regularly said 'please' except for Mr Ramage, and if you were the captain you could afford to say please.
'This catches the muscles in your shins, doesn't it?' Orsini commented, beginning to puff.
'We need a somaro, so we could hold its tail,' Rossi said. 'My feet have never worked so hard as this last week. Sixty English miles to Pitigliano and back, I heard Mr Aitken say.'
'Yes, sixty. The last time I walked so far - that was a long time ago . . .'
'When you escaped from Volterra, sir?'
'Yes. Most of it at night, like now. I fell into so many ditches that I must have swum a quarter of the way.'
'What Mr Ramage said about cutting throats,' Rossi said conversationally, 'he meant it, and you leave it to me.'
'I know. He thinks I couldn't cut a throat in cold blood, but he knows you could.'
'Something like that,' Rossi said tactfully.
'He's wrong though. I could cut a Frenchman's throat in cold blood just as easily as in action when we board a French ship. You see, I hate them. Mr Ramage and the other officers don't really hate the French: their job is to fight the enemy, and the enemy today is the French, so they fight them. In ten years time it might be the Spanish, or the Austrians. I see it differently. The French have stolen Volterra from my family. They have corrupted many of the leading families, using fear or bribes. Bonaparte rules Europe from the Baltic to the Ionian Sea. His soldiers and sailors glory in it. So people who steal my land and kill my family and corrupt or imprison my people - well, just line up the throats.'
Rossi stopped and turned to Orsini in the darkness. 'Listen sir, I could have told Mr Ramage that. Being Italian as well, I can guess how you feel. But it's very hard for the English to understand because their country has never been occupied by an enemy. At least, not for hundreds of years. But believe me, even though I'm sure you can cut a throat in cold blood, don't be in a hurry to do it. The first time - well, afterwards you have nightmares. The second and third times aren't much better. So leave it to me. I can sleep soundly when it's over.'
'Thank you,' Orsini said. 'I could do it, but that isn't to say I want to.'
The two men walked along the track as it twisted over two more headlands which formed small, rock-strewn bays, and as they began climbing another steeper hill Orsini said: 'I think this is Punta Nera: from the top we should see Santo Stefano.'
Five minutes later, breathless, they looked down on Santo Stefano: a large bay and a smaller beyond it and the Fortezza above in the hills, keeping guard over both of them. Houses lined the big bay and Orsini could see fishing boats hauled up on the beach, and what must be nets drying on frames. Yes, just as it looked from seaward in daylight: a small fishing port surrounded by hills and guarded by (unless one knew the part Aragon and Spain itself had played in Tuscan history) a fortress which seemed larger than necessary.
'Andiamo,' Rossi said, but Orsini held his arm for a moment.
'Can you see the Calypso?'
The two men stared into the darkness. They knew where she was anchored, and finally Rossi said: 'I think there's a darker patch. Look, can you make out Talamone in the distance? Well, in line with Monte dell' Uccellina behind it and halfway to Talamone - the dark -'
'I see it,' Orsini said. 'A long way to swim.'
Rossi shivered. 'Don't even joke about it, sir.'
The hill running steeply down into Santo Stefano was long and deeply rutted where sudden rainstorms had washed away the thin layer of red earth to lay bare the rock beneath. At times the track twisted like a snake to show where donkeys and their owners scrambled from one side to the other, as though each rock was a stepping stone, but even in the darkness both men could see that some of the exposed stone was vertical, miniature precipices only a few inches high but enough to cause a fall, to break a limb of donkey or man.
'No need for us to be quiet,' Orsini said, 'so we can curse as much as we like. Do you know any choice Lucchesi curses?'
'I don't care how they curse in Lucca,' Rossi said, tripping as he spoke, 'but I know what they say in Genova and Volterra and it means the same as I'm saying now!'
Slowly they worked their way down the hill and in the darkness it seemed to Orsini that the little town of Santo Stefano was slowly rising to meet them: already the Fortezza, though still distant, was higher. In daylight a sentry on the battlements would see them clearly.
The Fortezza was their target. Mr Ramage reckoned that if there were no signs of a French garrison there, then the hostages had gone, because there was nowhere else to keep them. So it was down into the valley (which ran into the bay, and gave its name to one of the town's quarters) and up the other side, a careful look round, question someone and then back again to the cutter. Then Orsini began to have doubts: he had been at sea long enough to worry when everything appeared to be going well.
The track turned now to cross the nearer side of the town and first one and then several dogs began to bark as they passed the first few houses. A man came to a door and swore at them, his voice sleepy.
