by Pope, Dudley
‘They are scoundrels! Do you think their ships will come here?’
‘Oh no,’ exclaimed the doctor, puzzled by Ramage’s attitude. ‘No, no – you have seen the fortress: how it guards the port. Those guns – my God, the last time the garrison fired them they broke all the glass in my windows! They are big guns: no ship could survive. And French artillerymen have taken them over.’
Ramage stopped himself glancing up, but remembered noticing the glass had not been cleaned for months: yet they faced the muzzles of the guns on the seaward side of the fortress. So much for the amount of firing practice the gunners were allowed.
But from the way the little doctor was watching, Ramage realized he did not believe a word of his story. On the other hand, it seemed he discounted any link with the British frigate. Yet Ramage sensed the little man’s curiosity was roused. It was time to go about on the other tack: his only chance – if he was to avoid violence – was to gain the little man’s sympathy.
‘Doctor, I will be honest with you: you are far, far too intelligent and far-seeing for me to succeed in my gentle attempt at deception. Yes, I am a British naval officer – although nothing to do with the frigate at Port’ Ercole. I give you my word of honour that I have in my care a lady who has been shot in the shoulder: the ball is still in the wound. She is not far from here, and if she does not receive skilled treatment very quickly, I fear for her life. Will you give her that treatment?’
‘But – but that is impossible! The authorities – why they would guillotine me for doing such a thing.’
‘Who are “the authorities” – the French?’
‘Yes, and our Governor is also friendly towards them since our King signed the armistice.’
‘Are you certain they would kill you?’
‘Well, probably: I am not without influence; but it would be hard to explain away.’
Sympathy had failed: time was getting short.
‘But you are not certain they would kill you?’
‘Well, not entirely; they might shut me in the dungeons for a few years.’
‘Then there is one thing you can be certain of, Doctor.’ Ramage reached down to his right boot and came up with the knife in his hand. ‘You can be quite certain that if you don’t help this lady, then I’ll kill you – now.’
The little man glanced at the knife and whipped off his spectacles.
‘But this is monstrous! You would never escape! I have only to call out–’
‘Doctor, look carefully at this knife: it is not an ordinary one. You see I am holding it by the point of the blade, and that the blade is thick and the hilt thin. That is because it is a throwing knife. If you open your mouth to shout, I flick my hand and before you utter a sound this blade is sticking in your throat…’
The little doctor began perspiring – not profusely, but in a genteel fashion of which no doubt he would be proud if he thought about it.
‘If I come with you…?’
‘If you come with me and attend the lady, you will be unharmed and when you’ve finished you’ll go free: I give you my word I am concerned only with saving a life, not taking one.’
‘All right, I agree – not that I have any choice since you’ll murder me otherwise. But no one must know.’
‘We have a mutual concern for secrecy. But in case you change your mind out in the street and call for help, or even raise a warning eyebrow to a passer-by, then this knife will kill you. I learned knife throwing and anatomy, Doctor, from a Neapolitan, so you need entertain no hopes of the blade glancing off bone.’
‘No, no, quite,’ the doctor said hurriedly. ‘I must get my bag of instruments.’
‘I will come with you: you may need help in carrying them.’
‘No, no, I assure you–’
‘It will be no trouble, Doctor: none at all.’
One of the seamen acting as sentry at the northern end of the beach had already spotted the track and stationed himself halfway along it. The doctor’s alarm when a half-naked seaman suddenly stood up from behind a bush a yard away, pointing a cutlass at the little man’s stomach, sent him scuttling back to Ramage for protection.
Walking across the sand the doctor, whose eyesight was keen enough without spectacles – they were worn as part of his social and professional uniform and were probably made of plain glass – spotted the girl’s couch of juniper branches and at once his manner changed: the doctor, the practical man of medicine, took over.
Knowing she could not see over the edge of the boughs, Ramage called a warning to her in English that they were bringing a doctor.
