Ramage's Challenge r-15

by Dudley Pope

  He turned to Aitken. "Crawl alongside me and have a good look round." He passed on Orsini's observations, and Aitken nodded. "Let's hope Hill has seen that sentry," he murmured, echoing Ramage's thoughts. "If he times it right, it could give us an extra couple of minutes. . ."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A nightjar in a clump of olive trees over to the west of the fort kept up its lonely and monotonous quark . . . quark, a call so regular that Ramage stopped timing the seconds and used the bird. Otherwise there was silence. Then the sentry at the wicket gate coughed and spat, the silence making him seem much closer than thirty yards. The moon shadows cast by the boltheads made the big wooden gates look speckled with a heavy black rash.

  The sentry up on the battlements, now almost at the opposite side from Hill and his party, sneezed violently and apparently startled the nightjar, which missed a beat. Had something happened to Hill? Had he missed his way? No, that was impossible: he had only to follow the edge of the cliff and then strike through the macchia towards the fort.

  Ramage stared at the sentry beside the gate. Not beside it but leaning back against it. He was too far away to see if his eyes were shut, but Rossi could be right: the man was probably dozing standing up.

  Ramage sniffed, and sniffed again. He held his breath, trying to sort out the smells. Sage and thyme, yes, but... He sniffed again. Yes, there was the sharper smell of bonfire smoke. Both Orsini and Aitken then nudged him simultaneously from either side. Burning (smouldering, anyway) sage and grass - not a strong smell, just a whiff, really. And then another whiff, stronger this time, and a third.

  He twisted his body to the right so that he could look over to the windward side of the fort, then he watched the sentry at the wicket gate. The man did not move: grass and macchia fires were common enough at this time of the year, and anyway once the macchia really started blazing there was nothing to be done. If the flames spread to olive groves, the effect was spectacular: an olive tree started flaming and then suddenly exploded like a great firework as all the oil in the fruit (if they were still on the tree), the leaves and the branches blazed fiercely with the heat of a furnace so that a small pile of fine grey powder would be all that remained of a large tree; the kind of ash left by a good cigar.

  More whiffs and then the smell became constant - and yes, beyond and to windward of Forte della Stella there was now a faint pinkish-yellow glow, a glow which grew brighter as Ramage watched, and seemed to throb.

  He heard Aitken sigh and mutter: "It's going to work, sir."

  The sentry on the battlements suddenly started shouting and then the other sentry at the wicket gate seemed to wake with a start, pause a minute or two and then dash into the fort, yelling - presumably at the guardhouse because Ramage almost immediately heard more confused shouting coming through the wicket gate.

  While the glow increased until the whole eastern side of the fort was awash in a reddish-yellow light, a bugle suddenly blared out urgently inside the fort, obviously sounding an alarm, and a moment later several men rushed out through the wicket gate and, pausing a moment to get their bearings, turned left and then ran round the fortress walls towards the glow which, even as they reached one of the points of the star, began flickering: an indication that what had begun as something small like a bonfire was becoming a rapidly spreading blaze.

  "Eight . . . nine . . . thirteen . . . fourteen . . ." Ramage counted as Frenchmen came hurrying through the gate. "Most are carrying muskets. Here come more!" He continued counting. Twenty-one men had run round towards the burning macchia by the time he stopped, and Ramage was satisfied that even the sentry on the battlements had left his post to join the others, who presumably proposed trying to beat out the flames.

  "The sentries guarding the hostages will be the only ones left behind," Ramage said. His stomach was knotted with tension; his knees seemed to have lost their strength even though he was lying down. He grasped his cutlass, muttered a warning to Aitken and Orsini and, turning his head towards the men lying in the macchia behind him, snapped: "Get ready ... on your feet. . . follow me!"

  With that he rushed across the gravel towards the wicket gate, tugging a pistol from his waistband with his left hand. Aitken, Orsini and Rossi were racing each other to be the first through the little doorway while behind him it seemed a cart was unloading gravel as twenty men charged across the parade ground. Although Orsini just beat him to the door, the moment he was through Ramage looked to his right: yes, there was the guardroom, and in front was an inner courtyard formed by the walls of the fort itself. The blazing macchia had become an enormous lantern which showed the guardroom door swinging open: every man in it must have bolted outside.

