Back on board the Calypso, once more dressed in breeches and stockings, shirt, stock and uniform coat, Ramage again reflected wryly that as far as he was concerned the one benefit brought about by the French Revolution was substituting trousers for kneebreeches.
The sans culotte, the "without breeches", could kneel or sit in comfort. Breeches were one of the most uncomfortable, confining garments yet devised for men, and the revolutionaries were sensible to dispose of them, thus ensuring a liberty not envisaged in their windy rhetoric. And, from what he and Sarah had seen during their honeymoon, French women had achieved a similar freedom in refusing to wear corsets. However, this often gave men an unfair advantage: a fellow with skinny shanks or bow legs looked much better in trousers: the tubes of cloth hid the defects. Women in abandoning corsets all too often looked - well, abandoned! Those lucky enough to have slim figures looked very beautiful in the new Grecian style now popular, but the plump women looked like barrels draped in sheets of muslin.
Looking around his cabin at Aitken, Southwick and Hill, all of whom were watching him attentively, waiting to hear his plan for their next move in finding the missing hostages, he wondered what their reaction would be if they knew he had been thinking of sans culottes, and how he hated having to wear breeches, and how plump Frenchwomen fared badly in the Revolution.
"They might be kept prisoner in Santo Stefano despite what our gambling friend said," he commented, "but I doubt it. The Fortezza is the only place big enough to hold them and the guards - and the obvious question to ask ourselves is: 'Why there?' The Orsini Palace in Pitigliano is large, much more comfortable and in every way more suitable. This makes me certain that Santo Stefano was being used simply as a port and that by now a ship has called and taken them somewhere else."
"Dare we risk sailing off to look for them somewhere else when they might still be at the Fortezza, sir?" Southwick asked, adding one of his you-might-be-mistaken sniffs.
Ramage recognized the sniff and smiled. "No, we daren't: I was just coming to that. Because I know Santo Stefano quite well, the cutter will land me tonight on a stretch of beach about a mile east of the port and I'll go in and find out."
"Sir!" Aitken exclaimed. "Surely that's too big a risk compared with what we could possibly gain. Rossi could easily find out. Or young Orsini - it's just the sort of job he'd be good at."
"You'd sooner risk the probable ruler of Volterra than me?"
"Most certainly, sir," Aitken said flatly. "We've Admiralty orders to carry out, and losing you means risking that we can't complete them. It's unfortunate that Orsini might have inherited Volterra at this particular time, but he's simply a midshipman in the King's service. And," he added as an afterthought, "we've never worried before about risking his life."
That was true enough and Ramage imagined Orsini's reaction if he thought he was deliberately being kept out of danger. "Very well, we'll send him in tonight with Rossi."
"May I command the cutter, sir?" Hill asked quickly. "I've a lot to learn about this sort of work. I'm afraid being a lieutenant on board the Salvador del Mundo didn't help much."
"Made you a very good escort for accused officers," Ramage said teasingly.
Hill sighed and then grinned: "With respect, sir, your court-martial changed my life. If I hadn't been your escort and asked if I could serve with you, I'd still be in Plymouth Sound chasing after the admiral and worrying that my stock wasn't properly ironed."
"You're more likely to reach a ripe old age serving in a guardship, waiting on an admiral, than serving as the second lieutenant in a frigate," Ramage said ironically.
Hill shook his head. "No sir, guardships are much more dangerous than frigates."
Ramage raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Yes, sir: every day in a guardship you risk dying of boredom!"
"At least that's painless," Ramage said. "Now, tell the sentry to pass the word for Orsini and Rossi. In the meantime, Hill, let's look at our rough chart of Santo Stefano: I'll show you where the beach is. You have to land there because there are rocks and cliffs everywhere else."
"Jackson, sir," Southwick said.
Ramage stared blankly, then realized what the old master meant. "He'd never have forgiven me!"
When Aitken looked puzzled, Ramage explained. "Some years ago, when we were rescuing Orsini's aunt, Jackson and I had to walk round Santo Stefano without anyone realizing who we were. You'd better take Jackson in the cutter - he'll be able to point out various landmarks to Orsini and Rossi, though there's no need for him to land." He looked round at Hill. "Pass the word for Jackson as well."
