Ramage's Challenge r-15 Page 12

  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.

  "No need for us to be quiet," Orsini said, "so we can curse as much as we like. Do you know any choice Lucchesi curses?"

  "I don't care how they curse in Lucca," Rossi said, tripping as he spoke, "but I know what they say in Genova and Volterra and it means the same as I'm saying now!"

  Slowly they worked their way down the hill and in the darkness it seemed to Orsini that the little town of Santo Stefano was slowly rising to meet them: already the Fortezza, though still distant, was higher. In daylight a sentry on the battlements would see them clearly.

  The Fortezza was their target. Mr Ramage reckoned that if there were no signs of a French garrison there, then the hostages had gone, because there was nowhere else to keep them. So it was down into the valley (which ran into the bay, and gave its name to one of the town's quarters) and up the other side, a careful look round, question someone and then back again to the cutter. Then Orsini began to have doubts: he had been at sea long enough to worry when everything appeared to be going well.

  The track turned now to cro
ss the nearer side of the town and first one and then several dogs began to bark as they passed the first few houses. A man came to a door and swore at them, his voice sleepy.

  Rossi and Orsini spoke to each other in Italian, the gossiping conversation to be expected of two men arriving at night in a strange town. The track forked but a glance upwards showed which was the more likely to lead to the Fortezza.

  It took them fifteen minutes to reach the open square in front of it, and Rossi muttered to Orsini: "You stay here while I have a look. The gateway is on this side."

  With that the seaman disappeared silently into the blackness before Orsini had a chance to argue. Suddenly, squatting down on a large rock which, from the foot and hoof prints surrounding it and dried in the earth, was used by the peasants for mounting mules, Orsini felt tired: for most of the walk from the boat he had been excited, but now he was almost sure the town was empty of the French: if there were hostages in the Fortezza, surely there would be French soldiers on patrol, or a sentry on the track, which was the only way to Santo Stefano by land.

  The shout was followed immediately by the crack of a pistol shot. For a moment he heard the noise echo and re-echo across the valley below. He had not seen a flash, but it was close and must be at the Fortezza. Should he go there - and risk missing Rossi, who would expect to find him here (assuming Rossi had not been killed)? A second pistol shot was followed by scurrying feet: one man was coming towards him. The footfalls were not regular; they were more like those of a drunken husband trying to stagger home without his wife hearing. Then Orsini heard cursing at regular intervals: not loud - but now the Genovese accent was unmistakable.

  "Rossi! Over here, Rossi!"

  "Andiamo!" Rossi said as Orsini ran towards him and led the way down the track.

  "What's happened? Are the French after us?"

  "Yes, but don't worry; sono ubriachi. The whole lot of them."

  "All drunk? You're sure? How many?"

  Rossi lurched and Orsini grabbed his arm to prevent him falling. "I'll explain when we get up to Punta Nera."

  "Are the hostages there?"

  "No . . . just a small garrison . . ."

  At that moment Orsini felt a curious dampness soaking through Rossi's sleeve.

  "You're wounded! Here, let me look!"

  "It's nothing and it's too dark to see," Rossi said hurriedly. "Come on, we've got to get back to the cutter. The hostages aren't there: that's what matters. We'll find out where they went before we leave the town. Have you got your dirk?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "I'll need it. Lost my cutlass when they caught me, before that stronzo shot me."

  Rossi was swaying on his feet. Orsini did not know whether to force the man to have a rest or hurry him back to the cutter quickly: it was a toss up either way if he was bleeding badly.

  Together they stumbled down the hill and at the first house showing a light Rossi said gruffly: "Your dirk."

  Orsini handed it over. "What are you going to do?"

  "Wait here!" Rossi said and walked up to the doorway, ripping aside the sacking which covered it. Orsini saw him point to something inside the room and hurried up to stand at the doorway.

  Rossi now stood, white-faced, just inside the tiny room. A plump and bleary-eyed man sat at the table, a mug in one hand and a jug of wine in front of him. A raddled old woman sat at one end of what passed for a bed, watching Rossi with sharp but frightened eyes. A young woman was at the other end of the bed holding a baby in her arms and breast-feeding it.

  With a tremendous effort the man raised his head and focused his eyes on Rossi. "Wha' did you say?"

  "The French: did they have any prisoners here?"

  "Don' know. Shoot me, because they would if I told you."

  "I'll cut your throat if you don't," Rossi said waving the dirk, "so it looks as though your mug of wine is turning to vinegar."

  "His arm is bleeding badly," the young woman said, and as if she thought the man was too drunk to notice, added: "He's a Genovese, like my cousin Umberto. He's not French."

  "You seem to know everything," the man said, his voice slurred. He reached for the jug and knocked it over, the wine spreading across the table and dripping to the floor. He muttered a curse, folded his arms on the table in front of him, and pillowed his head. To Orsini it seemed he was snoring in a moment.

  Rossi spoke to the young woman. "You have nothing to fear. We are Italians. All we need to know is what happened to all the English prisoners the French brought to the Fortezza."

