Ramage's Challenge Read online

  Southwick came on deck and glanced round. Seeing Ramage walking to the quarterdeck rail he came over to join him. “We’re far enough out not to have to worry about the off-lying dangers, sir,” he commented.

  Ramage said teasingly, “Yes, one of the fastest ways of being put on half-pay must be to run aground on La Perla!”

  “Easy enough to do as you go into Gibraltar, if you lose the wind with a strong east-going current, or a white squall hits you.”

  “A court of inquiry will have heard it all before!”

  “True,” Southwick admitted. “I wonder how many of our own ships over the years have ended up on those rocks, let alone Spanish and Moorish. But who named them? ‘The Teeth’ would be fitter!”

  La Perla was in fact a group of rocks usually covered and lying half a mile offshore, just where an unwary ship from the Atlantic and bound for Gibraltar might be tempted to take a short cut. Or, as Southwick had noted, where a ship losing the wind and caught in the currents and eddies (which often ran at three knots) would end up.

  The Rock: one of the most impressive places in the world, Ramage thought; perhaps the most. One can compare it with an enormous block of wood attacked by a madman with an axe. The north and east sides are almost vertical, like the end of a box; the western side, now on the larboard bow, is a steep slope, while the side facing the Strait is a series of steps, or terraces, which end at the aptly named Europa Point.

  Ramage felt hungry and thirsty and irritated by the slack current which was slowing the Calypso. Nature was determined to make him wait and wait before opening those damned orders. “Come down and report when Europa Point bears due north,” Ramage said, “and bring Aitken with you.”

  Captains hated sealed orders, which were to be opened at a certain position, or on a certain date. There was always the chance that one might subsequently be accused of opening them earlier. The best method was the one just adopted by Ramage: telling the first lieutenant and master to report to his cabin at the time appointed for opening the orders. Then there were witnesses, and (if it could be allowed) they could read the orders and discuss the ways and means of carrying them out.

  He went down to his cabin, unlocked a drawer in his desk, and took out a canvas bag. It had brass grommets round the opening and a sturdy drawstring passed through the rings. The bag was heavy because inside there was a small pig of lead to make it sink quickly if thrown over the side in an emergency, to avoid capture.

  Ramage took out the packet, secured the bag again, and returned it to the drawer. Sealed orders. Well, they looked just like any other letter from the Admiralty—an outer cover of thick paper folded once from each side and the overlapping flaps joined by a large seal, the red wax covered with thin, white paper before the Admiralty seal was impressed. Ramage wondered for the thousandth time how the Admiralty acquired that seal. Presumably, it originally belonged to their predecessor, the Lord High Admiral, who would have used it until his office was “put into commission”—handed over to several individuals who became the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty. But a fouled anchor— one with the cable twisted round the shank—was hardly suitable; in fact, it would be hard to think of a more lubberly symbol.

  The Mediterranean—well, it was a change from the West Indies (and that brief foray south of the Equator). “Being black-strapped,” the sailors called it, a catch-all phrase that meant not only serving in the Mediterranean but being issued with red wine instead of rum. The word probably came from Blackstrap Bay (locally known as Mala Bahia), and referred to the fact that a ship bound for Gibraltar and losing the wind would be carried eastward past Europa Point and might then spend several days waiting for a fair wind, anchored off the bay and below an ancient watchtower, nearly one thousand feet up on a long ridge known as the Queen of Spain’s Chair.

  Names—one thing about cruising in the Mediterranean was that you quickly become aware of the sweep of history; the successive sweep of civilizations, rather. Gibraltar, for instance. Its first name (first to be recorded, anyway) was Calpe, given by the Phoenicians, and when the Romans arrived in their galleys they kept the name. Then, as the Roman Empire crumbled (after holding all the land that mattered round the Mediterranean), the Moors came and gave The Rock the name of Jebel Tarik. “Jebel” meant a hill or mountain. What about Tarik? Ramage remembered he was a Moorish leader, perhaps the man who first captured The Rock and had the mountain named after him. Then the Spaniards drove out the Moors seven hundred years later and named it Monte de Gibraltar. Presumably, this was a Spanish corruption of Jebel Tarik, particularly as the Dons rendered “Jebel” as “Hebel.” He rolled the words round with his tongue. Yes, “Hebel Tarik” could eventually emerge as “Hebeltara.”

