Ramage

Chapter 8

LYING IN THE SAND later that day, shaded from the fierce heat of the sun by a juniper bush, Ramage alternately dozed and woke, relieved that for the moment there were no decisions to make and no particular risks to run. All that bothered him for the time being were the flies and mosquitoes which attacked him with a determination quite alien to the country.

He ran over in his mind the plan he had already outlined to Jackson and the men. Just before nine o'clock - providing the wind did not come up and bring a bit of a sea with it - the gig would be hauled out to the sand bar, where it could be held by a couple of seamen so that the party could wade out to it. That was the easiest way of making a hurried departure in case of an emergency. But if there was no urgency, the boat could be hauled up the river again so the refugees could embark without getting wet.

Now all that remained was for Nino to arrive with a message from the Marchesa telling him how many of the men were coming.

How he hated these men he had never seen: these names, these (probably) scented fops, whose very existence had sunk the Sibella and decimated her crew. The violence of the spasm of hatred made him sit up, as if to shake it off, and when he lay back again he despised himself for being so irrational: they might well be brave men anxious to carry on the fight against the French.

'A drink of water, sir?'

The ever-wakeful Jackson: he'd miss that Yankee twang and cadaverous face when they reached Bastia and Jackson was sent off to some other ship.

He took the dipper and drank. It was warm and brackish; like all water stored in a ship it stank, but years of practice taught a seaman to drink with the back of his nose blocked, so the smell was delayed until after the water was down his throat, past regret or recall.

Maybe it was unfair to blame these refugees; but with their money and influence, surely they could have chartered - stolen, even - a fishing boat and made their way to Corsica, instead of requesting a British warship? Did they want a warship for comfort or security? If comfort, because they found the idea of a fishing boat too disgusting, then the devil take them. If security: well, they had lost their lands, their homes, and probably their wealth - temporarily anyway - so perhaps one could not blame them. But he had a suspicion it was for luxury; for pride; so that they should not make a brutta figura, cut a figure, the cheap vanity that was - and presumably always would be - the curse of Italy.

He thought, many Italians - but by no means all - are like Van der Dekken, the Flying Dutchman; only the curse on them is that they're doomed to roam the world, their vanity raw and exposed to every chill wind, open to every slight, until they find something to give them confidence and the natural dignity that goes with it.

Yet, apart from the brutta figura, if he was honest he was blaming them for his own forebodings: that much he admitted. He stared up at the deep blue of the sky. Foreboding... apprehension ... fear: the same commodity, but with different names stencilled on the casks. The fear was of - well, not so much when he thought about it: only the consequences of surrendering the Sibella. There were plenty of his father's enemies still carrying on the vendetta. He only hoped Captain Nelson would be at Bastia when he arrived; but if it was Admiral Goddard or one of his followers, which was quite possible - well...

He heard a man puffing and grunting, and as Jackson leapt to his feet, cutlass in hand, Nino came into the clearing.

'Ah, Commandante,' he said, 'this heat!' He rubbed his face vigorously with a piece of cloth, smearing the soot which always begrimed a carbonaio's face across the areas of skin which had been washed clean by streams of perspiration. 'Your sentry was not asleep this time!'

'What news, Nino? Sit down - we have no wine, only water.'

Nino grinned. 'In the name of my uncle at Port' Ercole, Commandante, I took the liberty of bringing you something.'

He untied the neck of a small sack and took out three bottles of the deep golden white wine for which the district was famous, followed by several cheeses and half a dozen long, thin loaves of bread.

'Those biscuits,' he said. 'The Marchesa told me of your ship's biscuits, and so I found you some bread.'

'It was kind of you, Nino.'

'Prego, Commandante; it was nothing, you are welcome. The bread is made from my uncle's grain.'

Drinking wine in the heat of the sun always gave Ramage a headache; but he knew Nino would be hurt if he did not. 'We'll have a little now and keep the rest for the voyage.'

'Drink it all now, Commandante; the two gentlemen will be bringing supplies for the voyage.'

Ramage glanced up at the peasant. 'The two gentlemen, Nino?'

