Young Orsini had made up his own disguise and Southwick had to admit the boy did look just like one of the young scoundrels who, in any Latin seaport, marched up barefaced and demanded "baksheesh" or sidled up with some vile proposition. He had not even recognized young Martin by the time Orsini and Jackson had finished with him: the Calypso's fourth lieutenant had been transformed into any village's idiot, complete with a line round his waist that Mr Ramage intended to hold, so that Martin, in his role of a fool who could play a flute, could not escape.
It was a clever idea, though, because it got over the difficulty that Martin did not speak a word of Italian: it was not unusual for an idiot to be dumb. Natural enough, too, for a gipsy idiot to be dressed absurdly, with two or three brightly-coloured shirts, tattered and torn and worn one on top of the other, and trousers so big that they were baggy round the waist and hips, making Martin look like a shapeless sack of potatoes. No one would think of searching him - which was just as well, because in a specially-made belt that the sailmaker had completed only just in time were three pistols, spare powder and shot, and three knives, their blades thinned down and sharpened on the grindstone so that, by any honest man's standards, they were daggers of the type favoured by footpads and assassins.
Both Mr Ramage and Orsini had watched carefully while those knives were being ground down; they had balanced them on their fingers and it had been some time before Southwick realized that they were testing them for the distribution of weight, to make sure that they could be thrown properly. Then Southwick remembered Mr Ramage's skill at knife-throwing - a skill picked up during a childhood spent in Italy before the war. Southwick had not bothered to ask where Orsini had learned; it was obviously an aptitude that prudent Italians picked up at an early age.
What could a trio of gipsies find out about the final destinations of these French frigates, troops and bomb ketches? Mr Ramage seemed confident enough. Certainly his Italian was fluent; Mr Orsini had told Jackson some time ago that Mr Ramage could pass for someone born in Volterra or anywhere in Tuscany, and he could imitate the accents of other states. Naples was one of the most difficult, apparently; it was the Italian equivalent of real Cockney, and they pronounced only the first half of a word.
Something else worried Southwick: what would the senior officer of the French frigate squadron now in Porto Ercole think when he found that the two bomb ketches which should be anchored close to him at Porto Ercole were in fact on the opposite side of Argentario, off Santo Stefano? When Southwick raised the point, Mr Ramage had said he would think either that the current and light wind had prevented the unwieldy vessels from getting round Argentario, which was quite likely because the mountains made wind shadows, or that Renouf had made a mistake and gone to Santo Stefano instead of Porto Ercole. Again, a likely sort of mistake for these damned Frenchmen.
There was another possibility - that Renouf, seeing the frigates arriving early, had very sensibly gone into Santo Stefano to water and provision, leaving Porto Ercole free for the frigates and thus saving time. Actually that sounded the most likely as far as Southwick was concerned; it was a seaman-like thing to do, and there was the added advantage that even if the senior officer of the frigate squadron did not credit Renouf with that much intelligence, he might well think that the captain of the frigate with the bomb ketches would have given the order. He might even speculate, Southwick realized as the cutter was hailed from the Calypso, that the frigate also wanted water and provisions.
The Captain had merely shrugged when Aitken asked what was to be done if the French sent out an officer in a boat to ask questions. "Keep a sharp lookout, and the moment you see any signs of a boat coming out, get under way . . . If you happen to run down the boat in the process, make a note in the log . . ."
Southwick had admitted that he had no right to ask the Captain why he was risking his life and future, the life and future of the fourth lieutenant, and the life and future of the Marchesa's nephew (he thought it a cunning touch to bring in the family relationship), quite apart from leaving his ship under the command of her first lieutenant. Mr Ramage had just grinned and said that only yesterday the master had complained of missing Nelson's great victory at Aboukir Bay, and they would all look dam' fools if they missed the chance of having their own Aboukir Bay in a month or so's time.
Southwick climbed up the side of the frigate to be met by Aitken, who immediately asked: "They landed safely?"
Anyone would think it was ten miles to the beach and they were under heavy fire. "Yes, of course."
"Very well, tell Jackson to make up the cutter astern; we might need it in a hurry."
Southwick turned to call down to the boat, and at that moment he remembered that the man at the tiller coming back had not been Jackson, who as coxswain had steered the boat to the beach.
"Jackson - ahoy there, Jackson!"
There was a curious silence. Men who had been stowing the oars along the edges of the thwarts seemed to redouble their efforts and make more noise.
"Stafford?"
"Aye aye, sir?"
"Where's Jackson?"
"Dunno, sir; 'e ain't 'ere."
"When did you see him last?"
"Well, sir, it's dark and . . ."
"He was at the tiller when we landed at the beach, wasn't he?"
"I think so, sir."
"But not when we shoved off?"
"I couldn't rightly say, sir," the Cockney seaman answered, obviously being evasive.
Southwick thought for a moment and then snapped: "Is Rossi down there?"
For a few moments half a dozen voices inquired: "Is Rossi here?", all of them with the assumed innocence of choirboys.
Aitken tugged Southwick's sleeve, pulling him away from the bulwarks.
"Jackson and Rossi must have gone after the Captain. I saw them talking this afternoon. What the devil they think they can do, just the two of them, I don't know. I can only hope they don't do anything silly and get the Captain caught."
Southwick sniffed his disapproval of the whole thing. "I proposed to the Captain this afternoon that he took Rossi with him. Rossi is not only Italian but he has his wits about him: Mr Ramage refused. He said that Martin and Orsini were just right. He'll be furious when he knows he has Jackson and Rossi as well."
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," Aitken said. "If the Captain had wanted them with him he'd have told them. He'll probably make them sit among the juniper bushes until he's ready to come back. The mosquitoes will make them look like prickly pears ..."
After leaping from the bow of the cutter, Ramage, Martin and Paolo ran up the thirty yards of sloping sand until they reached the first of the juniper bushes and then threaded their way towards the pines, their feet slipping and sliding, their balance uncertain after more than a year at sea without going on shore for more than an hour at a time.
The pine forest which ran the length of the causeway, from the mainland to Argentario, suddenly loomed up, a black wall of sound ticking and buzzing with the noise of insects and punctuated by the occasional grunts of wild pigs snuffling among the pine cones. All we need now, Ramage thought to himself, is to be charged by a wild boar and get cut to pieces by those sharp tusks.
The keen smell of the pine leaves, the way the pine needles thick on the ground were holding the sand together and stopping it squeaking underfoot, the spreading carpet of long green fingers of the fico degli Ottentoti plant, trying to hook round ankles and bring a running man sprawling on his face ... Ramage remembered it all. The damp heat, the feeling that heat from the day's sun was being stored for the night among the pines, making the air seem almost solid, whereas out at the ship it was fresh, with even a slight chill . . .