Ramage & the Saracens (23 page)

Ramage realized that for the first time in his life he was determined to kill every one of the enemy: this was no ordinary battle where men surrendered when they had had enough. It was, quite cold-bloodedly, a matter of revenge. There was no hope of rescuing the men and women who had been kidnapped from the ports; they were lost for good and all. But it would be possible to wreak revenge on the men who had kidnapped them, and a cold feeling told him that he would show no mercy: that was the least he owed to those who had been captured.

He forced himself to stop thinking about it. The empty horizon seemed to mock him: out there, out of sight, were the Saracens, planning their raid on Licata.

He heard footsteps and turned to find Rennick approaching. The marine officer saluted and grinned cheerfully. “I came to report that the guns are loaded and laid, sir; I've just been round and inspected every one, and the guns' crews are eagerly awaiting that rocket!”

“None of them complaining about the smell in those stables?” Ramage asked jokingly.

“No, sir, they have cleaned them out,” Rennick replied seriously. “Why, Jackson boasts that his stable smells just like home!”

“He didn't say where home was?”

“No, sir, and I thought it better not to inquire.”

“What about the men with muskets?”

“Both seamen and marines have their muskets loaded, sir, and they have all selected their firing positions. The moment the church bell tolls they take up their firing positions, and then they wait for the rocket.”

“You didn't find any sign of drink?”

“No, sir. It occurred to me that some of the men might have smuggled wine ashore, but I found no sign. And the mayor warned the householders yesterday, didn't he? I thought he was laying it on a bit thick, what with his angry gestures and rolling eyes, but it seems to have worked.”

“Oh yes,” Ramage said, “it will have worked all right. He simply told them that if they gave our people a single drop of wine they would get drunk and would be incapable of protecting them against the Saracens. That was quite enough.”

“I hope they give our men enough water, though,” Rennick said anxiously. “It's hot in those houses and stables.”

“The women will look after them. You must have seen several of them walking to the well with big jugs balanced on their heads.”

“I have, sir! I don't know how they do it. Each jug holds several gallons, and the women walk so gracefully.”

“There's no reason why our men don't get their own water: they can borrow jugs.”

“Unlimited water,” Rennick said seriously. “I hope it won't get them into bad habits when they're back on board the
Calypso.
”

“It doesn't matter if it does,” Ramage said shortly. “There's the daily water ration and that's that!”

Rennick looked over the wall of the battlements and inspected the port spread out in front of him. “This place is well sited. I wonder who built it?”

“The Spaniards, I expect,” Ramage said.

“You have a good view of the killing ground,” Rennick commented.

“That's why I chose it as my headquarters,” Ramage said. “I can look down on everything. It is the only way of making sure the timing is exact.”

Rennick nodded: he had already realized that it would be difficult to judge the timing from the level of the quay.

Ramage said: “I shall make an inspection this evening: every gun position and every house in which we have men. You will accompany me.”

“Very well, sir,” Rennick said enthusiastically. “The men will be glad to see you.”

With that he saluted and departed, and Ramage resumed his pacing.

What was Sarah doing at this moment? Say she was at Aldington and it was late afternoon. She might be riding round the estate because she loved riding. She might have neighbours visiting for tea. It might be raining so that she would be sitting in an armchair sewing or embroidering, or reading. Whatever it was, he could picture her, and he felt a great longing to hold her in his arms. Naval service was a cruel one for married men; it took them away from their wives and never told them for how long, as though determined to tantalize both of them. Until he had married, Ramage realized, he had not given a damn where he was serving—the Mediterranean, the Channel or the West Indies. Now, married to Sarah, the parting would be more bearable if there was a term to it; if he knew he would be back in England, say, by the autumn.

The Aldington house would look beautiful now in the early spring, with the hitherto bare branches of the trees sprouting green leaves and blossom. Of course, Sarah might not be there: she could be staying with his parents in Cornwall or London, or with her own. It was the hell of not knowing that made separation so unpleasant. If he only knew for certain where she was he could fantasize; but being unsure added an element of unreality to the fantasies.

Paolo Orsini was standing at one end of the battlements, telescope under his arm, keeping a lookout with a seaman. The youth looked miserable and Ramage paused and beckoned him over.

“Your face is as long as a yard of cold pump water,” he said.

“I was thinking of Volterra,” Paolo admitted.

“Worrying about your aunt won't help much.”

“I wasn't really worrying about her. I'm afraid I've given her up for dead.”

And Ramage knew he could not blame the lad: the chances of Gianna surviving the attentions of Bonaparte's secret police after being caught in Paris by the resumption of the war were negligible: Bonaparte would be unlikely to let the Marchesa de Volterra, the ruler of the tiny state, return to Italy alive. And Paolo was her heir; by now he could be the legitimate ruler of Volterra—a role, Ramage thought grimly, about as dangerous, if not more so, as serving in action as a midshipman in one of the king's ships in the Mediterranean.

But Paolo did not know for sure. Ramage knew that he loved his young aunt and that he had no pretensions as far as Volterra was concerned: the lad was happy serving in the Navy, and his happiest time had been when Gianna lived safely in London with Ramage's parents while the French occupied her kingdom. Then his aunt had been safe, and knowing Volterra was occupied meant there was no point in worrying about it.

But Gianna's decision to return to Volterra the moment the Treaty of Amiens was signed, despite warnings from Ramage and his father, had smashed Paolo's little world as effectively as dropping a china jug on to a stone floor.

“What was bothering you, then?”

“I was just thinking of the mess there will be in Volterra after the French have been driven out—especially if my aunt is dead.”

