Ramage's Challenge (8 page)

“French prisoners, sir?” Paolo asked.

“No, they'll all be British.”

At dawn, Argentario was lying fine on the starboard bow, standing four-square, like a rocky island close to the shore, the causeways hidden by its bulk. Ramage held the telescope steady and examined it, finding that almost every headland and mountain nudged a memory. There was Monte Argentario itself, towering over the rest of the island and, for the moment, Punta Avoltore at the southern tip was in line with it. Just round to the east there was Port' Ercole, which he had attacked with the bomb ketches not so long ago, and for the moment Orbetello was out of sight, hidden like the causeways by Argentario itself. On the mainland to the south was Torre Montalto, the next one down the coast from the Torre di Buranaccio. In a moment he had a picture of Gianna, hidden in the shadow of the doorway inside the candlelit tower, heavily cloaked and suddenly aiming a pistol at him until she was satisfied he was not an enemy, not one of Bonaparte's officers.

Argentario … yes, that almost-an-island, with Port' Ercole at one end and Santo Stefano at the other, always seemed more of a home to him than St Kew. Would his father ever understand that a small piece of Tuscany could, in many ways, mean more to him than the estate in Cornwall that the family had owned for generations?

It was not because here he had fallen in love with Gianna; that was all over long ago, and he was married to Sarah, if she was alive. If Gianna was alive, if Sarah was alive … So many question marks, all of which finally asked: were the women he loved and had loved now dead?

The early light now showed up the whole of the mainland, from the mountains inland from Argentario, with Monte Amiata the distant queen and not yet crowned with snow, to where it dropped away as the land trended south to the tedious flats of the Maremma marshes, where a paddled duck punt or, on the occasional track, a galloping horse stirred up clouds of mosquitoes that would linger like smoke and sting like demons.

But on the Tuscan edge of the marsh there were always bluish-white plumes of smoke, or if it was windy, the faint hint of it. The busiest man in Tuscany was always the
carbonaio,
the charcoal burner. Anything wood was a living for the
carbonaio.

Trees, bushes, twigs—put into his ovens made of turf, which sat on the ground like gigantic anthills with twists of smoke escaping here and there, and turned the wood into the charcoal that everyone used for cooking. The
carbonaio
stripped the
macchia
more effectively than the goats which, wrenching up roots instead of grazing, destroyed the shrubs and bushes completely. At least the
carbonaio
only lopped off the growth.

Here he was standing at the quarterdeck rail of the
Calypso
with dawn now broken over the Italian mainland, the tiny white horses tinged red, and the few streaks of cloud a light pink, a maiden's blush if ever he had seen one, and he was thinking of charcoal burners (who usually looked like rural chimney sweeps) and of blushing maidens. In the meantime, the
Calypso
's ship's company was still at general quarters, standing by the guns, even though the lookouts had already given the familiar hail, “See a grey goose at a mile,” and the men sent to the mastheads had reported no ships or vessels in sight. Not even, Ramage noted, fishing boats from Port' Ercole or Santo Stefano returning with their catches after a night out. Or did Bonaparte forbid that now?

All the watch towers scattered round Argentario, perched on top of cliffs and headlands, had been built by the Aragonese or later, by Philip II, when he ruled this part of Italy and was planning to send the great Armada against England. The position of the towers, each in sight of the next on either side or in view of a central tower, meant that signals, presumably warning fires, could be passed either round the coast, as though round the rim of a wheel, or directly, like one of its spokes when a valley gave a sight of a central tower. Did Bonaparte now use some of the towers to give his troops warning of enemy ships approaching? Most probably not, because the Royal Navy was so stretched that there were very few British warships in the Mediterranean today. In fact, the Barbary pirates, forever lurking in their fast galleys, and rowed by Christian slaves, must be more of a threat to the local people.

However, if anyone of consequence did see the frigate passing northwards under easy sail he would almost certainly report her as French, and no one could blame him—although anyone with an eye for a ship would be puzzled by the cut of her sails. An experienced sailor would wonder, because they were British-cut. But the wind was so light that now they flapped and thumped and jerked the yards, occasionally hanging like heavy curtains until a random gust bellied them.

