Ramage's Challenge r-15

by Dudley Pope

  In this Ramage had to admit that Southwick was probably right: for a long time now the Mediterranean had been Bonaparte's private sea: he had captured bases used by the Royal Navy, and defeated Britain's allies.

  Ramage slid a paperknife under the seal, then opened and flattened the sheets of paper. Only two sheets. The thickness of paper had led him to think the orders were bulky, but he saw at a glance that in fact they were commendably brief - although brief orders tended to be the toughest. . .

  There was all the usual preamble used by Evan Nepean, the Board Secretary, wording which had probably been in use long before the Board was first created. Then came the second paragraph . . .

  Since the resumption of war following France's abrogation of the Treaty of Amiens, His Majesty's Government has been attempting to discover the whereabouts of many British subjects, and subjects of countries which are our allies, who were visiting and found themselves trapped by hostilities in France or its occupied territories. Among them, of course, is the Marchesa di Volterra.

  Among the British subjects particularly concerned are five admirals, seven generals and eleven peers of the realm, who were in France or Italy.

  Our agents have traced certain of these persons to prison camps in France, although the French Government has not included their names among those usually submitted through their Agent resident in London in order that exchanges may be arranged, nor have they answered specific enquiries made by His Majesty's Government through their Agent. The situation is exacerbated at the present time because in any case we have no French prisoners of suitable rank to make any exchange. My Lords have instructed me to give you the foregoing information by way of introduction to the following.

  It has now been reported to His Majesty's Secretary of State for the Foreign Department that a few of these naval and army officers, along with certain peers of the realm, are imprisoned in conditions of great secrecy by the French Government at a town in the Kingdom of Tuscany called Pitigliano and it is further believed that it is the First Consul's intention to use these persons as hostages in an attempt to strike some bargain with His Majesty's Government, the details of which cannot at present be determined.

  The Secretary of State has instructed my Lords that these prisoners must be rescued at any cost because of the dangers ensuing should they be used as hostages, or bargaining pawns.

  My Lords, having duly considered their instructions, and having in mind that it was from this area that you rescued the Marchesa di Volterra several years ago, and that you are fluent in the Italian language, hereby request and require you tomake the best of your way in His Majesty's frigate under your command and rescue the aforementioned officers and civilians.

  Although it is understood from the Secretary of State's sources that none of the hostages has been offered nor given his parole, Their Lordships are particularly concerned that any person who might in fact have given it should be left behind.

  On the successful completion of these orders you will carry these hostages to Gibraltar and acquaint the port admiral of these orders so that he can arrange suitable transport to bring them safely to the United Kingdom.

  My Lords impress upon you particularly the need for absolute secrecy to ensure the safety of the hostages and of the source of the intelligence which has resulted in you receiving these orders, and it is considered imperative that in the event of you or any of your ship's company being captured by the enemy, none of you shall reveal any of the foregoing, lest you fall under the terms of the third Article of War.

  Hmmm ... to threaten a post-captain with one of the Articles of War showed the importance that the government (in the person of the Secretary of State) attached to the rescue. Article Three - "If any officer, mariner, soldier or other person of the Fleet shall give, hold or entertain Intelligence to or with any Enemy or rebel, without leave from the King's Majesty, or the Lord High Admiral, or the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral . . . shall be punished with death."

  Strong stuff, and Pitigliano was many miles inland. Many miles.

  "That's what comes of speaking Italian," Ramage said as he handed the sheets of paper to Aitken. "But now I understand why we weren't to know about it until we had passed Gibraltar. Calling in there and accidentally revealing any of that. . ."

  Aitken read swiftly. "I wonder how the government discover these things? About Bonaparte holding hostages in secret camps?"

  Southwick sniffed. "By the time they finished Captain Ramage's report on rescuing the Count of Rennes from Devil's Island, along with all those other French royalists, I should think the count's friendship with the Prince of Wales led Prinny to ask a lot of questions.

