Ramage's Challenge r-15 Page 15

  "They have a quiet life!"

  Ramage shook his head and gestured down into the valley separating them from the high peak on which Castello was built. "Look down there carefully. Wherever it slopes it's terraced with vines - see? And the groves of olive trees to the right of those big rocks. The contadini are already working. Weeding, pruning - and see, those two men at the foot of the terraces are sorting out the right size rocks: they're making another terrace."

  "Plenty of rocks, not much soil. Reminds me of parts of the Highlands in summer."

  Ramage nodded and stood up. "We must be on the move. The next time we speak English we'll know - I hope - where the hostages are."

  "Better still," Aitken said, "we'll have them with us. But -" he stopped as the thought struck him, "how are you going...?"

  "I've no idea," Ramage said with a grin. "You draw me a plan of Castello and where the garrison is, and where the hostages are held, and I'll tell you. Until then, let's keep an open mind. Or, to be honest, let's see what opportunities present themselves."

  In the last valley a surly contadino jogged past on his donkey, whacking it with a monotony which indicated it was a habit rather than a spur to the animal, which ignored everything with a raffish unconcern. "I wish I could talk with that donkey," Paolo said. "I think he could tell me much about life."

  "I'm sure he could," Ramage commented, and Rossi laughed.

  The muscles along the front of Ramage's shins ached: he had a stitch like a knife in his side. Ramage had thought the march to and from Pitigliano would have put him in trim but now he realized the difference between marching horizontally and (it seemed) almost vertically. Admittedly the track twisted and that took out the worst of the steepness, but the fact was, as Southwick had announced with something like glee, Castello was fifteen hundred feet high . . .

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There it was! A sudden turn in the track brought them to the gateway and Ramage saw at once that the most fearsome thing about Castello was its name: the thick, turreted walls built round the village were crumbling. Obviously only a garrison from an occupying army was likely to do repairs - and then an enemy would have to be threatening.

  Certainly the present garrison saw no threat, and the villagers clearly left it to the Church and the French to defend them against i Saraceni, so shrubs and cacti grew between the carved stones and the roots slowly but quite relentlessly levered many of them apart so that, helped by decades of winds, hot sun and torrential rains, one stone after another tumbled down the slopes, making the steep hill look as though Castello had been through a siege.

  Luckily for the future of Castello, the blocks of stone which had been cut by masons long since dead were too big for the villagers to carry off to build houses for newly wed sons. Obviously, since the French had arrived, iSaraceni had been forgotten; it was not in the people's character, Ramage reflected, to remember that they were still there, lurking along the distant coast of Africa with their galleys ready to raid as soon as the French had gone.

  The Saracens, Moors or Barbary pirates (the names changed, the people remained the same) had plagued the Mediterranean for a thousand years, and their strength was that they raided small towns and their victims had short memories. Short memories and too preoccupied with their own quarrels to unite and crush the raiders.

  Half a dozen children stood shyly at the gateway, not afraid because they recognized Gilbert's and Louis's uniforms. A pack of dogs led by a mongrel as big as a wolf, scarred along its back and one ear almost torn off, came rushing out, a mass of hysterical yelping until a couple of the children set about them with sticks and cries of abuse.

  The noise brought a French soldier to the gateway, bleary-eyed and unshaven for a week. He stared at the column of men outside, and Gilbert stepped forward, pointing at him and snapping: "Report at once to your commandant that the special party has arrived."

  The soldier stood there obviously befuddled with sleep and a numbing headache from last night's wine. "He won't like that. He's never called before roll call at noon."

  "Noon!" Gilbert exclaimed and pointed dramatically down at the harbour. "By noon we shall have sailed again!"

  "I'll tell the corporal," the soldier muttered. "Let him have the responsibility."

  As the man lurched away Gilbert muttered to Ramage: "Soldiers are the same, whatever uniform they wear -"

  "Snarl at the corporal," Ramage advised, "otherwise we'll be standing here all day!"