'I have a message from the Marchesa, Commandante. She said to tell you that three of the gentlemen have decided their duty keeps them here.'

Nino's voice was polite, but there was no mistaking his views on the reluctant trio.

'The two.gentlemen: who are they?'

'I do not know their names: they are young and I think they are cousins. Now, Commandante, I must leave you: I have work to do before I meet you again at nine o'clock. Permesso, Commandante?'

'Yes, and thank you, Nino: my greetings to your brother and your mother and your wife, and my apologies for disturbing them last night.'

'It was nothing, Commandante'

With that he was gone. Ramage told Jackson to take some wine and food to the seamen and then lay back on the sand again, watching the insects zig-zagging among the spines of the junipers. The air was alive with the buzzing of the cicadas; the noise seemed to come from everywhere and yet nowhere; almost as though it was being produced inside one's head.

The sleep had done Ramage good: now he felt restless and full of energy. With the immediate problems solved, he found himself thinking of the girl: he re-created a dozen times the episode in the Tower, dwelling again and again on the quality of her voice. It was hard to define - soft, yet it had the ring of authority; precise in the way she spoke, but musical to the ear. Clear - and yet always on the verge of huskiness. He started to wonder how husky it would become when she made love, and hurriedly forced the idea out of his mind: the sun was hot enough without thinking of that: he'd already disturbed himself enough with memories of Ghiberti's naked Eve and speculations about the body beneath the black cape.

He felt a deep and powerful longing to roam free over the Tuscan hills once again: to ride the tracks and stir up the white dust; to see the lines of dark green cypress growing up the side of hills, stark against the hard blue sky. To watch a pair of creamy oxen plodding along, tails lazily flicking the flies from their flanks, and the owner asleep in the cart. To see a walled hill town, ride up the twisting path to the gate, his horse's hooves clattering on the cobbles of the narrow streets, and glance up at a window to see a pair of beautiful eyes watching him curiously. To go back in time, to his boyhood, when Gianaa was a little girl the Marchesa brought to the house....

The cicadas still buzzed in the darkness - did they never sleep? - as Ramage watched the moon rising over Mount Capalbio. Earlier in the day, looking at a flat stone set high in the south wall of the Tower, Ramage had just been able to distinguish some Latin words, a name and a date carved into it, recording that a certain Alfiero Nicolo Verdeco was 'the architect of this edifice' in AD 1606. Had Signor Verdeco stood on this spot nearly two centuries earlier and seen his 'edifice' bathed in the warm, oyster-pink glow of a full moon — a harvest moon?

Ramage heard some splashing near by and from the top of the dune looked down at the mouth of the river: the boat was being held by three seamen, up to their knees in water, so that the after end of the keel rested on the sand bar. The rest of the men were already in the boat, waiting to help the refugees on board.

He called down to Smith, asking the time.

He saw a faint glow as Smith lifted up the canvas shield over the lantern and held the watch close to the light. Thank God someone had brought a good supply of candles.

'Five minutes short o' nine o'clock, sir.'

Time to walk along the top of the dunes towards the Tower, to keep an eye open for the refugees. Let's hope they'll be punctual. Nine o'clock in Italy could mean anything between ten o'clock and midnight.

He guessed they had been hiding somewhere near the little hill town of Capalbio, inland on the far side of the lake. Their shortest route to the boat would be round the northern edge of the lake, where they would pick up the track running parallel with the beach, forty yards or so inland, and linking the Tower with the little village of Ansedonia, farther up the coast towards the causeways. Nino had said it was called the Strada di Cavalleggeri, the Road of the Horsemen, but no one used it now. The track was hard sand, built up with an underlay of rocks where it crossed patches of marshy ground, and it ended at the bridge of narrow planks over the river by the Tower. The refugees need only walk along it until they met the bridge, turn right and climb up on top of the dunes, then carry on beside the river until they reached its mouth, where the boat waited.

The moon was coming up fast, losing its pinkness the higher it rose, and seeming to shrink in size. Damn, thought Ramage it must be nearly half past nine.

Jackson seemed to sense his mounting annoyance and anxiety.

