Ramage (17 page)

Ramage noticed the outline of the boat and men was getting clearer. The oarsmen in the darkness looked like tombstones constantly bowing to him; but now their silhouettes were turning from black to dark grey, and the stars were growing dimmer. The false dawn, Nature’s daily deceit. They had been rowing without rest for nearly three hours.

Once they reached Cala Grande, the port of Santo Stefano would be separated from them overland by the short and thick peninsula of Punta Lividonia. With luck, he’d be able to find a track from the cliffs above Cala Grande leading across the high ridge of rock forming the neck of the peninsula direct to the town – probably between the twin peaks of Spaccabellezze and Spadino.

Grey, grey, grey…the men were grey; the girl on her altar of bottom boards was grey; the waves surging past the boat in small toppling pyramids were grey and steely, cold and menacing to the eye. The wind was increasing slightly from the south and the boat was pitching gently like a see-saw as each wave coming up behind lifted for a few moments first the stern and then the bow as it swept forward.

The seamen hauled the gig up the narrow beach at Cala Grande. Without waiting for orders from Ramage, two of them found a way to the top of the cliff and were soon hurling down bundles of light brushwood and dry grass which the others hurriedly made into a rough bed, using the grass as a mattress.

At a signal from Ramage, they lifted the Marchesa from the boat using the bottom boards as a stretcher. They handled her with a gentleness which a stranger would not have credited: Ramage saw that each man showed a curious mixture of a proud but timid father holding his baby for the first time, and a well-trained seaman picking up a smoking grenade that might explode any moment.

Ramage had purposely not interfered, realizing their genuine concern for her. He also sensed there was no hint of lewd curiosity – although that would have been natural enough since most of them had not seen a woman for many months. Nor did it enter his head that they might be doing it for his sake as much as hers.

The seamen completely ignored Pisano as they went about their work; in fact they avoided him as though he was a leper. The Italian, unused to such treatment, reacted curiously, since in his estimation seamen were on the same level as peasants. He tried to start a conversation with Smith, no doubt realizing he was in effect third in command of the party. Although Pisano’s English had a heavy accent, he spoke clearly; but Smith merely shook his head politely and said, ‘Non savvy, Mr Jaw-me-down,’ and Pisano had nodded, not realizing he was being answered in a mixture of sailor’s pidgin English and slang, as though he was a Negro who was also loud-mouthed. When he asked another sailor for a drink of water, the man just looked him up and down and continued his work.

‘Why do they not answer me?’ Pisano asked Ramage.

‘They are not obliged to do so.’

Looking at his watch, Ramage saw it was 8.30 a.m.: high time he and Jackson were on their way to the town. He glanced along the beach, where two of the seamen were sweeping the sand, using the branch of a bush to smooth out footprints and the deep furrow left by the keel of the boat.

Already the air was hot, warning of a scorching day. Seaward he could see the island of Giglio a dozen miles away, a low, triple hump. The sun sparkled off the sea, and haze hung low on the horizon, faintly purple, blurring the line where sea and sky joined.

The rest of the men were sitting on the sand near the boat munching the bread and sipping the water that Jackson had just issued to them. Ramage called to Jackson and Smith. As soon as they stood before him he said: ‘Listen carefully, you two: Jackson, you’ll come with me to the village, and Smith, you’ll be in charge here. If the Italian gentleman wishes to stay with the boat he’ll be under your care’ – he chose his words carefully – ‘just as if he’s one of the crew. You understand me, Smith?’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘The lady, Smith, is to be protected at all costs. I expect we’ll be away two or three hours; but if we aren’t back by sunset we shan’t be back at all. In that case you’ll launch the boat as soon as it is dark and take the lady to the rendezvous off Giglio. Report what’s happened as soon as you get on board the frigate. You know the urgency… Can you read a chart?’

‘Sort of, sir.’

‘Well, here it is: study it while I’m gone. If you don’t meet the frigate, go on to Bastia. You understand? Carry on, then.’

