by Pope, Dudley
‘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!’
‘I suggest you remove your top clothing and stockings,’ Ramage said coldly, disgust giving way to anger. ‘The loan of your clothing to help save the Marchesa’s life is not an unreasonable request. Shall I call a couple of my men to assist you?’
Pisano stripped off his jacket, waistcoat and lace stock, and flung them on the sand. He stood on one leg to take off a shoe before removing a stocking, fell down, and when he sat up again asked: ‘You want my breeches as well?’
‘No,’ said Ramage, ‘that would be too much.’
From the overhanging top of the cliff above Cala Grande Ramage looked down at the bay. There was no sign of the boat, nor where it had been beached: the men had made a good job of smoothing the sand. Below him seagulls were gliding almost motionless on the wind currents, watching for fish.
Until he and Jackson reached the cliff top, Ramage had not realized just how steep were the mountains of Argentario: he’d expected to find Spaccabellezze and Spadino not far above them, with only a gentle climb up to the cleft between the two peaks. Instead there was a steep slope of several hundred yards even to reach where the cleft began curving up to cross the ridge.
He guessed the long ridge continued to his left until it ended at the sea, forming the promontory of Punta Lividonia, and they had to cross it through the cleft to reach Santo Stefano. Jackson pointed to a mule track. It was halfway up the slope, running parallel with the ridge for half a mile before turning upwards to cross it at right angles.
‘Yes,’ said Ramage, ‘that’s the one for us.’
Once the two men reached the track they could look back down the slope and see the edge of Cala Grande. The sea, now the sun had risen higher, was the living blue of a kingfisher’s wing feathers.
They came to the end of the level section of track and followed it round to the left, beginning the last part of the climb that would take them over the top of the ridge. Now they passed through cultivated land – if that was not too grandiose a name for tiny terraces jutting out of the hillside, like balconies. The walls of each terrace were made of interlocking stones and built to form three sides of a shallow box, the hill making the fourth side, and filled with red earth. Stumpy grapevines threw out shoots which the peasants trained along low frames of twigs and twine. Already the leaves were a mottled red and golden yellow and Ramage realized the vines were still laden with grapes. They were tiny, their topaz flesh tinged with red, and he had not noticed them at first because they blended with the leaves.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing.
In a moment Jackson had scrambled up on to the terrace and picked several bunches, which they ate.
‘Not too bad – they are wine grapes,’ Ramage explained. ‘The peasants will pick them after the next rain.’
‘What if it doesn’t rain, sir?’
‘Well, they’ll pick them just the same and get less wine: it’s the day of rain at the right time that makes all the difference to the harvest.’
Twenty minutes later they reached the middle of the cleft so they were astride the great ridge: on their right was Spadino, on their left the higher and nearer peak of Spaccabellezze. The track in front of them now began to drop down and curve to the left, following round the foot of Spaccabellezze, and for several hundred yards they walked between the high walls of terraces as if in an ornamental maze, and from among the complicated pattern of differently shaped rocks and stones the inquisitive heads of lizards, now turned brown to match the autumn colours, watched them pass with unwinking beady eyes.
Suddenly the walls ended on both sides and the two men found themselves looking down into a valley running parallel with the ridge on which they stood. The effect was dramatic: on the far side was a lower ridge with several more beyond, each higher than the other, so that the land rose and fell in great crests and troughs, like huge petrified waves beating at the foot of Monte Argentario itself.
Just to their right, astride the nearest ridge, was a very tall, narrow rectangular tower, like a thin box standing on end: another link, Ramage saw, in the chain of signal towers round Argentario which led to the fortress of Filipo Secondo in Santo Stefano itself. This one, well inland, was obviously specially built as a centre for those on the west coast, which formed a half-circle round it, like spokes radiating from the axle of a wheel. Most – the larger ones, anyway – were in sight of it, so presumably it could be used as a short cut to Santo Stefano, to save an urgent signal having to be relayed laboriously from one tower to another right round the coast.
Ramage paused for a few minutes, both for a rest and to study the wild, open beauty of the view. The great ridges and plunging valleys were a curious mixture of grey jagged rock and, where the slopes were less steep, geometrically precise plots of terraced land. The lower slopes were criss-crossed with what, in the distance, seemed to be fluffy balls of silver-green wool: olive trees, with grapevines growing among them, and between them yielding the oil and wine which were the peasant’s life-blood.
‘Come on,’ he said to Jackson. They began walking again and almost immediately found themselves in an olive grove.
