Ramage Page 9

  However, the girl in the black cape merely took a few steps sideways to avoid having Jackson behind her, and told the two brothers to stand to one side, which they hastily did. Getting them out of the line of fire, Ramage noted, because the pistol still pointed unwaveringly at his stomach.

  She said: ‘Tell your friend to stand beside you.’

  ‘Come over here, Jackson.’

  Ramage had an uneasy feeling the girl not only knew how to handle the pistol but would use it without hesitation. But what had gone wrong? For a moment he had thought she must be the Marchesa; yet now… He wriggled his right forearm slightly to make sure the throwing knife in his sleeve would fly clear, and was thankful he had transferred it there from the sheath in his boot.

  Obviously she had been listening at the door – she came in as soon as he mentioned the Marchesa’s name. Why the pistol, then? Perhaps Jackson’s sudden movement had startled her into producing it. Where were the rest of them? Were the men even now waiting behind that door? Supposing they came in and startled the girl, so that she accidentally squeezed the trigger?

  ‘What,’ the girl said icily, ‘is this about alabaster and “L’amor che muove il sole”?’

  ‘May I introduce myself: I am Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage of the Royal Navy.’ He decided to risk being wrong and continued: ‘I am sorry your mother is dead, madam: she was one of my mother’s closest friends. My message was intended for her: the quotation from Dante was one of her favourites – she often made me recite it when I was a boy and I knew she’d recognize me when she remembered it. I thought it safer not to name names…’

  ‘And who, sir, was your mother?’

  The voice was still icy: she was not a girl who had an attack of vapours when a servant dropped a wine glass: she was used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Hardly surprising, since she was the head of such a powerful family. But why did she not know his name or remember him? Then he realized she would never have heard his family surname, since Father had inherited the earldom long before they lived in Italy.

  ‘My mother is Lady Blazey. My father is Admiral Lord Blazey. Perhaps you remember me as their son “Nico”?’

  The pistol was withdrawn into the folds of the cloak, and with the other hand the girl swept back the hood, shaking her head to tidy her hair. It shone blue-black, like sun on a raven’s wing feathers. Then she looked up at him.

  His head swam, and it seemed he had to gasp for breath. God, she was beautiful: not paintings-on-the-wall beautiful, but the beauty of a face moulded by strength of character and determination, assurance and courage, and an expression deriving from the confidence of a woman knowing her own beauty and accustomed to being obeyed.

  Even by candlelight he could see the finely chiselled features: high cheekbones, large, widely spaced eyes, a small, slightly hooked nose. The mouth – it was a little too wide, with lips a fraction too full, for classic perfection. It was as though a sculptor had deliberately carved a sensuous goddess. Yes! Except for the nose, she might have been the model for – he searched his memory, Siena – no, Florence: Ghiberti’s beautiful carving of ‘The Creation of Eve’ on the east doors of the Baptistry. Had she the naked Eve’s same bold, slim, body, the same small, jutting breasts, the same glorious shoulders, flat belly and rounded thighs? The girl’s face was certainly a little fuller and more sensuous. Ramage glanced down at her breasts; but the cape…she might as well be wrapped in a parcel.

  ‘It was fortunate I did not shoot you, Lieutenant Ramage,’ she said calmly.

  Goddess! he thought, jerked suddenly back to reality. Diana the Huntress, maybe; not one of the peaceful kind. But she was self-possessed and her mind worked like lightning: Ramage realized there had been a moment’s hesitation before calling him ‘Lieutenant’: she knew an earl’s son might have a courtesy title even if not one in his own right; and although he had introduced himself without using it, she was obviously trying to avoid a mistake in the way she addressed him.

  ‘It was doubly fortunate,’ he replied, ‘since my man had his cutlass at your back.’

  ‘Very well, Lieutenant,’ she said, indicating formalities were over. vhis man’ – she indicated Nino – ‘will fetch the others, and then we will sail in your ship for England.’

  The impulsive but self-possessed child had not changed in the transition to womanhood, and Ramage knew that he must grab the initiative from her to avoid the next few days being extremely difficult.