'Reckon they're all right, sir?'

'I imagine so: I've never yet met a punctual Italian.'

'Still, she said half an hour. If they left at dusk they've been nearly an hour, sir.'

'I know, man,' Ramage said impatiently. 'But we don't know whether they left on time, or where they started from or how they're coming, so we can only wait.'

'Sorry, sir. Reckon those men with her ladyship have had a rough time today.'

'Why? How do you mean?'

'I wouldn't like admitting to her I was scared of doing something....'

‘No.'

Jackson was in a talkative mood, and obviously nothing short of a direct order would stop him.

‘... I guess she could make a man feel pretty small, sir.'

'Yes.'

'But there's another side to it, sir...'

Ramage guessed Jackson knew he was anxious and was deliberately making conversation to help him over the waiting.

'Is there?'

"Yes - if a man had a woman like that to encourage him, he could push the world over.'

'She'd push it for him, more likely.'

'No, sir. Although she's small and dainty, I reckon she's -well, tough like a man; not all "fetch my smelling salts, Willy" as you might say. But I reckon it's only because she's boss of the family and has to be like that. I guess that inside her she's all woman.'

He wanted Jackson to talk. The American was not being familiar: dammit, he was old enough to be his father, and his salty wisdom obviously came from experience. But more important, Ramage realized, that low-pitched nasal voice was helping beat off the waves of loneliness and despair that were threatening to drown him. He looked once again over the flat marshes of the Maremma to the distant mountains silhouetted by the moonlight; then he stared up at the moon itself, now looking with all its pockmarks like a polished silver coin; and the stars, so clear and so close together it'd be hard to jab the sky with the point of a sword without touching one of them. They all seemed to be saying 'You are very insignificant, very inexperienced, very frightened ... What little you know; and what a short time you have in which to learn ...'

A musket shot whiplashed over to his left, a thousand yards or more along the Strada di Cavalleggeri. And another - and a third.

'There!' exclaimed Jackson, pointing. 'Did you see the flash?'

'No.'

Damn, damn, damn! He was helpless: he'd left his cutlass in the boat.

Another flash and a moment later the sound of the shot.

'I saw that one: just near the track. Must be a French patrol chasing them.'

'Yes,' said Jackson, 'the flashes are scattered.'

Realizing he could not help from where he was, Ramage snapped: 'Come on, we'll make for the end of the track and pilot 'em in!'

They dashed along the top of the dunes but every dozen or so paces one or other of them toppled over as his feet sank into a patch of particularly soft sand. The juniper and sea holly tore at their legs and thighs, and they had to dodge round the bigger bushes.

Then, almost sobbing for breath, they were level with the Tower and running down the side of the dunes to follow the river's sudden curve inland towards the lake.

As the land flattened out they burst through a wall of bushes and found themselves at the edge of the hard track: to the right it ended abruptly at the little bridge; to the left it ran straight, disappearing into the darkness towards Ansedonia.

Three more shots rang out and Ramage saw the flashes - all inland of the track. Jackson suddenly dropped on all fours and for a moment Ramage thought he had been hit by a stray ball, then realized the American had an ear to the ground.

'Cavalry - a dozen horses, at a guess, but scattered," he said.

'Can you hear people running?'

'No, sir: sound don't travel well through this sandy stuff.'

Should they both run along the track and try to fight off the pursuers? No, they'd only add to the refugees' confusion: better wait here. No - make a diversion and draw the fire: that was the only hope.

'Jackson!' In his enthusiasm he seized the American by the shoulder. 'Listen - they can get to the boat either along this track or by crossing the dunes farther up there and then along the beach. I'll stay on the track and you go up on the dunes. As the Italians pass we make sure they're going in the right direction, then make a diversion as the cavalry reach us. When I shout "boat" bolt back and get on board: horses won't be able to gallop on the dunes. Understand?'

'Aye aye, sir!'

With that Jackson,was scrambling up the side of the dune. An American who, a few years ago, was fighting the British, was now serving in the British Navy risking his neck on Tuscan soil to save some Italians from the French, who were once his allies against the British. It didn't make sense.

