Ramage caught Jackson's eye. The American seaman had guessed where his thoughts were. "That doctor, sir. Casa di Leone, wasn't it?"
Ramage nodded. But it was all years ago. Gianna had recovered, spent years in England, and then left for Volterra at the signing of that wretched peace treaty. Now her nephew was going back to Argentario - like Ramage and Jackson he would be disguised. It was curious how Argentario played such a frequent part in all their lives.
The cutter's stem grated as it nosed up on the sand and Rossi jumped over the bow, boots and cutlass in hand. He turned to make sure that Paolo Orsini did not slip as he too jumped. The two of them, after putting their gear higher up the beach out of reach of the wavelets, returned and helped shove off the cutter. The arrangement was simple: the cutter would stay a hundred yards off the beach, out of sight in the darkness, until Hill heard a nightjar call four times, pause and then call again. Paolo was very proud of his imitation of a nightjar, a trick he had learned as a boy in Volterra, where a nightjar regularly hooted from a tree below his bedroom window.
After the boat, oars muffled, disappeared into the night, the two men sat down on long strands of fico dei ottentotti, which grew flat, spreading like a thick net over the sand and in places as deep as a mattress.
"You've got your cutlass?" Orsini asked.
Rossi held up a canvas roll. "All ready, sir."
Rossi was a proud man. He knew he had been singled out by Captain Ramage from some two hundred men on board the Calypso and that his orders were to go into Santo Stefano and find out, at whatever cost, if the hostages were in the Fortezza or had been taken away by sea. At whatever cost: Rossi liked the phrase and rolled it over in his mind again. English was a good language for being exact. Not like French, for instance. No wonder (judging from what Gilbert and his mates said) that French was the language of diplomacy. It seemed to Rossi that in French you could make a violent speech lasting an hour and, even though it was full of bold words and fine phrases, at the end of it you could have promised nothing nor announced anything that mattered, yet leave your audience impressed and inspired. Perhaps that was how the seeds of revolution were sown.
Italian was different. Yes, you could also make long-winded speeches full of fine words, but your listeners would soon spot that although you were throwing up a lot of spray, you were not making a yard to windward. With English you could distinguish the "blow-hard" (another splendid English phrase!) even quicker. That was why elections in England were often violent: the candidate might blow hard for five minutes, but the moment the crowd became bored, the eggs and rocks and jeers flew thick and fast.
Half an hour before the pair of them left the ship Mr Ramage had spoken to them alone in his cabin. A wise man, he was, and a tactful one too. There was Mr Orsini, a midshipman and the head of one of the great families in Italy, and there was ordinary seaman Rossi, late of Genova, about whom no one on board the Calypso knew much, except for Mr Ramage.
Rossi had told him something of his past and Mr Ramage must have guessed the rest. Anyway, Mr Ramage made it clear that Rossi was going because he would not hesitate to slit a throat, and Mr Orsini was going to help Rossi if he needed a lookout, or something like that. Well, Rossi thought, if they succeeded, ordinary seaman Rossi got all the credit; if they failed - well, Midshipman Orsini was in charge and took the blame. This seemed a very fair arrangement to Rossi because, apart from being killed, he could not lose.
Rossi felt a moment's guilt as they reached the track at the back of the beach and turned right towards Santo Stefano, almost immediately finding it became steep as it wended over the small headland marking the western end of the bay. Yes, he did feel rather guilty about the chance of Mr Orsini getting holystoned if they failed because he was one of the nicest people on board the Calypso, officer, warrant officer, petty officer or seaman. He loved going into action (with that damned silly dirk of his, which had too short a blade to keep trouble at a respectable distance); he was curious about everything connected with seamanship. Thoughtful about the men, too: as soon as he saw a rain squall in the distance when he was on watch, for example, he sent the men below for their oilskins. He was the only officer who 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.