Ramage's Challenge (38 page)

“Report back when everyone's ready,” he told Aitken, who started the order off on its whispered journey. By the time the answer came back, Ramage had both his pistols at half-cock and tucked back into his waistbelt, and the canvas off his cutlass, which was now waiting on the ground beside him.

“I can see your face very clearly,” he told Aitken. “That cork blacking has worn off.”

“Afraid you're the same, sir,” Aitken muttered. “The sweat has washed it away. And I didn't bring any spare burnt corks.”

“Oh well, I don't expect we will meet anyone we know,” Ramage said lightly. He picked up his cutlass. “Very well, we'll go on until we reach the gravel, and then wait for Hill.”

Five minutes later Ramage peered at the gates from the edge of the bushes as Orsini pointed and whispered. “There, you can make out the sentry standing just to the left of that black oblong, which is the small doorway. The door must be open. We called the others doors, but they're really gates, and what was the proper English word for the small door? I'm afraid I have forgotten already.”

“A wicket gate. A Dutch word we've adopted, I think, although the Welsh refer to a ‘wicked' gate.”

“Like Rossi. The Welsh obviously mean a gate just like that,” Paolo said. “It's a wicked long run to reach it!”

“If you're going to make such poor jokes,” Ramage muttered, “we'll speak Italian!”

He rolled on his side and pulled out his watch. Five minutes to go. Or, rather, five minutes until the time from which Hill could start.

Paolo nudged him. “Look, sir. Up on the battlements to the right: there's the other sentry.”

Ramage watched the soldier march—no, he was strolling— and saw that he was making a complete circuit of the fort. He was not keeping a lookout on the seaward side—in fact, from the way he progressed it seemed highly unlikely that he was keeping a lookout for anything in particular. Would Hill have seen him? And would he be planning to start the attack once the sentry was out of sight from him on the landward side of the battlements? From down here among the roots of the sage and juniper, it was hard to judge the breeze, but it was light enough for Ramage to hear the faint rustle of the leaves. Yes, the breeze was still there, and the clouds showed that, at least high up, it had not changed direction.

He turned to Aitken. “Crawl alongside me and have a good look round.” He passed on Orsini's observations, and Aitken nodded.

“Let's hope Hill has seen that sentry,” he murmured, echoing Ramage's thoughts. “If he times it right, it could give us an extra couple of minutes …”

A
NIGHTJAR in a clump of olive trees over to the west of the fort kept up its lonely and monotonous “quark … quark,” a call so regular that Ramage stopped timing the seconds and used the bird. Otherwise there was silence. Then the sentry at the wicket gate coughed and spat, the silence making him seem much closer than thirty yards. The moon shadows cast by the boltheads made the big wooden gates look speckled with a heavy black rash.

The sentry up on the battlements, now almost at the opposite side from Hill and his party, sneezed violently and apparently startled the nightjar, which missed a beat. Had something happened to Hill? Had he missed his way? No, that was impossible; he had only to follow the edge of the cliff and then strike through the
macchia
towards the fort.

Ramage stared at the sentry beside the gate. Not beside it, but leaning back against it. He was too far away to see if his eyes were shut, but Rossi could be right: the man was probably dozing standing up.

Ramage sniffed, and sniffed again. He held his breath, trying to sort out the smells. Sage and thyme, yes, but … He sniffed again. Yes, there was the sharper smell of bonfire smoke. Both Orsini and Aitken then nudged him simultaneously from either side. Burning (smouldering, anyway) sage and grass—not a strong smell, just a whiff, really. And then another whiff, stronger this time, and a third.

He twisted his body to the right so that he could look over to the windward side of the fort, then he watched the sentry at the wicket gate. The man did not move. Grass and
macchia
fires were common enough at this time of the year, and anyway, once the
macchia
really started blazing there was nothing to be done. If the flames spread to olive groves, the effect was spectacular: an olive tree started flaming and then suddenly exploded like a great firework as all the oil in the fruit (if they were still on the tree), the leaves, and the branches blazed fiercely with the heat of a furnace, so that a small pile of fine, grey powder would be all that remained of a large tree—the kind of ash left by a good cigar.