  Half left - yes, that door must lead to the two big rooms where the hostages should be, and he swung round towards it, slowing from a run to a brisk walk. Suddenly, the door flung open and a man stood in the opening, saw Ramage and the men behind him, and grabbed a musket. As Ramage realized that he and his party were lit by the burning macchia, now behind them, the Frenchman took one look at the gleaming cutlass blades, shouted a challenge and raised his musket.

  Hearing the click as the Frenchman cocked the lock of the musket and knowing he had no time to change to his right, Ramage fired his pistol left-handed. The man collapsed, his musket going off as he toppled over, and Ramage heard the whining "spang" as the ball ricocheted off one of the walls.

  One down - but how many more left in there? Any one of us running through that door is a perfect target for other sentries inside. No time to think: drop the empty pistol, switch cutlass over to the left hand, tug out the second pistol with the right, cock the lock, and now he was hurling himself through the door, waiting for an agonizing pain as a musket ball slammed into his stomach.

  A small hall - anteroom, rather. A man at the far side, crouching and shouting, a musket on the ground in front of him. Yes, another guard who did not understand what was going on but, seeing his comrade shot dead, had the wit to throw down his gun and surrender to whatever was the threat.

  "Rossi!" Ramage shouted and saw the Italian dash past him heading for the cringing man, anticipating the order. By then Ramage had the next door open and found himself in a short corridor with a door at each end. Which first? He snatched a lantern from its hook and turned left. The damned door was locked but even as he tugged at the handle Rossi pushed him to one side without a word, trying one large key. No, it would not turn. He gave it to Ramage. "The other door," he said as he thrust a second key into the lock, wrenched the door open and flung it back.

  Ramage saw that a lantern inside showed several people in the room and, turning to Aitken, snapped: "You look after this crowd. Rossi took the keys from that last sentry: I'll open the other door."

  By now the corridor was full of men: Ramage found Jackson and Stafford beside him and the American grabbed the lantern, holding it up high as Ramage fitted the key in the lock of the other door. It turned easily and, flinging the door open, he jumped rather than leapt inside, covering as many of a group of men as he could with his pistol. None was armed but all seemed frozen as they stared at Ramage, who was lit from behind by the lantern which Jackson still held high.

  "Who are you all?" Ramage shouted.

  "English prisoners . . . British hostages .. . Are you British? . . . What's all the shooting? ... Is the fortress on fire . . .?"

  Ramage held up his hand. "Please, you're all shouting at once! I'm Ramage, from His Majesty's frigate Calypso. If you are hostages follow that man, Mr Orsini, and hurry: he'll lead you along a track to a cliff top and then down to our boats. But hurry: don't stop for clothes or personal treasures!"

  "The women!" one of the men shouted, "they're in the other room!"

  "By now they're on their way to the Calypso," Ramage snapped. "We found them first! Now, hurry along! Orsini? Ah, there you are. Get moving - you don't need any lantern thanks to Hill's men setting the macchia ablaze!"

  He stood back as the hostages hurried out. He saw t
wo men kneeling down on the ground. "What the devil are you doing?"

  "Putting on shoes!"

  "Get out!" Ramage said angrily. "Run barefoot - a few blisters on your feet won't matter: if you don't hurry you'll have twenty Frenchmen using you for target practice!"

  The two men hurriedly followed the others, leaving Jackson and Stafford waiting for orders. Suddenly a cursing Southwick stumbled into the room. "So help me, all the damned birds have flown!"

  "What happened to you?"

  "That guardroom: you didn't wait to inspect it!"

  "It was empty - the door was swinging."

  "Ha!" Southwick sniffed. "Well, I found three French soldiers lying on cots, trying to sober up and understand what was going on! A fourth was already on his feet, roused by the shots and trying to load a pistol."

  "Where are they now?" Ramage demanded.

