"Ramage's Challenge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pope Dudley)

CHAPTER FIVE

For once Ramage was thankful that his clerk was an unimaginative man: when Ramage hastily transferred from the Murex to the Calypso after the escape from Brest, he had stuffed all his documents into a canvas bag and forgotten them.

Now, when he wanted to examine some of those documents again (they included excellent original French passes with only the names faked), he assumed they had been thrown away - until he casually mentioned them to the clerk, who disappeared without comment to return a few minutes later from his tiny cabin-cum-office with the greyish-blue sheets, several of them headed by the French National government seal. Six sets of documents, used for the escape of the four Frenchmen (who were now members of the Calypso's crew), for himself, and for Sarah . . .

Like rescuing Gianna, that wild rush in Brest seemed a lifetime ago; the only proof that it had ever happened was the sight of the four Frenchmen carrying out their duties on board the Calypso - and yes, these documents he now held in his hand. No Sarah, no Murex. But do not start thinking about all that now, he warned himself. Examine the documents and think how you can get hold of some more sheets of this crudely made paper so favoured by French authority.

There were three types of documents. He was not so interested in the wording as in the seals of the various ministries at the top of each page. The first paper was a passeport, issued by the local Committee of Public Safety. He remembered Gilbert (who had obtained them so that they could go into Brest from the Count of Rennes' ch#226;teau, where they were trapped) explaining that there were in fact two kinds of passeport - one for foreigners, and another for French citizens visiting another town. A passeport for a Frenchman allowed the holder to travel back and forth from his own town or village to a named town: visiting a third town required yet another passeport. Anyway, at the top of the first page were the arms of the French Republic and underneath was a printed form, the various blank spaces filled in with a pen.

The next document (intended for Sarah) bore the coat of arms of the province of Brittany and certified that she had been born in Falaise, in Normandy, but on marriage had removed to Brittany. More important, it was signed by the pr#233;fet of Brittany.

The third document was headed with the printed words "Libert#233;Egalit#233;", and centred between the two words was an oval with an anchor symbol in the centre and "Rep.Fran.Marin" round the inside. Yes, he had remembered correctly the stationery of the Ministry of Marine and Colonies. Although the document itself and the signatures were genuine, the rest of the details were false - it was a discharge from the Navy of France.

Unfortunately, he had no document issued by the French War Ministry; but he decided that of the Ministry of Marine (with a sufficiently bullying manner when presenting it) would be enough.

He held up a page to the light. Very poor-quality paper: it had a sad greyness that with a black border would serve for sending a letter of condolence to a defrocked cleric. Yet would a guard or the commandant of a prison expect documents always to be written or printed on the same quality paper? Surely a few ministries must have decent notepaper. This stuff was the best that the papermakers could produce (or all that the Republic would pay for) after years of blockade by the Royal Navy. Now, during that eighteen months of peace, surely some ministries had managed to get better paper. Anyway, that would be a good enough explanation, particularly if given in the sort of hectoring voice which implied that anyone doubting it was not au courant with the present situation in Paris.

Now he must talk to Gilbert, who had obtained these documents in France. Presumably the French system, with barri#232;res every few miles along most roads and at the approaches to all towns, would not be used in Italy, if only because it would need thousands of men. Nevertheless the French Army of Italy was one of occupation . . . sentries, paid spies, cavalry patrols, all would be needed.

Ramage called the Marine sentry to pass the word for Gilbert. A couple of minutes later he told the Marine to send for Midshipman Orsini as well: it was now two or three years since Paolo had escaped from Volterra and made his way to England by way of Naples, but he might remember some French regulations which could help prevent mistakes.

How much to tell them? It would be asking a lot of Gilbert not to relate to the rest of his mess (Jackson, Stafford, Rossi and the other three Frenchmen) why the captain had sent for him. Orsini would keep his mouth shut because, apart from anything else, it concerned his own country, and he would not want to risk any slips. Which led to the decision whether or not to take him.