More whiffs and then the smell became constant—and yes, beyond and to windward of Forte della Stella there was now a faint pinkish-yellow glow—a glow which grew brighter as Ramage watched, and seemed to throb.

He heard Aitken sigh and mutter, “It's going to work, sir.” The sentry on the battlements suddenly started shouting, and then the other sentry at the wicket gate seemed to wake with a start, pause a minute or two, and then dash into the fort, yelling —presumably at the guardhouse, because Ramage almost immediately heard more confused shouting coming through the wicket gate.

While the glow increased until the whole eastern side of the fort was awash in a reddish-yellow light, a bugle suddenly blared out urgently inside the fort, obviously sounding an alarm. A moment later several men rushed out through the wicket gate and, pausing a moment to get their bearings, turned left and then ran round the fortress walls towards the glow which, even as they reached one of the points of the star, began flickering—an indication that what had begun as something small like a bonfire was becoming a rapidly spreading blaze.

“Eight … nine … thirteen … fourteen …” Ramage counted as Frenchmen came hurrying through the gate. “Most are carrying muskets. Here come more!” He continued counting. Twenty-one men had run round towards the burning
macchia
by the time he stopped, and Ramage was satisfied that even the sentry on the battlements had left his post to join the others, who presumably proposed trying to beat out the flames.

“The sentries guarding the hostages will be the only ones left behind,” Ramage said. His stomach was knotted with tension; his knees seemed to have lost their strength, even though he was lying down. He grasped his cutlass, muttered a warning to Aitken and Orsini, and turning his head towards the men lying in the
macchia
behind him, snapped, “Get ready … on your feet … follow me!”

With that he rushed across the gravel towards the wicket gate, tugging a pistol from his waistband with his left hand. Aitken, Orsini, and Rossi were racing each other to be the first through the little doorway, while behind him it seemed a cart was unloading gravel as twenty men charged across the parade ground.

Although Orsini just beat him to the door, the moment he was through Ramage looked to his right. Yes, there was the guardroom, and in front was an inner courtyard formed by the walls of the fort itself. The blazing
macchia
had become an enormous lantern, which showed the guardroom door swinging open. Every man in it must have bolted outside.

Half left—yes, that door must lead to the two big rooms where the hostages should be, and he swung round towards it, slowing from a run to a brisk walk. Suddenly the door flung open and a man stood in the opening, saw Ramage and the men behind him, and grabbed a musket. As Ramage realized that he and his party were lit by the burning
macchia,
now behind them, the Frenchman took one look at the gleaming cutlass blades, shouted a challenge, and raised his musket.

Hearing the click as the Frenchman cocked the lock of the musket and knowing he had no time to change to his right, Ramage fired his pistol left-handed. The man collapsed, his musket going off as he toppled over, and Ramage heard the whining “spang” as the ball ricocheted off one of the walls.

One down—but how many more left in there? Any one of us running through that door is a perfect target for other sentries inside. No time to think. Drop the empty pistol, switch cutlass over to the left hand, tug out the second pistol with the right, cock the lock, and now he was hurling himself through the door, waiting for an agonizing pain as a musket ball slammed into his stomach.

A small hall—anteroom, rather. A man at the far side, crouching and shouting, a musket on the ground in front of him. Yes, another guard who did not understand what was going on but, seeing his comrade shot dead, had the wit to throw down his gun and surrender to whatever was the threat.

“Rossi!” Ramage shouted and saw the Italian dash past him, heading for the cringing man, anticipating the order. By then Ramage had the next door open and found himself in a short corridor with a door at each end. Which first? He snatched a lantern from its hook and turned left. The damned door was locked, but even as he tugged at the handle Rossi pushed him to one side without a word, trying one large key. No, it would not turn. He gave it to Ramage.

“The other door,” he said as he thrust a second key into the lock, wrenched the door open, and flung it back.