  He heard the clatter of shoes coming down the companion ladder, and then the marine sentry at the door announced the first lieutenant and the master.

  As soon as they came in, he gestured to them to sit down. Southwick sat in a creaky armchair to one side of the desk while the first lieutenant, Aitken, sat on the sofa. This was an arrangement which respected Southwick’s spasms of rheumatism rather than his seniority, since as master, he was only a warrant officer (holding his rank by virtue of an Admiralty warrant), while Aitken held the king’s commission.

  “Europa Point bears due north, sir,” Aitken reported formally.

  Both men looked expectantly at Ramage, who held up the packet so that they could both see that the seal was unbroken. “My new orders from the Admiralty, to be opened as we pass Gibraltar.”

  Southwick sniffed. He had a repertoire of a dozen or more different sniffs, and anyone knowing him well could translate each into a word or a phrase, even an attitude. This particular sniff, Ramage recognized, had two meanings: first, it’s time their Lordships stopped play-acting with sealed orders, and, second, a return to the Mediterranean at this time can only mean trouble.

  In this, Ramage had to admit that Southwick was probably right: for a long time now the Mediterranean had been Bonaparte’s private sea: he had captured bases used by the Royal Navy and defeated Britain’s allies.

  Ramage slid a paper-knife under the seal, then opened and flattened the sheets of paper. Only two sheets. The thickness of paper had led him to think the orders were bulky, but he saw at a glance that in fact they were commendably brief—although brief orders tended to be the toughest.

  There was all the usual preamble used by Evan Nepean, the Board secretary—wording which had probably been in use long before the Board was first created. Then came the second paragraph …

  Since the resumption of war following France’s abrogation of the Treaty of Amiens, His Majesty’s government has been attempting to discover the whereabouts of many British subjects, and subjects of countries that are our allies, who were visiting and found themselves trapped by hostilities in France or its occupied territories. Among them, of course, is the Marchesa di Volterra.

  Among the British subjects particularly concerned are five admirals, seven generals and eleven peers of the realm, who were in France or Italy.

  Our agents have traced certain of these persons to prison camps in France, although the French government has not included their names among those usually submitted through their agent resident in London in order that exchanges may be arranged, nor have they answered specific enquiries made by His Majesty’s government through their agent. The situation is exacerbated at the present time because in any case we have no French prisoners of suitable rank to make any exchange. My Lords have instructed me to give you the foregoing information by way of introduction to the following.

  It has now been reported to His Majesty’s Secretary of State for the Foreign Department that a few of these naval and army officers, along with certain peers of the realm, are imprisoned in conditions of great secrecy by the French government at a town in the Kingdom of Tuscany called Pitigliano, and it is further believed that it is the First Consul’s intention to use these persons as hostages in an attempt to strike some bargain with
His Majesty’s government, the details of which cannot, at present, be determined.

  The Secretary of State has instructed my Lords that these prisoners must be rescued at any cost because of the dangers ensuing should they be used as hostages or bargaining pawns.

  My Lords, having duly considered their instructions, and having in mind that it was from this area that you rescued the Marchesa di Volterra several years ago, and that you are fluent in the Italian language, hereby request and require you to make the best of your way in His Majesty’s frigate under your command and rescue the aforementioned officers and civilians.

  Although it is understood from the Secretary of State’s sources that none of the hostages has been offered nor given his parole, their Lordships are particularly concerned that any person who might in fact have given it should be left behind.

  On the successful completion of these orders, you will carry these hostages to Gibraltar and acquaint the port admiral of these orders so that he can arrange suitable transport to bring them safely to the United Kingdom.