  When he arrived the corporal could have been the other man's older brother, except that he squinted at the column as though he had a bright light shining in his eyes.

  "You!" snapped Gilbert. "Fetch the commandant at once. I have orders from the general. Are we to be left standing here all day with the dogs pissing all over us and the children throwing stones?"

  "At once, Major, at once," the corporal stammered and disappeared, leaving only the wide-eyed children, who had not understood a word. A breeze started blowing through the gateway and Ramage cursed: it brought them the smell of the village - rotting cabbage, stinking fish, donkey dung, the sewage of centuries ripened and refreshed by hot sun and warm showers.

  "I'll have the first tilt at the commandant when he arrives," Ramage said. "Anger and outrage sounds better in Italian than French. He probably won't understand a word but he'll guess the meaning. Then you can take over for the coup degrâce!"

  Gilbert chuckled: his original dislike of wearing this version of the uniform of Bonaparte's Army of Italy was disappearing rapidly at the prospect of abusing the commandant of Castello.

  A good five minutes passed before the commandant appeared, still buttoning up his coat, the corporal carrying his sword and hat. He was a plump little man, swarthy, with perfect teeth beneath sagging black moustaches which had not been combed after a night's sleep.

  "Good morning Major," the commandant said, obviously having taken the corporal's word for Gilbert's assumed rank. "No one told me you were coming . . ."

  Ramage stepped forward and released a torrent of abusive Italian, but the man stood helpless, his hands held down, palms outwards as though submitting. With feigned ill-grace Ramage gestured to Gilbert, who snapped out crisply: "You've had no orders? No orders - I can't believe it! What about your hostages?"

  Ramage could hardly breathe as he waited for the reply.

  "But Major, they are well enough. I feed them properly and let them exercise. Why, I've even given them playing cards, and they gamble and drink wine like - well, like my soldiers."

  Gilbert turned to Ramage. In a few moments the whole position had changed. Was the commandant still half asleep? It was worth a chance. Ramage stepped forward and began speaking to the commandant in Italian, mixing in enough halting French that Gilbert would be able to repeat once he had grasped the idea.

  "The orders .. . they said a frigate with other hostages would - how do you say - collect your hostages to take them all away, to Toulon. Look!" He turned and, with as much drama as he could summon without laughing, gestured towards Aitken and his men. "There you have some of the cream of the English aristocracy who were in Italy when the Emperor went to war again, and whom I'm exercising. You have some here. At Toulon are many more caught in France. I do not know what the Emperor intends, but he wants them all assembled in Toulon.

  "Which is why we arrived in the frigate. Clearly you have not even noticed that a frigate waits just off the harbour. Where are your sentries - asleep in the clouds?"

  The commandant had understood perhaps a quarter of what Ramage had said and looked appealingly at Gilbert, who repeated everything in rapid French.

  The commandant finally took his hat from the corporal and put it on. "Major, I have not received any orders, but we are a long way from Florence and it is not unknown for messengers to be delayed. But I understand what the Emperor intends, and I will prepare my hostages at once for the voyage. You won't want provisions for them, will you?"

  Gilbert, seeing the man's greedy eyes already
calculating for how much he could sell the food to the villagers, shook his head. "No, we have provisions enough on board."

  "It is hot out here," Ramage grumbled in Italian. "Let us get into the shade. A drink would be welcome."

  Gilbert translated, and the commandant led the way into the square. The streets were narrow with the houses crowding each other. It was, Ramage saw, still a medieval town: nothing had changed in the last four or five centuries, except the stucco peeled and was never repaired, paint flaked off. Tiles were replaced after a storm - though judging from a few houses some people did not bother. On one side of the square there was a shallow stone bath used as the laundry place; close by, a well had a cranked handle for winding up the bucket, which looked worn enough to be the original. Beside many doorways were eyebolts for tethering donkeys and, he guessed, where there were no piles of manure, the owners of the houses owned strips of land on the slopes.