  "Waiting for a burial party," Southwick growled, and Ramage saw that at least a foot of the master's sword blade did not reflect the lantern light: instead it was a dull reddish-black.

  "Right," Ramage said. "That's the two groups of hostages and the Marines on their way. 1 hope Orsini doesn't curse in Italian because it'll make the men suspicious."

  "That's all right, sir," Southwick said. "I sent young 'Blower' along with him to whip up the dullards and no one'd ever mistake him for a foreigner."

  "Just look round in here in case any of the prisoners did leave any treasures behind and start grumbling," Ramage told Jackson, who walked round with the lantern.

  "Shall we blow this place up?" Southwick enquired eagerly. "I've a fifteen-minute length of slowmatch tied round my middle."

  "Only fifteen minutes? A stomach like that will take an hour's length! No, we won't blow it up, it's more of an ornament than a threat if we ever want to attack Port' Ercole again. Nothing, Jackson, just clothing? Right, let's get back to the ship."

  Outside the courtyard the light was by now even brighter: several acres of macchia must be burning, the fire steadily spreading across the sage, juniper and thyme, fanned by the breeze that had earlier worried Ramage.

  Southwick paused for a moment, looking round at the fortress walls which were harshly outlined by the flames beyond. "Those buckets - must admit I didn't think they'd work, sir. I thought the banging about would put out the coils of slow match burning in the bottom."

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "If the buckets didn't work, the alternatives were having men holding burning match as they made their way up the cliff and along the top, or having them scratching away in the macchia with flint and steel, and then lighting slowmatch. And you know that's the time when the flint won't spark - or it starts raining and the tinder gets soaking wet."

  Ramage led the way out through the wicket gate and almost immediately a small red eye winked over on his left and a musket ball thudded into the heavy gates a foot away.

  "Quickly - out, or we'll be trapped," Ramage snapped. "The blasted French are coming back!"

  Several more musket shots sent balls thudding into the gate and Ramage could see that the French were returning the way they had run out, but keeping closer to the walls. He knew he had one advantage - the burning macchia outlined the French, while the four Britons were against the dark walls of the fort, lit only by the general glow of the flames.

  But the French had muskets - which they were no doubt busily reloading now - while the four Britons had only pistols. The French could fire at two hundred yards' range; the Calypsos would be lucky to hit anything at twenty.

  Did the hostages get away safely? They must have: there were no bodies lying between the door and the edge of the macchia. Very well, every minute he could hold this damned French garrison here at the fort gave the hostages an extra minute to reach the cliff and scramble down to the boats.

  As he crouched against the fort's wall beside the gates Ramage could see the French troops forming up in two lines, the nearest kneeling and the second standing. He pointed them out to Southwick. "A regular firing squad!"

  Southwick gave an uneasy sniff. "They must have twenty muskets. They'll just pick us off one by one as we bolt across this gravel . . ."

  "That's five musket balls each," Ramage commented. "Still, gravel isn't suitable for a quadrille, so we must keep these fellows occupied for a while."

  With that he raised his pistol, aimed carefully at the French (noticing an officer pacing up and down behind the two files of men, obviously giving orders) and fired. The ball might reach - with enough impact to break an egg.

  Turning to Jackson and Stafford, he said: "Fire at them - not together, just enough for the flashes to make them nervous."

  Hurriedly he reloaded his own pistol, cursing that he had thrown away the other one. Powder, wad, ball, ram, wad, ram: flip open the pan cover, priming powder into the pan, snap the cover closed, rammer slid back under the barrel, cock the lock...

  He looked up to see the row of French muskets again winking red eyes but heard only an occasional ball ricochet from the wall.

  "They can't see us: they're aiming at the flashes of our pistols. Reload, but don't fire again until I give the word."

  Yes, the French would be puzzled, with a couple of acres of macchia to windward of the fortress blazing merrily and obviously set on fire by whoever was attacking the fort. Looking at the dancing flames, Ramage guessed that the garrison commander must reckon it was the work of more than twenty men. Then he had seen men - only four - coming out of the fort, but he would think that no enemy dare attack with fewer than - well, seventy-five men: fifty to attack the fort while twenty-five set fire to the macchia. The Frenchmen must be worrying where the other forty-six were . . .