Paolo might by now be the new ruler of Volterra: that was the first consideration. If Gianna was dead, he would certainly be by right of succession, even though Volterra was at the moment occupied by the Army of France.

If Paolo was captured and identified by the French, his throat would be cut - having murdered Gianna, the French would be delighted to dispose of the Marchesa's nephew and successor. Yet one must consider that Paolo knew all this countryside like the back of his hand. Italian was, of course, his native tongue but, being an educated young man, his French was fluent and his English marred by only a very slight accent.

So, Ramage thought, by not taking him I lose a guide, a young man speaking French and Italian, and perhaps more important, one who looks French or Italian: a sallow skin, jet-black hair, a narrow face which anyone who had travelled would at once identify as Italian or Spanish. A Mediterranean face, in fact.

What would Gianna have expected? Suddenly he could see her face and hear her voice: for a moment she seemed to be in the cabin with him: a memory, or a ghost, but most certainly Gianna, and at her most decisive. "Paolo has been in action with you a dozen times. More, in fact. A French roundshot could have knocked his head off at any time. One is, my dear Nicholas, just as dead from a roundshot as a dagger thrust - or the musket balls of a French firing squad. And, dear Nicholas, can you bear the reproachful look in the boy's eyes when you tell him you are not taking him?"

Gianna's voice was so firm, so determined, so real in his imagination that the sentry's knock bringing him back to reality made him blink, still expecting her to be there.

"Send them in!" he called, and waved Paolo and Gilbert to sit down. Paolo sat in what had become known as "Southwick's chair" and Gilbert perched on the edge of the settee, combining the discomfort of a servant sitting in his master's presence (a hangover from the ch#226;teau) with the nervousness of a seaman unexpectedly summoned to the captain's presence.

Ramage then realized that with the Calypso just off the Italian coast, even if both Paolo and Gilbert bellowed the Admiralty's secret orders through speaking trumpets, there was no enemy close enough to hear them.

He spoke first to Paolo. "You remember Pitigliano?"

Paolo looked startled, and then said: "Near Orvieto - a hill town?"

Ramage nodded and turned to Gilbert. "The road running along the coast here and down to Rome is the Via Aurelia - you've heard of it?"

"Only because it's one of the great roads down which Julius Caesar marched. One of them crosses the Rubicon, doesn't it, sir?"

"That's it - I hardly expected you to know about the Rubicon, though."

"I don't, sir," Gilbert admitted. "Just the phrase."

Ramage glanced at Paolo. "Go on, you explain it!"

Paolo grinned broadly because, second only to the sea and naval tactics, his interest was (as Ramage knew) the complex history of the Roman Empire. "Crossing the Rubicon - well, in English it means reaching a line where you have to make an important decision one way or the other. If you stay your side, you're safe: if you cross, you're committing yourself to something drastic."

"Go on," Ramage urged, "let's have the details. Why is it called the Rubicon, this line of yours?"

"It's a small river running into the Adriatic between Ravenna and Rimini, where the Via Emilia and Via Flaminia meet. Not deep or fast. But we have to go back to 59 bc, when Julius Caesar was neither famous nor feared: he was simply a famous man's nephew with little experience as a soldier. He was governor of an area of what is now northern Italy and southern France. The Helvetii, in what is now Switzerland, were causing trouble so he went up to Geneva to deal with them.

"But he knew fame and fortune in the Roman Empire came only to victorious generals, so Caesar carried on north to defeat the Gauls (the French of today), the Germans and the Belgae - three hundred thousand barbarians living in northern Gaul (the Netherlands of today). He beat them and went on to cross the Channel and conquer Britain.

"By the time he was ready to return to Italy - after fighting many more battles - he was famous and his nine legions were devoted to him. (They were not paid by the government: their leader, in this case Caesar, let them plunder, so a successful general always had loyal troops!)