  My Lords impress upon you particularly the need for absolute secrecy to ensure the safety of the hostages and of the source of the intelligence which has resulted in you receiving these orders, and it is considered imperative that in the event of you or any of your ship’s company being captured by the enemy, none of you shall reveal any of the foregoing, lest you fall under the terms of the third Article of War.

  Hmmm … to threaten a post captain with one of the Articles of War showed the importance that the government (in the person of the Secretary of State) attached to the rescue. Article Three—”If any officer, mariner, soldier, or other person of the Fleet shall give, hold, or entertain Intelligence to or with any Enemy or rebel, without leave from the King’s Majesty, or the Lord High Admiral, or the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral … shall be punished with death.”

  Strong stuff, and Pitigliano was many miles inland. Many miles.

  “That’s what comes of speaking Italian,” Ramage said as he handed the sheets of paper to Aitken. “But now I understand why we weren’t to know about it until we had passed Gibraltar. Calling in there and accidentally revealing any of that …”

  Aitken read swiftly. “I wonder how the government discovered these things? About Bonaparte holding hostages in secret camps?”

  Southwick sniffed. “By the time they finished Captain Ramage’s report on rescuing the Count of Rennes from Devil’s Island, along with all those other French Royalists, I should think the Count’s friendship with the Prince of Wales led Prinny to ask a lot of questions.

  “That probably led to the Foreign Department—or whoever handles our agents abroad—suddenly waking up. Why, just comparing the names of naval officers we know have been captured with those offered by this French agent in London arranging the exchange of prisoners must show a number missing. And army, too, of course. And civilians,” he added quietly, knowing that both the Marchesa and Lady Sarah came under that heading.

  Ramage nodded, as much to show Southwick it was all right to discuss the two women as to agree. Yes, it was strange that neither Sarah nor a captain being sent home in the Murex had been mentioned so far by the French. And although Bonaparte was not fussy about involving civilians (against all the rules of war used up to now) it was surprising that the Moniteur had not crowed about capturing the daughter of the Marquis of Rockley and the Marchesa di Volterra.

  All of which left question marks. The Moniteur’s silence about Sarah might be simply because the Murex had never been captured; perhaps she had sunk in bad weather or had sprung the butt of a plank. And Gianna—if Bonaparte’s secret police had seized and murdered her, obviously the Moniteur would stay silent. Plenty of question marks, but no answers.

  “Do you know where Pitigliano is?” Aitken asked. “Is it far inland? It’d be just our luck if it was surrounded by mountains!”

  “No,” Ramage said, shaking his head. “Pitigliano is likely to be the only piece of luck we have. It’s about thirty miles or so inland, a small hill town. I’ve been there once, and from what I can remember, it’s built on a wedge of land in the middle of a valley. Obviously a river ran through the valley once, and Pitigliano (or the hill on which it now stands) was an island in the middle.

  “Yes, now I remember … the town is actually built so it forms the flat top of the hill, and there’s only one gate—which is at the top of a steep track.”

  He thought of a better way of describing it. “Think of a dunce’s cap. The point at the top is cut off and that’s where the town is built, with a high wall all round it, so that from down in the valley you would see only the walls and the roofs of a few buildings.

  “At the bottom there are several caves cut into the tufa, and there many of the peasants keep their donkeys. The town hall is in the piazza with a sort of pulpit built outside, so the mayor can harangue the people.

  “Dust, donkeys braying and laden with firewood, their owners hanging on to their tails for a lift to windward up the hill to the town gate, the caves, tracks covered with white dust … that’s all I can remember.”

  Aitken crossed his legs and then scratched his head. “I wonder why Bonaparte picked Pitigliano? There must be dozens of other hill towns he could have chosen.”

  “Hundreds,” Ramage said. “They are scattered across the length of Italy, although more in Tuscany than anywhere else, because there are so many sugarloaf hills. Bonaparte knows the area well, of course, from the time he marched through with his Army of Italy, but one of his underlings probably chose the town.”

  “Can’t place it,” Southwick admitted.

