Ramage's Challenge (23 page)

He counted up his list. Yes, twelve, and the only one which looked inviting involved Hippolyte's girdle, though, come to think of it, that led to a battle and Hippolyte was killed. That was the trouble with Greek mythology …

Ramage suddenly realized that the sentry had announced Sir Henry, who was now standing beside him. “Writing up your journal?”

“No, sir,” Ramage turned the page round so that the admiral could read it.

“What the devil—oh, twelve. The labours of our old friend Hercules. I've forgotten them all, except cleaning out the Augean stable.” The admiral read down the list, nodding his head. “You have a good memory.”

He put the list back in front of Ramage. “So you think his reference to the rest of the hostages being in the hands of Hercules might be more than just a joke? After all, he could have said they were awaiting the judgement of Paris … It might have been the first thing that came into his head.”

“Yes, sir,” Ramage agreed, “but it's all we have to go on, unless you can think of some other clue. Was there anything?”

Sir Henry shook his head. “No. Nothing, and God knows we were all listening and hoping. No, we all heard ‘Hercules,' and none of us could make head or tail of it. But I assure you, young fellow, that at the time we took it very seriously.”

“But now you don't?”

The admiral slumped down on the sofa. “Now—well, we've all talked about it for so long, we're muddled. Pillars of Hercules was the only association we could think of, and that didn't make much sense.
Any
sense, really.”

“That French commandant, sir—was he an educated man?” The admiral looked up, startled by the question. “Why, yes, come to think of it, he was! More so than the usual run of French officers, who seem to glory in humble beginnings, even if they had to invent them. They must have been farm labourers or butchers or some such thing before they helped in the ‘Glorious Revolution.' Yes, the Pitigliano Commandant was different; he could have read the classics. Perhaps he was once a teacher. Why do you ask?”

“Just for that reason, sir. If he'd read the classics—knew something of Roman or Greek mythology, in other words—he's more likely to have chosen the name ‘Hercules' for a reason.”

“Instead of just thinking of a name at random?”

“Yes, sir. There's more likely to be an association. The connection between where the other hostages are imprisoned and Hercules should not be too difficult to guess.”

Sir Henry looked defeated. His face showed that the riddle of Hercules had never been far from his thoughts from the day the commandant had spoken the word. “My mind is—well, just a whirlpool at the moment. I think and think … but to no purpose. I've been thinking of the Pillars, now you come along with the twelve labours …”

“Perhaps we should forget it for a few hours,” Ramage said. “Then we can tackle it with fresh minds.”

“It's hard to forget,” Sir Henry said wearily. “But anyway, I'm grateful for your efforts so far. I'm sure the Admiralty is more concerned with those you've saved than the others. The wives of flag and field-officers are not regarded as very important. Reasonable enough, of course. Tell me,” he said, making a determined effort to change the subject, “you know these waters well? I seem to remember
Gazettes
printing some of your despatches.”

“Perhaps when we destroyed some French signal towers?”

“No—that was along the French coast. I remember it well. No, wasn't there something round here?”

“We captured some bomb ketches and used them to bombard a port on the other side of Argentario—that was some time ago.”

“That was it,” the admiral exclaimed. “What was the name of the place?”

Suddenly Ramage felt the skin of his face grow cold and the hair at the back of his neck seemed to stiffen, as though he was a dog hearing an intruder.

“The modern name is Porto Ercole, sir, but the Latin name was the Port of Hercules.”

The admiral sighed. “Now we shall really begin the twelve labours …”

T
HE THREE admirals, after meeting with Ramage in the great cabin, agreed that Porto Ercole was the likeliest place on several counts. Ramage showed them the original rough chart which Southwick had drawn for the bomb ketches' attack and which had ever since remained rolled up in the chart rack fitted to the deck beams above the desk.

The three of them remembered their brief stay at Orbetello, and they exclaimed when Ramage showed how the northern causeway led to Santo Stefano, while the southern curved round to Porto Ercole.