Ramage stared along the track, trying to glimpse a hint of movement in the distance. Realizing he was too close to the boat to make an effective diversion which would give the Italians time to get over the dunes, he ran fifty yards along the track.

He pulled the throwing knife from his boot and waited in the shadows of a big bush. God, except for the thumping of his heart it was now as silent as the grave. Even the cicadas had stopped their buzzing. Just shadows, and the moonlight, which bleached colours and courage alike.

A crackle of branches up the track: a faint rhythmic thumping of running feet. Another flash - someone shooting towards the track, from the seaward side this time. Then another shot, from landward. Now shouts - in French, calling on people to halt. Another flash and bang: a pistol shot, fired back up the track - the refugees were defending themselves. People running, calling desperately to each other in Italian, cursing breathlessly.

Now he could just distinguish a small group running towards him, jinking from one side of the track to the other to make themselves more elusive targets.

There was a jangle of horses' harness on the seaward side of the track - more cavalry coming along the beach?

'Jackson.'

‘Here, sir!'

The American was up on the dune, thirty yards ahead.

'You divert the Frogs - I'll help the Italians: they must be all in!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Ramage ran along the track calling. 'Qui, siamo qui!’

'Where?' It was Nino's voice.

‘Here - ahead of you: keep running!'

'Madonna, we are nearly finished! The Marchesa is wounded!'

In a few moments he was among them: two men, presumably the refugees, were carrying the girl by the arms, her legs dragging in the sand. She was conscious. Nino and his brother were behind, guarding the rear.

Ramage thrust the two strangers aside, grabbed the girl's right hand in his left and pulled it towards him as he bent down, doubling her body over his right shoulder. Straightening himself up he gripped her right ankle as well with his left hand, leaving his right hand free, and still holding the knife. He began running along the track, towards the Tower.

‘How near are the French?'

'Not fifty paces behind - a dozen cavalry or more,' one of the men gasped: 'We had pistols – that’s why they aren't getting too close - but they're empty.'

She was light, thank God, but how badly hurt? Her head was hanging down over his back.

'In pain?'

'A little: I can bear it.'

'Madonna!' shouted Nino, 'look out!'

A sudden thudding of hooves close behind sent him bolting sideways into a gap between the bushes. He flung the girl clear and spun round to find two horsemen plunging after him through the gap, one behind the other, sabre blades glinting in the moonlight. They'd fired their muskets and had no time to reload.

Six yards, five . . . Ramage stood blocking the horsemen's path, deliberately showing himself. Four yards - up went the Frenchman's sabre . . . Ramage gripped the knife and swung his arm over his shoulder . . . The horse turned slightly as the rider reined it to one side, giving himself room to slash with the sabre. Ramage's arm swung down and the knife blade flashed for a second in the moonlight.

The sabre dropped and the man gurgled as he fell backwards, still holding the reins in one hand. The horse reared up, whinnying in fear, and the following horse ran into it; but the second rider pulled it round and galloped back out of the gap. The first horse turned and followed as its rider fell to the ground.

Ramage ran to the body, pulled the knife from the man's shoulder, slung the girl over his shoulder once again, and went back to the track. The second horseman had disappeared into the darkness and he called to the Italians, who emerged from the bushes near by.

'Come on!' Ramage yelled and ran along the track.

He heard a whistle to his right: Jackson was imitating the reedy note of a boatswain's call.

‘We're carrying on to the boat, Jackson: hold on and cover us!'

'Aye aye, sir. Sorry about those two: they cut in ahead of me.'

The girl's getting heavy: it'll be almost impossible running along soft sand on the top of the dunes. Should he risk the water's edge, where the sand is hard?

'Nino!'

'Yes, Commandante?

*We must split up: take your people along the track. I'm going over the dunes and along the beach - I can't manage the soft sand!'

'Yes, Cammandante, I understand!'

This is as good a place to cross as anywhere. Hold tight,' he told the girl, and ran up the side of the dune, managing to use the momentum of their bodies to reach the top without stopping. He plunged on down the other side, but suddenly his feet sank too deep in the sand and he pitched over, sending the girl flying.