"Left in Rome all this time," Paolo continued - and Ramage saw that the youth had slipped back more than eighteen centuries, so that he was a centurion marching at the head of his hundred men, part of the six hundred who made up a cohort, ten of which, six thousand men, made up a legion - "was Pompey, a great general who had conquered Spain but had done no fighting for a dozen years.

"Obviously the two of them had to be rivals: rivals in a competition with the Roman Empire the prize. Well, Caesar was coming back from Gaul with nine legions of men who had been victorious everywhere. Pompey had ten legions - but unfortunately for him, seven were away in Spain.

"By January 49 bc, Caesar and his legions had reached the northern bank of the Rubicon in the march back to Italy. The southern side of the river was Pompey's territory. The question facing Caesar was, should he cross the Rubicon and attack, or should he stay where he was. Obviously the stakes were enormous. Well, he did cross - and Pompey retreated right down the coast to Brindisium - Brindisi - and fled across the Adriatic. Within ten weeks of crossing the Rubicon, Caesar ruled the Roman Empire. So, mon cher Gilbert, when you have to make a great decision you've reached the banks of the Rubicon: when you make it and carry it out, you've crossed . . . such a muddy river it is, too."

Gilbert nodded and, turning to Ramage, asked quietly: "Have we reached a Rubicon, sir?"

"We're approaching it," Ramage said, "but for the moment we're concerned with the Via Aurelia, and in particular a small stretch where it passes Monte Argentario, which looks from the sea like a small and mountainous island but which is linked to the mainland by a couple of causeways."

Paolo had looked up sharply. "Monte Argentario, sir?"

"You remember it, then, even though it's not now part of the Roman Empire! Yes, Port' Ercole at the southern end is where we had our little affair with the bomb ketches, but now we use Argentario only as a landmark - the northern end, this time. More precisely, where that northern causeway meets the Via Aurelia."

"Surely that's where the road to Pitigliano branches off, sir?"

"Exactly. And about thirty miles along that road is Pitigliano."

"It's a rotten road, from memory. Not much more than a track, sir. Marsiliana is about a third of the way, Manciano about two thirds and then you reach Pitigliano, with Monte Labbro and Monte Amiata over on your left. Why - may I ask why - are we interested in Pitigliano, sir? It's so far inland - for a cutting out expedition, anyway!"

"Their Lordships don't think so," Ramage said drily. "I have their orders here." He tapped a drawer. "We march, not row," he said grimly. "Thirty miles there and thirty miles back, only we'll have company when we return."

"French prisoners, sir?" Paolo asked.

"No, they'll all be British."

*

At dawn, Argentario was lying fine on the starboard bow, standing four-square like a rocky island close to the shore, the causeways hidden by its bulk. Ramage held the telescope steady and examined it, finding that almost every headland and mountain nudged a memory. There was Monte Argentario

itself, towering over the rest of the island and, for the moment, Punta Avoltore at the southern tip was in line with it. Just round to the east there was Port' Ercole, which he had attacked with the bomb ketches not so long ago, and for the moment Orbetello was out of sight, hidden like the causeways by Argentario itself. On the mainland to the south was Torre Montalto, the next one down the coast from the Torre di Buranaccio. In a moment he had a picture of Gianna, hidden in the shadow of the doorway inside the candlelit tower, heavily cloaked and suddenly aiming a pistol at him until she was satisfied he was not an enemy, not one of Bonaparte's officers.

Argentario . . . yes, that almost-an-island, with Port' Ercole at one end and Santo Stefano at the other, always seemed more of a home to him than St Kew. Would his father ever understand that a small piece of Tuscany could in many ways mean more to him than the estate in Cornwall that the family had owned for generations?

It was not because here he had fallen in love with Gianna: that was all over long ago, and he was married to Sarah, if she was alive. If Gianna was alive, if Sarah was alive ... So many question marks, all of which finally asked: were the women he loved and had loved now dead?