  ‘Madam, there are details to explain before we start.’

  ‘Very well, but please be brief, because we have waited a long time: you are very late.’

  Her tone was so patronizing that as anger flooded through Ramage, he realized he now had both the chance and the wish to reduce this girl to more manageable proportions. He indicated the chair beside the table: ‘Will you please be seated: I repeat – there are some things to explain.’

  He waited until she gathered the cape round herself, nonchalantly placed the pistol in her lap as though it was a peacock-feather fan, and then looked up at him coldly, as if he was a tiresome servant. Then he spoke in a voice that surprised him for its bitterness.

  ‘Madam, to enable me to be here tonight – late as I am – more than fifty of my men have been killed; another fifty have been wounded and taken prisoner by the French; and fifty or more are now rowing for their lives towards Corsica…’

  ‘Yes?’ her voice was cold, polite and utterly impersonal: it was as if the cook was proposing the menu for the day.

  ‘Of less importance,’ he said bitterly, ‘is the fact that I have been forced to surrender one of His Majesty’s ships.’

  ‘That can hardly be your fault: you are too young: your Admiral should not trust the command of a ship to a youth.’

  He struggled with his temper, aware of the warning signs for one of his blind rages: he was blinking quickly, rubbing the scar on his brow, and in a moment he’d be fighting to avoid mispronouncing ‘r’.

  ‘In fact my Admiral did place three officers over me, but they’ve all been killed. No doubt he will consider the loss of life so far a small price to pay for your safety. I mention all this pettifogging detail only to explain my lateness – and why you and your friends are not going direct to England.’

  The girl lowered her head, turning slightly away from the candle, so that her face was in shadow. She was smaller, more frail even, than he’d first thought, and his anger passed quickly, spent like a shout echoing down a valley. For all her outward calm, she was young and probably very frightened and now he was embarrassed at his bitter outburst.

  ‘May I ask why some of the men in your party are not here?’

  ‘There was no need. The peasant was satisfied you were not French, but the message was garbled… We thought it just possible you were trying to identify yourself to one of the party by referring to a past meeting. Obviously “alabaster” could only mean the mines at Volterra, or the Volterra family; but I remembered nothing of a small boy and “L’amor che muove ile sole”.’

  ‘Why did you come then, not one of the men?’

  ‘Because the Volterra family were concerned,’ she said impatiently. ‘As soon as I heard you explaining to Nino I realized you thought my mother was still alive. After that, this man’ – she nodded towards Jackson – ‘startled me.’

  ‘You did not fear a trap?’

  ‘No, I trusted the judgement of the peasant – his family have worked for us for generations and this’ – she waved her hand – ‘is my land. Anyway, it would have been difficult for you to trap me because on the way to us he searched all this area.’

  ‘But he didn’t find my men!’

  ‘Oh yes he did! You have a boat hidden among the rushes and your sentry is just above, on top of the dunes. He was asleep, incidentally, and so were the five men in the boat.’

  Ramage glanced at Jackson, who was clearly making a mental note to deal with the man – and, from the look on his face, obviously wished he could deal with the g
irl as well.

  ‘If you didn’t think it a trap, I hope you trust me now.’

  She smiled as if offering an olive branch, and said lightly, ‘I do: I hope the rest of the party do, too. Such men are used to the intrigue of Court life: they find it hard to trust anyone, even among themselves.’

  ‘Well, they’ve no choice: they’ll have to trust me; and what’s more, they’ll be under my orders,’ he said grimly, to avoid any misunderstanding over the extent of his authority; and to tide him over the uncomfortable silence that followed he added, ‘Madam: I am very tired, so forgive me for being short- tempered and a little aspro. I meant that I have my orders concerning their safety and will carry them out as best I can.’

  The girl, her olive branch brushed aside, was cold again. ‘You have surrendered your ship. What can you do with this little boat?’

