Ramage's Challenge (36 page)

“There was this
contadino,
” Orsini said casually. “He helped.”

“What
contadino,
and helped what?” Ramage demanded impatiently.

“Well, sir, as we left we saw a man making his way along a track about two hundred yards inland from the fortress. He was not worrying about being seen from the fortress—although, in fact, he was hidden most of the time by sage and thyme and juniper bushes. We wouldn't have seen him except that we were keeping a sharp lookout.”

“Come on!” Ramage said, still holding his watch.

Rossi said, “I walked along the track so that I met him face to face. He was surprised to see me, of course, but as I was obviously an Italian, he was not particularly alarmed.

“He had just come from Porto Ercole and was on his way to Sbarcatella—that's the small cape at the southern end of this bay and south-west of Isolotto.”

Clearly, Rossi was going to tell the story at his own speed, and Ramage realized that, anyway, it was difficult for some men to grasp the most important point in an incident; they had to begin at the beginning and carry on to the end.

“Well,” Rossi continued, “this man has a small boat down there and some lobster pots, and he was going to row out and lift the pots.”

“To whom does he sell the lobsters?”

“I was just coming to that, sir,” Rossi said. “He
used
to sell them to the garrison at the fort, but it seems that after the first month they halved the price they would pay, so now he sells them in the village. He was very angry with the French. This only happened three weeks ago.”

“So he started selling lobsters to the garrison seven weeks ago?”

“I was just coming to that,” Rossi said again, finally adding, “sir,” but carefully timing the gap. “According to this man, the fort was standing empty until eight weeks ago. He remembers the date because it was a particular feast day, and the French soldiers marching through the port interrupted a procession, which made the local people angry.

“Anyway, they went through the port and up the track leading from La Rocca, above the port, and on to the fort.”

“Just soldiers?” Ramage interrupted.

“Just soldiers. About thirty of them, marching in four columns,” Rossi said, hard put to keep the pride from his voice that the
contadino
could remember that. “Two officers, who were riding mules.”

“No hostages, then?”

Rossi shook his head and then, in a typical Italian gesture, tapped the side of his nose knowingly with a forefinger. “Not then. They arrived a week later, with a special escort, and were taken to the fort. The special escort left again next day.”

“So there's absolutely no doubt that the hostages are in the fort?”

“No, sir,” Rossi said blandly.

“Accidente!”
Ramage exclaimed. “Why did you hold on to the information about this
contadino
for so long?”

Orsini took over the narrative, his manner defensive. “Well, sir, we didn't think you would believe us if we just said, ‘The hostages are there!' I thought you would need all the facts that led us to the conclusion.”

Ramage sighed. These two mules were going to proceed at their own speed. “Go on, then. How many hostages?”

“The man didn't know because he did not see them. He was out fishing that day and his wife told him. Some women, some men. ‘Many,' the man said. But he could describe the inside of the fort.”

“Wait a moment,” Ramage said. “Why was this man so helpful? What stops him going to the garrison and reporting that there are two Italian strangers asking questions?”

Rossi gave a short and bitter laugh. “First, sir, he saw only me; Mr Orsini was hidden. Second, this man hates all Frenchmen. Apart from cheating him over the lobsters, two French soldiers tried to rape one of his daughters.”

“What happened about that?”

“Two of her brothers arrived, killed the Frenchmen, and hid the bodies. The French commandant made the port pay a heavy fine because two of their men were missing. The Italians told the French captain the men had probably deserted.”

“So now everyone in the port is angry with the French?”

“Yes, sir!” Rossi exclaimed, “but this happened four years ago, with soldiers stationed at the fort on the other side of Porto Ercole.”

“Go on,” Ramage said, “what did you find out about the inside of Forte della Stella, then?”

Orsini leaned forward and gave Ramage a folded piece of paper. “When I came back on board I drew this plan, based on what the man said. It's only a rough sketch. The guardhouse is here on the right, just inside the main gate. Then officers, two of them, have their quarters here. The soldiers and NCOs are here.”

