Ramage's Challenge (39 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turning to Jackson and Stafford, he said, “Fire at them—not together, just enough for the flashes to make them nervous.”

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

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

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

Yes, the French would be puzzled, with a couple of acres of
macchia
to windward of the fortress blazing merrily and obviously set on fire by whoever was attacking the fort. Looking at the dancing flames, Ramage guessed that the garrison commander must reckon it was the work of more than twenty men. Then he had seen men—only four—coming out of the fort, but he would think that no enemy dare attack with fewer than, well, 75 men: 50 to attack the fort while 25 set fire to the
macchia.
The Frenchmen must be worrying where the other 46 were …

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I see,” Southwick said. “A good idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ramage fired his pistol at the group, not that he expected to hit anyone, but the muzzle flash would show Hill (for, obviously, it was him with his bucket men) where some of his shipmates were.

Stafford fired again, from a different position, then Southwick's pistol barked, followed by Jackson's.

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

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

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

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

He took a deep breath, made a trumpet of his hands and bellowed, “Hill! Can you hear me?”

“Very well, sir!” Hill's voice answered from barely forty yards away. “I'm over here with Stafford. My men are looking after themselves!”

“You've all done a good job. Now back to the cliff top and down to the boats. Take your men back along the cliff, but put the flames between you and the French before you make the turn. We'll be coming along the Porto Ercole track. When you hear me barking four times like a dog, you'll know we're on our way. Now get back to your men.”

Hill's voice acknowledged, and a minute later Stafford fired just as Hill's men let off another fusillade. Southwick and Jackson, obviously not wanting to be left out, fired again.

Ramage, cursing at having told Rennick and his men to guard the hostages, looked at his watch and this time did not bother to tuck it back in his fob pocket. There were enough pistols firing to keep the French huddled where they were—and probably dreading the dawn that would reveal them to their unknown enemies, waiting like a row of sitting ducks.

Three minutes … more pistol shots … two minutes, and as soon as they were back on board the
Calypso
Southwick would be complaining bitterly that there'd been no real fighting … One minute … he eased the hammer of his pistol, and made sure it was on half-cock before tucking it into his waistband. He slid the watch into his pocket, picked up his cutlass, and called to the three men, “Right, now make for the track. Don't rush— we don't want to let the French know what we're doing.”

Then he barked four times and Jackson's giggle started Southwick laughing, followed by Ramage. “A sea dog,” Ramage explained, “with a sore throat.”

The four men reached the top of the cliff above the rope ladder just as Hill was lining up his men and roundly cursing one of them for having lost his bucket. As Ramage peered over the edge of the cliff, he saw that there was no one climbing down. The
Calypso
's cutter was waiting a few yards from the bottom, near the rocks that formed a natural jetty, and the men were resting on their oars. All the hostages must be safely on board.

As he looked back over his left shoulder at Forte della Stella, he marvelled at the beauty of the sight: already one of the most handsome fortresses Ramage had ever seen, part of its star shape was burnished to a coppery red on the seaward side, and the flickering shadows from the burning
macchia
softened any harsh lines.

“Hill, get your party started down the cliff. The cutter will come in as soon as they see us climbing down.”

R
AMAGE climbed on board the
Calypso
to find Sir Henry and the other two admirals waiting for him, with Aitken standing respectfully to one side. Sir Henry stepped forward, right hand outstretched. “Ramage, my dear fellow, all the hostages have asked me to give you their thanks. I … I …”

Ramage realized that the man's eyes were glistening with tears, and both the other admirals were standing sideways, so that the lantern did not show their faces.

“I … well, none of us ever expected to see our wives again, so …”

“It worked, sir, that's all that matters!” Ramage said briskly. “I hope the galley fire is alight so that they can all have a hot meal. I suggest we wait for the morning for formal introductions.”

“Ah, quite so, quite so, and thank you, my boy …”

Sir Henry turned away, wiping his eyes, and the other two admirals followed him. As soon as they had disappeared down the companion-way, Aitken said, “Kenton wants to see you, sir:

he's waiting here—” he gestured to the
Calypso
's second lieutenant.

Damnation, Ramage thought to himself. He felt tired, his wrists and face afire with mosquito bites and sticky from cobwebs, which seemed to be strung between every damned bush. From the smell of it, the knees of his breeches were caked with goat droppings. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

“Isn't it something you can deal with?” he asked Aitken wearily.

The Scotsman shook his head. “No, sir,” he said gravely. “It's a matter for you.”

Ramage turned to Kenton and said impatiently, “Come on, then, what's the matter?”

“It's one of the hostages, sir. Waiting in your cabin to see you.”

“More blasted complaints, eh? Oh, all right. Here, take these.” He handed Kenton the cutlass and pulled the pistol from his waistband. “That's loaded, so be careful.”

Hell, his whole body seemed to be on fire from mosquito bites. Nevertheless, it was good to be back on board again. The ship was rolling slightly and the squeak of a particular block aloft reminded him of the “quark … quark” of the nightjar. Already, the whole night's activities seemed unreal, as though he was recalling a tale told by someone who had taken part in it.

He clattered down the ladder, acknowledged the sentry's salute, and as he opened the door, the dim lantern showed the hostage sitting at his desk. A woman—oh blast, she was going to complain that a seaman used bad language or pinched her bottom. She looked up, and oh God, how she looked like Sarah.

“Hello, darling,” she said, and the cabin spun, and he just had time to grab the door jamb as he shut his eyes. Then he seemed to be climbing out of a deep, black pit while vines or tendrils or something seemed to be touching his face, but after blinking a couple of times he found himself holding Sarah, and as she saw him recovering she said, “If you nearly faint away again at the sight of me, I shall think I'm not welcome!”

“It's the first time a wife of mine has come back from the dead,” Ramage said weakly. “But kiss me, and I'm not moving until my lips are so bruised that you have a rest and tell me how you got here.”

Some quarter of an hour later, when they were both sitting on the settee, Sarah told her story:

“Well, two days after the
Murex
left the fleet, taking me to Plymouth, she was captured by a French privateer from Toulon. They were terrible men—reminding me of those pirates at Isla Trinidade. I had time to throw away any papers that might identify me—I thought they might try to get a ransom.

“In a way we were lucky, because as they sailed the
Murex
back to Toulon, and we were somewhere off Cartagena, a French frigate arrived and took us off and put a prize crew on board the
Murex.