The early light now showed up the whole of the mainland, from the mountains inland from Argentario, with Monte Amiata the distant queen and not yet crowned with snow, to where it dropped away as the land trended south to the tedious flats of the Maremma marshes where a paddled duck punt or, on the occasional track, a galloping horse stirred up clouds of mosquitoes that would linger like smoke and sting like demons. But on the Tuscan edge of the marsh there were always bluish-white plumes of smoke, or, if it was windy, the faint hint of it. The busiest man in Tuscany was always the carbonaio, the charcoal burner. Anything wood was a living for the carbonaio. Trees, bushes, twigs - put into his ovens made of turf, which sat on the ground like gigantic anthills with twists of smoke escaping here and there, and turned the wood into the charcoal that everyone used for cooking. The carbonaio stripped the macchia more effectively than the goats which, wrenching up roots instead of grazing, destroyed the shrubs and bushes completely. At least the carbonaio only lopped off the growth.

Here he was standing at the quarterdeck rail of the Calypso with dawn now broken over the Italian mainland, the tiny whitehorses tinged red, and the few streaks of cloud a light pink, a maiden's blush if ever he had seen one, and he was thinking of charcoal burners (who usually looked like rural chimney sweeps) and of blushing maidens. In the meantime the Calypso's ship's company was still at general quarters, standing by the guns, even though the lookouts had already given the familiar hail, "See a grey goose at a mile", and the men sent to the mastheads had reported no ships or vessels in sight. Not even, Ramage noted, fishing boats from Port' Ercole or Santo Stefano returning with their catches after a night out. Or did Bonaparte forbid that now?

All the watch towers scattered round Argentario, perched on top of cliffs and headlands, had been built by the Aragonese or later by Philip II when he ruled this part of Italy and was planning to send the great Armada against England. The position of the towers, each in sight of the next on either side or in view of a central tower, meant that signals, presumably warning fires, could be passed either round the coast, as though round the rim of a wheel, or directly like one of its spokes when a valley gave a sight of a central tower. Did Bonaparte now use some of the towers to give his troops warning of enemy ships approaching? Most probably not, because the Royal Navy was so stretched that there were very few British warships in the Mediterranean today: in fact, the Barbary pirates, forever lurking in their fast galleys, and rowed by Christian slaves, must be more of a threat to the local people.

However, if anyone of consequence did see the frigate passing northwards under easy sail he would almost certainly report her as French, and no one could blame him, although anyone with an eye for a ship would be puzzled by the cut of her sails. An experienced sailor would wonder, because they were British cut. But the wind was so light that now they flapped and thumped and jerked the yards, occasionally hanging like heavy curtains until a random gust bellied them.

Ramage called to Aitken: the ship's company could stand down now. Once the guns were run in, cutlasses, pikes and tomahawks replaced in their racks, cartridges returned to the magazine and decks swabbed, then they would all go to breakfast.

Then, Ramage decided, His Majesty's frigate Calypso will become a vast tailor's shop. Instead of the rumble of the trucks of the guns being run out for exercise and the thump of roundshot being rammed home, there will be the snick of scissors and a silence punctuated by curses as needles slip and prick fingers. Men will be cutting, stitching and fitting: hands more accustomed to thrusting thick sail needles through stiff canvas, using a rawhide palm for leverage, will be sewing with the comparatively dainty needles, making clothes.

They would be stitching five French uniforms (for an officer and four men), plus those for an officer and two men from the Grand Duke of Tuscany's forces. The rest of the men would not need any special clothing. It was fortunate that it was summer; even more fortunate that the purser had a few rolls of cloth very similar to the colour favoured by the French Army - when its soldiers were not still dressed in the old clothes they were wearing when they were swept into the Republic's armies.

As soon as the men finished their breakfast, Ramage told Aitken to furl the courses and topgallants: the Calypso would make her way along the coast under topsails alone, cutting her speed to a couple of knots if the present wind held, and this would not put them too far north of Argentario by nightfall. As Aitken picked up the speaking trumpet, Ramage gave him a list on which were written several names. "I want these men sent aft in an hour's time."