When Orsini and the two seamen arrived, Ramage explained what they were to do. When he had finished, Orsini asked: "What arms do we carry?"
Ramage shook his head. "None. As I've just explained, the pair of you are supposed to be from Lucca: you spend half the year traipsing round Tuscany, just pruning olive trees. That story will be convincing to the French provided your clothes are ragged enough, your hands grimy enough, and your pruning knife sharp enough. And you have a sharpening stone tucked in your belt, too."
"We're out of pruning knives, sir," Southwick said ironically. "A few handstones, yes; pruning knives no. You didn't tell me about the olive trees when we were commissioning . . ."
"Do you know what a pruning knife for olive trees looks like?"
"Well, no, sir. I suppose it's a short knife with a curved end."
"That's for pruning grape vines, and disembowelling rabbits; it'd take you a month to prune an olive tree with a small blade like that. No, you need something like a short cutlass, or the machete they use in the West Indies for cutting sugarcane."
"We're out of them, too," Southwick said lugubriously. "You didn't mention sugarcane, either."
Ramage sighed, as though despairing. "I need a new master for this ship. A young man with imagination."
"Maybe," grunted Southwick, "but all that's the gunner's job." With that Southwick knew he had played a trump card, because the Calypso's gunner was a useless man who fled to his cabin rather than accept responsibility for anything. Because he was appointed by the Board of Ordnance (which was controlled by the Army), it was almost impossible to replace him, so Ramage simply ignored him.
Ramage, remembering it was early in the season for pruning but guessing that French soldiers would not know that, looked up at the deckhead, as though thinking. "Ah yes. That two-handed sword of yours. We could put that on the grindstone and grind it down to half its length, and then shape it up."
In a moment Southwick was on his feet, remembering just in time to duck so that he did not bang his head. "Sir! You can't be ..." His voice tapered off as he realized the other officers were laughing. He had made the rare mistake of taking Ramage seriously when he made a straight-faced joke. To recover himself he said: "But of course, for the King's service I'd be willing to sacrifice it."
"Good, thanks: that settles it," Ramage said. "Rossi can have that. Now Orsini, your midshipman's dirk is about the right length."
"It will be fine, sir," Orsini assured him. "Wrapped in a greasy cloth, it'll look just right."
By now Southwick had sat down again and was scratching his head. "I'm sure we could find something like Mr Orsini's dirk ... the cook must have a big knife. The butcher, too."
"But they need them so that we can eat," Ramage said. "No, don't bother your head: your sword will do, and you might get the men to hoist the grindstone up on deck: I expect most of the cutlasses need sharpening as well."
"If you say so, sir," Southwick said, knowing he was beaten.
He had owned the sword for many years; it was the only one he had ever found that had just the right balance. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see to the grindstone now."
Ramage nodded, and Southwick made for the door. Just as he was going through, Ramage said: "Oh, Southwick. It'll take hours of grinding to shorten your sword. Have some men grind down a cutlass to a couple of feet, and round up the point."
The master grinned: it was not often the captain caught him twice ...
"We'll go up on deck and survey Argentario's beaches with the glass, and it'd be a good idea," Ramage said to Hill, Orsini, Rossi and Jackson, "if you get those little headlands fixed in your memory."
For the next half an hour the five men passed the telescope between them. Ramage found the names came back easily. From where the northern causeway joined Argentario, as the telescope swung to the right towards Santo Stefano, there was the Torre Santa Liberata at the end of a small headland; then still going westward the land cut back into a small bay next to a larger one, Cala del Pozzarello, with Torre Calvello guarding it. Then came three small headlands, the last of which was Punta Nera, and then the land sloped sharply down into Santo Stefano itself.
The little port was scooped out of the hills, with several fishing boats hauled up on the only stretch of beach, and looking down on it was the bulky, four-square and curiously dignified Fortezza di Filippo Secundo. And then, at the western end of Argentario (or as far west as they could see from the Calypso), was Punta Lividonia.