How lovely these slim, silver-green leaves: how twisted, gnarled and tortured-looking the stumpy trees and boughs, as if they symbolized the back-breaking toil that was a peasant’s life, whether man or woman, from before puberty to rheumatic old age and despairing death.
Up here, high over the valleys, there was still the buzz of the cicadas, but less insistent than on the beach by Lak
e Buranaccio; and instead of the all-pervading perfume of the juniper, there were many odd smells: the occasional sour stench of donkey dung and the catmint odour which warned them snakes were near. Surely that was sage – Ramage snatched up some leaves as he passed and crushed them in his fingers. And rosemary – the heavy perfume of rosemary: ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance’ – and Ophelia lying on a bed of branches, almost a bier, down in Cala Grande. And that’s fennel, and here are daisies. ‘I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died’ – and, Ramage thought to himself, maybe I’m going mad as well, trotting along here quoting Hamlet to myself. But he realized that if he survived the next day or so he’d understand better Hamlet’s desperate sense of loneliness.
As they rounded a bend the land suddenly dropped away in front of them: the main ridge curved to the left, towards Punta Lividonia, while a smaller ridge, like a wide buttress, ran downwards in a series of steps, ending at the sea to form a narrow peninsula separating the two small bays round which Santa Stefano was built.
Two-thirds of the way down the ridge, on a natural flat platform, stood the great, squat sand-coloured fortress of Filipo Secondo. It had a big courtyard on its landward side, nearest them, with wide stone steps leading up to the drawbridge.
In shape, harsh beauty and position it was typically Spanish, and from his position, a hundred feet above, Ramage could see that its guns completely dominated the bays.
La Fortezza di Filipo Secondo – the Fort of Philip the Second: the old tyrant of the Escorial who had launched his Armada against England. Spain’s arm had been long in the days of its greatness, whether it held a threatening sword or a plump bride to a state it wanted to add to its Empire.
Now, a couple of centuries later, Filipo’s alien fortress, standing astride an Italian fishing port, was flying the Tricolor of Revolutionary France: symbolic, in a way, of how the heavy seas of history constantly swept Tuscany – and yet never really changed it.
‘What do you make of the guns?’
‘The half-dozen facing seaward are 32-pounders, I reckon, sir. The half-dozen on either side – well, they look like long eighteens.’
Jackson’s estimate agreed with Ramage’s own. Thirty-two pounders – when fired from sea level they had a range of over a mile; but perched 150 feet up in the fortress it would be much more. He could imagine their effect on a frigate like the Sibella, with each shot more than six inches in diameter, the size of a small pumpkin, and weighing thirty-two pounds, plunging down on to her deck at an angle; on the weakest part of the ship.
Certainly those guns, if handled properly, could cover the half-dozen or so ships he could see at anchor in the bay to the left of the fortress, although the ships would have been wiser to have anchored between the two bays, right in front of the fort. Without thinking he noted the types of vessels – a brig, heavily laden, two small schooners, and two tartanes.
Jackson suddenly nudged him and Ramage saw a peasant and his donkey coming up the steep track towards them. The donkey, laden with brushwood, almost hid its owner, who was getting a lift to windward by holding on to the animal’s tail. As he passed, he eyed the two men with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
Ramage said a polite good morning and received a grunt in reply. He realized he was still holding his jacket and waistcoat over his arm and his black leather boots were covered in thick dust. He waited until the donkey had towed its owner round the bend in the track, then knelt down to brush his boots with the inside of the waistcoat. Thorns had scratched the leather and seawater had dried to leave salt encrusted in the cracks and round the welts. He rubbed harder and then gave up: only a brush and polish would do much good. He tied the stock and put on the waistcoat and jacket.
He was thankful a seaman’s dress was almost universal: Jackson, apart from his light brown hair, would pass for a sailor of almost any nationality from one of the ships in the bay.
‘Suits you, sir,’ Jackson said with a grin: it was the first time he had seen Ramage out of uniform.
‘I feel like a Florentine dancing master.’
They began to walk down the steep track to the town, stepping on stones and exposed pieces of bare rock worn smooth by scores of years’ use by donkeys and human beings.
‘Hmm, you could find this village in the dark just by following your nose,’ grumbled Jackson, sniffing the air which was becoming overladen with the stench of refuse and sewage rotting in the hot sun.
And Ramage, alone with his thoughts, thought to himself, we are looking for a doctor, but we might end up needing an undertaker.