  ‘If your party will forgo comfortable cabins and servants to wait on you, it will take us to meet a ship off Giglio, or failing that, to Bastia. There is water and plenty of bread. By bread, I mean ship’s bread, which is a type of hard biscuit. The boat will be crowded: will you explain this to your party?’

  ‘Supposing we are seen by a French warship and captured?’

  ‘There’s a risk, but not very great.’

  ‘But there is a risk.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Of course there is a risk, madam: of gales, too. Perhaps as much of a risk as being caught by Bonaparte’s men if you stay here.’

  He found it hard to avoid sounding contemptuous when he added: ‘If your companions wish to continue their journey in the boat, I am at your service.’

  ‘And if they do not wish? If they do not like the idea of such a long voyage in such a small boat?’

  There was nothing in his orders concerning that – except the Admiral regarded these people as very important, which in a way covered the point.

  ‘The only alternative is for me to leave you here and try to arrange for a warship to pick you up later, but I can’t give any guarantee.’

  ‘I will explain this to them,’ said the Marchesa. The patronizing tone had gone from her voice; but the self-assurance remained. ‘When do you wish to leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow night, as soon as it is dark – I mean tonight, of course: dawn’s not far off. By the way, do you know anything about French troops round here?’

  ‘Very little: a few cavalry patrols pass along the Via Aurelia – some have been searching the villages for us.’

  ‘And the political situation?’

  ‘The Grand Duke of Tuscany – well, he’s a weak man, and you probably know he allowed this Bonaparte to occupy Leghorn on June 27. There’s talk of certain Corsicans starting a revolution against the British in Corsica: Bonaparte is calling for volunteers. Since Corsica placed herself under British protection, I suppose this Bonaparte is embarrassed to find he could be called a British subject,’ she added dryly. ‘He risks being hanged as a traitor – if you can catch him.’

  He was amused at the contemptuous way she referred to ‘this Bonaparte’. Still, ‘this Bonaparte’ had achieved the impossible by crossing the Alps with his armies and capturing, one after another, the Italian states, like a farmer striding through his orchards plucking ripe fruit.

  ‘For the rest,’ she said, ‘ – well, there is talk of the Austrians defeating the French in two battles: at Lonato, and somewhere else – I cannot remember the name. And the Pope has suspended the armistice he signed with this Bonaparte.’

  ‘What about Elba?’

  ‘I do not know: there were French plans to capture it after Leghorn: it is very near the coast. Oh yes, I forgot: the Spanish have signed an alliance with France.’

  ‘Declared war on the British, you mean?’ exclaimed Ramage.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I do not know: I imagine so.’

  Ramage envied her unconcern – if Spain joined the French, then the Royal Navy would be overwhelmed in the Mediterranean: the Admiral was fighting against heavy odds even now… And a full-scale revolution in Corsica could mean the British would have to clear out because they had very few troops there. The capture of Elba would deprive them of yet another base. And the Spanish Fleet joining the French… Well, there’ll be enough battles and casualties to make every junior lieutenant a post captain before the war ends, he thought viciously.

  He found himself tapping the palm of his left hand with his throwing knife: quite unconsciously he must have taken it out while listening to the Marchesa.

  ‘Do you usually have such a knife up your sleeve?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered sourly. ‘Invariably. Like all good card players.’

  ‘You mean you like to cheat.’

  He imagined her outlined against the little door: and before he realized what he was doing, his right hand swung up over his head, then suddenly chopped down. The knife blade flashed for a moment before thudding into the door, the hilt vibrating for a few moments.

  ‘No,’ he replied, walking over to pull it out of the wood. ‘Not to cheat: just to win. Too many kings, courtiers, courtesans and politicians think war’s just a game of cards and realize their mistake only when they find an uncouth Corsican artilleryman has strolled across the Alps and trumped all their aces.’

  ‘So we in Tuscany have been playing cards?’

  ‘Madam, could we continue this discussion another time?’

  ‘Certainly: I was really only interested to know if you cheated. Now,’ she said, picking up her pistol and standing, ‘shall we meet here this evening?’