  "That probably led to the Foreign Department - or whoever handles our agents abroad - suddenly waking up. Why, just comparing the names of naval officers we know have been captured with those offered by this French agent in London arranging the exchange of prisoners must show a number missing. And Army, too, of course. And civilians," he added quietly, knowing that both the Marchesa and Lady Sarah came under that heading.

  Ramage nodded, as much to show Southwick it was all right to discuss the two women as to agree. Yes, it was strange that neither Sarah nor a captain being sent home in the Murex had been mentioned so far by the French, and although Bonaparte was not fussy about involving civilians (against all the rules of war used up to now) it was surprising that the Moniteur had not crowed about capturing the daughter of the Marquis of Rockley, and the Marchesa di Volterra.

  All of which left question marks. The Moniteur's silence about Sarah might be simply because the Murex had never been captured: perhaps she had sunk in bad weather or because she had sprung the butt of a plank. And Gianna - if Bonaparte's secret police had seized and murdered her, obviously the Moniteur would stay silent. Plenty of question marks, but no answers . . .

  "Do you know where Pitigliano is?" Aitken asked. "Is it far inland? It'd be just our luck if it was surrounded by mountains!"

  "No," Ramage said, shaking his head. "Pitigliano is likely to be the only piece of luck we have. It's about thirty miles or so inland, a small hill town. I've been there once, and from what I can remember, it's built on a wedge of land in the middle of a valley. Obviously a river ran through the valley once and Pitigliano (or the hill on which it now stands) was an island in the middle.

  "Yes, now I remember . . . the town is actually built so it forms the flat top of the hill, and there's only one gate - which is at the top of a steep track."

  He thought of a better way of describing it. "Think of a dunce's cap. The point at the top cut off and that's where the town is built, with a high wall all round it, so that from down in the valley you would see only the walls and the roofs of a few buildings.

  "At the bottom there are several caves cut into the tufa, and there many of the peasants keep their donkeys. The town hall is in the piazza with a sort of pulpit built outside, so the mayor can harangue the people.

  "Dust, donkeys braying and laden with firewood, their owners hanging on to their tails for a lift to windward up the hill to the town gate, the caves, tracks covered with white dust . . . that's all I can remember."

  Aitken crossed his legs and then scratched his head. "I wonder why Bonaparte picked Pitigliano? There must be dozens of other hill towns he could have chosen."

  "Hundreds," Ramage said. "The length of Italy, although more in Tuscany than anywhere else because there are so many sugarloaf hills. Bonaparte knows the area well, of course, from the time he marched through with his Army of Italy, but one of his underlings probably chose the town."

  "Can't place it," Southwick admitted.

  "You remember Santo Stefano and Port' Ercole well enough," Ramage said. "And Talamone. Thirty miles inshore from there."

  "That's most convenient: I still have all my charts and the notes I made. Not far from where we - you, rather - rescued the Marchesa," Southwick said. "Might be an omen, sir."

  "A bad one," Ramage said gloomil
y. "All this to rescue some admirals and generals who'll stamp round the deck and get in the way of the sailors."

  "Yes, sir, but with Rossi and Mr Orsini speaking Italian . . . they'll be able to help you."

  "Rossi yes, I don't know that I dare risk using Orsini. He's the Marchesa's heir, so if anything has happened to her, he's now the ruler of Volterra. If Bonaparte has murdered the Marchesa, then he'll quickly do away with Orsini."

  "You'd have trouble leaving Orsini behind, sir," Aitken said. "And if he was captured, what Frenchman could guess he'd just caught the ruler of Volterra? He speaks like an Englishman.

  "You sound as though you're both selling Orsini," Ramage said. "I recall hearing you frequently criticizing his mathematics, Mr Southwick . . ."

  "Indeed you have, sir, and not for the last time. He takes a good sight; it's just the calculations that do him in. Two and two often make five, although he's not the first midshipman to have that trouble. But I doubt if we have a better seaman on board. Turn in a splice, have the men send down a yard, lay a gun ... An' the men would follow him anywhere."