“And the hostages?”

“Here, sir,” Orsini said, pointing to the north-west corner. “There is a corridor, and leading off it are two very large rooms— almost like cellars. The men are kept in one, the women in the other. No privacy. When he delivered lobsters, the man saw a sentry on each door—he came usually in the late evening.”

“How long did it take you to get up to the fort from the moment you landed from the boat at the foot of the cliff?” Ramage asked Orsini.

“Less than half an hour, sir. That includes ten minutes of crawling like snakes through the sage bushes to get close to the main gate—it was still daylight then. We had trouble with the
macchia:
it's thick and waist-high up to about thirty yards from the main gate but it's so dry that branches crackle every time you move. It's impossible not to snap them.”

“And attacking the fort?”

Orsini thought for several seconds and then glanced at Rossi, who remained staring down at the desk, obviously not wanting to commit himself. “It would be hard, sir. The only way in is through the main gate—or the little wicket door. There's smooth, open ground in front of the sentry, thirty yards or more, with gravel spread all over it (the French must use it as a parade ground), and the gravel makes a crunching noise if you tread on it.”

“Coming back down the cliff to the boat,” Ramage said, “could women get down that way?”

Rossi shrugged his shoulders, with the comment, “It's the only way, sir, and it depends how old they are!”

Orsini nodded. “Yes, sir. There's only one really bad place, and that's a climb of about fourteen feet, almost vertical. But we could secure a rope ladder from a rock just above it, so they could use that. We could rig knotted ropes along the rest of the route, above and below the ladder, which would give them something to hold on to, and guide them, as well. A seaman here and there to help them—yes, it could be done. If there is a very old lady,” he added as an afterthought, “a strong seaman could bring her all the way on his back.”

Ramage looked at his watch.
Macchia
that went snap in the night. A sentry on the battlements. A sentry at the door whose defence was thirty yards of crackling gravel. He thought of General Cargill's standard tactic, a direct frontal attack.

“Thank you,” he told the two Italians. “Pass the word for Mr Aitken as you go out.”

The
Calypso
's first lieutenant had obviously been waiting on deck, and once he was sitting in the armchair Ramage gave him the gist of the two Italians' report.

“Doesn't seem too hopeful, sir,” Aitken said. “Do we try the Giglio trick tomorrow—march up and bluff ‘em?”

Ramage shook his head. “I'd like to, but it's too great a risk. We'd have to go through Porto Ercole, and, anyway, someone might have come over from Giglio in the meantime and casually mentioned something. I might have risked it,” he admitted, “if all the hostages were men, but I can't (at least, I won't) risk women's lives. Not with these stakes.”

“But nothing is at stake, sir!” Aitken protested.

“Exactly. If we sail off and leave them, they're kept prisoners until the end of the war and they're left alive and safe. My orders are to rescue hostages named in my orders from the Admiralty, and I've done that: they're all safely on board.”

Aitken looked stubborn. He stood up and began pacing the cabin, his head bent to one side to avoid hitting the beams. The dim light of the lantern showed the muscles taut along his jaw-line. Ramage could never remember his first lieutenant pacing the cabin before. Obviously, strong emotions were at work in the Scotsman.

Finally, Ramage exclaimed, “For God's sake, sit down and spit it out! All the pacing back and forth makes me dizzy!”

Aitken sat down, took a deep breath and turned to look directly at Ramage. “These women, sir. I don't fully agree with you, if you'll permit me to say so.”

“Since when have you had to ask permission to give an honest opinion?”

“It's not just that,” Aitken said mournfully. “I'm not just expressing an opinion; I'm completely disagreeing with you, sir.”

“Tell me about it, then. With what do you disagree?” Ramage was exasperated. He seemed to be spending the evening hauling information out of men like corks from bottles.

