Ramage's Challenge (17 page)

“No need for us to be quiet,” Orsini said, “so we can curse as much as we like. Do you know any choice Lucchesi curses?”

“I don't care how they curse in Lucca,” Rossi said, tripping as he spoke, “but I know what they say in Genova and Volterra, and it means the same as I'm saying now!”

Slowly, they worked their way down the hill, and in the darkness it seemed to Orsini that the little town of Santo Stefano was slowly rising to meet them. Already the Fortezza, though still distant, was higher. In daylight a sentry on the battlements would see them clearly.

The Fortezza was their target. Mr Ramage reckoned that if there were no signs of a French garrison there, then the hostages had gone, because there was nowhere else to keep them. So it was down into the valley (which ran into the bay, and gave its name to one of the town's quarters) and up the other side, a careful look round, question someone, and then back again to the cutter. Then Orsini began to have doubts: he had been at sea long enough to worry when everything appeared to be going well.

The track turned now to cross the nearer side of the town, and first one and then several dogs began to bark as they passed the first few houses. A man came to a door and swore at them, his voice sleepy.

Rossi and Orsini spoke to each other in Italian, the gossiping conversation to be expected of two men arriving at night in a strange town. The track forked, but a glance upwards showed which was the more likely to lead to the Fortezza.

It took them fifteen minutes to reach the open square in front of it, and Rossi muttered to Orsini, “You stay here while I have a look. The gateway is on this side.”

With that, the seaman disappeared silently into the blackness before Orsini had a chance to argue. Suddenly, squatting down on a large rock—which, from the foot and hoof prints surrounding it and dried in the earth, was apparently used by the peasants for mounting mules—Orsini felt tired. For most of the walk from the boat he had been excited, but now he was almost sure the town was empty of the French. If there were hostages in the Fortezza, surely there would be French soldiers on patrol, or a sentry on the track, which was the only way to Santo Stefano by land.

The shout was followed immediately by the crack of a pistol shot. For a moment he heard the noise echo and re-echo across the valley below. He had not seen a flash, but it was close and must be at the Fortezza. Should he go there—and risk missing Rossi, who would expect to find him here (assuming Rossi had not been killed)? A second pistol shot was followed by scurrying feet: one man was coming towards him. The footfalls were not regular; they were more like those of a drunken husband trying to stagger home without his wife hearing. Then Orsini heard cursing at regular intervals; not loud—but now the Genovese accent was unmistakable.

“Rossi! Over here, Rossi!”

“
Andiamo!”
Rossi said as Orsini ran towards him and led the way down the track.

“What's happened? Are the French after us?”

“Yes, but don't worry;
sono ubriachi.
The whole lot of them.”

“All drunk? You're sure? How many?”

Rossi lurched and Orsini grabbed his arm to prevent him falling. “I'll explain when we get up to Punta Nera.”

“Are the hostages there?”

“No … just a small garrison …”

At that moment Orsini felt a curious dampness soaking through Rossi's sleeve.

“You're wounded! Here, let me look!”

“It's nothing and it's too dark to see,” Rossi said hurriedly. “Come on, we've got to get back to the cutter. The hostages aren't there; that's what matters. We'll find out where they went before we leave the town. Have you got your dirk?”

“Yes, why?”

“I'll need it. Lost my cutlass when they caught me, before that
stronzo
shot me.”

Rossi was swaying on his feet. Orsini did not know whether to force the man to have a rest or hurry him back to the cutter quickly: it was a toss up either way, if he was bleeding badly.

Together they stumbled down the hill and at the first house showing a light Rossi said gruffly, “Your dirk.”

Orsini handed it over. “What are you going to do?”

“Wait here!” Rossi said and walked up to the doorway, ripping aside the sacking which covered it. Orsini saw him point to something inside the room and hurried up to stand at the doorway.

Rossi now stood, white-faced, just inside the tiny room. A plump and bleary-eyed man sat at the table, a mug in one hand and a jug of wine in front of him. A raddled old woman sat at one end of what passed for a bed, watching Rossi with sharp but frightened eyes. A young woman was at the other end of the bed, holding a baby in her arms and breast-feeding it.

