The Ramage Touch

CHAPTER TEN

An hour later Ramage arrived in the piazza at Orbetello, walking with the smooth furtiveness that he always associated with Italian gipsies and followed by Paolo, who was holding the line which was tied round Martin's waist, leading him like a performing bear.

The town, jutting out into the lake formed by the causeways, was surrounded by a thick, defensive wall. The narrow road from the via Aurelia came in to one side of the roughly cobbled, rectangular piazza. The municipio, Orbetello's town hall, was in the middle of a long side with a circular balcony, like a church pulpit, jutting out from one wall so that the mayor, or garrison commander, could woo or harangue his people when he felt the need, looking down on them as he gave them good news or bad.

Ramage saw that just beyond, its tables lit by lanterns, was either an inn or a cantina crowded with customers: customers wearing bright clothes, the well-cut uniforms of officers. Occasionally there was glinting as the badge on a shako or a sword hilt or scabbard flashed in the lantern light where they were lying on the tables among bottles, carafes and glasses.

Then Ramage saw two things that for a long time now had been familiar sights in most Italian towns occupied by the French. The first, standing just to the right of the big double doors of the municipio, was the Tree of Liberty, a metal skeleton that owed its likeness to a tree to the skill of a blacksmith who made it out of narrow iron strips. The second was across the piazza: a small platform with a wooden structure rising vertically at one end, like a tall and narrow but empty picture frame, with a low bench in front of it - the guillotine. The blade had been removed; that would be cared for by the executioner, who would keep it sharp and well-greased so that it did not rust.

Curious that the French could see no contradiction in the two objects, Ramage thought; the dreadful irony that a Tree of Liberty stood in the shade of a guillotine.

There were no horses tethered to the trees growing round the sides of the piazza, so the French officers had not ridden in for a night's carousing: they must be staying at an inn close by; perhaps even this one, next to the municipio. Just as Paolo had forecast, they were not sleeping out under canvas, and he wondered idly where the troops were bivouacked.

Most of the officers seemed to be drunk. Some were trying to sing and several were bellowing in French for waiters to bring more wine. Ramage muttered in Italian to Paolo, who gave a double tug on the line. Martin, putting on a good act as a half-wit (helped by the fact that he could understand nothing that was being said), scrabbled about among his ragged clothes and fetched out his flute. As Ramage bellowed "Viva!", Martin began playing "Ça Ira!".

It was sudden and it was unexpected at the inn, and the shape of the piazza meant the walls acted like a concert hall, giving more body to the reedy notes. The French officers were drunk enough to leap to their feet to cheer the three shadowy figures shambling towards them across the piazza, joining in the words of the most famous of the Revolutionary songs. Martin had not in fact heard it until that afternoon and had been practising, with a few other tunes, under Paolo's watchful eye and ear until the cutter had been ready to leave the Calypso.

Ramage stopped five yards from the tables and turned round to conduct Martin's playing with all the flourishes of a maestro commanding a huge orchestra. Paolo stood at what a gipsy boy would regard as attention and saluted. The absurd sight of the motley trio made the officers sing even louder, a few of them redoubling their shouts of wine for the tziganes and, as Martin rounded off the last notes, calling out the names of more tunes they wanted to hear.

Ramage turned back to the tables, swept his hand down and outwards in an exaggerated bow, and noted that the arrival of a gipsy flautist was a welcome interlude for the officers and, judging from the way he was hurrying his waiters, no less welcome to the innkeeper. Every glass of wine he could get poured down a French throat meant good money poured into his own pocket.

Ramage turned back to point at Martin, an offhand gesture that a conceited maestro would make to a nervous soloist, but also one that a flamboyant gipsy father would use to draw the attention of a half-witted son. Obediently Martin began to play a sentimental, languorous Italian tune, one from Naples, which Paolo and Ramage had decided would bring just the right amount of nostalgia to the officers. Then there came a lively tarantella, which quickly had the officers banging their hands on the table tops in time with the rhythm and demanding an encore.