Hurriedly he untangled himself. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes - I can walk: it is easier in this sand. I've been trying to tell you that ever since you picked me up.'

'You're sure?'

‘Yes,' she said impatiently, and he took her hand. She shook it free and a moment later he realized she had to hold up her skirts.

'My left elbow!'

He grasped it and together they reached the top of the next dune: now there was only one more valley and one more crest. Down they plunged and up again, then down the shallower slope to the water's edge. A moment later they were running along the tide-line, splashing through occasional shallow pools of water.

He glanced back along the beach: oh Christ! Four dark shapes, men on horseback, galloping straight towards them, fifty yards away. Obviously they'd both been seen. Could they get back up the dune in time?

'Quick, back up there and hide in the bushes.'

He pushed her when she paused for a second.

'You, too!'

'No - go on, hurry, for God's sake!'

'If you stay, I stay!'

He pushed her again: 'Go on or we'll both be killed.'

Two people arguing while four horsemen galloped up to kill them. Ludicrous, but anyway it was too late - she'd never make the bushes: the horsemen need swerve only slightly to cut her down. The sea? Not a chance - the horses could plunge out farther and faster.

Forty yards away, perhaps less. Ramage gripped his knife: one of them would die with him, he vowed viciously.

‘When I say "Go", duck and run round the horsemen, then up to the dunes.'

He'd go for the leading horse and hope she could dart past in the confusion, escaping before they could rein round and give chase. If he leapt low, knife at the horse's throat, perhaps he could escape the sabre; but anyway the hooves would get him. Jesus, what a way to die.

Suddenly from the top of the dunes above and just ahead of the horsemen a dark shape appeared: a strange figure uttering weird cries which made Ramage's blood run cold.

The leading horse promptly reared up on its hind legs, sending the rider crashing backwards to the ground: the second horse, unable to stop in time, cannoned into it, and the rider slid over its head. The third horse shied and then bolted back the way it had come, hitting the fourth horse a glancing blow and apparently unseating the rider, who fell off but, with one foot tangled in the stirrup, was dragged along the ground as all four horses galloped back along the beach, leaving three men lying on the sand.

It had taken perhaps ten seconds and it was Jackson again -waving branches he'd wrenched off the bushes. The American ran down to the three men, cutlass in hand. Ramage shuddered, but it had to be done.

'Quick!' Ramage grabbed the girl's arm, and ran towards the boat. A few moments later he could see the break in the line of the beach where the river met the sea: there was the gig.

'Not far now!'

But she was staggering from side to side, swaying as if about to faint. He hurriedly stuck the knife in his boot, picked her up, and ran to the boat where eager hands waited to lift her on board.

'We've got one Italian here already, sir,' called Smith. 'Another couple of chaps came and went away again.'

'Right - I'll be back in a moment.'

Jackson and one refugee to come. But what about Nino and his brother? He could not leave them here - they'd never escape.

He ran up the side of the dune. A few hours earlier he'd been lying there in the shade of a juniper, day-dreaming... 'Nino! Nino!'

‘Here, Commandante!’

The Italian was by the river bank, thirty yards away, towards the Tower.

Ramage ran towards him.

'Commandante- Count Pitti is lost!'

‘What happened?'

Shots rang out farther back along the dunes as Nino explained.

'He was with us as we ran to the boat. But when we got there he was missing. Count Pisano is on board.'

'So is the Marchesa. Nino - do you and your brother want to come with us?'

'No, thank you, Commandante: we can escape.'

'How?'

'Over there.' He gestured across the river.

'Go now, then, and hurry!'

He held out his hand and each man shook it.

'But Count Pitti, Commandante!’

'I'll find him - now go, quickly!'

More shots, closer now. 'You can do no more: now go, and God be with you.'

'And you, Commandante. Farewell then, and buon viaggio.'

With that they ran down the bank and plunged across the river.

Ramage could hear harness rattling to his left, the seaward side of the dunes. He ran along the ridge but a flash only twenty yards away made him fling himself sideways into the shelter of some bushes. The Frenchman must be a poor shot to miss at that range.