  No wonder the commander was not leading a charge back into the fort: he must suspect that by now the hostages were released, even though still inside the fort.

  Ramage almost laughed aloud as he pictured the Gallic shrug: why walk into trouble when they could cover the gateway and pick off the attackers and hostages as they tried to escape ...

  The Frenchman would have counted four men and assumed that dozens more were to come. He must assume they were either Italian guerrillas or British, but it was unlikely that he realized that most had already left the fort before he came in sight of the wicket gate. He would think he was seeing the first four, never guessing they were the last.

  "Southwick, work your way along there -" Ramage pointed inland, away from the flames and the waiting French, "- and after twenty yards fire at our friends over there."

  "But it's hard enough to hit 'em at this range without adding another twenty yards!" Southwick protested.

  "You're not supposed to hit them," Ramage said ironically. "The muzzle flash represents another twenty of us waiting to attack the wily French."

  "Oh, I see," Southwick said. "A good idea."

  As the master crept away, keeping close to the wall, Jackson said: "Supposing I do the same thing that way, towards the French, sir?"

  Ramage looked along the foot of the wall. When the clouds let the moonlight flood down, the overhanging battlements threw shadows, and the flames from the macchia were increasing and making a confusing flicker. "Very well. Ten yards the other side of the gate, no more."

  "That leaves me, sir," Stafford said. "Can I make a bolt for it -" he gestured across the gravel-covered open space, "- and shout loud enough to seem like a company of Marines gettin' ready in the macchiaT'

  One man crouching low and moving fast to make a surprise move? It would probably work. "Very well, but don't fire twice from the same place, otherwise you'll get musket balls falling on you like bird shot."

  Stafford was off and halfway across the open space before Ramage had time to say anything more: the Cockney went off like a hare breaking cover - and, like a hare, he was jinking before disappearing into the macchia.

  From behind, Ramage heard the thud of Southwick's pistol, followed a minute later by Jackson firing. Ramage glanced across the open square, looking where Stafford had vanished, but the pisto
l flash when it came was several yards to the left, nearer to the French. He guessed the Cockney was hoping to make the French think he had merely joined (taking orders to?) a group hidden in the macchia solely to cover the gateway.

  That poor French commander, Ramage thought, must think he is almost surrounded. He was still chuckling when a row of red flashes beyond and to the right of the French sent the two files of soldiers rushing to the fort's wall so that it protected their rear while they grouped into a half-circle to defend themselves against more attacks.

  Ramage fired his pistol at the group, not that he expected to hit anyone but the muzzle flash would show Hill (for obviously it was him with his bucket men) where some of his shipmates were. Stafford fired again, from a different position, then Southwick's pistol barked, followed by Jackson's.

  Where were the hostages now - at the cliff top? Embarking in the boats? Ramage cursed because he had seen only the men. They seemed spry enough, but what about the women? Was there a rheumaticky and querulous old dowager among them, arguing the toss all the way to the cliffs? Well, even if there had been half a dozen, Aitken and Rennick had enough sturdy men to piggyback them to the cliff top.

  His watch showed that, surprisingly, time was now racing instead of slowing down: the hostages had been gone a good twenty minutes. Another crackle of pistol fire and red dots, like bloodshot fireflies, showed that Hill knew what he was about and was now closer to the French.

  Nevertheless, Ramage decided that they had delayed possible pursuit by the French for long enough: now was the time for all the remaining British to disappear into the darkness, making sure only that the French had no idea of the direction they took. To the French the Calypso must remain a French frigate quite innocently anchored in the lee of Isolotto, unaware of a dastardly attack on the fort by - well, Italian guerrillas probably, since they had only pistols, not muskets. . .

  Would Hill hear a hail at this distance? Did any of these Frenchmen understand English? While he thought of a phrase that Hill would understand, Ramage called to Jackson, Stafford and Southwick: "When I give the word, run inland until you pick up the track that went on to Port' Ercole. Turn left along it and run for the clifftop."