They all gathered at the sentry box, obviously conforming to a drill established when they first arrived. Ramage looked at them carefully. Yes, they were well dressed, though here and there breeches and coats were patched, clearly sewn by the owners, because the stitching was more workmanlike than neat. Boots and shoes - clean, though not polished, but it had not rained for three or four weeks so all they needed was a flick of a cloth to remove dust.
And all the hostages looked fit. Three or four men, although portly and red-faced, had obviously benefited from a year's frugal wine ration in place of unlimited brandy and port, and a more frugal diet than they had previously enjoyed. Only one man walked with a stick though, Ramage guessed, from habit rather than disability because the stick was a Malacca cane with a gold top: anyone with a walking problem used a stick with a handle.
It was devilish difficult to distinguish between the admirals and generals, since they were not in uniform. Certainly the one man who stood so erect he might be tied to a post must be a general, and those two might be admirals, while that foppish fellow would come under the commandant's description of an aristocrat.
Only one of the hostages, coming from the last house, showed the slightest interest in Ramage's men. Or, Ramage corrected himself, only one man revealed any interest. The admirals and the generals had long ago learned the art of apparent disinterest: it was not easy to watch the world tumbling about one's ears and merely comment: "By Jove!"
Finally the commandant came back, returned the bunch of keys to the sentry, and with a stentorian "Messieurs!"gestured towards Gilbert. Obviously, with the hostages about to be taken off his hands, he was not going to strain himself trying to explain things in English - or even in French, which a good half of the hostages probably spoke.
Ramage beckoned to them, muttering to Gilbert to wait until they were gathered round. Then, with the commandant talking to the sentry, who was still seated in his box, Ramage began speaking to the hostages in Italian. With every fifth or sixth word English and together making complete sentences, he explained that they were being rescued but must act as though they were about to be transferred to France. Above all, they must show no excitement. "Fall in behind those men, who are also acting as hostages," Ramage said, the English words interspersed with what was another long burst of Italian.
The real hostages walked, slouched or ambled: Ramage guessed this was how they formed up for roll call and was an expression of defiance. Two of them winked as they passed close. There was no doubt that they all understood what was going on, and Ramage was thankful that they could adapt themselves so quickly.
Suddenly the commandant came scurrying over, a hand uplifted to halt everything. "You must sign for them!" he exclaimed to Gilbert. "I must have a receipt. My adjutant will write it out but we must list all the names."
"And those of their wives, children, mistresses and grandparents!" Gilbert exclaimed disgustedly. "No wonder the Emperor fears for France's future. The Republic, One and Indivisible, will sink under the weight of the paper and we shall all drown in a sea of ink. That's what the Emperor told my general, who told my colonel, and now I tell you."
"And I'll tell the goats," the commandant sneered, "but you don't leave Castello until the receipt is signed."
"Well, go away and write it out," Gilbert snapped impatiently. "We will be waiting in the piazza. But bring pen and ink: I left my desk on board the frigate."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ramage's cabin on board the Calypso had never been so crowded and, he thought, never would the occupants look so strange. At the moment they were all standing and each had his head bent - some to the left, some to the right, some forward so that they seemed to be glowering from under lowered eyebrows, and all looking like bodies cut down from gibbets. Occasionally one of them would forget and, straightening his neck, would bang his head against the low deck beams.
Ramage had purposely left introductions until all the eleven hostages were safely on board. They had marched down the hill from Castello behind Aitken's group; at the beach which comprised Giglio's harbour they were still (as far as an onlooker was concerned) carefully guarded by a few French soldiers and the three men of the King of Etruria's army. And the frigate's two boats had to make two trips to ferry everyone on board.
Ramage had come out with the first boat and gone straight down to his cabin to strip off his gaudy uniform and dress himself once again as a post-captain with less than three years' seniority (revealed by the single epaulet he wore on his right shoulder). It felt strange (and constricting) to be wearing knee-breeches and silk stockings again, and the stock seemed like a hangman's noose about his neck. But the eleven hostages would, he surmised, provide enough problems with precedence and authority for the captain of the Calypso to need all the symbols of authority he could muster.
He had left the hostages waiting on the quarterdeck under the awning, where they seemed happy enough chatting and exclaiming on the sudden change in their fortune. Finally he passed the word for Aitken to invite them all to join him.
The sentry, already given his instructions, formally announced each arrival, and the time he took getting the names and the titles right allowed Ramage to greet them one by one and note who they were.
"Sir Henry Faversham, Admiral of the White, sir," the sentry bellowed.
The admiral came through the door, bent almost double: he was tall and thin, and clearly had not been in a ship as small as a frigate for a long time. Carefully, almost warily, he stood more upright until he was sure he had enough clearance above him.
"Ramage? Ramage, eh, must be Blazey's son? Well, thank you m'boy; very well executed, that operation. Fooled the French, eh? And damn nearly fooled me!"
By that time the next person was being announced, and Ramage excused himself.
"Vice-Admiral the Earl Smarden, sir."
Ramage found that the old Marquis of Folkestone's son looked more like a cheerful and successful farmer than heir to one of the country's oldest marquisates.
"Splendid, Ramage, splendid! I should have recognized you - like your father when he was younger!"
The next person was Vice-Admiral Sir William Keeler, who was one of the most colourless men Ramage could remember meeting. He squeaked his word of thanks and then had to move aside as the sentry announced the first of the two soldiers. "Lieutenant-General the Earl of Innes," the Marine said carefully, as though not fully convinced that a lieutenant could also be a general.
Ramage could not remember any campaigns with which the earl was associated, and when he came into the cabin he guessed why: the earl must be at least seventy-five years old, although when the hostages had marched he had not given the impression of being an old man. His voice was brisk, although his eyes were watery.
"Thank you, young man," he said, shaking Ramage's hand with unexpected vigour. "I don't know where you collected that gang of gipsies but they fooled the commandant!"
The next man who came into the cabin a minute or two after the sentry announced Major-General Alfred Cargill looked as though he had spent the time in front of a looking glass, combing his hair, trimming his moustaches and wetting his eyebrows to make them bristle more fiercely.
Apart from that, General Cargill had the carefully tended look of a haberdasher and the ingratiating smile of a man trying to conceal from his creditors that he was on the verge of bankruptcy. But his voice (surprisingly soft but unsurprisingly querulous once one studied the narrow face and beaky nose) was unfriendly. "Suppose I should thank you but God knows you took long enough getting here. More than a year," he said.