Ramage r-1

by Dudley Pope

  'Yes, but be discreet: I don't want them to fetch him a clout with the flat edge of a cutlass just because he sneezes.'

  As soon as Ramage saw no one was within earshot of the girl, he went over and knelt down beside her. She was awake: her face was pale and her eyes bright, and he saw she had been trying to tidy her hair with her left hand.

  'Madam,' he said quietly, and she at once put out a hand towards him. He was too surprised to do anything for a moment, then he took it in his, and she whispered:

  'Where is my cousin?'

  'Some distance away.'

  'Lieutenant, I want to ask you a question. My other cousin, Pitti: you went back to him on the beach, did you not?'

  The question was so unexpected that he stiffened, and the hand squeezed his, as if trying to tell him something she could not, or would not, put into words.

  'Madam, I don't want to go over all that again; not now, anyway.'

  'But you did?' she insisted. When he made no reply she said impulsively, 'I know you did.'

  Oh, to hell with it. "You didn't see me: how can you know?'

  'I just know: I am a woman. He was dead?'

  Again he did not answer, but was puzzled by his own silence. What was stopping him? Suddenly he knew it was just pride - he was angry that anyone should doubt him. As soon as he realized that, he decided to tell her the whole story, but just as he was trying to think how to begin, she whispered, 'You need not answer. But Lieutenant...'

  ‘Yes...?'

  Her voice was very soft; he had to lean over to hear.

  'Lieutenant ... my cousin Pisano is also a proud man ...'

  Also! he thought Too proud to risk his skin for his cousin Pitti; but no matter.

  '... I think he spoke in haste last night’

  'Quite. I gathered that'

  "With us,' she said gently, 'our men care only for una bella figura, while the English care only for their honour. Yet you men are all equally as touchy about it, whatever name you call it by.'

  Again she squeezed his hand softly, as if aware an invisible wall was building up between them.

  'For my sake,' she said, 'if for no other reason, be patient with him and with me. And' - her lower lip was trembling - 'and I am sorry for the trouble and danger I have caused you and your men.'

  'We have our duty to do,' he said coldly.

  She let go of his hand. Although it had been his voice, a vicious stranger inside him had spilled those six words without warning and without reason, while he wanted desperately to hold her in his arms and comfort her: to say he understood about Pisano; that he'd push over mountains, swim the Atlantic, lift the world on his shoulder for her sake.

  He said, almost shyly: 'I am sorry: let us forget it. May I tidy your hair?'

  She looked at him, wide-eyed with surprise, then said in sudden alarm, 'Is it too untidy?'

  'No; but you left your maid behind...'

  She snatched at the olive branch.

  'Yes, wretched girl: she was pregnant. I left her in Volterra. It was as well I did; the ruthless Lieutenant Ramage would not allow me to bring such a luxury.'

  'There was no need: I can do your hair.'

  ‘Half a dozen times a day?' she asked mockingly. 'Anyway, there are other things a maid does for her mistress.'

  Ramage felt himself blushing.

  ‘You'll find a comb in the pocket of my cape,' she said.

  He tapped the grains of sand from the teeth of the comb, took out the pins holding her hair in place, and began combing. Yes, it was wasting time - valuable time; but in an hour he would be walking in the same streets as enemy soldiers who would shoot him as a spy if they caught him, since he would not be in uniform. Should he tell her how he was going to disguise himself? No, not now: not to spoil these few moments.

  'This is the first time a man has ever combed my hair ...'

  'And the first time I've ever combed a lady's hair.'

  They both laughed, and he glanced towards the men, suddenly feeling sheepish at the thought of the ribald remarks they were probably making, but they were taking no notice.

  'I'm not the only barber in business on this beach.'

  'Oh?'

  'No - some of the seamen are tying each other's queues.'

  ' "Queues"? What are they?'

  'Pigtails. Sailors call them queues. Very proud of them, too.'

  Finally her hair was combed enough: it was black as a raven's wing feathers and curly, and he wanted to run his fingers through it; ruffle it and make her laugh and then tidy it again. Instead he began putting the pins back in, fumbling as he tried to arrange it as it was before.

  'Tie it in a "queue" instead, Lieutenant.'

  'All right, but keep still; I'll tie it to one side. We'll start a new fashion.'

  'Your hair needs combing too, Lieutenant. It's all prickly at the back!'

  'Prickly?' He put a hand to the back of his scalp and found the hair still tangled with dried blood and several matted ends stood up like a cockerel's comb.

  'Why does it stick up like that?'

  'I cut my head: the blood has dried.'

  ‘How did you cut it?'

  'It happened when the French attacked my ship.'

  'The French did it? You were wounded?'

  'Only slightly,' he said, putting the comb back in the cape and conscious of the watch ticking away in his pocket. 'Well, Madam - once again you're the most beautiful young woman at the ball. Now you must excuse me - I have a disagreeable task before I go off to the village.'

  'Disagreeable?'

  'Yes, but it won't take long. I'll soon be back with a doctor.'

  He wanted to kiss her mouth; but instead he kissed her hand with an exaggerated flourish. 'A presto...'

  He walked over to Pisano, who was sitting against a rock a few yards from the men.

  'Come with me,' he said curtly.

  Pisano followed Ramage beyond a group of large boulders. When they were out of sight of the seamen, Ramage said:

  'I am now going to the village. In view of your remarks earlier today, you may prefer to stay on the mainland, instead of continuing the voyage.'

  ‘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 cheek bones and nose was drawn, as if too tight. For a mome
nt, 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 -1 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 Lake 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 sea water 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.