Ramage r-1

by Dudley Pope

  '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 11

  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 'II 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 story. '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...'

  '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 kiil 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.'

  TMo, 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's 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's 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 in to 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 se
ems 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?'