As soon as Smith had gone back to the boat, out of earshot, Jackson said, ‘Sir, would you like me to make absolutely sure that he…’

‘Yes, but be discreet: I don’t want them to fetch him a clout with the flat edge of a cutlass just because he sneezes.’

As soon as Ramage saw no one was within earshot of the girl, he went over and knelt down beside her. She was awake: her face was pale and her eyes bright, and he saw she had been trying to tidy her hair with her left hand.

‘Madam,’ he said quietly, and she at once put out a hand towards him. He was too surprised to do anything for a moment, then he took it in his, and she whispered: ‘Where is my cousin?’

‘Some distance away.’

‘Lieutenant, I want to ask you a question. My other cousin, Pitti: you went back to him on the beach, did you not?’

The question was so unexpected that he stiffened, and the hand squeezed his, as if trying to tell him something she could not, or would not, put into words.

‘Madam, I don’t want to go over all that again; not now, anyway.’

‘But you did?’ she insisted. When he made no reply she said impulsively, ‘I know you did.’

Oh, to hell with it. ‘You didn’t see me: how can you know?’

‘I just know: I am a woman. He was dead?’

Again he did not answer, but was puzzled by his own silence. What was stopping him? Suddenly he knew it was just pride – he was angry that anyone should doubt him. As soon as he realized that, he decided to tell her the whole story, but just as he was trying to think how to begin, she whispered, ‘You need not answer. But Lieutenant…’

‘Yes…?’

Her voice was very soft; he had to lean over to hear.

‘Lieutenant…my cousin Pisano is also a proud man…’

he thought. Too proud to risk his skin for his cousin Pitti; but no matter.

‘…I think he spoke in haste last night.’

‘Quite. I gathered that.’

‘With us,’ she said gently, ‘our men care only for
una bella figura
, while the English care only for their honour. Yet you men are all equally as touchy about it, whatever name you call it by.’

Again she squeezed his hand softly, as if aware an invisible wall was building up between them.

‘For my sake,’ she said, ‘if for no other reason, be patient with him and with me. And’ – her lower lip was trembling – ‘and I am sorry for the trouble and danger I have caused you and your men.’

‘We have our duty to do,’ he said coldly.

She let go of his hand. Although it had been his voice, a vicious stranger inside him had spilled those six words without warning and without reason, while he wanted desperately to hold her in his arms and comfort her: to say he understood about Pisano; that he’d push over mountains, swim the Atlantic, lift the world on his shoulder for her sake.

He said, almost shyly: ‘I am sorry: let us forget it. May I tidy your hair?’

She looked at him, wide-eyed with surprise, then said in sudden alarm, ‘Is it too untidy?’

‘No; but you left your maid behind…’

She snatched at the olive branch.

‘Yes, wretched girl: she was pregnant. I left her in Volterra. It was as well I did; the ruthless Lieutenant Ramage would not allow me to bring such a luxury.’

‘There was no need: I can do your hair.’

‘Half a dozen times a day?’ she asked mockingly. ‘Anyway, there are other things a maid does for her mistress.’

Ramage felt himself blushing.

‘You’ll find a comb in the pocket of my cape,’ she said.

He tapped the grains of sand from the teeth of the comb, took out the pins holding her hair in place, and began combing. Yes, it was wasting time – valuable time; but in an hour he would be walking in the same streets as enemy soldiers who would shoot him as a spy if they caught him, since he would not be in uniform. Should he tell her how he was going to disguise himself? No, not now: not to spoil these few moments.

‘This is the first time a man has ever combed my hair…’

‘And the first time I’ve ever combed a lady’s hair.’

They both laughed, and he glanced towards the men, suddenly feeling sheepish at the thought of the ribald remarks they were probably making, but they were taking no notice.

‘I’m not the only barber in business on this beach.’

‘Oh?’

‘No – some of the seamen are tying each other’s queues.’