Ramage let his memory take over. Just round that headland, the third or fourth bay to the south, was Cala Grande. Some years ago he and Jackson and a few men in an open boat had rowed into there from the Torre di Buranaccio on the mainland with Gianna, badly wounded, a pistol or musket ball still lodged in her. They had put into Cala Grande in the darkness and he and Jackson had climbed up the cliffs and over the hills to Santo Stefano, looking for a doctor to kidnap and take down to the beach ... Was that doctor, who had in fact proved to be a loyal Italian, still alive and living in his house just by the Fortezza? What was it called - ah yes, the Casa di Leone. Yes, that plump little doctor had a lion's heart; his house was aptly named.
Ramage caught Jackson's eye. The American seaman had guessed where his thoughts were. "That doctor, sir. Casa di Leone, wasn't it?"
Ramage nodded. But it was all years ago. Gianna had recovered, spent years in England, and then left for Volterra at the signing of that wretched peace treaty. Now her nephew was going back to Argentario - like Ramage and Jackson he would be disguised. It was curious how Argentario played such a frequent part in all their lives.
The cutter's stem grated as it nosed up on the sand and Rossi jumped over the bow, boots and cutlass in hand. He turned to make sure that Paolo Orsini did not slip as he too jumped. The two of them, after putting their gear higher up the beach out of reach of the wavelets, returned and helped shove off the cutter. The arrangement was simple: the cutter would stay a hundred yards off the beach, out of sight in the darkness, until Hill heard a nightjar call four times, pause and then call again. Paolo was very proud of his imitation of a nightjar, a trick he had learned as a boy in Volterra, where a nightjar regularly hooted from a tree below his bedroom window.
After the boat, oars muffled, disappeared into the night, the two men sat down on long strands of fico dei ottentotti, which grew flat, spreading like a thick net over the sand and in places as deep as a mattress.
"You've got your cutlass?" Orsini asked.
Rossi held up a canvas roll. "All ready, sir."
Rossi was a proud man. He knew he had been singled out by Captain Ramage from some two hundred men on board the Calypso and that his orders were to go into Santo Stefano and find out, at whatever cost, if the hostages were in the Fortezza or had been taken away by sea. At whatever cost: Rossi liked the phrase and rolled it over in his mind again. English was a good language for being exact. Not like French, for instance. No wonder (judging from what Gilbert and his mates said) that French was the language of diplomacy. It seemed to Rossi that in French you could make a violent speech lasting an hour and, even though it was full of bold words and fine phrases, at the end of it you could have promised nothing nor announced anything that mattered, yet leave your audience impressed and inspired. Perhaps that was how the seeds of revolution were sown.
Italian was different. Yes, you could also make long-winded speeches full of fine words, but your listeners would soon spot that although you were throwing up a lot of spray, you were not making a yard to windward. With English you could distinguish the "blow-hard" (another splendid English phrase!) even quicker. That was why elections in England were often violent: the candidate might blow hard for five minutes, but the moment the crowd became bored, the eggs and rocks and jeers flew thick and fast.
Half an hour before the pair of them left the ship Mr Ramage had spoken to them alone in his cabin. A wise man, he was, and a tactful one too. There was Mr Orsini, a midshipman and the head of one of the great families in Italy, and there was ordinary seaman Rossi, late of Genova, about whom no one on board the Calypso knew much, except for Mr Ramage.
Rossi had told him something of his past and Mr Ramage must have guessed the rest. Anyway, Mr Ramage made it clear that Rossi was going because he would not hesitate to slit a throat, and Mr Orsini was going to help Rossi if he needed a lookout, or something like that. Well, Rossi thought, if they succeeded, ordinary seaman Rossi got all the credit; if they failed - well, Midshipman Orsini was in charge and took the blame. This seemed a very fair arrangement to Rossi because, apart from being killed, he could not lose.
Rossi felt a moment's guilt as they reached the track at the back of the beach and turned right towards Santo Stefano, almost immediately finding it became steep as it wended over the small headland marking the western end of the bay. Yes, he did feel rather guilty about the chance of Mr Orsini getting holystoned if they failed because he was one of the nicest people on board the Calypso, officer, warrant officer, petty officer or seaman. He loved going into action (with that damned silly dirk of his, which had too short a blade to keep trouble at a respectable distance); he was curious about everything connected with seamanship. Thoughtful about the men, too: as soon as he saw a rain squall in the distance when he was on watch, for example, he sent the men below for their oilskins. He was the only officer who regularly said "please" except for Mr Ramage, and if you were the captain you could afford to say please.