“If you have inherited, you mean?”

“Yes, sir. I know nothing of politics or statecraft. All I know about is ships and the sea, and that isn't going to help me get Volterra back on its feet.”

“No,” agreed Ramage, “and I expect the French have set up a puppet government, and those fellows won't want to give up power when the French are chased out.”

“The thing is, sir,” Paolo blurted out, “I don't really care about Volterra. I am much more concerned about passing for lieutenant. Why, already I can't really remember much about the place, and I certainly don't want to go back there and play politics. It's such a dirty game.”

“Well, it's all well into the future: the French aren't going to be chased out of Italy that quickly, and you'll probably have been made post by the time you have to go back to Volterra.”

But Ramage's heavy attempt at joking did nothing to cheer up Orsini and he changed the subject.

Ramage said: “I want at least two lookouts on duty at night. Have you enough men up here?”

“Yes, sir: six. Two hours on and four off—they'll stay alert.” Ramage nodded. “I think the Saracens will come in daylight but there is no need to tell the sentries that. Now, moonrise is about midnight, so there'll only be three hours of real darkness.”

“The wind has been dropping away at nightfall this last week,” Orsini offered. “If they're not in sight on the horizon at nightfall, it'll be four or five hours before they could get here. Even then they wouldn't be sure of their position.”

“You're assuming they'll be sailing,” Ramage said. “Don't forget they have rowing galleys, and a flat calm is just the weather for them to slip along.”

“What sort of speed can they make under oars, sir?”

“I've no idea. Say five knots, perhaps more. And don't forget they may have fresh slaves at the oars—some of the men they've just captured.”

Orsini shivered even though the sun was still warm. “I still can't get used to the idea of these heathens using Christians as slaves,” he said.

“Remember that while you're keeping a lookout,” Ramage said. “When you start feeling sleepy, just think of those slaves chained to the oars.”

At that moment Ramage realized he had nearly made a terrible mistake: he had visualized opening fire on the Saracens' vessels as soon as the killing ground was clear, but if he fired into the galleys he would be killing slaves.

Well, the choice was a truly dreadful one. If he fired into the galleys to prevent the Saracens escaping, he would kill innocent slaves. If he let any Saracens escape, they would soon be back at their pitiless work of capturing more slaves. Which should it be?

It was a decision which he had to make, Ramage knew; what was more he had to make it now; there was no delaying until the situation arose, when he would have only seconds in which to decide.

He turned away from Paolo and walked along the battlements, hands clasped behind his back, his mind a torment. Fire on the slaves or not? Let Saracens escape or not?

And then, without any further conscious effort on his part, his mind was made up: he would fire at the galleys: the slaves would have to take their chance. When the death of a few of them was put in the scales against the fate of many in raids on the couple of dozen ports still left in Sicily, there was no question.

That evening Ramage left Orsini in charge at the castle and went with Rennick on an inspection of the gun positions and the seamen in the houses with their muskets. The men were in high spirits; it was the first time they had been on shore for a very long time, and in most cases the Sicilian families were being very hospitable. Although neither could speak the other's language they made do with signs, and the men's rations of salt tack were leavened with helpings of pasta and vegetables.

Jackson's stable was by far the cleanest. Ramage peered along the barrel of the gun and saw that it was aimed at the centre of the killing ground. The next stable was not quite as clean but, as the gun captain commented, it was probably the first and almost certainly the last time that it had been mucked out. The man's use of the phrase showed Ramage that he was a countryman; probably a farm labourer swept up by the press-gang. Or maybe, overwhelmed by debt, he had volunteered, knowing that the Navy protected him from the bailiffs for civil debts of twenty pounds or less.

As he checked the last gun, Ramage decided they were all sited in the best position: the long stretch of quay was wide enough to make a perfect area for the Saracens to straggle over as they made their way into the town, and thus offer perfect targets for the carronades.

Nearly two hundred seamen and the marines in the houses took longer to inspect but Ramage found the men had selected the best firing positions. All were prepared to quit the houses and attack the Saracens with cutlasses and pikes as soon as they had fired their muskets.

Ramage went back up to the castle well satisfied with what he had seen. Rennick obviously knew his job and both Kenton and Martin were making sure that the men behaved themselves in the town and did not wheedle wine out of their hosts. “I've told ‘em that any man with the smell of liquor on his breath will run up and down the quay for an hour carrying a hundredweight sack of rocks,” Kenton said. “That's increased their appreciation of water.”

Back at the castle, with darkness almost fallen, he found Orsini and two lookouts. “Just one fisherman in sight,” Orsini reported. “It's the same boat that has been out all day.”

“It'll give you good practice,” Ramage said. “Watch him as he comes in and it will help you judge distances.”

The
Calypso
came in sight in the late afternoon of the third day. She was within a mile of the castle when, obviously certain by then that there was no flag flying from the flagpole, she turned seaward again.

Ramage watched the ship with his telescope and felt a glow of pride: she had a beautiful sheer and the whole shape of the hull was perfectly balanced. The fact was, he admitted to himself, that the French could build better-looking ships than the British, and if the
Calypso
was anything to go by, faster ones too. It would be interesting to see what became of the Trafalgar prizes. Thanks to the storm which had blown up after the battle, not many of the prizes had survived, but he regretted he did not have the seniority to be given command of one of them. From what he had seen of some of the French 74s, even though they had been mostly hidden by the smoke of the guns, they seemed fine ships: fine sheers, gun ports high so that the ships could be fought with a heavy sea running, and with masts that sat in the hulls as though they belonged there.