  "In Tuscany, since they don't speak the language, that mightn't be a help," Ramage said sourly. "Anyway, now we know where we're going, are we all right for water to get us there and back to Gibraltar?"

  "We've thirty-six tons remaining sir; plenty, even allowing for having the hostages on board," Southwick said.

  As the first lieutenant and master stood up to leave the cabin, Ramage said: "Don't discuss this with anyone else for the time being: until I decide how we'll do it. I don't want people pestering me to be allowed to join in. It may end up with Rossi and me going alone . . ."

  CHAPTER THREE

  When you were beating down Channel against a strong westerly gale, spray slashing like buckets of icy water slung violently at anywhere you are unprotected (neck, third button down on the oilskins), and the dreadful chill while the cold and wet gather before their slow creep down the spine, the sky just a swirling grey mass merging with the rain squalls, two reefs in the topsails and deck seams dripping water on to hammock, kitbag and last items of dry clothing, you thought wistfully of the Mediterranean.

  Blue skies, purple seas, a warm wind always from the right direction; the smell of pines when close in with the shore; the air clear and bracing when out of sight of land ...

  Yet the reality of the Mediterranean was nearly always different, Ramage reflected: heavy rain, gale-force winds (usually heading you) and the clouds the same swirling grey mass. Perhaps a degree warmer than the Chops of the Channel, but the wind just as violent with the seas shorter, but that made them much more uncomfortable.

  Oh yes, and the winds had fancy names - take the French, for example. A nor-wester was the mistral, but getting caught by a mistral meant three or four days of fighting a gale. Then the tramontane, "across the mountains", and because of that it was a bitterly cold north to north-east brute that blew hard and chilled your very marrow. Then the levant, blowing at gale force for days from the east, hell if you are trying to get through the Strait into the Mediterranean (though usually you could shelter in Gibraltar), but murderous on ship, men and sails when you are trying to reach the Tyrrhenian Sea along the west coast of Italy, whether by rounding the southern tip of Sardinia at Cape Spartivento or sneaking through the Strait of Bonifacio between Corsica and Sardinia.

  You left that decision until the last possible moment in the hope that the levanter veered a little and became the céruse, blowing from the south-east so that, with luck, sheets could be eased. (It was beyond even thinking about aponant to put in an appearance, from between south and south-west, or the labéfrom the west-south-west.)

  Yet, Ramage thought sourly, if you have sailed enough you think of the West Indies with the constant trade winds blowing briskly from the north-east - if there was not a calm lasting days, or a hurricane, or a week of south-east winds bringing torrential rain which reduced visibility to a ship's length.

  Usually, however, whatever the wind direction, it had some east in it, and usually your course had some east in it too, so you were still beating to windward, but the difference was that the buckets of spray hitting you in the face were warm - at least for the first few minutes, until they soaked your clothing.

  So why did a sane man go to sea (unless encouraged by the pressgangs, which were very persuasive)? Few men beating to windward in heavy weather would admit they ever had a choice: poverty, pressgang, dodging debtors, sent to sea as a midshipman because of a family tradition . . . dozens of reasons. Of course, given a decent wind, a clear sky (or one speckled with Trade wind clouds), and the attitude immediately changed: hurrah for the life of a sailor . . .

  Ramage noted that the only man in sight who seemed to be enjoying this levant at the moment, blowing at what the French would term at least grand frais with a sea très grosse, was George Hill, the new third lieutenant. He was the thin and nonchalant lieutenant (debonair, one might say, when his sou'wester and oilskin coat were not streaming spray and rain and his face not white and tinged with blue) who had been appointed provost marshal "upon the occasion", guarding Ramage while he was under an arrest during the recent court-martial brought by the madman, Captain William Shirley.

  After starting off as a very officious young lieutenant, Hill had by the end of the trial, been asking Ramage to be considered when the next vacancy occurred in the Calypso. And that had come almost at once when Wagstaffe was made first lieutenant of a seventy-four, which allowed Kenton to step up to take Wagstaffe's place, leaving the third lieutenant's berth vacant for Hill.