Ramage called to Aitken: the ship's company could stand down now. Once the guns were run in, cutlasses, pikes, and tomahawks replaced in their racks, cartridges returned to the magazine, and decks swabbed, then they would all go to breakfast.

Then, Ramage decided, His Majesty's frigate
Calypso
will become a vast tailor's shop. Instead of the rumble of the trucks of the guns being run out for exercise and the thump of round shot being rammed home, there will be the snick of scissors and a silence punctuated by curses as needles slip and prick fingers. Men will be cutting, stitching, and fitting: hands more accustomed to thrusting thick sail needles through stiff canvas, using a rawhide palm for leverage, will be sewing with the comparatively dainty needles, making clothes.

They would be stitching five French uniforms (for an officer and four men), plus those for an officer and two men from the Grand Duke of Tuscany's forces. The rest of the men would not need any special clothing. It was fortunate that it was summer; even more fortunate that the purser had a few rolls of cloth very similar to the colour favoured by the French army, when its soldiers were not still dressed in the old clothes they were wearing when they were swept into the Republic's armies.

As soon as the men finished their breakfast, Ramage told Aitken to furl the courses and topgallants. The
Calypso
would make her way along the coast under topsails alone, cutting her speed to a couple of knots if the present wind held, and this would not put them too far north of Argentario by nightfall. As Aitken picked up the speaking-trumpet, Ramage gave him a list on which were written several names. “I want these men sent aft in an hour's time.”

He had finally included Rennick. It was simply cowardice, in a way, but it would be unfair to leave the marine officer behind. There was not much that Rennick could do, but on the other hand, it could easily be misinterpreted in a despatch to the Admiralty if anyone wondered why the marine officer was left behind. And Rennick, with his red face and jovial manner, was one of the bravest men in the ship. The marines remaining would be under the command of Sergeant Ferris—who would also be indignant at being left behind. But the safety of the ship was the prime consideration, whatever the Admiralty's orders about hostages.

Southwick was already grumbling, refusing to admit that a sixty-mile march would be too much for him—and Ramage could guess the reason: the old master was hoping there would be a good fight somewhere along the way, not realizing that the moment a shot was fired or a sword drawn in anger, the whole expedition would be doomed.

He went down to his cabin, sat at his desk, and pulled out of the overhead rack the chart which Southwick had made some years ago of the coast between the little fishing village of Talamone and the deep bay sweeping south round to the causeway, which curved in a half-moon out to Santa Liberata, on Argentario itself.

The Via Aurelia passed two or three miles inland of Talamone, but because of the sudden curve of the land, it soon met the sea at the hamlet of Fonteblanda. The road then hugged the coast just behind the sandy beach, although the sea was often obscured by small woods of pines. Near the northernmost causeway the Fiume Albinia ran into the sea, close by a big square tower, Torre Saline. Just a wide-mouthed stream, in fact, which spent the summer dried up and in the winter prevented nearby fields from flooding. More important now, however, was the fact that it met the coast (and with Torre Saline would be as good as a signpost in the dark) only a hundred yards or so from the turning on the Via Aurelia for Marsiliana and Pitigliano.

Ah, the nostalgia that a map created. Up to the north was Punta Ala; then Scarlino, Massa Marittima, Castelnuovo—all places on the road to Volterra. That was the wonderful thing about Italy—many of the place-names sounded like musical notes. And many of the derivations of the names were now hidden in the shadows cast by time. Did the silver in the name “Argentario” come from a Roman banker who once owned a villa there (
argentum
being Latin for silver) or from the thousands of olive trees growing on its slopes? The underside of an olive leaf was silvery; a breeze sweeping the olive groves turned the leaves so that, from a distance, all the grove—indeed the whole island—seemed coated in silver.

Talamone, too, was an odd name unless you knew it was named after Telamon, the King of Salamis, who landed there after returning from the Argonaut expedition. The Calypsos, some of them anyway, would be landing tonight very close to where Telamon went on shore. Now Telamon's monument here was a small, walled fishing port with a square tower rising up from the middle of it. And Santo Stefano had been a small but powerful place in medieval days, important enough for Philip II to build the Fortezza, which was named after him. And had not the Santo Stefanesi sent a dozen ships to fight the Saracens in the Battle of Lepanto?

