Ramage Read online

  But this was nothing to do with the job on hand: his thoughts were only the reflection, or the echo, rather, of his mother’s often, and usually strongly, expressed opinions. He did not know if she was always right in her judgements; but she and her friend Lady Roddam were women famous for their outspoken and advanced views – they had even been labelled as republicans by their enemies.

  To the devil with advanced views, he told himself: how far are we from the Tower? Suddenly he saw it quite close, squat and square, the stonework pale in the moonlight, and half hidden by the sand dunes at the back of the beach. How had he missed seeing it before? He realized he’d been looking for something dark and shadowy, not thinking of the effect the moonlight would have. Hell! If the French had only a couple of guns and even a sleepy lookout on top of that Tower…

  He pulled the tiller towards him to turn the boat southward, parallel to the beach: they were so vulnerable, even to pistol fire, that he wanted to spot the entrance to the river first, so they could run straight in without delay. At that moment he saw a wide but short band of silver spread inland across the beach like a carpet over the sand: the river, with the moonlight on it. He promptly altered course straight for it.

  ‘Jackson, a cast!’ he called as loud as he dare.

  ‘A fathom, sir…five feet…four…four…’

  Blast, it was shoaling fast.

  ‘Keep it going.’

  ‘Four feet…four…three…’

  Damn, damn – they’d touch in a moment, but they were a good thirty yards from the beach: a long way for the men to haul the boat. He saw that Jackson was dropping the lead line like a boy fishing from the quay: there was not room, need nor time to heave it.

  ‘Four feet…four…five…four…five…a fathom.’

  Ramage breathed a sigh of relief: they must have been crossing a sandbank running parallel with the beach. Twenty yards to go and they’d be in the river, which seemed to get narrower the nearer they approached. With this flat sandy coastline there was certain to be a bar across the mouth.

  ‘Four feet, sir…three…’

  And this was it.

  ‘Three…three…’

  They might just as well wade the last few yards, hauling the boat along by hand. He was just going to order the men over the side when he remembered the wretched riccio, the prickly sea urchin which looked like a rich brown chestnut husk, and whose spines broke off when they stuck into bare flesh, causing suppuration if not pulled out at once. It was rare to find them on sand; but there’d be small rocks around and they would be covered with them.

  ‘Avast there with that lead, Jackson,’ he called, keeping his voice low. ‘Lay in on your oars, men. Who are wearing shoes?’

  Four or five men answered and he ordered: ‘Right, over the side with you and haul the boat up. Watch out for small rocks. The rest of you come aft.’

  Their weight in the stern would cock the bow up a little, enabling the men in the water to run the boat farther over the bar before her keel dug into the sand.

  ‘Unship the rudder,’ he told Jackson, and jumped over the side.

  Leaving the men to haul the boat, he splashed through the last few feet of water and reached the beach on the left bank of the river. As he stepped on to the hard sand at the water’s edge his boots squelched; but after three or four paces, beyond where the waves lapped, the sand was so soft that at every step he sank in almost up to his ankles. The beach was steep, and as he looked over to the left he noticed the Tower was out of sight behind the dunes: no prying eyes could see the boat now.

  By the time Ramage had walked and scrambled thirty paces he was five or six feet above sea level, with the rounded tops of the dunes still some twenty feet above him, but it suddenly became steeper and as he climbed upwards his feet kicked aside tufts of sharp-spined sea holly. Halfway up the side of the dune he met the first of the waist-high dumps of juniper bushes and rock roses and had to thread his way round them to avoid tearing his clothes.

  He reached the top of the dune only to find it was the first of several which extended inland for fifty yards, looking like vast waves, until they dropped down to form one bank of the river curving round behind them.

  Ah – now he could just see the top of the Tower: the stonework gleamed in the moonlight and he could see the hard, angular shadows formed by the embrasures. The top of the Tower was so sharply etched against the blue–black night sky he was sure that had there been any sentries he could see them, but there was no sign of movement; nor did there seem to be any cannon poking their muzzles through the embrasures.