He had finally included Rennick. It was simply cowardice, in a way, but it would be unfair to leave the Marine officer behind. There was not much that Rennick could do, but on the other hand it could easily be misinterpreted in a despatch to the Admiralty if anyone wondered why the Marine officer was left behind. And Rennick, with his red face and jovial manner, was one of the bravest men in the ship. The Marines remaining would be under the command of Sergeant Ferris - who would also be indignant at being left behind, but the safety of the ship was the prime consideration, whatever the Admiralty's orders about hostages.

Southwick was already grumbling, refusing to admit that a sixty-mile march would be too much for him - and Ramage could guess the reason: the old master was hoping there would be a good fight somewhere along the way, not realizing that the moment a shot was fired or a sword drawn in anger the whole expedition would be doomed.

He went down to his cabin, sat at his desk, and pulled out of the overhead rack the chart which Southwick had made some years ago of the coast between the little fishing village of Talamone and the deep bay sweeping south round to the causeway which curved in a half moon out to Santa Liberata, on Argentario itself.

The Via Aurelia passed two or three miles inland of Talamone itself but because of the sudden curve of the land it soon met the sea at the hamlet of Fonteblanda. The road then hugged the coast just behind the sandy beach although the sea was often obscured by small woods of pines. Near the northernmost causeway the Fiume Albinia ran into the sea close by a big square tower, Torre Saline. Just a wide-mouthed stream, in fact, which spent the summer dried up and in the winter prevented nearby fields flooding. More important now, however, was the fact that it met the coast (and, with Torre Saline, would be as good as a signpost in the dark) only a hundred yards or so from the turning on the Via Aurelia for Marsiliana and Pitigliano.

Ah, the nostalgia that a map created. Up to the north was Punta Ala; then Scarlino, Massa Marittima, Castelnuovo - all places on the road to Volterra. That was the wonderful thing about Italy - many of the place names sounded like musical notes. And many of the derivations of the names were now hidden in the shadows cast by time. Did the silver in the name "Argentario" come from a Roman banker who once owned a villa there (argentum being Latin for silver) or from the thousands of olive trees growing on its slopes? The underside of an olive leaf was silvery; a breeze sweeping the olive groves turned the leaves so that from a distance all the grove - indeed the whole island - seemed coated in silver.

Talamone, too, was an odd name unless you knew it was named after Telamon, the King of Salamis who landed there after returning from the Argonaut expedition. The Calypsos, some of them anyway, would be landing tonight very close to where Telamon went on shore . . . Now Telamon's monument here was a small walled fishing port with a square tower rising up from the middle of it. And Santo Stefano had been a small but powerful place in medieval days: important enough for Philip II to build the Fortezza which was named after him, and had not the Santo Stefanesi sent a dozen ships to fight the Saracens in the Battle of Lepanto?

Port' Ercole, at the other end of Argentario, was the Port of Hercules of Roman times, and important enough for the Spaniards to build Forte della Stella (star-shaped and strongly built) and the Forte di Monte Filippo . . . both reminded him once again of sailing into Port' Ercole with the bomb ketches ... Tuscany, what an area! One's own memories (yesterday's history) spilled over into ancient history: here Philip II had built forts even before sailing the Armada against England, and Captain Ramage had attacked some of the forts two and a half centuries later. Tonight he would be landing where Telamon landed (in legend, anyway) after sailing with Jason and the other heroes to fetch the Golden Fleece, and once you went back to the Argonauts, Spain's activities only two and a half centuries ago became stale news.

Two and a half centuries hence (around 2050) would some young Royal Navy officer land there in the darkness? What would the map of the world (Europe, anyway) look like then? At this moment, Ramage mused, with Bonaparte holding everything from the Baltic to the Levant, it is hard to think of the Mediterranean as anything but a French lake - until you remember that it has at various times been a Phoenician, Greek, Roman, Carthaginian and Saracen lake, not to mention the periods much later when the Spaniards and Austrians claimed it.