Port ‘Ercole, at the other end of Argentario, was the Port of Hercules of Roman times, and important enough for the Spaniards to build Forte della Stella (star-shaped and strongly built) and the Forte di Monte Filippo … both reminded him, once again, of sailing into Porto Ercole with the bomb ketches …

Tuscany—what an area! One's own memories (yesterday's history) spilled over into ancient history: here Philip II had built forts, even before sailing the Armada against England, and Captain Ramage had attacked some of the forts two and a half centuries later. Tonight he would be landing where Telamon landed (in legend, anyway), after sailing with Jason and the other heroes to fetch the Golden Fleece; and once you went back to the Argonauts, Spain's activities only two and a half centuries ago became stale news.

Two and a half centuries hence (around 2050), would some young Royal Navy officer land there in the darkness? What would the map of the world (Europe, anyway) look like then?

At this moment, Ramage mused, with Bonaparte holding everything from the Baltic to the Levant, it is hard to think of the Mediterranean as anything
but
a French lake—until you remember that it has, at various times, been a Phoenician, Greek, Roman, Carthaginian, and Saracen lake, not to mention the periods much later when the Spaniards and Austrians claimed it.

For the moment, though, he reminded himself, it was enough to know that the turning to the left along the Via Aurelia which went to Pitigliano was just past the mouth of the Fiume Albinia. Within a few hundred yards was the massive square tower, Torre Saline. And a mile further along the coast was Orbetello, whose history started
before
the Etruscans…. So the Calypsos needed to find the Torre Saline.

The sentry's knock warned of Aitken coming down to report that the men on the list were waiting at the after end of the quarterdeck. “So you are taking Rennick, sir?”

“Yes, it'd look bad in the despatch if I left him behind.”

“But you're not taking me, sir.” The first lieutenant's voice was neutral: a comment rather than a protest.

“No I'm not!” Ramage exclaimed crossly. “I'm leaving you in sole command of His Majesty's frigate
Calypso.
If I don't come back, you'll have the responsibility of sailing her back to England.”

Aitken decided to brave the asperity in Ramage's voice. “Kenton and Southwick could sail her back, sir.”

“Damnation, Aitken! You don't speak Italian, your French is rudimentary—what good will you be on the road to Pitigliano, compared to being on board, able to deal with any emergency that arises?”

“You need prisoners, sir. Only the guards have to speak French.”

“You don't possess—” Ramage was going to say “an admiral's uniform” but realized in time that no admiral or general would be wearing a uniform while on a peacetime visit to France or Italy. “Look, Aitken, I seem to be commanding a ship full of fighting cocks. I want just a handful of men who can march, and a few who can speak French.”

“Aye, sir, I know that; but Hill will be with your disguised Frenchmen, you'll be with the Italians, so who'll be in charge o' the prisoners?”

“You will,” growled an exasperated Ramage, taking the easiest way. “If anyone asks you, you're the Earl of Dunkeld, and when the Treaty of Amiens was signed you came to Italy, hoping to shoot boar in the Abruzzi. Or bores in Florence.”

“The
third
earl, I'm thinking, sir,” Aitken said grinning.

“You make just one mistake on this jaunt and you'll be the last, and the title becomes extinct…. Mine, too.”

“I'll mind m' step, sir,” Aitken said, picturing the expression on Southwick's face. So command of the
Calypso
would be left in the hands of young Kenton, the second lieutenant. Quite a responsibility, and for a few moments Aitken had misgivings about his request. Then he remembered what Mr Ramage had done before he was anywhere near as old as Kenton. Responsibility matures and advances the competent and ages and breaks fools. That was one of his father's favourite pronouncements, and in Aitken's experience it was true.

Ramage followed Aitken up the steps of the companion-way. Muffled oars, he told himself; I must remember to have Jackson supervise the work. The landing had to be silent—the barking of a
carbonaio
's dog could raise the alarm before they had even started.