English phrase!) even quicker. That was why elections in England were often violent: the candidate might blow hard for five minutes, but the moment the crowd became bored, the eggs and rocks and jeers flew thick and fast.

Half an hour before the pair of them left the ship, Mr Ramage had spoken to them alone in his cabin. A wise man, he was, and a tactful one, too. There was Mr Orsini, a midshipman and the head of one of the great families in Italy, and there was ordinary seaman Rossi, late of Genova, about whom no one on board the
Calypso
knew much, except for Mr Ramage.

Rossi had told him something of his past, and Mr Ramage must have guessed the rest. Anyway, Mr Ramage made it clear that Rossi was going because he would not hesitate to slit a throat, and Mr Orsini was going to help Rossi if he needed a lookout, or something like that. Well, Rossi thought, if they succeeded, ordinary seaman Rossi got all the credit; if they failed—well, Midshipman Orsini was in charge and took the blame. This seemed a very fair arrangement to Rossi because, apart from being killed, he could not lose.

Rossi felt a moment's guilt as they reached the track at the back of the beach and turned right towards Santo Stefano, almost immediately finding it became steep as it wended over the small headland marking the western end of the bay. Yes, he did feel rather guilty about the chance of Mr Orsini getting holystoned if they failed because he was one of the nicest people on board the
Calypso—
officer, warrant officer, petty officer, or seaman. He loved going into action (with that damned silly dirk of his, which had too short a blade to keep trouble at a respectable distance); he was curious about everything connected with seamanship. Thoughtful about the men, too: as soon as he saw a rain squall in the distance when he was on watch, for example, he sent the men below for their oilskins. He was the only officer who regularly said “please,” except for Mr Ramage, and if you were the captain you could afford to say please.

“This catches the muscles in your shins, doesn't it?” Orsini commented, beginning to puff.

“We need a
somaro,
so we could hold its tail,” Rossi said. “My feet have never worked so hard as this last week. Sixty English miles to Pitigliano and back, I heard Mr Aitken say.”

“Yes, sixty. The last time I walked so far—that was a long time ago …”

“When you escaped from Volterra, sir?”

“Yes. Most of it at night, like now. I fell into so many ditches that I must have swum a quarter of the way.”

“What Mr Ramage said about cutting throats,” Rossi said conversationally, “he meant it, and you leave it to me.”

“I know. He thinks I couldn't cut a throat in cold blood, but he knows you could.”

“Something like that,” Rossi said tactfully.

“He's wrong though. I could cut a Frenchman's throat in cold blood just as easily as in action, when we board a French ship. You see, I hate them. Mr Ramage and the other officers don't really
hate
the French: their job is to fight the enemy, and the enemy today is the French, so they fight them. In ten years time it might be the Spanish, or the Austrians. I see it differently. The French have stolen Volterra from my family. They have corrupted many of the leading families, using fear or bribes. Bonaparte rules Europe from the Baltic to the Ionian Sea. His soldiers and sailors glory in it. So people who steal my land and kill my family and corrupt or imprison my people—well, just line up the throats.”

Rossi stopped and turned to Orsini in the darkness. “Listen, sir, I could have told Mr Ramage that. Being Italian as well, I can guess how you feel. But it's very hard for the English to understand, because their country has never been occupied by an enemy. At least, not for hundreds of years. But believe me, even though I'm sure you can cut a throat in cold blood, don't be in a hurry to do it. The first time—well, afterwards you have nightmares. The second and third times aren't much better. So leave it to me. I can sleep soundly when it's over.”

“Thank you,” Orsini said. “I
could
do it, but that isn't to say I want to.”

The two men walked along the track as it twisted over two more headlands which formed small, rock-strewn bays, and as they began climbing another steeper hill, Orsini said, “I think this is Punta Nera. From the top we should see Santo Stefano.”

Five minutes later, breathless, they looked down on Santo Stefano: a large bay and a smaller beyond it, and the Fortezza above in the hills, keeping guard over both of them. Houses lined the big bay, and Orsini could see fishing boats hauled up on the beach, and what must be nets drying on frames. Yes, just as it looked from seaward in daylight: a small fishing port surrounded by hills and guarded by (unless one knew the part Aragon and Spain itself had played in Tuscan history) a fortress, which seemed larger than necessary.

“Andiamo,”
Rossi said, but Orsini held his arm for a moment.

“Can you see the
Calypso?
”

The two men stared into the darkness. They knew where she was anchored, and finally Rossi said, “I think there's a darker patch. Look, can you make out Talamone in the distance? Well, in line with Monte dell' Uccellina, behind it and halfway to Talamone—the dark—”

“I see it,” Orsini said. “A long way to swim.”

Rossi shivered. “Don't even joke about it, sir.”

The hill running steeply down into Santo Stefano was long and deeply rutted where sudden rainstorms had washed away the thin layer of red earth to lay bare the rock beneath. At times the track twisted like a snake to show where donkeys and their owners scrambled from one side to the other, as though each rock was a stepping stone, but even in the darkness both men could see that some of the exposed stone was vertical, miniature precipices only a few inches high but enough to cause a fall, to break a limb of donkey or man.