Rossi and Orsini spoke to each other in Italian, the gossiping conversation to be expected of two men arriving at night in a strange town. The track forked but a glance upwards showed which was the more likely to lead to the Fortezza.
It took them fifteen minutes to reach the open square in front of it, and Rossi muttered to Orsini: 'You stay here while I have a look. The gateway is on this side.'
With that the seaman disappeared silently into the blackness before Orsini had a chance to argue. Suddenly, squatting down on a large rock which, from the foot and hoof prints surrounding it and dried in the earth, was used by the peasants for mounting mules, Orsini felt tired: for most of the walk from the boat he had been excited, but now he was almost sure the town was empty of the French: if there were hostages in the Fortezza, surely there would be French soldiers on patrol, or a sentry on the track, which was the only way to Santo Stefano by land.
The shout was followed immediately by the crack of a pistol shot. For a moment he heard the noise echo and re-echo across the valley below. He had not seen a flash, but it was close and must be at the Fortezza. Should he go there - and risk missing Rossi, who would expect to find him here (assuming Rossi had not been killed)? A second pistol shot was followed by scurrying feet: one man was coming towards him. The footfalls were not regular; they were more like those of a drunken husband trying to stagger home without his wife hearing. Then Orsini heard cursing at regular intervals: not loud - but now the Genovese accent was unmistakable.
'Rossi! Over here, Rossi!'
'Andiamo!' Rossi said as Orsini ran towards him and led the way down the track.
'What's happened? Are the French after us?'
'Yes, but don't worry; sono ubriachi. The whole lot of them.'
'All drunk? You're sure? How many?'
Rossi lurched and Orsini grabbed his arm to prevent him falling. 'I'll explain when we get up to Punta Nera.'
'Are the hostages there?'
'No . . . just a small garrison . . .'
At that moment Orsini felt a curious dampness soaking through Rossi's sleeve.
'You're wounded! Here, let me look!'
'It's nothing and it's too dark to see,' Rossi said hurriedly. 'Come on, we've got to get back to the cutter. The hostages aren't there: that's what matters. We'll find out where they went before we leave the town. Have you got your dirk?'
'Yes, why?'
'I'll need it. Lost my cutlass when they caught me, before that stronzo shot me.'
Rossi was swaying on his feet. Orsini did not know whether to force the man to have a rest or hurry him back to the cutter quickly: it was a toss up either way if he was bleeding badly.
Together they stumbled down the hill and at the first house showing a light Rossi said gruffly: 'Your dirk.'
Orsini handed it over. 'What are you going to do?'
'Wait here!' Rossi said and walked up to the doorway, ripping aside the sacking which covered it. Orsini saw him point to something inside the room and hurried up to stand at the doorway.
Rossi now stood, white-faced, just inside the tiny room. A plump and bleary-eyed man sat at the table, a mug in one hand and a jug of wine in front of him. A raddled old woman sat at one end of what passed for a bed, watching Rossi with sharp but frightened eyes. A young woman was at the other end of the bed holding a baby in her arms and breast-feeding it.
With a tremendous effort the man raised his head and focused his eyes on Rossi. 'Wha' did you say?'
'The French: did they have any prisoners here?'
'Don' know. Shoot me, because they would if I told you.'
'I'll cut your throat if you don't,' Rossi said waving the dirk, 'so it looks as though your mug of wine is turning to vinegar.'
'His arm is bleeding badly,' the young woman said, and as if she thought the man was too drunk to notice, added: 'He's a Genovese, like my cousin Umberto. He's not French.'
'You seem to know everything,' the man said, his voice slurred. He reached for the jug and knocked it over, the wine spreading across the table and dripping to the floor. He muttered a curse, folded his arms on the table in front of him, and pillowed his head. To Orsini it seemed he was snoring in a moment.
Rossi spoke to the young woman. 'You have nothing to fear. We are Italians. All we need to know is what happened to all the English prisoners the French brought to the Fortezza.'
'They were English?' The old woman asked, lisping because she was toothless. 'The French are supposed to fight them but -' she cackled mirthlessly, '- but not here. All they do here, the French, is steal our wine and get drunk and chase the young women. No one is safe. My daughter here, and her nursing the baby, well, 1 could tell you a story -'
'Quiet mother,' the young woman said, tucking one breast back into her shift and bringing out the other, and holding the baby to it. 'Segnore, sit down here -' she touched the bed beside her. 'You look as though you will faint. Get him some wine, mother. Quickly now!'
Rossi lurched forward and Orsini helped him to sit down, taking the dirk at the same time. The old woman produced another jug, picked up the mug in front of