"This catches the muscles in your shins, doesn't it?" Orsini commented, beginning to puff.
"We need a somaro, so we could hold its tail," Rossi said. "My feet have never worked so hard as this last week. Sixty English miles to Pitigliano and back, I heard Mr Aitken say."
"Yes, sixty. The last time I walked so far - that was a long time ago . . ."
"When you escaped from Volterra, sir?"
"Yes. Most of it at night, like now. I fell into so many ditches that I must have swum a quarter of the way."
"What Mr Ramage said about cutting throats," Rossi said conversationally, "he meant it, and you leave it to me."
"I know. He thinks I couldn't cut a throat in cold blood, but he knows you could."
"Something like that," Rossi said tactfully.
"He's wrong though. I could cut a Frenchman's throat in cold blood just as easily as in action when we board a French ship. You see, I hate them. Mr Ramage and the other officers don't really hate the French: their job is to fight the enemy, and the enemy today is the French, so they fight them. In ten years time it might be the Spanish, or the Austrians. I see it differently. The French have stolen Volterra from my family. They have corrupted many of the leading families, using fear or bribes. Bonaparte rules Europe from the Baltic to the Ionian Sea. His soldiers and sailors glory in it. So people who steal my land and kill my family and corrupt or imprison my people - well, just line up the throats."
Rossi stopped and turned to Orsini in the darkness. "Listen sir, I could have told Mr Ramage that. Being Italian as well, I can guess how you feel. But it's very hard for the English to understand because their country has never been occupied by an enemy. At least, not for hundreds of years. But believe me, even though I'm sure you can cut a throat in cold blood, don't be in a hurry to do it. The first time - well, afterwards you have nightmares. The second and third times aren't much better. So leave it to me. I can sleep soundly when it's over."
"Thank you," Orsini said. "I could do it, but that isn't to say I want to."
The two men walked along the track as it twisted over two more headlands which formed small, rock-strewn bays, and as they began climbing another steeper hill Orsini said: "I think this is Punta Nera: from the top we should see Santo Stefano."
Five minutes later, breathless, they looked down on Santo Stefano: a large bay and a smaller beyond it and the Fortezza above in the hills, keeping guard over both of them. Houses lined the big bay and Orsini could see fishing boats hauled up on the beach, and what must be nets drying on frames. Yes, just as it looked from seaward in daylight: a small fishing port surrounded by hills and guarded by (unless one knew the part Aragon and Spain itself had played in Tuscan history) a fortress which seemed larger than necessary.
"Andiamo," Rossi said, but Orsini held his arm for a moment.
"Can you see the Calypso?"
The two men stared into the darkness. They knew where she was anchored, and finally Rossi said: "I think there's a darker patch. Look, can you make out Talamone in the distance? Well, in line with Monte dell' Uccellina behind it and halfway to Talamone - the dark -"
"I see it," Orsini said. "A long way to swim."
Rossi shivered. "Don't even joke about it, sir."
The hill running steeply down into Santo Stefano was long and deeply rutted where sudden rainstorms had washed away the thin layer of red earth to lay bare the rock beneath. At times the track twisted like a snake to show where donkeys and their owners scrambled from one side to the other, as though each rock was a stepping stone, but even in the darkness both men could see that some of the exposed stone was vertical, miniature precipices only a few inches high but enough to cause a fall, to break a limb of donkey or man.
"No need for us to be quiet," Orsini said, "so we can curse as much as we like. Do you know any choice Lucchesi curses?"
"I don't care how they curse in Lucca," Rossi said, tripping as he spoke, "but I know what they say in Genova and Volterra and it means the same as I'm saying now!"
Slowly they worked their way down the hill and in the darkness it seemed to Orsini that the little town of Santo Stefano was slowly rising to meet them: already the Fortezza, though still distant, was higher. In daylight a sentry on the battlements would see them clearly.