  “You remember Santo Stefano and Port’ Ercole well enough,” Ramage said. “And Talamone. Thirty miles inshore from there.”

  “That’s most convenient: I still have all my charts and the notes I made. Not far from where we—you, rather—rescued the Marchesa,” Southwick said. “Might be an omen, sir.”

  “A bad one,” Ramage said gloomily. “All this to rescue some admirals and generals who’ll stamp round the deck and get in the way of the sailors.”

  “Yes, sir, but with Rossi and Mr Orsini speaking Italian … they’ll be able to help you.”

  “Rossi, yes; I don’t know that I dare risk using Orsini. He’s the Marchesa’s heir, so if anything has happened to her, he’s now the ruler of Volterra. If Bonaparte has murdered the Marchesa, then he’ll quickly do away with Orsini.”

  “You’d have trouble leaving Orsini behind, sir,” Aitken said. “And if he was captured, what Frenchman could guess he’d just caught the ruler of Volterra? He speaks like an Englishman.”

  “You sound as though you’re both selling Orsini,” Ramage said. “I recall hearing you frequently criticizing his mathematics, Mr Southwick …”

  “Indeed you have, sir, and not for the last time. He takes a good sight; it’s just the calculations that do him in. Two and two often make five, although he’s not the first midshipman to have that trouble. But I doubt if we have a better seaman on board. Turn in a splice, have the men send down a yard, lay a gun … An’ the men would follow him anywhere.”

  “In Tuscany, since they don’t speak the language, that mightn’t be a help,” Ramage said sourly. “Anyway, now we know where we’re going, are we all right for water to get us there and back to Gibraltar?”

  “We’ve 36 tons remaining, sir; plenty, even allowing for having the hostages on board,” Southwick said.

  As the first lieutenant and master stood up to leave the cabin, Ramage said, “Don’t discuss this with anyone else for the time being, until I decide how we’ll do it. I don’t want people pestering me to be allowed to join in. It may end up with Rossi and me going alone …”

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN YOU were beating down-Channel against a strong westerly gale—spray slashing like buckets of icy water slung violently at anywhere you are unprotected (neck, third button down on the oilskins), and the dreadful chill while the cold a
nd wet gather before their slow creep down the spine, the sky just a swirling grey mass merging with the rain squalls, two reefs in the topsails and deck seams dripping water onto hammock, kit bag, and last items of dry clothing—you thought wistfully of the Mediterranean. Blue skies, purple seas, a warm wind always from the right direction; the smell of pines when close in with the shore; the air clear and bracing when out of sight of land …

  Yet the reality of the Mediterranean was nearly always different, Ramage reflected: heavy rain, gale-force winds (usually heading you), and the clouds the same swirling grey mass. Perhaps a degree warmer than the Chops of the Channel, but the wind just as violent with the seas shorter, making them much more uncomfortable.

  Oh yes, and the winds had fancy names—take the French, for example. A nor’-wester was the mistral, but getting caught by a mistral meant three or four days of fighting a gale. Then the tramontane, “across the mountains,” and because of that it was a bitterly cold north to north-east brute that blew hard and chilled your very marrow. Then the levant, blowing at gale force for days from the east, hell if you are trying to get through the Strait into the Mediterranean (though usually you could shelter in Gibraltar), but murderous on ship, men, and sails when you are trying to reach the Tyrrhenian Sea along the west coast of Italy— whether by rounding the southern tip of Sardinia at Cape Spartivento or sneaking through the Strait of Bonifacio between Corsica and Sardinia.

  You left that decision until the last possible moment in the hope that the levanter veered a little and became the céruse, blowing from the south-east so that, with luck, sheets could be eased. (It was beyond even thinking about a ponant putting in an appearance from between south and south-west, or the labé from the west-south-west.)

  Yet, Ramage thought sourly, if you have sailed enough, you think of the West Indies with the constant Trade winds blowing briskly from the north-east—if there was not a calm lasting days, a hurricane, or a week of south-east winds bringing torrential rain, which reduced visibility to a ship’s length.