As Ramage broke through the other side of the bushes he heard more shots and suddenly five yards ahead of him saw a body sprawled face downwards in the sand. He ran over and found it was a man wearing a long cape. He knelt down, pulling the man over on to his back.

The shock made his head spin: in the moonlight he could see there was no face, just pulp: a shot through the back of the head...

So that was the remains of Count Pitti. Now there was only Jackson to account for.

He ran to the top of the ridge and yelled:

'Jackson - boat! Jackson - boat!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The American was still back there among the dunes.

Ramage knew his responsibility was now with the boat and its precious passengers, and ran down the river bank. A few moments later Smith was hauling him on board.

'Just Jackson to come. Haul her off the bar - ship the tiller. Now, inboard you men,' he said to the seamen in the water as soon as he felt the boat floating free of the bottom.

When they had scrambled over the gunwale and reached their places on the thwarts he snapped, 'Oars ready! Oars out! When I say "Give way", give way smartly: our lives depend on it.'

Where the hell was Jackson? He spotted a group of men fifty yards away along the beach: they were kneeling - French soldiers taking aim! Choose, man: Jackson's life or the lives of six seamen and two Italian aristocrats highly valued by Admiral Jervis? What a bloody choice.

Wait, though: the soldiers had been galloping hard: they won't be able to take a steady aim.

He saw a man silhouetted for a moment against the top of the nearest dune, but the glimpse was enough for him to recognize Jackson's thin, loose-limbed figure.

‘Hurry, blast you!'

He unshipped the tiller again, put it on the thwart, and swivelled round, leaning over the transom ready to grab him. The American reached the water's edge and ran with the high step of a trotting horse as the water deepened.

Ramage was conscious of a stream of oaths babbled almost hysterically in Italian behind him just as he realized the French troops farther along the beach were firing. Someone was tugging his coat and pummelling him. Jackson had four yards to go.

The tugging and pummelling was more insistent: then he noticed a relationship between the Italian curses and the tugs. Now the man was pleading in high-pitched Italian. ‘For God's sake let us get away: hurry for the love of God.'

Three yards, two yards, one - he grabbed Jackson's wrists and yelled, 'Right men, give way together - handsomely now!' He gave an enormous heave which brought Jackson sprawling inboard over the transom, and from the grunt the American gave it was obvious the rudder head had caught him in the groin.

'Come on, out of the way!'

Ramage helped him with a shove and hurriedly shipped the tiller: the men had been rowing straight out to sea, which would keep them in range of the French that much longer. He put the tiller over, steering directly away from the soldiers, so the boat presented a smaller target. Just as he glanced back there were three flashes at the water's edge and one of the seamen groaned and fell forward, letting go of his oar.

Jackson leapt across just in time to grab the oar before it went over the side.

'Fix him up, Jackson, then take his place.'

By the time the French had reloaded, the boat would be almost out of sight, down-moon and against the darker western horizon.

The Italian was now squatting down on the floor boards, almost at his feet: Ramage realized he was there only after hearing a low, monotonous, gabbling of prayers in Latin and noticing some of the seamen muttering uneasily, not understanding what was going on. Prayers are all right in their place, he thought, but if gabbling them like a panic-stricken priest upsets the seamen, then the boat isn't the right place - fear spreads like fire.

He prodded the man with his foot and snapped in Italian,

'Basta! Enough of that: pray later, or in silence.'

The moaning stopped. The soldiers would have reloaded by now. Ramage looked back and could still distinguish the beach.

He sensed the men were jumpy and it was hardly surprising, since they'd been sitting in the boat, or standing beside it up to their waists in water, while a good deal of shooting was going on near by.

'Jackson,' he said conversationally, to reassure the men, 'that was a frightful noise you made on the beach. Where did you pick up the trick of charging cavalry single-handed?'

'Well, sir,' Jackson replied, an apologetic note in his voice, 'I was with Colonel Pickens at Cowpens in the last war, sir, and it was mighty effective in the woods against your dragoons: they hadn't met that sort of thing before.'

'I imagine not,' Ramage said politely, turning the boat half a point to starboard.