The Fortezza was their target. Mr Ramage reckoned that if there were no signs of a French garrison there, then the hostages had gone, because there was nowhere else to keep them. So it was down into the valley (which ran into the bay, and gave its name to one of the town's quarters) and up the other side, a careful look round, question someone and then back again to the cutter. Then Orsini began to have doubts: he had been at sea long enough to worry when everything appeared to be going well.
The track turned now to cross the nearer side of the town and first one and then several dogs began to bark as they passed the first few houses. A man came to a door and swore at them, his voice sleepy.
Rossi and Orsini spoke to each other in Italian, the gossiping conversation to be expected of two men arriving at night in a strange town. The track forked but a glance upwards showed which was the more likely to lead to the Fortezza.
It took them fifteen minutes to reach the open square in front of it, and Rossi muttered to Orsini: "You stay here while I have a look. The gateway is on this side."
With that the seaman disappeared silently into the blackness before Orsini had a chance to argue. Suddenly, squatting down on a large rock which, from the foot and hoof prints surrounding it and dried in the earth, was used by the peasants for mounting mules, Orsini felt tired: for most of the walk from the boat he had been excited, but now he was almost sure the town was empty of the French: if there were hostages in the Fortezza, surely there would be French soldiers on patrol, or a sentry on the track, which was the only way to Santo Stefano by land.
The shout was followed immediately by the crack of a pistol shot. For a moment he heard the noise echo and re-echo across the valley below. He had not seen a flash, but it was close and must be at the Fortezza. Should he go there - and risk missing Rossi, who would expect to find him here (assuming Rossi had not been killed)? A second pistol shot was followed by scurrying feet: one man was coming towards him. The footfalls were not regular; they were more like those of a drunken husband trying to stagger home without his wife hearing. Then Orsini heard cursing at regular intervals: not loud - but now the Genovese accent was unmistakable.
"Rossi! Over here, Rossi!"
"Andiamo!" Rossi said as Orsini ran towards him and led the way down the track.
"What's happened? Are the French after us?"
"Yes, but don't worry; sono ubriachi. The whole lot of them."
"All drunk? You're sure? How many?"
Rossi lurched and Orsini grabbed his arm to prevent him falling. "I'll explain when we get up to Punta Nera."
"Are the hostages there?"
"No . . . just a small garrison . . ."
At that moment Orsini felt a curious dampness soaking through Rossi's sleeve.
"You're wounded! Here, let me look!"
"It's nothing and it's too dark to see," Rossi said hurriedly. "Come on, we've got to get back to the cutter. The hostages aren't there: that's what matters. We'll find out where they went before we leave the town. Have you got your dirk?"
"Yes, why?"
"I'll need it. Lost my cutlass when they caught me, before that stronzo shot me."
Rossi was swaying on his feet. Orsini did not know whether to force the man to have a rest or hurry him back to the cutter quickly: it was a toss up either way if he was bleeding badly.
Together they stumbled down the hill and at the first house showing a light Rossi said gruffly: "Your dirk."
Orsini handed it over. "What are you going to do?"
"Wait here!" Rossi said and walked up to the doorway, ripping aside the sacking which covered it. Orsini saw him point to something inside the room and hurried up to stand at the doorway.
Rossi now stood, white-faced, just inside the tiny room. A plump and bleary-eyed man sat at the table, a mug in one hand and a jug of wine in front of him. A raddled old woman sat at one end of what passed for a bed, watching Rossi with sharp but frightened eyes. A young woman was at the other end of the bed holding a baby in her arms and breast-feeding it.
With a tremendous effort the man raised his head and focused his eyes on Rossi. "Wha' did you say?"
"The French: did they have any prisoners here?"
"Don' know. Shoot me, because they would if I told you."
"I'll cut your throat if you don't," Rossi said waving the dirk, "so it looks as though your mug of wine is turning to vinegar."
"His arm is bleeding badly," the young woman said, and as if she thought the man was too drunk to notice, added: "He's a Genovese, like my cousin Umberto. He's not French."