Then Ramage pointed out the forts, built by the Aragonese even earlier than the fortezza at Santo Stefano. “Forte della Stella, along this track, some distance south of the port, is still in good condition and habitable. In fact, it almost certainly has a French garrison because it commands the approach to the port. Then up here—” he indicated the larger fort built high on a hill on the causeway side, north of the port, “—there is Forte di Monte Filippo. Tho' which Filippo that is, I don't know. Probably not the second, who built the Santo Stefano fortress, because I'm sure these two were built much earlier.”

Lord Smarden (who, Sir Henry had told Ramage, had been on his honeymoon when war broke out again: his first wife had died several years ago and his second wife, younger than anyone had expected, was “a delightful woman”) jabbed a finger on the chart, indicating Forte della Stella.

“This is quite a way beyond the port. Doesn't that rule it out as a prison for hostages—after all, it means carrying provisions a long way?”

“Of the two, sir, with respect, I'd rather put my money on it. As you can see, there's a rocky islet just offshore there. That's Isolotto, and the Forte della Stella covers the channel between it and Argentario. For that reason alone, the French would garrison it. And given the way they commandeer people's donkeys and mules, I don't think carrying more provisions would bother them. The fort obviously has water from a well—they all do.”

“Why not Forte di Monte Filippo?”

“Well, in the attack with the bomb ketches, which Sir Henry mentioned, we showed the French it wasn't much good for defending the port. I think they'd now rely on Forte della Stella, and also La Rocca, which is a half-hearted sort of fort just here, right above the actual entrance to the port.”

Lord Smarden nodded. “Well, this seems to be your country. I'm a foxhunting man, Ramage, so I'll regard myself as your guest—and riding one of your horses, too!”

Ramage nodded to acknowledge the compliment and then said, “But I don't want to raise any false hopes, gentlemen. Forte della Stella is built above steep cliffs which run all round the coast of Argentario; La Rocca is on cliffs right above the port; Forte di Monte Filippo—well, as its name shows, it is built on a mountain.”

“But none of these so-called mountains are very high,” Sir William Keeler protested. “It isn't as though we have to storm up sheer cliffs.”

“No, sir,
monte
often means just a steep hill. But—” he glanced at Sir Henry, “—we shan't be ‘storming' anywhere.”

“How the deuce are you going to rescue ‘em, then?”

“They are hostages, sir,” Ramage said patiently. “The point about hostages is that those who have them can use them as bargaining counters.”

“I know that!” Sir William said crossly. “I learned the King's English before you were born.”

The sneer was very apparent, but Ramage ignored it. “If we ‘storm' anywhere, or if we try anything but a surprise attack, sir, the French will use the hostages as—well, hostages. Either we shall be told to go away, or the hostages will be killed, or they will be killed anyway, and even if we successfully capture wherever they are held, the only thing we can do—” he paused, so that his words would hit Sir William like a blow, “—is to give them a decent burial.”

“You don't have to put it so crudely, Ramage. After all, the French aren't holding your wife as a hostage.”

Before he could stop himself Ramage said bitterly, “No, they've probably killed her.”

“Tell us,” Admiral Faversham said, badly shocked but anxious to discover what had happened. “You must remember we've had no news since the war began. We don't want to distress you unduly but—well, didn't you marry the Marquis of Rockley's daughter?”

Using the fewest words possible, Ramage told how he and Sarah had been on their honeymoon in France when the war unexpectedly broke out again, and how they had escaped from Brest in the
Murex
brig to join the fleet as, coincidentally, it arrived to blockade Brest once again. The three admirals were appalled to hear that the
Murex
had been carried into Brest earlier and handed over to the French by her mutinous crew.

“Much as I hate hearing of our men mutinying,” said Sir Henry, “at least you stopped the French gaining a brig. And those French seamen of yours, dressed up as soldiers who brought us out of Castello, are the same Frenchmen who helped you to take the brig? ‘Pon my soul, Ramage, either you have the luck of the devil or you know how to choose people.” The admiral paused a moment and realized he had made a tactless blunder. “Your wife, Lady Sarah—you know for sure that the
Murex
was sunk?”

