the sleeping man, wiped it with the hem of her skirt and filled it. 'Drink this,' she told Rossi, 'although you're in no state to appreciate how good it is. We have no food until my son-in-law goes fishing tomorrow. Just some bread and goat milk cheese.'
Rossi shook his head. 'No, the wine is enough. It is good wine. I must apologize, ladies, for my rough appearance, but we have little time.'
The young woman nodded. 'Yes, we heard two shots. Were you hit twice?'
'No, the first hit me with a ricochet. The second missed.'
'Shall I bandage it for you - washing in wine cleans a wound.'
Rossi turned to the young woman. 'It is kind of you signora, but the wound is of no significance. But if you could tell us...'
'The French arrived with their prisoners about three weeks ago - from Orbetello, I understand. Then a week later a French ship came into the port, and the prisoners and the new French soldiers went on board. The old French soldiers - the ones always at the Fortezza - stayed there. Then the ship sailed.'
'Was it a big ship?'
'You can see for yourself when it gets light: she has come back. She is anchored out in the bay, halfway to Talamone.'
Rossi nodded. So it had been a French frigate, and the good people of Santo Stefano thought the Calypso was the same ship. 'Yes, I saw her out there. You are sure all the prisoners - the English, I mean - were taken away in this ship?'
'Yes. My husband was selling the French some fish to feed them. The French actually paid. My husband was sorry to see the prisoners go. We need the money,' she added, as if justifying selling to the French.
'But you do not know where the French ship was taking the prisoners?'
'No. Once a ship goes round Punta Madonella, one cannot see the direction she takes.'
Rossi sat for a few minutes with his head between his knees as another wave of faintness made him feel he was being drawn into a black pit.
Orsini thought of the long climb back to the beach where the cutter was to collect them. He helped Rossi to his feet. 'Thank you, signora,' he said to the old woman, and then turned to her daughter. 'Signora, have no fear; the French will never know we have been here. Your baby -'
'My son,' the woman said quickly, knowing how stupid men were in recognizing the sex of young babies.
'Ah, a son eh? Has he been named yet?'
The woman shook her head. 'The priest has been very ill.'
'Include 'Paolo' among his names, signora, for luck. And one day in the future, several years perhaps, try to find out who rules Volterra.'
'You are from Volterra,' the woman said quickly, 'I recognize the accent. 'Paolo',' she said softly. 'It is a nice name. Yours, I think.'
Paolo nodded. 'In better times, perhaps, I can come back and see how the boy has grown up.'
The woman nodded. 'Goodbye, signore. Look after your friend.'
Paolo helped Rossi down to the port, sat him on a pile of nets and then inspected the fishing boats. By chance the smallest one was nearest the water's edge and had oars and thole pins in it. He lifted the bow and pulled, finally getting it into the water. He was just looking round for the painter when Rossi lurched up and half collapsed across the gunwale. Orsini helped him in and then scrambled after him. 'More comfortable to row round to meet Mr Hill,' he said. 'And not a throat cut.'
Rossi's arm throbbed. Mr Bowen had cleaned the wound with spirits (giving him a tot of rum first, saying with a reassuring grin that it would take the sting away) and then put in five stitches. Rossi had often heard of people 'being stitched up' but had never thought much about it. Watching Mr Bowen at work with needle and thread he realized that it was just that: stitching, like mending a shot hole in a sail; holding together two flaps of skin that would otherwise gape open and slipping the needle in. Rossi had done the same sort of thing hundreds of times, only he was joining torn canvas. Mr Bowen was thorough. As soon as Rossi had described how the bullet had ricocheted off the wall before hitting him, the surgeon had wanted to know about the wall. Was it brick, stone, stucco? It was a startling question, and Rossi had been able to answer only by elimination. No, it had not been stone. Nor brick. Then he remembered noticing soot from the lamps and round the big fireplace. Yes, it was stucco, and as he thought more he remembered the cracks in it looking like veins in an old man's legs.
He had wondered why Mr Bowen was so interested, and the surgeon explained as he washed the cut with spirits: a bullet hitting stucco and then bouncing off would pick up some of the sand and gesso used to make the stucco and leave perhaps some of it in the wound, so it was best to clean it.
Now, with his arm held diagonally across his chest by a sling, Rossi waited outside Mr Ramage's cabin door while the Marine sentry called his name and, receiving an answer, opened the door.
Rossi found the captain seated at his desk with Mr Hill in the armchair beside it and Mr Orsini on the settee.
'Ah, Rossi, how are you?'
'Bene, grazie, commandante.'
'Not too 'bene', I trust, or Mr Aitken will have you holystoning the deck tomorrow morning. Sit down there, beside Mr Orsini. Is that arm of yours going to be all right?'
'Just a flesh wound, Mr Bowen says. He's put in a few stitches. He'd be a good sailmaker in an emergency, sir.'
'I'll remember that. And I hope you watched carefully when he fixed up your arm: we might need a surgeon's mate.'
'I faint at the sight of blood, commandante,' Rossi said quickly. 'Since I was a child . . .'
