The only thing Wake could imagine at that point was getting away from the madman. Woodgerd was more than merely another cynical veteran—he looked dangerously unstable. He reminded Wake of the man he had been ordered to track down—and kill—in the Caribbean five years earlier. That man had been an American officer also. And a maniacal killer, turned pirate, in addition.
Glancing at the couple across from him and smiling at them for reassurance, Wake nodded a vague reply to Woodgerd and gazed out the window at the hills that were becoming mountains with each mile.
When he turned back Woodgerd was asleep again, a tranquil smile spread on his relaxed face, as if dreaming of something pleasant. The notion of what that might be made Wake particularly uneasy.
22
The Castle
March 1874
Woodgerd stayed aboard when Wake disembarked the train at the Santa Margherita station. As Wake got up from his seat, he and the soldier never said a word, just quickly glanced at each other, Woodgerd’s eyes steady, gauging him.
Following Davis’ instructions, Wake made his way down the hill from the station along a maze of streets that canyoned through three- and four-story buildings toward the waterfront. Once at the piazza on the waterfront, he found a crowd waiting at a small steamer alongside a stone wharf and joined the line, confirming with pantomime and a few Italian words that it was the one to Porto Fino. Davis had suggested that he not walk the winding cart path out to the remote village on a peninsula jutting west from the coast—the ferry steamer would be far easier and faster, even if it did further deplete Wake’s dwindling supply of money.
The steamer rattled and rumbled along the coast as an elderly gentleman aboard explained in broken English the sights to the American: Antico Castle, built four hundred years earlier to guard against Saracen pirates, the ancient convent at Punta della Cervara, Monte Pollone rising high above everything, and in the distance the jagged cape of Porto Fino. Occasionally the cart path could be seen, a treacherous ribbon winding back and forth, sometimes edging precariously over the sea. The rockslides he could see on the path, where it looked like the whole thing had suddenly dropped into the Mediterranean, made Wake congratulate himself for not trying to save coins on this part of his journey.
Then, with a gentle sigh, the man pointed to an opening in the rocky cliffs along the coast to starboard. A beautiful little cove came into sight with vessels nested together at anchor, a village clustered against the hills on one side.
“Porto Fino,” the man said proudly. “Molto magnifico!”
Wake went to the bow to watch their approach as the vessel turned into the opening and slowed, weaving its way among the anchored small craft. He looked for a yacht named the Black Tulip but saw nothing but fishing smacks. Soon they were tied up along a seawall and a throng of passengers overflowed off the steamer and into the waterside street of taverns and shops, greeting friends with shouts of glee. Behind the tan buildings spread along the water and painted with realistic-looking faux cornices and columns, small houses of faded pink and blue clung to the hillsides. Mandolin music and laughter filled the air from one of the tavernas, gaily colored flowers in window boxes everywhere. Smells of sizzling food and scented cigar smoke floated among the café diners busy in animated discussions.
The whole place appeared magical to Wake as he was swept along by the crowd. His head swiveled around as he stared up at the walls of green foliage that covered the cliffs surrounding the village and he almost tripped and fell into the water. Finding a man in a uniform that he presumed to be a policeman, Wake spread his hands in the universal gesture of one who is lost. “Castle Brown?”
“Il Castello Brown?” The man raised an eyebrow, pointed among the trees atop a cliff on the opposite side of the cove and spoke rapidly. “Sopra la scogliera piccola.” Then he sauntered away, calling back, “Buona fortuna!”
Wake stood, totally confused, not understanding a word but disliking the sound of it. Looking up at the indicated trees he saw the outlines of a stone wall, but no castle. Down by the water, there was a narrow paved walk fronting small businesses around the cove’s seawall, but he couldn’t see any way from the waterfront up the cliff to the stone wall.
He walked around the cove, noting a massive pile of discarded wood in the village’s small piazza of Martiri della Olivetta, built up into an as-yet-untorched pyre. Fishermen were adding a battered old dinghy to the base while women were stringing garlands of flowers around the whole, all of them singing a jaunty tune.
Around the other side he found steps carved deeply into the rock face and disappearing in a curve thirty feet up. It was steep but looked like it might lead to the top. Shifting his sea bag and valise, Wake took a breath and began to climb the uneven steps, up and around the first curve, then another curve as the rough-hewn stairs got closer and vines of ivy and wisteria crowded the passageway, creating a tunnel effect. He was feeling the strain in his legs and arms by the time he got to a little landing area that gave a view of the cove a hundred feet below.
“Mi scusi! Mi scusi!” echoed from above just before two young men carrying large burlap bags on their shoulders raced down past Wake, taking the steps two or three at a time and laughing all the way. Leaning on the rocky ledge, Wake caught his breath, then started up again,
