In the darkness Ramage could see the faint white crests of the wavelets curling over on the sand, leaving a narrow line of white froth. Jackson gave an order to the oarsmen, and the boat slowed.
Ramage called to Martin, who was sitting in the bow, and the youth began scrambling aft over the thwarts. He would be in charge of the three boats once the Pitigliano party was safe on the beach and they could return to the frigate. It was all right for the Calypso to be openly anchored in the bay, but her boats must be hoisted on board: the French must not have any idea that she had landed men.
'Hold tight,' Jackson warned as the gig's stem scraped on the sand. 'Grapplers over the side!'
'Grapplers' was Jackson's word for the four men who leapt into the water and, standing waist-deep, stopped the boat slewing and then helped pull it further up the beach so that the men who were landing would not get so wet.
'She's all yours, Martin,' Ramage said and, gripping the bulwark, lowered himself into the water. It was warmer than he expected, and he teased himself that once again he was caught: frequently on what seemed a cold night in the Tropics it would feel warmer in the water than out - and frequently it was: the sea would be 80° while the air was 76°. Of course even a slight breeze made it seem chillier, in the same way that putting milk or butter in a pottery dish covered with muslin soaking up water kept everything cool by evaporation.
Now the men of the landing party were leaving the boat, first scrambling barefooted over the side into the water and running a few paces up the beach to put their boots in a dry place, then returning to the boat for pistols, muskets and swords.
A few yards to larboard the cutter grounded, and a couple of moments later the jolly-boat nosed up to starboard. Ramage, having put his boots under a bush, went back to the boat to collect his sword and brace of pistols.
He counted the men in his party: they were all waiting on the sandy beach. He gestured to the 'grapplers' and called to Martin: 'Right, now you can be on your way. Make sure the other two boats follow.' With that he helped the 'grapplers' push the boat out, giving it a final thrust as they swung up over the bulwarks and wriggled back on to the thwarts. 'Good luck, sir,' the nearest man whispered, 'wish I was coming with you.' Finally the beach was clear of boats and the three groups of men were among the pine trees, except for two who, under Jackson's guidance, had cut branches from the bushes and, using them as brooms, were sweeping the sand to hide the many footprints. The rise and fall of the tide was only a few inches (leading poets and others to assume the Mediterranean was in fact tideless) but it was still rising and would soon smooth out the three grooves made by the stems of the boats. Half a day's sun and some wind whiffling along the beach would have the sand completely smooth again, except for the lace-like foot prints left by the wading birds that strutted along the shoreline pecking up their food.
Ramage found a small and stubby bush without thorns to squat down on as he pulled on his boots, leaving his sword and pistols on the next bush: bitter experience had taught him that a mere hint of sand was enough to cover a uniform, make a sword grate as it was pulled from its scabbard, and block the touchhole of a pistol.
Hill came up in the darkness to report. 'My party's ready, sir. The prisoners are ready with Mr Aitken and Rennick . . .'
Ramage grunted as he gave the last boot a tug and then stood up. 'No packs of barking dogs or squadrons of French cavalry patrols yet, eh?'
'You can't trust these foreigners to be punctual, sir,' Hill said mildly. 'Shall I get my party up to the road?'
'Yes, cross to the other side, and tell Mr Aitken to follow you.'
He stood for a couple of minutes, staring seaward and breathing in all the scents that made Italy. Over there, the black shape blotting out the stars behind it was Argentario, and to his left he could make out the curving causeway, the Tombolo della Giannella. What was the southern one called? Yes, of course: the Tombolo di Feniglia, which swept round to Port' Ercole. The pine trees of Giannella at the back of the halfmoon of beach (scimitar shaped, really, considering its length) were black, almost menacing. He could pick out the peak of Monte Argentario, but the shadows were too distorting to be able to sight Santo Stefano. No lights visible at this distance - no lights anyway, in all probability: men who rose with the sun to farm their strips of land and tend the grapevines on the terraces went to bed with the sun.
The occasional quark of the nightjar ... the insects ... a splash a few yards out to sea as a small fish leapt in a frantic attempt to escape a predator. When did a fish rest? Dare it ever? How could it stop motionless, knowing that at any moment it might be gobbled up by its next largest neighbour? It must be like that if you belonged to a country close to France . . . Genoa, Switzerland, Lombardy, Piedmont, Venice, Tuscany, the Papal States, the Netherlands . . . the minnows of Europe had been gobbled up, one by one, in the last dozen years.
'Mr Aitken's compliments, sir,' Jackson muttered apologetically, knowing the captain's memory was slipping back over the years, and unwilling to break in on his thoughts, 'but his and Mr Hill's party are waiting on the other side of the road now, alongside a row of cypress. He wants to know if the prisoners with Mr Rennick should put on their irons.'
Ramage glanced up at the sky. From the position of the stars it must be about midnight. Strange, seeing the Pole Star so high after the years in the Tropics, where it was usually less than a dozen degrees above the horizon. If you know the altitude of the Pole Star you know your latitude - that must be about the first thing a midshipman learned when he began navigation. Well, he was standing at about forty-two degrees thirty minutes North, and since that was his latitude it was also the altitude of the Pole Star.
'My compliments to Mr Aitken: I'll be with him in a moment. Lead our party over to join him.'