With a tremendous effort, the man raised his head and focused his eyes on Rossi. “Wha' did you say?”

“The French—did they have any prisoners here?”

“Don' know. Shoot me, because they would if I told you.”

“I'll cut your throat if you don't,” Rossi said waving the dirk, “so it looks as though your mug of wine is turning to vinegar.”

“His arm is bleeding badly,” the young woman said, and as if she thought the man was too drunk to notice, added, “He's a Genovese, like my cousin Umberto. He's not French.”

“You seem to know everything,” the man said, his voice slurred. He reached for the jug and knocked it over, the wine spreading across the table and dripping to the floor. He muttered a curse, folded his arms on the table in front of him, and pillowed his head. To Orsini it seemed he was snoring in a moment.

Rossi spoke to the young woman. “You have nothing to fear. We are Italians. All we need to know is what happened to all the English prisoners the French brought to the Fortezza.”

“They were English?” the toothless old woman lisped. “The French are supposed to fight them but—” she cackled mirthlessly, “—but not here. All they do here, the French, is steal our wine and get drunk and chase the young women. No one is safe. My daughter here, and her nursing the baby, well, I could tell you a story—”

“Quiet mother,” the young woman said, tucking one breast back into her shift and bringing out the other, and holding the baby to it. “
Signore,
sit down here—” she touched the bed beside her. “You look as though you will faint. Get him some wine, mother. Quickly now!”

Rossi lurched forward and Orsini helped him to sit down, taking the dirk at the same time. The old woman produced another jug, picked up the mug in front of the sleeping man, wiped it with the hem of her skirt, and filled it.

“Drink this,” she told Rossi, “although you're in no state to appreciate how good it is. We have no food until my son-in-law goes fishing tomorrow. Just some bread and goat-milk cheese.”

Rossi shook his head. “No, the wine is enough. It is good wine. I must apologize, ladies, for my rough appearance, but we have little time.”

The young woman nodded. “Yes, we heard two shots. Were you hit twice?”

“No, the first hit me with a ricochet. The second missed.”

“Shall I bandage it for you—washing in wine cleans a wound.”

Rossi turned to the young woman. “It is kind of you,
signora,
but the wound is of no significance. But if you could please tell us …”

“The French arrived with their prisoners about three weeks ago—from Orbetello, I understand. Then a week later a French ship came into the port, and the prisoners and the new French soldiers went on board. The old French soldiers—the ones always at the Fortezza—stayed there. Then the ship sailed.”

“Was it a big ship?”

“You can see for yourself when it gets light; she has come back. She is anchored out in the bay, halfway to Talamone.”

Rossi nodded. So it had been a French frigate, and the good people of Santo Stefano thought the
Calypso
was the same ship. “Yes, I saw her out there. You are sure all the prisoners—the English, I mean—were taken away in this ship?”

“Yes. My husband was selling the French some fish to feed them. The French actually paid. My husband was sorry to see the prisoners go. We need the money,” she added, as if justifying selling to the French.

“But you do not know where the French ship was taking the prisoners?”

“No. Once a ship goes round Punta Madonella, one cannot see the direction she takes.”

Rossi sat for a few minutes with his head between his knees as another wave of faintness made him feel he was being drawn into a black pit.

Orsini thought of the long climb back to the beach where the cutter was to collect them. He helped Rossi to his feet. “Thank you,
signora,
” he said to the old woman, and then turned to her daughter. “
Signora,
have no fear; the French will never know we have been here. Your baby—”

“My son,” the woman said quickly, knowing how stupid men were in recognizing the sex of young babies.

“Ah, a son eh? Has he been named yet?”

The woman shook her head. “The priest has been very ill.”

“Include ‘Paolo' among his names,
signora,
for luck. And one day in the future, several years perhaps, try to find out who rules Volterra.”

“You are from Volterra,” the woman said quickly, “I recognize the accent. ‘Paolo,'” she said softly. “It is a nice name. Yours, I think.”

Paolo nodded. “In better times, perhaps, I can come back and see how the boy has grown up.”

The woman nodded. “Goodbye,
signore.
Look after your friend.”