Ramage saw that a lantern inside showed several people in the room and, turning to Aitken, snapped, “You look after this crowd.” Rossi took the keys from that last sentry, “I'll open the other door.”

By now the corridor was full of men. Ramage found Jackson and Stafford beside him and the American grabbed the lantern, holding it up high as Ramage fitted the key in the lock of the other door. It turned easily and, flinging the door open, he jumped rather than leapt inside, covering as many of a group of men as he could with his pistol. None was armed but all seemed frozen as they stared at Ramage, who was lit from behind by the lantern which Jackson still held high.

“Who are you all?” Ramage shouted.

“English prisoners … British hostages … Are you British? … What's all the shooting? … Is the fortress on fire … ?”

Ramage held up his hand. “Please, you're all shouting at once! I'm Ramage, from His Majesty's frigate
Calypso.
If you are hostages follow that man, Mr Orsini, and hurry. He'll lead you along a track to a cliff top and then down to our boats. But hurry. Don't stop for clothes or personal treasures!”

“The women!” one man shouted. “They're in the other room!”

“By now they're on their way to the
Calypso,
” Ramage snapped. “We found them first! Now, hurry along! Orsini? Ah, there you are. Get moving—you don't need any lantern thanks to Hill's men setting the
macchia
ablaze!”

He stood back as the hostages hurried out. He saw two men kneeling down on the ground. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Putting on shoes!”

“Get out!” Ramage said angrily. “Run barefoot—a few blisters on your feet won't matter. If you don't hurry, you'll have twenty Frenchmen using you for target practice!”

The two men hurriedly followed the others, leaving Jackson and Stafford waiting for orders. Suddenly a cursing Southwick stumbled into the room. “So help me, all the damned birds have flown!”

“What happened to you?”

“That guardroom—you didn't wait to inspect it!”

“It was empty—the door was swinging.”

“Ha!” Southwick sniffed. “Well, I found three French soldiers lying on cots, trying to sober up and understand what was going on! A fourth was already on his feet, roused by the shots and trying to load a pistol.”

“Where are they now?” Ramage demanded.

“Waiting for a burial party,” Southwick growled, and Ramage saw that at least a foot of the master's sword blade did not reflect the lantern light. Instead it was a dull reddish-black.

“Right,” Ramage said. “That's the two groups of hostages and the marines on their way. I hope Orsini doesn't curse in Italian, because it'll make the men suspicious.”

“That's all right, sir,” Southwick said. “I sent young ‘Blower' along with him to whip up the dullards and no one'd ever mistake
him
for a foreigner.”

“Just look round in here in case any of the prisoners did leave any treasures behind and start grumbling,” Ramage told Jackson, who walked round with the lantern.

“Shall we blow this place up?” Southwick enquired eagerly. “I've a fifteen-minute length of slowmatch tied round my middle.”

“Only fifteen minutes? A stomach like that will take an hour's length! No, we won't blow it up, it's more of an ornament than a threat if we ever want to attack Porto Ercole again. Nothing, Jackson, just clothing? Right, let's get back to the ship.”

Outside the courtyard the light was by now even brighter. Several acres of
macchia
must be burning, the fire steadily spreading across the sage, juniper, and thyme, fanned by the breeze that had earlier worried Ramage.

Southwick paused for a moment, looking round at the fortress walls, which were harshly outlined by the flames beyond. “Those buckets—must admit I didn't think they'd work, sir. I thought the banging about would put out the coils of slowmatch burning in the bottom.”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “If the buckets didn't work, the alternatives were having men holding burning match as they made their way up the cliff and along the top, or having them scratching away in the
macchia
with flint and steel, and then lighting slowmatch. And you know that's the time when the flint won't spark—or it starts raining and the tinder gets soaking wet.”

Ramage led the way out through the wicket gate and almost immediately a small red eye winked over on his left and a musket ball thudded into the heavy gates a foot away.

“Quickly—out, or we'll be trapped,” Ramage snapped. “The blasted French are coming back!”