'No, sir,' Jackson said emphatically. 'Only the last time I did it, 'twas against a whole troop of 'em in a narrow lane. They were chasing me, you see.'

'Is that so? Did it work?' he asked, conscious the men were listening to the conversation as they rowed.

'Most effective, sir: I had 'em all off, except one or two at the rear.'

'How did you learn this sort of - er, business?'

'Woodsman, sir; I was brought up in South Carolina.'

'Madonna!' exclaimed a voice in heavy-accented English from under the thwarts. 'Madonna! They talk of horses and cow pens at a time like this.'

Ramage looked round at the girl, conscious he had not given her a thought since he climbed on board the boat.

'Would you please tell your friend to hold his tongue.’

She leant down to the man, who was almost at her feet; but he already understood.

'Hold my tongue?' he exclaimed in Italian. "How can I hold my tongue? And why should I?'

Ramage said coldly in Italian: ‘I did not mean "hold your tongue" literally. I was telling you to stop talking.'

'Stop talking! When you run away and leave my cousin lying wounded on the beach! When you desert him! When you bolt like a rabbit and your friend screams with fright like a woman! Madonna, so I am to stop talking, eh?'

The girl bent down and hissed something at him, keeping her voice low. Ramage, tensed with cold rage, was thankful the seamen did not understand: then suddenly the Italian scrambled out from under the thwarts and stood up in the boat, making one of the oarsmen lose his balance and miss a stroke.

'Sit down!' Ramage said sharply in Italian.

The man ignored him and began swearing.

Ramage said curtly: 'I order you to sit down. If you do not obey, one of the men will force you.'

Ramage looked at the girl and asked in Italian: Who is he? Why is he behaving like this?'

‘He is Count Pisano. He blames you for leaving his cousin behind.'

‘His cousin is dead.'

'But he called out: he shouted for help.'

‘He couldn't have done.'

'Count Pisano said he did.'

Did she believe Pisano? She turned away from him, so that once again the hood of her cape hid her face. Clearly she did. - He remembered the Tower: did she think he cheated at cards, too?

‘Well, he didn't go back to help his cousin,' Ramage said defensively.

She turned and faced him. 'Why should he? You are supposed to be rescuing us.'

How could one argue against that sort of attitude? He felt too sick at heart even to try, shrugged his shoulders, and then remembered to say: 'Any further conversation about that episode will also be in Italian: tell Pisano that. I don't want the discipline in this boat upset.'

‘How can it upset discipline?'

‘You must take my word for it. Apart from anything else, if these men understood what he was saying, they'd throw him over the side.'

‘How barbarous!'

'Possibly,' he said bitterly. "You forget what they've been through to rescue you.'

He lapsed into gloomy silence, then said: 'Jackson - the compass: how are we heading? Don't use the lantern.'

The American leaned over the bowl of the boat compass for several seconds, twisting his head one way and then the other, trying to see the compass needle in the moonlight

'About south-west by west, sir.'

'Tell me when I'm on west.'

Ramage slowly put the tiller over.

'Now!'

'Right.' He noted a few stars to steer by. They had ten miles to go before passing a couple of miles off the south-western tip of Argentario. The wounded oarsman argued with Jackson, who finally let him row again and climbed aft to sit on the sternsheets opposite the Marchesa.

The girl suddenly said quietly, as if to herself, 'Count Pitti was my cousin, too,' and wrapped the cape round her more closely.

'The lady's all wet,' Jackson said.

'I've no doubt she is,' Ramage replied acidly. "We all are.'

To hell with it: why should he concern himself about the damp petticoats of a woman who considered him a coward. Then she sighed, slowly pitched forward against Jackson, and slid into the bottom of the boat.

Ramage was too shocked for a moment to do anything: even as she sighed, he suddenly remembered she was wounded: he was the only one in the boat who knew - except Pisano.

'Perhaps.' The flat tone indicated she did not propose to discuss it.

"Until this evening, then.'

She held out her hand and he lifted it to his lips. She was trembling very slightly, but so little that she must have thought allowing him to kiss her hand would not reveal it.