Paolo helped Rossi down to the port, sat him on a pile of nets and then inspected the fishing boats. By chance the smallest one was nearest the water's edge and had oars and hole pins in it. He lifted the bow and pulled, finally getting it into the water. He was just looking round for the painter when Rossi lurched up and half-collapsed across the gunwale. Orsini helped him in and then scrambled after him.

“More comfortable to row round to meet Mr Hill,” Orsini said. “And not a throat cut.”

Rossi's arm throbbed. Mr Bowen had cleaned the wound with spirits (giving him a tot of rum first, saying with a reassuring grin that it would take the sting away) and then put in five stitches. Rossi had often heard of people “being stitched up” but had never thought much about it. Watching Mr Bowen at work with needle and thread, he realized that it was just that: stitching, like mending a shot hole in a sail; holding together two flaps of skin, which would otherwise gape open, and slipping the needle in. Rossi had done the same sort of thing hundreds of times, only he was joining torn canvas.

Mr Bowen was thorough. As soon as Rossi had described how the bullet had ricocheted off the wall before hitting him, the surgeon had wanted to know about the wall. Was it brick, stone, stucco? It was a startling question, and Rossi had been able to answer only by elimination. No, it had not been stone. Nor brick. Then he remembered noticing soot from the lamps and round the big fireplace. Yes, it was stucco, and as he thought more, he remembered the cracks in it looking like veins in an old man's legs.

He had wondered why Mr Bowen was so interested, and the surgeon explained as he washed the cut with spirits: a bullet hitting stucco and then bouncing off would pick up some of the sand and gesso used to make the stucco and leave perhaps some of it in the wound, so it was best to clean it.

Now, with his arm held diagonally across his chest by a sling, Rossi waited outside Mr Ramage's cabin door while the marine sentry called his name and, receiving an answer, opened the door.

Rossi found the captain seated at his desk with Mr Hill in the armchair beside it and Mr Orsini on the settee.

“Ah, Rossi, how are you?”

“
Bene, grazie, Commandante.”

“
Not too
‘bene,'
I trust, or Mr Aitken will have you holystoning the deck tomorrow morning. Sit down there, beside Mr Orsini. Is that arm of yours going to be all right?”

“Just a flesh wound, Mr Bowen says. He's put in a few stitches. He'd be a good sailmaker in an emergency, sir.”

“I'll remember that. And I hope you watched carefully when he fixed up your arm; we might need a surgeon's mate.”

“I faint at the sight of blood,
Commandante,
” Rossi said quickly. “Since I was a child …”

Ramage nodded. “I'll remember that, too. No blood for Rossi. Now, tell me what happened at the Fortezza. Mr Hill has got me as far as the beach, and Mr Orsini as far as the square in front of the Fortezza.”

“Allora,”
Rossi said. “I thought it would be easier for one person to get in, so I asked Mr Orsini to wait outside.” Then, realizing that this might be interpreted as a criticism he added: “Mr Orsini is more used to storming such a building: he hasn't had my experience as a burglar.”

“You, too, eh?” Ramage raised his eyebrows. “I thought that Stafford was our only night worker.”

Rossi shrugged his shoulders and looked modest. “When times were hard and there was no other work …”

Ramage gave a dry laugh, guessing what the “other work” was.

“Well, there was no sentry at the entrance to the Fortezza. You remember the little bridge over that dry moat, sir? Those boards creaked, but the gates were open and I could hear voices— from a guardroom, I supposed.

“The men inside were obviously drinking and playing cards, so I had a good look round the rest of the Fortezza. There was no one. Then, I'm afraid, I was too confident. Going out, I thought I'd just walk past the guardroom, but two men came out with a lantern, saw me, and made me go inside. None of them spoke Italian and several of them started shouting and waving pistols. But—”

“Did you get any idea who they thought you were?” Ramage interrupted.

“Yes, sir. They suspected I was a local Italian looking for something to steal. Two of them went out to inspect their quarters to see if anything was missing, taking one of the two lanterns with them. One of the men left behind started searching me while another held up the remaining lantern, waving a pistol at me. He was very drunk.”