  There was the butcher's shop, an open-fronted house with two strings of dead wild birds hanging up for sale. Birds whose feathers were red and black, green and yellow, their beaks revealing they were finches and caught in traps. Two doors further down was the verdura, but not much produce was on display - half a dozen cabbages, the outer leaves yellowing, and strings of garlic (regarded by Italians as the best protection against the Evil Eye). At the far side of the square, draped over a brick wall but facing the sun, were what looked like hundreds of short lengths of white string: the pasta made early that morning and now hung out to dry in the sun. Spaghetti has the same importance to Italians as potatoes to the poor in northern France and Britain. The difference being, Ramage reflected, that the Italians had the good sense to disguise the taste with various sauces.

  A raucous screaming suddenly froze everyone except the commandant who, after finding himself walking on alone, turned back and explained. "It's Monday so the garrison's butcher is slaughtering a pig."

  "Of course," Gilbert said, "I was thinking it was Thursday."

  They followed the little commandant to the far end of the town, where a sentry sat on a chair inside a crudely made sentry box.

  "The hostages live in the last five houses in this row. I commandeered them because there was nowhere else suitable. My soldiers live in billets, of course."

  "The owners of the houses will be thankful we are taking the hostages away," Ramage said in atrocious French.

  "So shall I," the commandant said fervently. "It is a grave responsibility. English generals and admirals, nobility - supposing they escaped! I would be a private soldier again - if I was not shot!"

  Ramage nodded his head judiciously. "So now you will have the opportunity of being a field marshal . . ."

  "Just leave me alone, I am quite content," the commandant confided. "Giglio has good wine and is far enough from Florence . . ."

  "But your wife ...?"

  "It's far enough from Paris, too," he said with a wink. He banged the side of the sentry box and woke the soldier, who without being asked and showing no curiosity about the strangers behind the commandant, handed over a large bunch of keys.

  "None of the houses had locks on the doors, so we had to fit them," he explained. "At least, those were my orders. But no one can escape from this island. Still, I made the owners of the houses pay me, and Florence sent me locks for ten houses." He winked again.

  "Tell him to parade his hostages here," Ramage said to Gilbert. "Keep talking to him: I don't want him to wonder why we marched our hostages up the hill for exercise when we could have had them running around on deck."

  "He's so thankful to be rid of them I don't think he'd do anything," Gilbert said. "As long as we sign his receipt, he'll be quite happy."

  By now the commandant was unlocking the door of the first house and shouting orders to the people inside. Then he went on to the other houses, and by the time he reached the last the hostages were emerging from the first.

  They all gathered at the sentry box, obviously conforming to a drill established when they first arrived. Ramage looked at them carefully. Yes, they were well dressed, though here and there breeches and coats were patched, clearly sewn by the owners, because the stitching was more workmanlike than neat. Boots and shoes - clean, though not polished, but it had not rained for three or four weeks so all they needed was a flick of a cloth to remove dust.

  And all the hostages looked fit. Three or four men, although portly and red-faced, had obviously benefited from a year's frugal wine ration in place of unlimited brandy and port, and a more frugal diet than they had previously enjoyed. Only one man walked with a stick though, Ramage guessed, from habit rather than disability because the stick was a Malacca cane with a gold top: anyone with a walking problem used a stick with a handle.

  It was devilish difficult to distinguish between the admirals and generals, since they were not in uniform. Certainly the one man who stood so erect he might be tied to a post must be a general, and those two might be admirals, while that foppish fellow would come under the commandant's description of an aristocrat.

  Only one of the hostages, coming from the last house, showed the slightest interest in Ramage's men. Or, Ramage corrected himself, only one man revealed any interest. The admirals and the generals had long ago learned the art of apparent disinterest: it was not easy to watch the world tumbling about one's ears and merely comment: "By Jove!"