For the moment, though, he reminded himself, it was enough to know that the turning to the left along the Via Aurelia which went to Pitigliano was just past the mouth of the Fiume Albinia. Within a few hundred yards was the massive square tower, Torre Saline. And a mile further along the coast was Orbetello, whose history started before the Etruscans ... So the Calypsos needed to find the Torre Saline.

The sentry's knock warned of Aitken coming down to report that the men on the list were waiting at the after end of the quarterdeck. "So you are taking Rennick, sir?"

"Yes, it'd look bad in the despatch if I left him behind."

"But you're not taking me, sir." The first lieutenant's voice was neutral: a comment rather than a protest.

"No I'm not!" Ramage exclaimed crossly. "I'm leaving you in sole command of His Majesty's frigate Calypso. If I don't come back you'll have the responsibility of sailing her back to England."

Aitken decided to brave the asperity in Ramage's voice. "Kenton and Southwick could sail her back, sir."

"Damnation, Aitken! You don't speak Italian, your French is rudimentary - what good will you be on the road to Pitigliano, compared to being on board, able to deal with any emergency that arises?"

"You need prisoners, sir. Only the guards have to speak French."

"You don't possess -" Ramage was going to say "an admiral's uniform" but realized in time that no admiral or general would be wearing uniform while on a peacetime visit to France or Italy. "Look Aitken, I seem to be commanding a ship full of fighting cocks. I want just a handful of men who can march, and a few that can speak French."

"Aye, sir, I know that; but Hill will be with your disguised Frenchmen, you'll be with the Italians, so who'll be in charge o' the prisoners?"

"You will," growled an exasperated Ramage taking the easiest way. "If anyone asks you, you're the Earl of Dunkeld and when the Treaty of Amiens was signed you came to Italy hoping to shoot boar in the Abruzzi. Or bores in Florence."

"The third earl, I'm thinking, sir," Aitken said grinning.

"You make just one mistake on this jaunt and you'll be the last and the title becomes extinct. . . Mine, too."

"I'll mind m' step, sir," Aitken said, picturing the expression on Southwick's face. So command of the Calypso would be left in the hands of young Kenton, the second lieutenant. Quite a responsibility, and for a few moments Aitken had misgivings about his request. Then he remembered what Mr Ramage had done before he was anywhere near as old as Kenton. Responsibility matures and advances the competent and ages and breaks fools. That was one of his father's favourite pronouncements and in Aitken's experience it was true.

Ramage followed Aitken up the steps of the companionway. Muffled oars, he told himself; I must remember to have Jackson supervise the work. The landing had to be silent - the barking of a carbonaio's dog could raise the alarm before they had even started.

On the quarterdeck he looked at the group of men in front of him. "I have a job for volunteers," he said. "You won't be risking broadsides, musket balls, boarding pikes or tomahawks. No, if things go wrong you'll end up with your back to a wall and facing a French firing squad aiming muskets at your gizzards. I've picked your names more or less at random -" (would that I had, he told himself) "- so any man who reckons serving in the Navy should not make him risk being shot as a spy is free to go about his duties on board and no one will think any the worse of him."

Not a man moved, and Ramage heard Jackson mutter: "You're stuck with us, sir." Agreement came in a variety of English regional accents and Ramage also heard Rossi's Italian and Gilbert's French.

Ramage looked round at the men. "Thank you. Belay that last pipe about me choosing your names at random, and now I'm going to tell you what we have to do.

"Then Jackson will tell you how he and I and some other men once landed at night on the coast just south of here. This is Tuscany, not England or France. Different bird calls, different smells, different dam' nearly everything. The point is I don't want you firing at friendly owls or thinking that a charcoal's burner's banked fire is a volcano about to erupt.

"Then you'll go down to the waist of the ship where your shipmates will be waiting with cloth and thread to fit your new clothes. I want you to think of yourselves as a strolling band of actors, because if you don't put on a good performance the audience won't jeer at you, they'll shoot."