  Well, he had to know just where the river went. Between him and the next juniper-capped dune was a deep depression, like the trough between two big waves. He began running down the side, but after half a dozen paces his feet sank deep into the sand and the momentum of his body sent him sprawling. Not the place to be chased by cavalry, he thought as he picked himself up, spitting sand from his mouth and slapping his clothes to shake off the worst of it.

  As he stood up again it seemed he had suddenly gone deaf: the dune behind deadened all sound of the waves on the beach, and for the first time for many months he could hear nothing connected with the sea: he might be a hundred miles inland.

  From the top of the next dune Ramage could see a little more of the Tower, and he walked down the side and up to the top of the third and last dune. Several feet below, to his right as he stood with his back to the sea, the river came straight inland for about fifty yards and then turned left to pass in front of him, rushes growing in thick clumps along the banks. It went on for two hundred yards, parallel with the sea, passing within a few yards of the seaward side of the Tower before turning sharply inland again, close against the north wall.

  The Tower had been built in a good place, Ramage realized: with the river guarding it on the north and west sides, and the lake beyond covering it to the east, any attackers could approach only along the beaches.

  And it was a solid construction, designed like a chessman castle, only square instead of round. From the ground the walls sloped gently inward until just below the embrasures, then sloped outward again for the last few feet, like the nipped-in waist of a woman’s dress.

  Ramage had seen enough for the moment. How deep was the river? He climbed down the steep bank to the rushes. The fact they grew there at all indicated the water was at worst brackish and ran from the fresh-water lake to the sea. For a second he froze with fear, then realized the sudden movement was a coot or moorhen which streaked out from almost underfoot, flying so low its wings beat the water. Gingerly he walked through the rushes, the water pouring over the tops of his boots, and turned right to follow the river round to its mouth and meet the men with the gig.

  Rounding the corner, he found the men had pulled the boat over the bar. Jackson splashed over towards him.

  ‘Where do you want it, sir?’

  ‘Here,’ Ramage said, indicating the northern bank. ‘Snug it in close among the reeds.’

  There was no point trying to hide it under branches of bushes: a pile of juniper among the reeds would be more conspicuous than the boat itself.

  Well, there was no time to waste: the charcoal burner’s hut mentioned in the Admiral’s orders was half a mile southward down the coast and five hundred yards inland, and the sooner they found it the better, although a nagging question kept popping up in his mind.

  Ramage splashed over to the men and glanced at the boat.

  ‘That’s fine. I want one of you to act as a sentry up there. The rest can sleep in the boat or very near it.’ He indicated the sloping side of the dune. ‘Hand me out a couple of cutlasses… Thank you. Now, come on Jackson.’

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ one of the seamen said, and the rest echoed his words.

  Ramage walked along the river’s edge to the sea, followed by Jackson, wading out thigh-deep until he felt the sand bar under his feet. He then walked across it to the far bank.

  ‘We’ll walk along here just in the wa
ter to avoid making footprints,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it’ll take too long if we climb up and down the dunes.’

  Chapter Six

  Ramage strolled along a path of silver foam: the wavelets lazed their way up to the beach and gently rolled over in orderly rows, shattering into myriads of droplets, each sparkling in the moonlight. The droplets then joined together and gurgled back in little cascades.

  The sand along the water’s edge was littered with branches of trees which must have been washed out to sea when a sudden storm flooded a river, and months later thrown up on the beach again, stripped of their bark, bleached by the sun, and polished by the sand, so they looked like the bones of a seamonster. Twigs which had suffered the same fate were like twisted slivers of ivory, and occasionally he passed scatterings of sea shells which crunched beneath his feet.