  Finally the commandant came back, returned the bunch of keys to the sentry, and with a stentorian "Messieurs!"gestured towards Gilbert. Obviously, with the hostages about to be taken off his hands, he was not going to strain himself trying to explain things in English - or even in French, which a good half of the hostages probably spoke.

  Ramage beckoned to them, muttering to Gilbert to wait until they were gathered round. Then, with the commandant talking to the sentry, who was still seated in his box, Ramage began speaking to the hostages in Italian. With every fifth or sixth word English and together making complete sentences, he explained that they were being rescued but must act as though they were about to be transferred to France. Above all, they must show no excitement. "Fall in behind those men, who are also acting as hostages," Ramage said, the English words interspersed with what was another long burst of Italian.

  The real hostages walked, slouched or ambled: Ramage guessed this was how they formed up for roll call and was an expression of defiance. Two of them winked as they passed close. There was no doubt that they all understood what was going on, and Ramage was thankful that they could adapt themselves so quickly.

  Suddenly the commandant came scurrying over, a hand uplifted to halt everything. "You must sign for them!" he exclaimed to Gilbert. "I must have a receipt. My adjutant will write it out but we must list all the names."

  "And those of their wives, children, mistresses and grandparents!" Gilbert exclaimed disgustedly. "No wonder the Emperor fears for France's future. The Republic, One and Indivisible, will sink under the weight of the paper and we shall all drown in a sea of ink. That's what the Emperor told my general, who told my colonel, and now I tell you."

  "And I'll tell the goats," the commandant sneered, "but you don't leave Castello until the receipt is signed."

  "Well, go away and write it out," Gilbert snapped impatiently. "We will be waiting in the piazza. But bring pen and ink: I left my desk on board the frigate."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ramage's cabin on board the Calypso had never been so crowded and, he thought, never would the occupants look so strange. At the moment they were all standing and each had his head bent - some to the left, some to the right, some forward so that they seemed to be glowering from under lowered eyebrows, and all looking like bodies cut down from gibbets. Occasionally one of them would forget and, straightening his neck, would bang his head against the low deck beams.

  Ramage had purposely left introductions until all the eleven hostages were safely on board. They had marched down the hill from Castello behind Aitken's group; at the beach which comprised Giglio's harbour they were sti
ll (as far as an onlooker was concerned) carefully guarded by a few French soldiers and the three men of the King of Etruria's army. And the frigate's two boats had to make two trips to ferry everyone on board.

  Ramage had come out with the first boat and gone straight down to his cabin to strip off his gaudy uniform and dress himself once again as a post-captain with less than three years' seniority (revealed by the single epaulet he wore on his right shoulder). It felt strange (and constricting) to be wearing knee-breeches and silk stockings again, and the stock seemed like a hangman's noose about his neck. But the eleven hostages would, he surmised, provide enough problems with precedence and authority for the captain of the Calypso to need all the symbols of authority he could muster.

  He had left the hostages waiting on the quarterdeck under the awning, where they seemed happy enough chatting and exclaiming on the sudden change in their fortune. Finally he passed the word for Aitken to invite them all to join him.

  The sentry, already given his instructions, formally announced each arrival, and the time he took getting the names and the titles right allowed Ramage to greet them one by one and note who they were.

  "Sir Henry Faversham, Admiral of the White, sir," the sentry bellowed.

  The admiral came through the door, bent almost double: he was tall and thin, and clearly had not been in a ship as small as a frigate for a long time. Carefully, almost warily, he stood more upright until he was sure he had enough clearance above him.

  "Ramage? Ramage, eh, must be Blazey's son? Well, thank you m'boy; very well executed, that operation. Fooled the French, eh? And damn nearly fooled me!"

  By that time the next person was being announced, and Ramage excused himself.

  "Vice-Admiral the Earl Smarden, sir."

  Ramage found that the old Marquis of Folkestone's son looked more like a cheerful and successful farmer than heir to one of the country's oldest marquisates.

  "Splendid, Ramage, splendid! I should have recognized you - like your father when he was younger!"