An hour later Ramage and his men were resting a mile along the road to Pitigliano. Most were asleep beside another cypress grove which had been planted more than a century earlier as a windbreak for a farmhouse long ago deserted. The roof was falling in, the last of the whitewash flaking off the walls, the doors either hung by the remains of a single hinge or were lying flat on the ground, a shelter for scorpions hiding underneath among pebbles and in grass growing white. Ramage had warned the men against the small, black scorpion which was ready in an instant to bring up its tail in an arc over its body to jab with the sting at the end.
One of the 'prisoners' sat against a tree-trunk, acting as sentry, and at his feet was the canvas bag containing all the arm irons that could be found on board the Calypso. Fortunately, there were just enough to shackle the 'prisoners' together when the time came to march.
Ramage sat against another cypress, alone with his thoughts and vaguely conscious that a surprising number of the men snored very loudly. Even more surprising, he thought, was the fact that most of them seemed to find the hard ground as comfortable as a down-filled mattress.
Yes, he could just see Gold Belt, low on the horizon. Strange after all the months in the Tropics when those stars passed high to the south, often overhead.
Now he had reached the track to Pitigliano he was becoming more confident about this bizarre expedition. On board the Calypso, with the men snipping and stitching at the make-believe French and Tuscan Army uniforms, it was like playacting: there seemed no chance that a French cavalry patrol or guards at the gate of Pitigliano itself would be fooled. But now, having made the men parade in their three sections before being dismissed to sleep by the cypress, the whole affair began to develop a strange reality of its own.
First there was Gilbert and his three fellow Frenchmen. They looked genuine in their uniforms. Much too smart, perhaps, but sleeping in them for a few hours (as they were now doing) would make them seem more authentic, plus another day's growth of whiskers. On this kind of escort duty, French soldiers would look more like bandits in stolen uniforms. When the four Frenchmen and Hill spoke French and pretended to quarrel among themselves, they sounded just like the French soldiers he had seen a few months ago in Brest; in fact Ramage was hard put to restrain a shiver.
It was many years since he had seen any of the Grand Duke of Tuscany's troops, but he was willing to accept that Paolo had made no mistakes in the patterns he had drawn for the uniforms. Anyway, Paolo, Rossi and Ramage himself had looked impressive (in the darkness, at least), although for the moment the uniforms were also a little too smart: they needed creasing and a light coat of the white dust that they would soon be kicking up along the road.
The prisoners - yes, they looked just like admirals, generals, colonels and civilians who had been on holiday when caught up in an unexpected resumption of war. Jackson, wearing Ramage's oldest pair of breeches, woollen stockings, an old frock-coat and a torn stock, with the buttons replaced and the epaulettes removed, could pass for a stranded admiral. He had agreed when Ramage said his queue looked out of place, and his sandy hair was cut short and combed back. Jackson looked like a man who, although a prisoner for many months, had tried to keep up appearances. Stafford - well, Stafford was dressed in some of Kenton's civilian clothes, and the fact was (as Jackson had announced) that he looked more like a prosperous pimp who had been caught by a highwayman on his way back from the races.
The remaining eight prisoners seemed, Ramage thought, reasonably authentic: he had quite deliberately chosen men who by their faces or way of walking would not be mistaken for labourers and who, by nature, carried themselves with something of a swagger. All of them had spent several hours on board the Calypso practising under Rennick's sharp eye - Ramage recalled with a smile the instructions Rennick had shouted. 'No, no - walk as though you had a smell under your nose . . . Damme, man, treat him as though he's a card sharper flirting with your wife ... No, no, he's a poacher that your gamekeeper has just caught ...! Think of him as the husband who knows you've cuckolded him but daren't do anything about it. . .'
Finally Rennick had turned the delighted seamen into a semblance of Britons of considerable importance who were being treated by the French as hostages and now being transferred from one prison to another led by Rennick.
It could work: even Southwick was agreed on that. But if the French discovered the deception, then the French 'guards' and the Tuscan 'soldiers' could be shot out of hand as spies masquerading in uniform. The 'prisoners', not being in uniform, might stand a chance of being made real prisoners but Ramage doubted it: the plains and hills and mountains of Tuscany somehow lent themselves to backs-to-the-wall, firing-party-atten-shun! answers.
Finally, Ramage slid sideways, cradling his head against a hump of earth covering a root, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Soon after dawn the three groups of men were walking (Rennick would call it shambling) along the flat road running beside the river. They would reach the hills, which looked like sleeping turtles, just as the sun reached its zenith. Scorching sun, no breeze, more than a couple of dozen pairs of feet stirring up clouds of white dust lying on the rock and which formed the track . . . Thirst might become a problem. Each man carried a Marine's water flask, and Gilbert's men and Ramage's had haversacks with ship's biscuits. But the farms along the way were going to suffer just as if this was a real French army unit: they would have to provide food and water. There would be no payment because Ramage had no local money - and anyway the French never paid.
The 'prisoners' each carried arm irons. It only took a couple of moments to slip their wrists through and hold their arms as though marching in irons.
'Nice to 'ave a walk in the country just as the birds is waking up,' Stafford remarked to Jackson.
'Yes, but when was the last time you did it?'
'Don't fancy it too often,' Stafford said airily. 'Not that fond of the country. Mosquitoes buzzing most o' the night, scorpiongs waiting -'