  The seamen should be all right: they had food and water, but no money or liquor, so with wine and women eliminated the only risk was discovery by French patrols or peasants. That was unlikely: this macchia would not attract many peasants, and as for French patrols – well, the town of Orbetello, between the two causeways leading to Argentario, was near by. But the main road to the south, the Via Aurelia, along which Caesar had marched back to Rome, was four or five miles inland, and he doubted if the French would bother to patrol the swamps and sand dunes between the Via Aurelia and the sea.

  Ramage was thankful he had brought Jackson along, because the dangerous part was just about to begin, and there was no point in pushing the nagging question out of his mind any longer.

  The question itself was simple enough: how to ask peasants where the refugees were without revealing that he was looking for them? If the French were in the neighbourhood they would certainly reward anyone bringing in important information or prisoners.

  ‘Jackson – there might be more than one charcoal burner’s hut–’

  ‘I was just thinking that, sir.’

  ‘–and we daren’t risk giving ourselves away. Or why we’re here.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So we’re going to pretend we’re French.’

  ‘French, sir?’

  Jackson could not disguise the note of surprise – or doubt – in his voice.

  ‘French, French troops hunting the same refugees.’

  ‘But – well, sir,’ Jackson said, hurriedly rephrasing his question more politely, ‘the local folk will hardly help us if they think we are Frogs.’

  ‘No, but it’ll be fairly easy to see if they’re lying. But more important, if they think we’re French, obviously they won’t take it into their heads to report us.’

  ‘There’s something in that, sir.’

  ‘But we don’t look much like a search party, so when I knock on a door, you keep out of sight and make a noise like a whole patrol!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. But your uniform, sir?’

  ‘They won’t know the difference.’

  As they trudged along the beach, Ramage began to feel weary. He’d been at sea so long that he felt unbalanced when walking on land, as though he was drunk; and the hours in the open boat had exaggerated the effect so that, although the beach was flat, he felt he was walking uphill. It would wear off in a few hours; but combined with the weariness, it left him dazed and drained of strength. Nor did the thought of having to wake up and threaten simple peasants arouse any enthusiasm for the task ahead.

  He ran his hand through his hair and cursed as his fingers caught in a tangle at the back of his scalp: the wound must have opened again and bled a little.

  How far had they walked? He glanced back and just glimpsed the top of the Tower. Less than half a mile. This was a damned unlikely area to find a charcoal burner’s hut: only a few larch, pine, cork oak and ilex stuck up out of the undergrowth… Still, the poor beggars living here had little choice: this side of the lake there were no fields to cultivate, no land fit for olives or vines. That left only fishing – and the beach was too exposed for that – or collecting wood and making charcoal.

  Thirty yards ahead the dunes came closer to the water’s edge and the juniper bushes grew almost down to the sea: a good place to strike inland without leaving conspicuous footprints in the sand.

  Inland, beyond the dunes, the ground in many places was marshy underfoot, and they had to make several detours to avoid stagnant ponds sprawling across their path. Soon they were threading their way among bushes eight or ten feet high, with a scattering of cork oak. Even in the moonlight Ramage could distinguish the bare and smooth, reddish-brown boles where the cork bark had been stripped off.

  Suddenly Ramage felt Jackson tugging his coat. ‘Smoke, sir: can you smell it? Wood smoke.’

  Ramage sniffed: yes, it was faint, but unmistakable. They must be very close to the igloo-shaped oven of turf used by a charcoal burner, because there was not a breath of wind to spread the smoke: not even the usual inshore breeze.

  Reaching down to his boot, Ramage eased the heavy-bladed throwing knife in its sheath, and drew his cutlass. Then the two men cautiously continued walking.

  Three or four minutes later they found themselves on the edge of a small, flat clearing. In the centre Ramage saw a dull red glow where the oven had been left damped down for the night, completely covered in thick turf except for a tiny hole in one side.

  Jackson nudged him and pointed. Beyond the furnace, on the far side of the clearing, Ramage could just make out the outline of a small stone hut.

  ‘Can you see any others?’

  ‘No, sir. That’s likely to be the only one: downwind of the furnace.’