"You seem to know everything," the man said, his voice slurred. He reached for the jug and knocked it over, the wine spreading across the table and dripping to the floor. He muttered a curse, folded his arms on the table in front of him, and pillowed his head. To Orsini it seemed he was snoring in a moment.
Rossi spoke to the young woman. "You have nothing to fear. We are Italians. All we need to know is what happened to all the English prisoners the French brought to the Fortezza."
"They were English?" The old woman asked, lisping because she was toothless. "The French are supposed to fight them but -" she cackled mirthlessly, "- but not here. All they do here, the French, is steal our wine and get drunk and chase the young women. No one is safe. My daughter here, and her nursing the baby, well, 1 could tell you a story -"
"Quiet mother," the young woman said, tucking one breast back into her shift and bringing out the other, and holding the baby to it. "Segnore, sit down here -" she touched the bed beside her. "You look as though you will faint. Get him some wine, mother. Quickly now!"
Rossi lurched forward and Orsini helped him to sit down, taking the dirk at the same time. The old woman produced another jug, picked up the mug in front of the sleeping man, wiped it with the hem of her skirt and filled it. "Drink this," she told Rossi, "although you're in no state to appreciate how good it is. We have no food until my son-in-law goes fishing tomorrow. Just some bread and goat milk cheese."
Rossi shook his head. "No, the wine is enough. It is good wine. I must apologize, ladies, for my rough appearance, but we have little time."
The young woman nodded. "Yes, we heard two shots. Were you hit twice?"
"No, the first hit me with a ricochet. The second missed."
"Shall I bandage it for you - washing in wine cleans a wound."
Rossi turned to the young woman. "It is kind of you signora, but the wound is of no significance. But if you could tell us..."
"The French arrived with their prisoners about three weeks ago - from Orbetello, I understand. Then a week later a French ship came into the port, and the prisoners and the new French soldiers went on board. The old French soldiers - the ones always at the Fortezza - stayed there. Then the ship sailed."
"Was it a big ship?"
"You can see for yourself when it gets light: she has come back. She is anchored out in the bay, halfway to Talamone."
Rossi nodded. So it had been a French frigate, and the good people of Santo Stefano thought the Calypso was the same ship. "Yes, I saw her out there. You are sure all the prisoners - the English, I mean - were taken away in this ship?"
"Yes. My husband was selling the French some fish to feed them. The French actually paid. My husband was sorry to see the prisoners go. We need the money," she added, as if justifying selling to the French.
"But you do not know where the French ship was taking the prisoners?"
"No. Once a ship goes round Punta Madonella, one cannot see the direction she takes."
Rossi sat for a few minutes with his head between his knees as another wave of faintness made him feel he was being drawn into a black pit.
Orsini thought of the long climb back to the beach where the cutter was to collect them. He helped Rossi to his feet. "Thank you, signora," he said to the old woman, and then turned to her daughter. "Signora, have no fear; the French will never know we have been here. Your baby -"
"My son," the woman said quickly, knowing how stupid men were in recognizing the sex of young babies.
"Ah, a son eh? Has he been named yet?"
The woman shook her head. "The priest has been very ill."
"Include 'Paolo' among his names, signora, for luck. And one day in the future, several years perhaps, try to find out who rules Volterra."
"You are from Volterra," the woman said quickly, "I recognize the accent. 'Paolo'," she said softly. "It is a nice name. Yours, I think."
Paolo nodded. "In better times, perhaps, I can come back and see how the boy has grown up."
The woman nodded. "Goodbye, signore. Look after your friend."
Paolo helped Rossi down to the port, sat him on a pile of nets and then inspected the fishing boats. By chance the smallest one was nearest the water's edge and had oars and thole pins in it. He lifted the bow and pulled, finally getting it into the water. He was just looking round for the painter when Rossi lurched up and half collapsed across the gunwale. Orsini helped him in and then scrambled after him. "More comfortable to row round to meet Mr Hill," he said. "And not a throat cut."