“You said the women are ‘safe' while they are still prisoners. I canna agree. They're
hostages.
This fellow Bonaparte is holding them as bargaining counters. When the Admiralty gave you orders to rescue the other hostages (the ones named, and whom we found at Giglio), you can't be sure that when the Admiralty drew up those orders they knew anything about the second group—the ones now in the fort. In fact, I'm sure they didn't.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Ramage asked coldly. “Shall we hurry back to London and ask their Lordships if we should include these others? Or would you prefer that I go ahead and risk their lives?”

“There's no need to go to London, sir. You've several of the husbands on board, including Sir Henry. Why not ask
them
what they think?”

“Call a council of war, eh?” Ramage asked sarcastically.

“No, sir,” Aitken answered calmly, knowing how his captain despised councils of war. “But husbands understand their wives,” he continued. “Sir Henry knows what his wife would want us to do. Maybe just as important, Sir Henry knows what
he
would prefer. You can ask them individually. Visit each one in his cabin. There's no question of a council of war and no question of evading responsibility. I'm a bachelor, I admit. But if I was a married man in this position, safe on board a frigate with my wife up in yon fortress, I know I'd like to have a say in what's to be done. After you know what the husbands have said, you can make your decision. The responsibility will be yours, and yours alone.”

The more Ramage thought about it, the more reasonable Aitken's argument became. “Very well, I'll do that, and thanks for speaking up. I'm grateful—though I'm rather puzzled why you hesitated.”

Both men sat alone with their thoughts for two or three minutes, until Ramage said quietly, “But even if all the husbands are in favour of us trying a rescue, how the devil can we tackle Forte della Stella? It's designed to hold off an army …”

“We're just reaching the place where we need the rope ladder,” Orsini said. “You can see that sharp rock up there, sir: just made to secure it.”

“Wait a moment,” Ramage gasped, “let me get my breath back: I'm neither a topman nor a goat, and this climbing in the dark is hard work.”

Below and slightly to the north of them, the rocky islet of Isolotto sat in the sea as though rolled down from the top of Monte Argentario and bounced out far enough from the coast to leave a wide channel. It was steep-sided with deep water round it, and the
Calypso,
anchored to leeward, seemed—well, Ramage could only think she must look as though she belonged there.

Porto Ercole, over on her starboard quarter, was too small to provide a good anchorage for a frigate unless towed in with boats, and it was too shallow alongside the jetty. So what was more obvious than a French national ship anchoring in the lee of Isolotto, only a brisk row or a short sail for one of her boats should the captain need to visit the port?

“Blast these mosquitoes,” Ramage muttered, “they seem to be hiding in every bush I grab for a handhold.”

“At least we frightened the goats off,” Paolo said, recalling how he had sat in the captain's cabin while he and Rossi reported, and although his wrists, ankles, neck, and face seemed one itching mass, he had managed not to scratch himself.

Orsini led the way upwards just as Stafford arrived on the small ledge with a party of cursing seamen, two of whom man-handled the rolled-up rope ladder, while others with the coil of knotted rope were hitching it round rocks and bushes to provide handholds.

The moon was rising quickly now with the thinning cloud breaking up into patches to reveal many of the stars and planets. More important, Ramage realized, the moon was throwing enough shadow to show the seamen and marines now coming up the cliff face where to put their feet. On a night like this, with a land breeze blowing from the edge of the cliffs across to the fort, a musket dropped a few feet on to a rock might well make a clatter loud enough to reach the ears of the French sentry on the battlements.

Those wooden buckets—he wished now he had risked using the leather ones because a wooden bucket, if accidentally dropped (or grasped tightly by a man as he slipped and fell), would make almost as much noise as a dropped musket.

And the devil take climbing a cliff face with a brace of pistols jammed into the top of your breeches and a sword wrapped in canvas slung down your back, even if some marline prevented it swinging against the rocks. Nor did burnt cork smeared on the face and hands to blacken them add to the general feeling of comfort.

Ramage stopped feeling sorry for himself as he concentrated on the vertical climb that Orsini had earlier dismissed as “fairly easy” and then pictured Southwick at the end of the tail of seamen and marines, jollying along the men and making sure they moved silently.