By the time Martin finished that and two more tunes, the French officers were shouting for the tziganes to come and drink, and Ramage and Paolo adopted a pose of nervous shyness so that the officers shouted even louder and the innkeeper, worried at losing trade if the zingari went to the tavern round the corner, overlooking the lagoon formed by the causeways, hurried across the cobbles to lead Ramage in by the arm, thanking him in Italian and congratulating him on the playing.

Ramage paused for a moment, indicating that he wanted to whisper something to the innkeeper, and when the man stopped Ramage mumbled: "The boy - a cretin, you understand. The flute is all he knows. He cannot even talk - except with his flute."

"Mama mia" exclaimed the innkeeper, who had a normal Italian's love of music, "he may not be able to talk, but he makes that flute sing.'"

"Any scraps from the kitchen," Ramage murmured as he let himself be led to the tables, "would be very welcome; we are very hungry and have walked a long way today."

"Of course, of course." The innkeeper saw one of the officers beckoning and pointing at Ramage. "Quick, the colonel wants us. Your name?"

"My name?" Ramage repeated stupidly. "Why, we all have the same name!"

"I know, 1 know! But what is it?"

"Buffarelli. From Saturnia."

"I thought as much," the innkeeper growled, pushing Ramage forward towards the portly colonel sitting at the table, his chubby face streaming with perspiration reflecting in the lantern. "I can smell the sulphur."

The innkeeper has a vivid imagination, Ramage thought. Saturnia, several miles inland and halfway to Monte Amiata, was now just a small village beside a great stone wall, built round the hot sulphur springs which had made it a favourite spot for the Romans, who celebrated the feast of Saturnalia there. A swim in the hot springs, with the water so thick that it was impossible to sink, left you reeking of sulphur for days. Obviously the word Saturnalia came from the place, or was the place named after the rites? Ramage was far from sure.

"Sulphur!" he said petulantly, then repeated it several times with a whimper in his voice as he followed the innkeeper among the tables. The innkeeper glanced over his shoulder and Ramage seized the opportunity of almost shouting, "Sulphur, eh? I'll give you sulphur! Just because we are zingari you insult us, but be careful, we are Buffarelli, too!"

Ramage managed to time it so that his outburst ended just as they arrived at the colonel's table, leaving the innkeeper at a disadvantage and needing to translate an explanation to the colonel. This allowed Ramage to be sulky, so that both the colonel and the innkeeper would have to try to make amends if they wanted any more music. Ramage hoped it would lead the colonel to invite this wild-looking gipsy to sit down at his table, if only to emphasize that the last two of the three words of the Republic's slogan really were Fraternité and Egalité.

In contrast to Ramage, who was trying to look both furtive and indignant, the innkeeper was ingratiating. He spoke good French and interspersed almost every word with "mon colonel" while he explained that the tziganes had just arrived in Orbetello from Saturnia, a village many miles inland, and that the unfortunate flûtiste, who was dumb and not quite possessed of all his senses, had been practising French patriotic tunes for many days in the hope that he would be allowed to play them to the officers of the 156th Artillery Regiment as a farewell to Italy and a token of Tuscany's best wishes for their long voyage.

The colonel nodded, as though accepting on behalf of the regiment, if not the commanding general, these routine greetings.

"The flûtiste is this man's son?"

The innkeeper looked questioningly at Ramage, who just managed to avoid answering in French and said instead: "I do not understand?"

When the innkeeper translated, Ramage shook his head. "Brother. The other one is my son. Everybody is dead," he added vaguely. "I feed them both. Very hungry we are, too; it has been a long walk."

The innkeeper understood his customer better than Ramage, and in translating Ramage's explanation into French made it such a heartrending story that the colonel first began to sit upright, instead of lolling back in the chair, then topped his glass from a carafe, and then held up a hand to silence the innkeeper.