  It certainly was to leeward of the night’s offshore winds, but the certainty in Jackson’s voice made Ramage curious, since there was no prevailing wind in this area.

  ‘Why so sure?’

  ‘Downwind of the furnace means the smoke is nearly always drifting round the hut at night. Drives the mosquitoes away.’

  ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Ah,’ whispered Jackson, ‘I spent my boyhood in the woods.’

  ‘This way,’ said Ramage, pointing to the right. ‘The moon won’t give us away. As soon as I get to the door you go round the back of the hut and sound like a platoon of Marines.’

  ‘Oh sir!’ whispered Jackson, giving a mock groan. Ramage smiled to himself; seamen had a friendly contempt for Marines and soldiers.

  After smoothing his hair, adjusting his stock and brushing sand from his breeches, Ramage walked up to the door, gripping the cutlass in his right hand. Jackson had disappeared round the back.

  Well, he thought, we might as well get on with it, and banged on the door several times with the cutlass blade. He waited a couple of moments and then yelled in French: ‘Open the door: open the door this minute.’

  A sleepily spoken stream of blasphemy came from inside.

  ‘Who is it?’ demanded a hoarse voice in Italian.

  ‘Open the door!’ he repeated in a bullying voice.

  A few moments later the door rattled and then squeaked open.

  ‘Who is it?’ growled the Italian from the darkness inside the hut.

  Now was the time to start speaking Italian.

  ‘Come out into the moonlight, you pig: exhibit the respect for a French officer. Let’s see what you look like.’

  The man shuffled out while a woman’s voice from inside the hut hissed, ‘Be careful, Nino!’ At that moment Ramage heard a din from behind the hut. Jackson was doing his job well: from the shouted orders and crackling of undergrowth he sounded like a platoon of men.

  Nino stood in the moonlight, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Ramage.

  ‘Yes, yes, your Grace,’ he said hastily, using the most formal method of address he could think of. ‘What does your Grace wish?’

  Ramage prodded him in the stomach with the point of his cutlass. ‘Where,’ he demanded sternly, ‘are these pigs of aristocrats hidden?’

  He watched Nino closely.

  Yes, there wa
s a reaction: a movement of the shoulders, as if bracing himself slightly against an unexpected gust of wind.

  ‘Aristocrats, your Grace? We have no aristocrats here.’

  ‘That I know, fool; but you know where they are hiding.’

  ‘No, no, your Grace: I swear by the Madonna we have no aristocrats here.’

  Inside the hut a woman alternately prayed and wept with long, dry sobs; but Ramage realized the man was denying only that anyone was hidden in the hut, apparently avoiding a direct denial that he knew where they were.

  ‘How many have you in your family?’ he demanded.

  ‘Seven, your Grace: my widowed mother, my wife, my four children and my brother.’

  ‘Do you want them all to starve, ungrateful pig?’

  ‘No – no, your Grace. Why should they?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘Because in ten seconds, if you don’t tell me where the aristocrats are, you’ll join your dead father and the Madonna and all those saints your stupid priests tell you about!’

  It would do no harm to give these peasants perhaps their first warning that Bonaparte’s men, despite their Red Cap of Liberty and bold talk of freedom, were atheists.

  But the effect on the peasant was extraordinary: he straightened himself up and faced Ramage squarely. As the woman continued sobbing inside the hut, he said with calm simplicity: ‘Kill me, then: I tell you nothing.’ He stood waiting for Ramage’s cutlass to drive into his belly.

  This fellow, thought Ramage, had a sense of honour: if some of those damned effete Italian aristocrati, mincing and dancing and gossiping their lives away in Siena and Florence – at least until Bonaparte arrived – could see the courage shown on their behalf by one of the contadini they might not despise them so much.

  The man was simple, brave and honourable; but the last two virtues also revealed he knew where the refugees were. The Admiral’s orders had mentioned ‘the charcoal burner’s hut’, which implied there was only one; so surely this must be the charcoal burner in question… Ramage decided to take the chance.