Ramage nodded. 'I'll remember that, too. No blood for Rossi. Now, tell me what happened at the Fortezza. Mr Hill has got me as far as the beach, and Mr Orsini as far as the square in front of the Fortezza.'
'Allora,' Rossi said. 'I thought it would be easier for one person to get in, so I asked Mr Orsini to wait outside.' Then, realizing that this might be interpreted as a criticism he added: 'Mr Orsini is more used to storming such a building: he hasn't had my experience as a burglar.'
'You too, eh?' Ramage raised his eyebrows. 'I thought that Stafford was our only night worker.'
Rossi shrugged his shoulders and looked modest. 'When times were hard and there was no other work . . .'
Ramage gave a dry laugh, guessing what the 'other work' was.
'Well, there was no sentry at the entrance to the Fortezza. You remember the little bridge over that dry moat, sir? Those boards creaked, but the gates were open and I could hear voices - from a guardroom, I supposed.
'The men inside were obviously drinking and playing cards, so I had a good look round the rest of the Fortezza. There was no one. Then, I'm afraid, I was too confident. Going out I thought I'd just walk past the guardroom, but two men came out with a lantern, saw me and made me go inside. None of them spoke Italian and several of them started shouting and waving pistols. But -'
'Did you get any idea who they thought you were?' Ramage interrupted.
'Yes, sir: they suspected I was a local Italian looking for something to steal. Two of them went out to inspect their quarters to see if anything was missing, taking one of the two lanterns with them. One of the men left behind started searching me while another held up the remaining lantern, waving a pistol at me. He was very drunk.'
'Then what happened?' Ramage prompted.
'I kicked the man with the lantern. He dropped it but fired his pistol at the same time - accidentally, I think. That was the bullet that ricocheted round the room and hit me. I bolted for the door in the darkness and someone else fired another shot - I don't know where that went. As I ran out of the gateway I heard Mr Orsini call my name, to show where he was, and I was very grateful because my arm was useless and I was beginning to feel dizzy. After that Mr Orsini did everything.'
'That's not what Mr Orsini says,' Ramage remarked.
'Well, sir, he helped me down the hill and there was a contadino's hut with a lantern. We went in and the women told us that a French ship had taken away the hostages: confirming the unlucky gambler's story completely.'
'Did you threaten these women?'
Rossi glanced quickly at Orsini, obviously puzzled. 'No, sir. There was no need. The man was completely drunk and he fell asleep while we talked to him.'
Ramage laughed and reassured the seaman. 'I asked only because Mr Orsini said that although you were swaying and he thought you'd faint any moment, you charmed the old woman and the mother with her baby.'
Rossi's face went red. He was not a man to blush, but he was pleased at the midshipman's compliment. 'Well, sir, the women were proprie Toscane. They wanted to help once they discovered we were Italian. I know I was nearly fainting,' he said with a grin, 'but I remember Mr Orsini suggesting a name for the little baby, who hadn't been christened yet.'
Ramage looked round at Orsini with eyebrows raised.
'Just polite talk, sir; I wanted to make sure she would not gossip. That reminds me, they thought we - the Calypso, that is - were the ship that took the hostages away, and that we had returned to anchor out here.'
'Both of you are sure there was no hint of where the hostages were being taken?'
Rossi and Orsini shook their heads, Rossi wincing as the quick movement jarred his arm.
'Very well, my thanks to the pair of you. I gather that Mr Hill was about to shoot you both when you rowed round to Cala Pozzarello in that fisherman's boat. That wasn't the time to forget the nightjar call and start shouting, Mr Orsini.'
Orsini looked embarrassed. 'I've always dreaded something like that, sir, and finally it happened . . .'
'You were lucky Mr Hill recognized your voice.'
Ramage stood up. 'Pass the word for Mr Aitken and Mr Southwick as you go out, please,' he told Hill, 'and hoist in the boats.'
When Southwick and Aitken arrived, he pulled the Tyrrhenian Sea chart from the rack above, opened it and held it down with paperweights.
'Very well, Mr Southwick, so Bonaparte's villains have decamped with our birds. Where do you think we should start looking?'
'The islands, sir: that's about all I have to offer. I can't see the French using a ship to move them up or down the mainland coast: they marched them to Pitigliano from somewhere up north.'
'From Florence, sir?' Aitken asked. 'Isn't that the most likely place to find a crowd of wealthy English enjoying themselves when the war started again?'
Ramage nodded. 'I'd expect to find them in Rome or Florence. A few in Naples, perhaps. But most of them visiting the artistic treasures of Florence.'
He thought for a minute or two, his imagination spreading a map of northern Italy in front of him. Yes, Florence was most likely. All the English visitors (and Scots, Welsh and Irish) might have been rounded up there, like so many cattle, and then the French would have sorted out the important ones and selected their hostages . . . Hmmm . . . hostages meant people both special and different, and the French would separate them from the others. And intended to keep them separate? Yes, but where? Well, the obvious needs were reasonable accommodation and good security. The Palazzo degli Orsini at Pitigliano had been perfect in every