"A meal!" he said in a voice which would have carried well down the aisle of a great cathedral. "For the three of them. Here, at my table - I have never before spoken to Italian tziganes. But until the meal is ready, the flûtiste shall give us his music - music to pay for their supper, eh?"

Several officers applauded their colonel as the innkeeper gave Ramage a rapid translation before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. Ramage gave a brief whistle to Paolo, indicating Martin as well, and the midshipman gave the line a tug and the two of them came over to the colonel's table. Ramage went through the ritual of introducing them and, although the Frenchman obviously did not understand a word of Italian, he smiled benevolently at Paolo's carefully ill-contrived salute and at Martin's vacant grin as he placed his flute on his shoulder as though it was a musket.

The other officers clapped and one of them cleared a nearby table, with a sweep of his arm that sent the bottles and glasses crashing to the ground, then indicated that Martin should stand up on the table and play. The young lieutenant gave an idiotic grin and climbed up, immediately beginning a popular French tune that Paolo had taught him.

In the meantime a waiter set down more glasses and a bottle in front of the colonel, who indicated that he should fill all three. The colonel then snapped his fingers at Ramage and pointed to two of the glasses. Ramage picked up one with carefully assumed nervousness and sipped, and then signalled to Paolo, and clumsily raised his glass to the colonel.

He wanted to avoid having to sit alone with the colonel. If he did there would be no conversation, because the colonel assumed he spoke no French. He dared not admit otherwise because a gipsy in Orbetello speaking French would arouse suspicions. He wanted a couple of other officers to come to the table; then they would gossip with the colonel and, with luck, reveal scraps of information.

"The colonel enjoys the music," a voice said in French-accented Italian, and Ramage looked round to find a young officer standing there, smiling - at the colonel, rather than Ramage, and explaining to the colonel in French what he had just said. He was obviously the colonel's aide, and he listened as the colonel explained that the tziganes had learned French tunes and come in from the hills to play a farewell.

"Farewell, sir?" the young captain asked sharply. "How did they know we were going anywhere?"

"Ask him," the colonel said, obviously too tipsy to care very much.

"You have come to say goodbye to us," the young captain said to Ramage amiably. "We appreciate it."

"Goodbye?" Ramage repeated, trying to look owlish. "But we have come to say hello. We practise the French tunes. They tell us there are French officers in Orbetello, so we come here - a long way," he added plaintively. "Too far to come to say goodbye. Why? Are you going home?"

"Not home," the captain said with a relieved grin, and turned to the colonel.

"They had no idea we were going anywhere, sir," he said. "I expect that innkeeper added to the story to get them a bigger tip - you know how these Italians work together. They learned the French tunes to come to play - I have the impression that they think we're stationed here, so they can play to us for a few weeks."

"We might wish we had them to cheer us up, considering where we are going," the colonel said bitterly. "Still, no need for alarm, eh? You're always seeing spies under the bed, Jean-Paul. Sit down and have a drink. Where's the major?"

His voice was becoming querulous and obviously his aide recognized the symptoms. He called to a thin-faced officer sitting at the far side of the bar, a sad-looking man with inordinately long moustaches that hung down from his upper lip like curtains pulled away from a window. He picked up his shako and, with obvious reluctance, made his way over to the colonel's table. "You wanted me, sir?"

"Sit down," the colonel said in what obviously passed for his friendly manner. "Pour yourself a drink. This local wine is good. From Argentario, over there. Not really white and certainly not red. Deep gold . . ." He held up the glass against the light of a candle in a lantern. "Just look at it. They say it turns to vinegar if you move it. Pity, I'd like to take a few casks with us. That Cretan wine - mon Dieu, they use resin to flavour it. They'll try to persuade us to buy some casks when we get to Candia, but where we're going to it is hot enough without having to soak up resin."

Ramage waited anxiously: one grunted word from the major would reveal the precise destination. But the major said nothing: he reached for the carafe, saw there was no glass and took the one that Ramage had just set down on the table.