Rossi's arm throbbed. Mr Bowen had cleaned the wound with spirits (giving him a tot of rum first, saying with a reassuring grin that it would take the sting away) and then put in five stitches. Rossi had often heard of people "being stitched up" but had never thought much about it. Watching Mr Bowen at work with needle and thread he realized that it was just that: stitching, like mending a shot hole in a sail; holding together two flaps of skin that would otherwise gape open and slipping the needle in. Rossi had done the same sort of thing hundreds of times, only he was joining torn canvas. Mr Bowen was thorough. As soon as Rossi had described how the bullet had ricocheted off the wall before hitting him, the surgeon had wanted to know about the wall. Was it brick, stone, stucco? It was a startling question, and Rossi had been able to answer only by elimination. No, it had not been stone. Nor brick. Then he remembered noticing soot from the lamps and round the big fireplace. Yes, it was stucco, and as he thought more he remembered the cracks in it looking like veins in an old man's legs.
He had wondered why Mr Bowen was so interested, and the surgeon explained as he washed the cut with spirits: a bullet hitting stucco and then bouncing off would pick up some of the sand and gesso used to make the stucco and leave perhaps some of it in the wound, so it was best to clean it.
Now, with his arm held diagonally across his chest by a sling, Rossi waited outside Mr Ramage's cabin door while the Marine sentry called his name and, receiving an answer, opened the door.
Rossi found the captain seated at his desk with Mr Hill in the armchair beside it and Mr Orsini on the settee.
"Ah, Rossi, how are you?"
"Bene, grazie, commandante."
"Not too 'bene', I trust, or Mr Aitken will have you holystoning the deck tomorrow morning. Sit down there, beside Mr Orsini. Is that arm of yours going to be all right?"
"Just a flesh wound, Mr Bowen says. He's put in a few stitches. He'd be a good sailmaker in an emergency, sir."
"I'll remember that. And I hope you watched carefully when he fixed up your arm: we might need a surgeon's mate."
"I faint at the sight of blood, commandante," Rossi said quickly. "Since I was a child . . ."
Ramage nodded. "I'll remember that, too. No blood for Rossi. Now, tell me what happened at the Fortezza. Mr Hill has got me as far as the beach, and Mr Orsini as far as the square in front of the Fortezza."
"Allora," Rossi said. "I thought it would be easier for one person to get in, so I asked Mr Orsini to wait outside." Then, realizing that this might be interpreted as a criticism he added: "Mr Orsini is more used to storming such a building: he hasn't had my experience as a burglar."
"You too, eh?" Ramage raised his eyebrows. "I thought that Stafford was our only night worker."
Rossi shrugged his shoulders and looked modest. "When times were hard and there was no other work . . ."
Ramage gave a dry laugh, guessing what the "other work" was.
"Well, there was no sentry at the entrance to the Fortezza. You remember the little bridge over that dry moat, sir? Those boards creaked, but the gates were open and I could hear voices - from a guardroom, I supposed.
"The men inside were obviously drinking and playing cards, so I had a good look round the rest of the Fortezza. There was no one. Then, I'm afraid, I was too confident. Going out I thought I'd just walk past the guardroom, but two men came out with a lantern, saw me and made me go inside. None of them spoke Italian and several of them started shouting and waving pistols. But -"
"Did you get any idea who they thought you were?" Ramage interrupted.
"Yes, sir: they suspected I was a local Italian looking for something to steal. Two of them went out to inspect their quarters to see if anything was missing, taking one of the two lanterns with them. One of the men left behind started searching me while another held up the remaining lantern, waving a pistol at me. He was very drunk."
"Then what happened?" Ramage prompted.
"I kicked the man with the lantern. He dropped it but fired his pistol at the same time - accidentally, I think. That was the bullet that ricocheted round the room and hit me. I bolted for the door in the darkness and someone else fired another shot - I don't know where that went. As I ran out of the gateway I heard Mr Orsini call my name, to show where he was, and I was very grateful because my arm was useless and I was beginning to feel dizzy. After that Mr Orsini did everything."
"That's not what Mr Orsini says," Ramage remarked.
"Well, sir, he helped me down the hill and there was a contadino's hut with a lantern. We went in and the women told us that a French ship had taken away the hostages: confirming the unlucky gambler's story completely."
"Did you threaten these women?"
Rossi glanced quickly at Orsini, obviously puzzled. "No, sir. There was no need. The man was completely drunk and he fell asleep while we talked to him."