‘”Queues”? What are they?’

‘Pigtails. Sailors call them queues. Very proud of them, too.’

Finally her hair was combed enough: it was black as a raven’s wing feathers and curly, and he wanted to run his fingers through it; ruffle it and make her laugh and then tidy it again. Instead he began putting the pins back in, fumbling as he tried to arrange it as it was before.

‘Tie it in a “queue” instead, Lieutenant.’

‘All right, but keep still; I’ll tie it to one side. We’ll start a new fashion.’

‘Your hair needs combing too, Lieutenant. It’s all prickly at the back!’

‘Prickly?’ He put a hand to the back of his scalp and found the hair still tangled with dried blood and several matted ends stood up like a cockerel’s comb.

‘Why does it stick up like that?’

‘I cut my head: the blood has dried.’

‘How did you cut it?’

‘It happened when the French attacked my ship.’

‘The French did it? You were wounded?’

‘Only slightly,’ he said, putting the comb back in the cape and conscious of the watch ticking away in his pocket. ‘Well, Madam – once again you’re the most beautiful young woman at the ball. Now you must excuse me – I have a disagreeable task before I go off to the village.’

‘Disagreeable?’

‘Yes, but it won’t take long. I’ll soon be back with a doctor.’

He wanted to kiss her mouth; but instead he kissed her hand with an exaggerated flourish. ‘
A presto
…’

He walked over to Pisano, who was sitting against a rock a few yards from the men.

‘Come with me,’ he said curtly.

Pisano followed Ramage beyond a group of large boulders. When they were out of sight of the seamen, Ramage said: ‘I am now going to the village. In view of your remarks earlier today, you may prefer to stay on the mainland, instead of continuing the voyage.’

‘Why do you think that?’ Pisano asked warily.

‘Do you or don’t you?’

‘I want to know–’

‘Answer my question,’ Ramage insisted.

‘I wish to come in the boat, of course; it would be suicide to stay!’

‘Very well. We are the same build, and your clothes are more suitable than mine for strolling through the village. I should be grateful for the loan of them.’

Pisano spluttered and began to argue, but Ramage cut him short.

‘We are dealing with human lives, not vanity: the lives of seven of my men and the Marchesa, apart from you. So I don’t intend taking unnecessary risks. Walking around in the uniform of a British naval officer is an unnecessary risk.’

‘This…this…this is an outrage!’ gasped Pisano. ‘I shall protest to your Admiral!’

‘You can add it to your list of protests,’ Ramage said sourly.

With that, Pisano lost control of himself: jumping up and down, hands gesticulating violently, as if he was trying to catch flies, his face working with excitement, he began a long harangue.

Ramage began blinking rapidly and rubbing the scar on his forehead; cold perspiration was spreading over his body like dew falling in the darkness. He knew he was very near the limit of his self-control and in a moment or two he would pass it; then he could fight without mercy, or kill without compunction.

Pisano paused for breath and, as if for the first time, saw the Englishman’s face: the thick eyebrows were drawn into a straight line, and looking into the brown eyes reminded Pisano of staring into a pair of pistol barrels. The long diagonal scar over the right eye and across the forehead made a sudden sharp white line across the tanned skin, the blood squeezed from the flesh by the intensity of the man’s frown. The lower lip curved outwards slightly and the skin over the cheekbones and nose was drawn, as if too tight. For a moment, Pisano was very frightened.

Ramage made a great effort to keep his voice low and under control, and tried to phrase what he had to say so that he used as few words as possible containing the letter ‘r’.

‘Of all the things you say, only one concerns you: Count Pitti. I assure you he was killed on the beach. For the rest, how I ca – how I obey my orders concerns only me: I am wespons – I am answerable to my superior officers.’

The apparent calmness of Ramage’s voice was such a relief to Pisano that, suddenly finding his tongue, he yelled, ‘Poltroon, liar! No doubt you surrendered your ship like the coward you are!’