The colonel noticed immediately. "That is the glass of the tzigane," he snapped. "Get another one for yourself."

The major put the glass down, glowered at Ramage and walked to the next table, taking the glass from a young lieutenant, swilling the wine round and then emptying it on the floor, and returning to the table to refill it.

"We leave for Porto Ercole in the morning two hours later than arranged," the colonel said suddenly, his voice slurred.

"But sir, all the movement orders are ..."

The colonel glowered at the major, his podgy face growing even redder, as though he was holding his breath. "I ride at the head of the regiment, and I shall not be ready in time," he announced. "I intend to listen to thisflûtiste for at least another hour, and by that time I shall be drunk and sad, and when I go to bed drunk and sad," he said with the honesty of someone already drunk, "I wake up next morning with a bad liver, a bad head and a bad temper. With me in that state you expect me to sit on a damnable horse and be shaken up violently for an hour while we drag those thrice-damned guns over cart tracks to Porto Ercole. And then - then," he half-shouted, the thought of it clearly making him lose his temper, "we have to get the guns and the horses on board those ships! Have you ever seen the way the navy goes about its business?"

He glared at the major and clearly expected an answer.

"Well, sir, not really, but -"

"Heh, then you have a treat in store. Slings under the bellies of the horses, and the first ones hoisted make such a squealing that the rest of them try to bolt. Guns the same. They try to lift them off the carriages and forget to undo the cap squares so that, instead of the gun being lifted, the whole damned carriage goes up like a rocket, and the sailors panic and drop it again, smashing the carriage, killing a couple of people, and making more horses bolt, probably with men on their backs. Oh, major, embarking a battery of field guns, with men and horses, is an experience. When you add to it our destination," he added balefully, "you realize why I wish those fools in Paris had never heard of me or my battery. I tell you," he snarled, his voice dropping, "if you think trying to shift those guns across the sands of that causeway to Porto Ercole is hard work, then you can think again: that sand is only a few inches thick, spread on rock. Where we are going, my man, the sand just goes down and down, bottomless like the ocean. When the wheels of a gun carriage sink into it, your heart sinks with them . . ."

The rest of the sentence was drowned by the officers clapping as Martin finished a tune and Ramage turned, gave a dramatic wave and pointed upwards, signalling to the young lieutenant to go on playing. He just had time to hear the colonel continuing.

". . . so you talk too much, major, and I can't hear the music. Sand! In your mouth, in your food, in your wine, in your boots, in your eyes... It makes the axles of the gun carriages run hot, blocks the barrels of muskets and the touchholes, even gets into the scabbard of your sword so that you can't draw in a hurry .. . And you want me to hurry towards it! No major, I just want you to be silent now so that I can hear the music!"

With that the colonel's head slowly drooped forward and he began to snore as the outraged major, so far unable to say a word in his own defence, drained his glass and filled it again with a savage movement that slopped wine across the table.

Ramage saw the innkeeper and two waiters coming out of the kitchen with a large plate heaped with steaming spaghetti. "Food for the tziganes!"he shouted as he zigzagged between the tables.

Martin had just come to the end of another tune and two of the cheering officers repeated the innkeeper's words in a drunken chorus, pulling at Martin's arm to attract his attention. The lieutenant, grasping his flute, looked down at them, not understanding what they were shouting and feeling the table beginning to rock as they pulled him. A moment later he toppled over as a leg of the table gave way and in falling he grabbed one of the officers in a futile attempt to keep his balance. He and the other man hit the floor together, there was a metallic thud, and Ramage just caught sight of a shiny object sliding across the floor and coming to rest almost at the major's feet.

The major bent down and picked it up. It was a pistol, the brass polished and the wood newly oiled. He examined it curiously, noting that it was loaded. Suddenly he cocked it and pointed it at Ramage as he stood up.

"Who are you?" he demanded in French. "This is a British pistol!"