  "They were English?" The old woman asked, lisping because she was toothless. "The French are supposed to fight them but -" she cackled mirthlessly, "- but not here. All they do here, the French, is steal our wine and get drunk and chase the young women. No one is safe. My daughter here, and her nursing the baby, well, 1 could tell you a story -"

  "Quiet mother," the young woman said, tucking one breast back into her shift and bringing out the other, and holding the baby to it. "Segnore, sit down here -" she touched the bed beside her. "You look as though you will faint. Get him some wine, mother. Quickly now!"

  Rossi lurched forward and Orsini helped him to sit down, taking the dirk at the same time. The old woman produced another jug, picked up the mug in front of the sleeping man, wiped it with the hem of her skirt and filled it. "Drink this," she told Rossi, "although you're in no state to appreciate how good it is. We have no food until my son-in-law goes fishing tomorrow. Just some bread and goat milk cheese."

  Rossi shook his head. "No, the wine is enough. It is good wine. I must apologize, ladies, for my rough appearance, but we have little time."

  The young woman nodded. "Yes, we heard two shots. Were you hit twice?"

  "No, the first hit me with a ricochet. The second missed."

  "Shall I bandage it for you - washing in wine cleans a wound."

  Rossi turned to the young woman. "It is kind of you signora, but the wound is of no significance. But if you could tell us..."

  "The French arrived with their prisoners about three weeks ago - from Orbetello, I understand. Then a week later a French ship came into the port, and the prisoners and the new French soldiers went on board. The old French soldiers - the ones always at the Fortezza - stayed there. Then the ship sailed."

  "Was it a big ship?"

  "You can see for yourself when it gets light: she has come back. She is anchored out in the bay, halfway to Talamone."

  Rossi nodded. So it had been a French frigate, and the good people of Santo Stefano thought the Calypso was the same ship. "Yes, I saw her out there. You are sure all the prisoners - the English, I mean - were taken away in this ship?"

  "Yes. My husband was selling the French some fish to feed them. The French actually paid. My husband was sorry to see the prisoners go. We need the money," she added, as if justifying selling to the French.

  "But you do not know where the French ship was taking the prisoners?"

  "No. Once a ship goes round Punta Madonella, one cannot see the direction she takes."

  Rossi sat for a few minutes with his head between his knees as another wave of faintness made him feel he was being drawn into a black pit.

  Orsini thought of the long climb back to the beach where the cutter was to collect them. He helped Rossi to his feet. "Thank you, signora," he said to the old woman, and then turned to her daughter. "Signora, have no fear; the French will never know we have been here. Your baby -"

  "My son," the woman said quickly, knowing how stupid men were in recognizing the sex of young babies.

  "Ah, a son eh? Has he been named yet?"

  The woman shook her head. "The priest has been very ill."

  "Include 'Paolo' among his names, signora, for luck. And one day in the future, several years perhaps, try to find out who rules Volterra."

  "You are from Volterra," the woman said quickly, "I recognize the accent. 'Paolo'," she said softly. "It is a nice name. Yours, I think."

  Paolo nodded. "In better times, pe
rhaps, I can come back and see how the boy has grown up."

  The woman nodded. "Goodbye, signore. Look after your friend."

  Paolo helped Rossi down to the port, sat him on a pile of nets and then inspected the fishing boats. By chance the smallest one was nearest the water's edge and had oars and thole pins in it. He lifted the bow and pulled, finally getting it into the water. He was just looking round for the painter when Rossi lurched up and half collapsed across the gunwale. Orsini helped him in and then scrambled after him. "More comfortable to row round to meet Mr Hill," he said. "And not a throat cut."

  Rossi's arm throbbed. Mr Bowen had cleaned the wound with spirits (giving him a tot of rum first, saying with a reassuring grin that it would take the sting away) and then put in five stitches. Rossi had often heard of people "being stitched up" but had never thought much about it. Watching Mr Bowen at work with needle and thread he realized that it was just that: stitching, like mending a shot hole in a sail; holding together two flaps of skin that would otherwise gape open and slipping the needle in. Rossi had done the same sort of thing hundreds of times, only he was joining torn canvas. Mr Bowen was thorough. As soon as Rossi had described how the bullet had ricocheted off the wall before hitting him, the surgeon had wanted to know about the wall. Was it brick, stone, stucco? It was a startling question, and Rossi had been able to answer only by elimination. No, it had not been stone. Nor brick. Then he remembered noticing soot from the lamps and round the big fireplace. Yes, it was stucco, and as he thought more he remembered the cracks in it looking like veins in an old man's legs.

  He had wondered why Mr Bowen was so interested, and the surgeon explained as he washed the cut with spirits: a bullet hitting stucco and then bouncing off would pick up some of the sand and gesso used to make the stucco and leave perhaps some of it in the wound, so it was best to clean it.

  Now, with his arm held diagonally across his chest by a sling, Rossi waited outside Mr Ramage's cabin door while the Marine sentry called his name and, receiving an answer, opened the door.