‘Judging by his manner, he must have trained in Florence,’ he added, a bantering note in his voice. ‘I hadn’t time to look farther afield.’
‘Lieutenant, I had not realized your sense of humour was as highly cultivated as your sense of duty!’
‘It flourishes in the sun,’ he said dryly. ‘Now speak only in English: I’ll pretend to interpret.’
‘May I examine the lady?’ asked the doctor.
‘Yes,’ said Ramage. ‘We will dispense with introductions. If we do not know each other’s names then we cannot be forced to reveal them, can we Doctor?’
‘Assuredly not,’ the doctor declared wholeheartedly. He knelt by the girl, unstrapped his bag of instruments, and removed his jacket.
‘The lady speaks Italian?’
‘No,’ said Ramage.
The doctor ceased to be a puffed up – and puffed out – fat little man: in cutting away the crude bandage his podgy fingers handled the scissors with the same assurance and gentle deftness of a woman making fine lace.
Ramage told the doctor to call him if necessary and walked away, sick and faint, and angry at his inability to help the girl or ease her pain. Anyway, the next move had to be planned.
At the northern end of the beach he sat on a low rock, cursing to himself because there was hardly any shade from the cliff towering up almost vertically above him. If the girl can be moved tonight – what then? Well, I know one of our frigates attacked Port’ Ercole last night but it’s unlikely she’s the one I’ve asked to be at the rendezvous. The merchantmen at anchor in Santo Stefano are a good bait, and if the doctor’s complacency about the strength of the fortress is shared by the Governor and the French, they won’t expect the British to try to cut out the ships.
So much for the fortress: what’s the frigate doing here? Three possible reasons: first, because of the danger of Bonaparte’s troops trying to invade Corsica, Sir John has sent frigates to capture or destroy any craft that can be used as transports; second, the frigate is under orders to capture a particular ship because of her cargo – though that’s unlikely because she wouldn’t have endangered the enterprise by bothering with other craft in the harbour; third, the frigate spotted the ships while passing Port’ Ercole and her captain couldn’t resist the chance of a few prizes. Yet that’s unlikely because it’s difficult to see into the harbour from seaward.
That leaves the first explanation: Sir John is dealing with possible enemy transports. In that case Santo Stefano can also expect a visitor…
Right – supposing I was the frigate’s captain: what would I do after attacking Port’ Ercole? There are only a few harbours and anchorages around here worth bothering with – Port’ Ercole and Santo Stefano on Argentario; Talamone on the mainland to the north, and Giglio Porto.
So if I was the frigate’s captain I’d tack out to sea before dawn with the Port’ Ercole prizes; wait today out of sight over the horizon, sorting out prize crews and prisoners; then tack in again after dark with the land breeze and deal with an unsuspecting Santo Stefano tonight.
Taking it a stage further, how would I attack? Well, since I’ve already tackled Port’ Ercole with its three fortresses, obviously I wouldn’t be worried by a single fortress at Santo Stefano. And I can see from the chart that a cutting-out expedition needn’t risk the fortress’ guns until the last moment.
Although the Fortress is well-placed to
defend ships anchored immediately in front of it, the chart shows its one massive blind spot – Punta Lividonia, jutting seaward and masking its fire at the approach to the port.
Ramage retrieved the chart from Smith to refresh his memory. Yes – if he was going to cut out those ships, he’d heave-to the frigate there – a mile or so north-west of Punta Lividonia. The Point would hide the ship from the Fortress, and he’d also be down-moon, with no danger of being silhouetted from the shore.
He’d order the cutting-out boats to steer south-east until they were close under the Point; then they’d row round it and on to Santo Stefano, keeping just far enough off the beach to avoid anyone on shore hearing the oars, yet safe from the Fortress’ guns because the twists and turns of the coast would block their fire until they were about half a mile from the anchored ships.
The sun sets this evening about seven o’clock; it will be almost dark by seven thirty; and the moon rises only a few minutes later. The frigate will take at most three hours to sail in, which will bring her off Punta Lividonia at ten thirty. The boats would be off the point by eleven. And that’s about the most perfect timetable I could wish for.