  "Blower" Martin stayed as fourth lieutenant, but he was content: indeed, he had confided to Ramage that he needed another year's experience before being promoted.

  Hill, despite his (when dry) debonair, almost flippant manner, was proving a good seaman. His manner for the first week or so had put off Southwick and Aitken: they were not used to a man who could make light of the most important things in their world. Hill used the expression "putting a fold in the laundry" to describe reefing; "that hook thing" was an anchor; rope of any size became "string" (including the ten-inch cables); and splicing was "that embroidery stuff". Taking a sight was "having a wink at the red eye", and all caused long faces until they discovered that Hill could splice with the best of them and liked nothing better than racing the topmen aloft and laying out along a yard "to get a bit o' exercise".

  Southwick had to admit that Hill worked out a sight as though he had been navigating since childhood. In fact, the master had grumbled: "Whatever Hill has mathematically, I wish young Orsini would catch it." From there it was a short step to putting Hill in charge of drumming mathematics into Orsini, and Hill was apparently having some success (according to Southwick), although his teaching methods were unorthodox. Ramage often heard Orsini hooting with laughter while working out a noon sight under Hill's watchful eye, but Southwick reported that nine times out of ten the calculations were now correct: Orsini's habit of adding when he should subtract, or being just one out in all additions and subtractions, now seemed to be a thing of the past.

  Both Kenton and Martin liked Hill and soon dropped into his habit of treating life with levity, and even Aitken confided to Ramage that the gunroom was a good deal more cheerful now Hill was on board.

  Ramage saw the master, looking like a wet bear in his oilskins, lumber up the ladder and work his way across the quarterdeck, walking cautiously from one gun to another so that he had handholds against the violent rolling.

  "Cape Spartivento's about fifteen miles on our larboard bow, sir, unless the current is stronger than usual."

  "I'll be glad to bear away a bit when we round it," Ramage admitted.

  "Fighting a levanter the length of the Western Mediterranean doesn't make for accurate dead reckoning," Southwick muttered, "so Hill had better keep a sharp lookout."

  "Come now, you had a sight of the sun a couple of times yesterday," Ramage said teasingly. "I saw you scurrying around with your quadrant, and
chasing Orsini, too."

  "Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by Nature's benevolence," Southwick growled, and Ramage detected the influence of Hill in the remark.

  "You should be. I assume you are ready for the sun to break through?"

  Southwick glanced up at the thick, shapeless clouds streaming overhead. "Oh yes, sir; I have my quadrant tucked in my sou'wester, and I left my books of tables open in my cabin - along with sharpened pencils."

  Ramage nodded: if Southwick could still joke, things were not too bad, although as far as Ramage was concerned he seemed to have been beating to windward for most of his life.

  The grey skies, the endless waves racing past to the westward, the Calypso's labouring progress (she seemed to plunge her bow down in the same place every time, throwing up welters of spray), gave him too much time to think. To reflect. To feel guilty. The First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord St Vincent, admittedly a crusty old fellow, said that when an officer married he was "lost to the Service", and Ramage began to suspect he was right. Hardly a minute passed without him thinking and worrying about Sarah, and he was damned sure he could not be blamed because he worried whether his wife was dead or a prisoner. Killed or captured, he told himself bitterly for what must be the millionth time, before their honeymoon was properly over. If only he knew for certain, one way or the other. Yet if he knew that Sarah was dead, there would not be much purpose left to life: it was only the thought that she was a prisoner that gave his life any direction.

  And Gianna. He still loved her, but (he now realized) as though she was a sister. And just as if she was a sister who had done something rash against the family's advice, he was haunted by the question of whether she too was dead or a prisoner. The two women to whom he had been closest. . . and both could be dead. Dead because of him. If he had not rescued Gianna and brought her back to England as a refugee to live with his family, she would not have rushed back towards Volterra in that brief period of peace. And if he had not been sent south on that voyage of exploration, he would not have met Sarah and married her, thus ensuring that she would be on board that damned Murex when it sank or was captured.