“The brig could have been captured, sir. But we haven't heard a word about prisoners being taken. With my wife was a post captain who'd been commanding this ship temporarily, and of course the prize crew taking the
Murex
to England. Their names haven't been mentioned in the exchange lists sent from Paris …”

Sir William looked at Ramage. “My apologies. Fact is, we're all on edge, hearing nothing for more than a year.” He suddenly realized that it was worse for Ramage. “I hope you have news soon. This uncertainty—it's like a tumour: it just grows and grows.”

“Yes, sir, I know, and perhaps I was being too emphatic about the need for surprise. But the way we marched you all out of Castello, signing a receipt for the commandant …”

“It was the only way, but will it work again?” Admiral Faversham asked. “Of course, the decision is up to you. Perhaps you've already decided?”

Ramage looked round at the three admirals. He saw three desperately worried husbands, and knew they represented five more. In rank, any of the admirals could be the commander-in-chief of the fleet on a foreign station where Ramage was serving, but now, as they watched him, they were anxious husbands. For now, it was easier to think of them as husbands rather than admirals, because none would try to override the Board's orders to him, and in a year or two he could find himself serving under any one of them. Tact did not come naturally to Ramage, and he knew it. Good manners, yes; he had learned them as a child and they came naturally, like saying “please” and “thank you” and standing when a woman came into the room and eating bread with his left hand and so on. But tact, well … often words were spoken before Ramage realized that they had turned into bricks the moment they left his mouth.

“Gentlemen, we looked for you in Pitigliano and Santo Stefano and finally found you in Giglio without having any clearly defined plans, apart from our group of make-believe hostages. We hoped to get you out by guile, but we couldn't rule out violence.

“One of my men was shot in the arm while discovering you were not in Santo Stefano. I said guile or violence, but violence was going to be the last resort. We knew we were after hostages who were men, not women. I had in mind that if there was any shooting, most of you would probably escape in the confusion.”

Sir Henry looked at the other two admirals and then at Ramage. “Now you have just found out something the Admiralty didn't know, or didn't mention in your orders: that there are several women to be rescued.”

“Exactly, sir. Like you, the women don't expect to be rescued, so they'll be startled, they'll be encumbered by bulky dresses, and,” he added ruefully, “no woman can leave a room she's lived in for a long time without running back for some valuable she's forgotten.”

“You've obviously been thinking about all this,” Sir Henry commented. “And you've just described my wife!” He saw the expressions on the faces of the other two admirals. “All wives,” he added, “except Lady Sarah. I've just this moment remembered how you first met her—rescued her and her parents and many other people from renegades and pirates at an island off the Brazilian coast. Don't give up hope, Ramage.”

“No, sir. That and memories are all I have.” He thought for a moment. He was not in the mood for Major-General Cargill's crude manners or the two young men's enthusiasm. In fact, apart from Sir Henry, he really wanted nothing to do with the freed hostages. He wanted no personal pleas or objections or suggestions to affect his decisions.

That the hostages might be in Porto Ercole—yes, it was a guess, but a good one. The answer seemed plausible. The second guess (or choice—the word “guess” carried a hint of a gamble) was exactly where the hostages were imprisoned. This time there was no clue from the Pitigliano commandant. The fortresses were the most likely and, of the two, della Stella seemed the obvious one. But he knew there were some big private houses in the hills behind Porto Ercole. Surely the Borghese family owned much of the land round the port, and they would have one or two houses there. Houses big enough to hold a dozen or so hostages and their guards? Italian houses have big rooms and high ceilings, and, all too often, shutters take the place of glass in the windows —in winter such houses were not used. Large rooms, balconies, houses designed for occasional summer living by wealthy people casual about their possessions—they would hardly make secure prisons for important hostages. Did that rule out the big houses? Not really—the French guards, with muskets and swords, could terrorize female prisoners. They might well have made two or three of the older ones responsible for the conduct of the rest—made them hostages for the good behaviour of the others …