Where’s the snag? What have I forgotten? Ramage could think of nothing and glanced down at the chart again. From where he was at the moment in Cala Grande, the northern tip of Punta Lividonia was just over a mile away. If he waited with the gig there – just off the Point – the boats of the cutting-out party should pass him on their way into attack. Even if he missed them in the darkness, he’d be able to follow them back to the frigate after the attack when they wouldn’t be worrying about being quiet.
Supposing the frigate went to Giglio or Talamone instead? Well, from off Punta Lividonia he could watch both ports, and although he’d never reach the frigate in time if she attacked either, the gunfire would tell him his guess was wrong and he could still reach the rendezvous off Giglio before dawn, having gone only a couple of miles out of his way. He had nothing to lose by chancing it; in fact everything to gain, since the Bosun might not have reached Bastia, or a frigate might not have been available to send to the rendezvous.
At that moment a shadow fell over him and he glanced up to see Jackson standing there.
‘Well?’
‘Thought you’d like to know, sir: he’s got the ball out. A small one. From a pistol.’
‘How is she?’
‘A bit shaky, sir; she fainted once or twice, but she’s got plenty of pluck. Old Sawbones seems to know his stuff.’
‘Has he finished?’
‘’nother ten minutes – I’ll let you know, sir.’
Jackson strode off and Ramage saw Smith was also helping the doctor, who was kneeling beside the couch. In his imagination he could see forceps and probes digging deep into that great punctured bruise. He shivered and looked back at the chart, but the lines of the coast, the neatly written names, the tiny figures showing the soundings, all became a blur; the black ink spread across the paper until Argentario was a great bruise set in the Tyrrhenian Sea.
‘It has gone well,’ the doctor said, holding a handkerchief in a bloodstained hand and mopping the perspiration from his face. ‘Very well indeed: the bullet was lodged deep in the muscle and fortunately did not carry many fragments of cloth with it into the wound. Most fortunate, most fortunate.’
Ramage felt his head swimming.
‘My dear sir, are you all right?’
‘Yes –just tiredness.’
The doctor looked at him quizzically. ‘Well, you’ve nothing to worry about – at least as far as the lady is concerned. For you I prescribe a siesta.’
Ramage smiled. ‘I’ll just have a word with her.’
Jackson and Smith walked away as he approached, to leave them alone.
‘The doctor tells me all went well.’
‘Yes, he was very gentle.’
God, her voice was weak and she was pale: those glorious brown eyes – which looked at him so imperiously when her pistol was aimed at his stomach – were full of pain, and the soft skin below them dark with exhaustion.
Yet she looked even more beautiful: the pain emphasized how exquisitely carved were the brow, the cheekbones, nose, chin, the line of her jaw… Her mouth – yes, the lips were just a little too sensuously full to make her features classical. He suddenly noticed the lips were shaping themselves into a tired smile.
‘May I ask, Lieutenant, what you are looking at with such concentration? Has this rather frail vessel some defect in its design which a sailor finds displeasing?’
He laughed. ‘On the contrary: this sailor was admiring the vessel: he hasn’t had much opportunity to examine her closely before.’
‘Do your orders include flirtation, Lieutenant?’
Irony? A sly dig at his sour ‘We have our duty, Madam’ remark earlier in the day, or mischievousness?
‘The Admiral would expect my behaviour to be that befitting a gentleman!’
‘You have considerable latitude, then,’ she said. ‘But on a more serious note, Lieutenant, how much does one pay this doctor?’
‘I’m afraid I have no money.’
‘Then would you take my purse’ – she offered it with her left hand – ‘and pay him what he asks.’
‘Yes, certainly. I must go and discuss a few details with him.’
He found the doctor still mopping his brow, but he had washed the blood from his hands.
‘Now, Doctor, how strong is the patient, and when will she need further treatment?’