  ‘No – it will save time if you all come to the boat. Nino can guide you. Bring water, if you can, and food. But no possessions and no servants.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because servants take no risk by staying – they and possessions take up space in the boat. We have no spare space.’

  ‘But jewellery, money?’

  ‘Yes, within reason. So, Madam, will you be at the boat at nine o’clock: that should give you half an hour of darkness to get here. Are you hiding far away?’

  ‘At–’

  ‘No, don’t tell me exactly where: the less we know, the less we could be forced to tell if we were captured. Just the direction and the time to get here.’

  ‘Towards Monte Capalbio. Half an hour at the most.’

  ‘Excellent: nine o’clock at the boat, then.’

  ‘Yes. I will send Nino during the day to tell you what the others have decided. One of the party, Count Pitti, has yet to arrive: we expect him hourly.’

  Ramage suddenly realized she already intended to come, whatever her companions decided.

  ‘You anticipate difficulties?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The flat tone indicated she did not propose to discuss it.

  ‘Until this evening, then.’

  She held out her hand and he lifted it to his lips. She was trembling very slightly, but so little that she must have thought allowing him to kiss her hand would not reveal it.

  Chapter Eight

  Lying in the sand later that day, shaded from the fierce heat of the sun by a juniper bush, Ramage alternately dozed and woke, relieved that for the moment there were no decisions to make and no particular risks to run. All that bothered him for the time being were the flies and mosquitoes which attacked him with a determination quite alien to the country.

  He ran over in his mind the plan he had already outlined to Jackson and the men. Just before nine o’clock – providing the wind did not come up and bring a bit of a sea with it – the gig would be hauled out to the sand bar, where it could be held by a couple of seamen so that the party could wade out to it. That was the easiest way of making a hurried departure in case of an emergency. But if there was no urgency, the boat could be hauled up the river again so the refugees could embark without getting wet.

  Now all that remained was for Nino to arrive with a message from the Marchesa telling him how many of the men were coming.

  How he hated these men he had never s
een: these names, these (probably) scented fops, whose very existence had sunk the Sibella and decimated her crew. The violence of the spasm of hatred made him sit up, as if to shake it off, and when he lay back again he despised himself for being so irrational: they might well be brave men anxious to carry on the fight against the French.

  ‘A drink of water, sir?’

  The ever-wakeful Jackson: he’d miss that Yankee twang and cadaverous face when they reached Bastia and Jackson was sent off to some other ship.

  He took the dipper and drank. It was warm and brackish; like all water stored in a ship it stank, but years of practice taught a seaman to drink with the back of his nose blocked, so the smell was delayed until after the water was down his throat, past regret or recall.

  Maybe it was unfair to blame these refugees; but with their money and influence, surely they could have chartered – stolen, even – a fishing boat and made their way to Corsica, instead of requesting a British warship? Did they want a warship for comfort or security? If comfort, because they found the idea of a fishing boat too disgusting, then the devil take them. If security: well, they had lost their lands, their homes, and probably their wealth – temporarily anyway – so perhaps one could not blame them. But he had a suspicion it was for luxury; for pride; so that they should not make a brutta figura, cut a figure, the cheap vanity that was – and presumably always would be – the curse of Italy.

  He thought, many Italians – but by no means all – are like Van der Dekken, the Flying Dutchman; only the curse on them is that they’re doomed to roam the world, their vanity raw and exposed to every chill wind, open to every slight, until they find something to give them confidence and the natural dignity that goes with it.

  Yet, apart from the brutta figura, if he was honest he was blaming them for his own forebodings: that much he admitted. He stared up at the deep blue of the sky. Foreboding…apprehension…fear: the same commodity, but with different names stencilled on the casks. The fear was of – well, not so much when he thought about it: only the consequences of surrendering the Sibella. There were plenty of his father’s enemies still carrying on the vendetta. He only hoped Captain Nelson would be at Bastia when he arrived; but if it was Admiral Goddard or one of his followers, which was quite possible – well…