Chapter Eleven
An unshaven, shifty-looking manservant ushered Ramage into a long, high-ceilinged drawing-room sparsely furnished in the usual middle-class Italian style – a couple of over-elaborate gilded armchairs, a Murano glass chandelier almost opaque with dust hanging from the ceiling and sprouting stubs of candles, a chest of dark wood with the inevitable coat of arms carved on the front covered with peeling paint and gilt, and a long, sad-looking couch covered with silk, the woodwork crudely lacquered.
The two small, high windows facing south had glass in them, but little light penetrated the layer of grime and fly spots. Just why did the sofa look sad?
‘The doctor will be down in a little moment,’ said the servant and went out, closing the door.
The man had not seemed suspicious; nor the peasant who had directed them to where ‘Il Dottore’ lived at the Casa del Leone, the House of the Lion, which was just below the Fortress and almost completely overshadowed by it.
Ramage, who had left Jackson outside on guard, waited for more than ten minutes before the small door opened at the far end of the room and a tubby little man in spectacles trotted in. He wore a velada, the long coat with tails which, gathered at the waist, spread out behind like a fan and gave him the air of a self-important pigeon. Nevertheless, his manner was deferential.
‘It is indeed an honour to receive a visit from Il Conte,’ he said, rubbing his hands as though washing them.
Ramage, when asked his name by the manservant had merely said ‘Conte Brrrra’, deliberately slurring the name: it was too risky either to use a real name, or invent one. He went through the ritual of introducing himself, again slurring the name, knowing the little doctor would never dare risk a snub by asking him to repeat it.
‘How can I assist your Grace?’ asked the doctor.
‘A small matter – of no vast importance,’ said Ramage, playing on the man’s vanity, ‘and one for which it grieves me to bother you; but one of my suite has been hurt in an accident: some damage to the shoulder… I would wish that…’
‘Of course, of course, your Grace.’
The little man was perhaps a little suspicious: he was still rubbing his hands, but at the same time studying Ramage warily over the top of his spectacles. Was it the accent?
‘…Where is the patient, your Grace?’
‘Not far from here.’
‘On the road to Orbetello?’
‘Yes, on the road to Orbetello.’
‘Your Grace…your Grace will forgive the question – your Grace is a foreigner?’
So it was the accent. ‘No, but I have lived abroad since childhood.’
Ramage saw the doctor was covertly eyeing his boots: but they would reveal nothing because, though scratched and torn, they were obviously of good quality. The little man inspected the coat and waistcoat. Again, excellent quality, with the finest embroidery and gold buttons – thanks to Pisano.
‘Would your Grace bring the patient here, please?’ he asked finally.
‘Unfortunately that is not possible: I am afraid to move her.’
‘A lady? But a shoulder injury – there would be no risk if she came in your Grace’s carriage.’
‘That is the difficulty: all three of my carriages are damaged – hence the injury to this lady,’ said Ramage, surprised at how easily the lies came but annoyed he’d forgotten to make up a convincing sto
ry. ‘And as for moving her – I would not like to take the responsibility: she is…’ He hesitated deliberately, careful to put the emphasis in such a way that the doctor’s curiosity would be aroused, ‘…she is someone very dear to me, you understand.’
Clearly the doctor did not: Ramage hoped he would imagine they were an eloping couple, but instead the little man seemed to have made up his mind about something.
‘Your carriages, your Grace: where did the accident occur?’
‘About two miles outside the town: a wheel came off the first coach and the other two ran into it. A wretched business.’
The doctor looked down at his hands and then brought them together, so the fingertips touched. He glanced up over the top of his spectacles again, and said cautiously, as if unsure of Ramage’s reaction to what he was about to say: ‘Your Grace will probably understand my reluctance to rush to your assistance when I tell you the road from Orbetello cannot be used by carriages: it is simply a track. Therefore I have difficulty in understanding how the accident occurred…’
He obviously had more to say and Ramage waited.
‘However, we have just received reports that a British warship is in these waters: indeed, just before dawn today it sent boats into Port’ Ercole, stormed the batteries, and captured several ships at anchor there. Your Grace speaks perfect Italian, but he does pronounce one or two words with just a hint – no more, I assure you – of an English accent…’
A cutting-out expedition just before dawn! Hell, he must have missed seeing the damned frigate by only a few hours. Had she been sent to meet him at the rendezvous? Hardly – there would not have been time.
So the doctor was suspicious – but not unfriendly. Well, here goes, he thought.
‘Do you mean to say those impudent English have dared attack Port’ Ercole?’
‘Why yes,’ exclaimed the doctor, obviously taken aback. ‘From under the guns of the fortresses they towed out two French ships, and burnt others, in spite of the fact that we are neutral in this present unhappy conflict, even if we cannot stop the French coming and going as they please. But the British…’