‘Considering all things, the patient is strong. Much depends on what your plans are. Further treatment? Well she should be seen by a surgeon within a day or two to inspect the sutures.’
‘Can she be moved, I mean?’
‘Where to? And by what means?’
‘To – to a port many miles away. In this boat.’
‘It is a long way: the boat is small: the sun is hot…’
‘Doctor, please be precise. The longer we stay, the more chance of capture, and the longer we must retain you. I have to decide which is the lesser risk.’
‘The lesser risk…’ The doctor was talking to himself. ‘…I have applied the necessary ligatures, which must be removed in seven days… There is much contusion but not enough to interfere with the natural healing processes. Yet – yet one must watch in case suppuration begins, because if it does…’ He gestured with his hand, as if cutting his throat. ‘Some time in an open boat, the hot sun, poor food, to be weighed against the dungeon of Filipo Secondo… She is young, well nourished and healthy…’
He looked up at Ramage. ‘My friend: there must, of course, be considerable risk if you take her in the boat. But providing she receives professional medical attention within thirty-six hours, then that is the lesser risk. The lesser of two evils, you understand: not the best course to follow. When do you propose leaving?’
‘At nightfall.’
The doctor burrowed into a waistcoat pocket and took out an enormous watch. ‘Then you’ll have an extra eight hours if I examine her again just before you leave.’
‘I was hoping you’d suggest that, Doctor,’ Ramage said, and thought, isn’t that relief on the little man’s face?
‘Tell me, Doctor, when I brought you down here did you think you would live to see tomorrow?’
‘To be frank, my young friend, no.’
‘But I gave you my word.’
‘I know; but sometimes, to do the greatest good, a man is forced to accept the lesser of two evils…’
Ramage laughed. ‘Yes, perhaps. By the way, I…er…the question of a fee…’
The doctor looked shocked. ‘Sir! I would not think of it!’
‘Please, Doctor: I appreciate your gesture, but we are not poor people.’
‘No – I thank you, but what little I’ve been able to do I did willingly. And since you know I cannot betray you even if I wished, I will tell you that I am not unaware of the identity of the person I have had the honour to attend, although she does not
know that.’
‘Oh?’
‘I do not need a second sight; the town is full of posters offering rewards…’
‘How much?’
‘A great deal of money.’
Ramage guessed the Marchesa’s purse also contained a great deal of money. By not betraying them, by not asking him for even a percentage of the reward…
The doctor said, ‘I know what you are thinking and I know the Marchesa gave you her purse. But you will offend me if you even suggest it.’
Ramage held out his hand, and the doctor shook it firmly.
‘My friend,’ the little man said, ‘we are strangers: I can therefore speak with a certain frankness. Inside me here’ – he tapped his left breast – ‘I have more sympathy for the cause you are helping than I would dare admit to one of my fellow countrymen. But then you English – you must find us strange people: people apparently without morals, without lasting loyalties, without traditions that mean anything. But have you ever wondered why? Have you?’
‘No,’ Ramage admitted.
‘You are an island race. For more than seven hundred years no enemy has ever occupied your island, even for a day. No one in your family’s history has had to bow to a foreign conqueror to prevent his family being murdered and his estates confiscated.
‘But we’ – he gave a despairing shrug – ‘we of the Italian states are invaded, occupied, liberated and invaded again nearly every decade: it is as inevitable as the passing of the seasons. Yet, my friend, we have to stay alive. Just as a ship has to alter course, to tack, when the wind changes, if she is to arrive at her destination, so do we, if we are to get to our destination. My destination – and I am honest about it – is to reach old age and meet death sitting up comfortably in my bed.
‘Years ago, my friend, the wind of history was the Libeccio, blowing us invaders from Spain; then from the north-west came the Hapsburgs. Today it is the Tramontana, coming across the Alps from France. Although our Grand Duke made us the first state in Europe to recognize the French Republic, little good it has done us: Bonaparte walks though our cities like a conqueror.