Ramage laughed and reassured the seaman. "I asked only because Mr Orsini said that although you were swaying and he thought you'd faint any moment, you charmed the old woman and the mother with her baby."
Rossi's face went red. He was not a man to blush, but he was pleased at the midshipman's compliment. "Well, sir, the women were proprie Toscane. They wanted to help once they discovered we were Italian. I know I was nearly fainting," he said with a grin, "but I remember Mr Orsini suggesting a name for the little baby, who hadn't been christened yet."
Ramage looked round at Orsini with eyebrows raised.
"Just polite talk, sir; I wanted to make sure she would not gossip. That reminds me, they thought we - the Calypso, that is - were the ship that took the hostages away, and that we had returned to anchor out here."
"Both of you are sure there was no hint of where the hostages were being taken?"
Rossi and Orsini shook their heads, Rossi wincing as the quick movement jarred his arm.
"Very well, my thanks to the pair of you. I gather that Mr Hill was about to shoot you both when you rowed round to Cala Pozzarello in that fisherman's boat. That wasn't the time to forget the nightjar call and start shouting, Mr Orsini."
Orsini looked embarrassed. "I've always dreaded something like that, sir, and finally it happened . . ."
"You were lucky Mr Hill recognized your voice."
Ramage stood up. "Pass the word for Mr Aitken and Mr Southwick as you go out, please," he told Hill, "and hoist in the boats."
When Southwick and Aitken arrived, he pulled the Tyrrhenian Sea chart from the rack above, opened it and held it down with paperweights.
"Very well, Mr Southwick, so Bonaparte's villains have decamped with our birds. Where do you think we should start looking?"
"The islands, sir: that's about all I have to offer. I can't see the French using a ship to move them up or down the mainland coast: they marched them to Pitigliano from somewhere up north."
"From Florence, sir?" Aitken asked. "Isn't that the most likely place to find a crowd of wealthy English enjoying themselves when the war started again?"
Ramage nodded. "I'd expect to find them in Rome or Florence. A few in Naples, perhaps. But most of them visiting the artistic treasures of Florence."
He thought for a minute or two, his imagination spreading a map of northern Italy in front of him. Yes, Florence was most likely. All the English visitors (and Scots, Welsh and Irish) might have been rounded up there, like so many cattle, and then the French would have sorted out the important ones and selected their hostages . . . Hmmm . . . hostages meant people both special and different, and the French would separate them from the others. And intended to keep them separate? Yes, but where? Well, the obvious needs were reasonable accommodation and good security. The Palazzo degli Orsini at Pitigliano had been perfect in every respect.
He opened a pair of dividers and measured the distance between Florence and Pitigliano. About one hundred miles, more by the twisting roads. So ... that told him the French did not hesitate to march the hostages one hundred miles. That in turn probably meant they would not hesitate to march them two or three hundred miles: there was no hurry, and there was precious little else to occupy the Army of Italy at the moment.
The conclusion to be drawn from all that? Well, the fact that the hostages had been put on board a ship (on board a frigate that by chance looked like the Calypso: a sister ship, probably, because it was a very successful design) must mean that they were being moved to somewhere not accessible by land.
An island, in other words. Sardinia, Corsica? No, he had ruled them out earlier because of bandits and guerrillas. The French were not popular in either island and the hostages might be killed or freed: there was no certainty either way.
Which left the tiny islands just off the north coast of Sicily (which did not seem likely) or those in the Tyrrhenian Sea. Which was what Southwick had just said, although, Ramage noted ruefully, that was Southwick's instinct; Ramage had reached the same conclusion by a more devious route.
"It won't take long to check them all, sir," Aitken said.
"Providing we don't meet a French squadron - or even the French frigate that took them away from here."
"Heh," snorted Southwick, "it's been a long time since we had a decent action: the ship's company are getting soft."
"Don't tell Rossi that," Ramage said as he measured off a distance on the chart with the dividers. "We'll weigh at dusk - then no one keeping a watch from Argentario or Talamone will be sure where we are bound. Not," he added, remembering Orsini's words earlier, "that anyone thinks we are anything but a French national ship."