"The sentries guarding the hostages will be the only ones left behind," Ramage said. His stomach was knotted with tension; his knees seemed to have lost their strength even though he was lying down. He grasped his cutlass, muttered a warning to Aitken and Orsini and, turning his head towards the men lying in the macchia behind him, snapped: "Get ready ... on your feet. . . follow me!"
With that he rushed across the gravel towards the wicket gate, tugging a pistol from his waistband with his left hand. Aitken, Orsini and Rossi were racing each other to be the first through the little doorway while behind him it seemed a cart was unloading gravel as twenty men charged across the parade ground. Although Orsini just beat him to the door, the moment he was through Ramage looked to his right: yes, there was the guardroom, and in front was an inner courtyard formed by the walls of the fort itself. The blazing macchia had become an enormous lantern which showed the guardroom door swinging open: every man in it must have bolted outside.
Half left - yes, that door must lead to the two big rooms where the hostages should be, and he swung round towards it, slowing from a run to a brisk walk. Suddenly, the door flung open and a man stood in the opening, saw Ramage and the men behind him, and grabbed a musket. As Ramage realized that he and his party were lit by the burning macchia, now behind them, the Frenchman took one look at the gleaming cutlass blades, shouted a challenge and raised his musket.
Hearing the click as the Frenchman cocked the lock of the musket and knowing he had no time to change to his right, Ramage fired his pistol left-handed. The man collapsed, his musket going off as he toppled over, and Ramage heard the whining "spang" as the ball ricocheted off one of the walls.
One down - but how many more left in there? Any one of us running through that door is a perfect target for other sentries inside. No time to think: drop the empty pistol, switch cutlass over to the left hand, tug out the second pistol with the right, cock the lock, and now he was hurling himself through the door, waiting for an agonizing pain as a musket ball slammed into his stomach.
A small hall - anteroom, rather. A man at the far side, crouching and shouting, a musket on the ground in front of him. Yes, another guard who did not understand what was going on but, seeing his comrade shot dead, had the wit to throw down his gun and surrender to whatever was the threat.
"Rossi!" Ramage shouted and saw the Italian dash past him heading for the cringing man, anticipating the order. By then Ramage had the next door open and found himself in a short corridor with a door at each end. Which first? He snatched a lantern from its hook and turned left. The damned door was locked but even as he tugged at the handle Rossi pushed him to one side without a word, trying one large key. No, it would not turn. He gave it to Ramage. "The other door," he said as he thrust a second key into the lock, wrenched the door open and flung it back.
Ramage saw that a lantern inside showed several people in the room and, turning to Aitken, snapped: "You look after this crowd. Rossi took the keys from that last sentry: I'll open the other door."
By now the corridor was full of men: Ramage found Jackson and Stafford beside him and the American grabbed the lantern, holding it up high as Ramage fitted the key in the lock of the other door. It turned easily and, flinging the door open, he jumped rather than leapt inside, covering as many of a group of men as he could with his pistol. None was armed but all seemed frozen as they stared at Ramage, who was lit from behind by the lantern which Jackson still held high.
"Who are you all?" Ramage shouted.
"English prisoners . . . British hostages .. . Are you British? . . . What's all the shooting? ... Is the fortress on fire . . .?"
Ramage held up his hand. "Please, you're all shouting at once! I'm Ramage, from His Majesty's frigate Calypso. If you are hostages follow that man, Mr Orsini, and hurry: he'll lead you along a track to a cliff top and then down to our boats. But hurry: don't stop for clothes or personal treasures!"
"The women!" one of the men shouted, "they're in the other room!"
"By now they're on their way to the Calypso," Ramage snapped. "We found them first! Now, hurry along! Orsini? Ah, there you are. Get moving - you don't need any lantern thanks to Hill's men setting the macchia ablaze!"
He stood back as the hostages hurried out. He saw two men kneeling down on the ground. "What the devil are you doing?"
"Putting on shoes!"
"Get out!" Ramage said angrily. "Run barefoot - a few blisters on your feet won't matter: if you don't hurry you'll have twenty Frenchmen using you for target practice!"
The two men hurriedly followed the others, leaving Jackson and Stafford waiting for orders. Suddenly a cursing Southwick stumbled into the room. "So help me, all the damned birds have flown!"
"What happened to you?"
"That guardroom: you didn't wait to inspect it!"
"It was empty - the door was swinging."
"Ha!" Southwick sniffed. "Well, I found three French soldiers lying on cots, trying to sober up and understand what was going on! A fourth was already on his feet, roused by the shots and trying to load a pistol."
"Where are they now?" Ramage demanded.
"Waiting for a burial party," Southwick growled, and Ramage saw that at least a foot of the master's sword blade did not reflect the lantern light: instead it was a dull reddish-black.
"Right," Ramage said. "That's the two groups of hostages and the Marines on their way. 1 hope Orsini doesn't curse in Italian because it'll make the men suspicious."
"That's all right, sir," Southwick said. "I sent young 'Blower' along with him to whip up the dullards and no one'd ever mistake him for a foreigner."
"Just look round in here in case any of the prisoners did leave any treasures behind and start grumbling," Ramage told Jackson, who walked round with the lantern.
"Shall we blow this place up?" Southwick enquired eagerly. "I've a fifteen-minute length of slowmatch tied round my middle."
"Only fifteen minutes? A stomach like that will take an hour's length! No, we won't blow it up, it's more of an ornament than a threat if we ever want to attack Port' Ercole again. Nothing, Jackson, just clothing? Right, let's get back to the ship."
Outside the courtyard the light was by now even brighter: several acres of macchia must be burning, the fire steadily spreading across the sage, juniper and thyme, fanned by the breeze that had earlier worried Ramage.
Southwick paused for a moment, looking round at the fortress walls which were harshly outlined by the flames beyond. "Those buckets - must admit I didn't think they'd work, sir. I thought the banging about would put out the coils of slow match burning in the bottom."
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "If the buckets didn't work, the alternatives were having men holding burning match as they made their way up the cliff and along the top, or having them scratching away in the macchia with flint and steel, and then lighting slowmatch. And you know that's the time when the flint won't spark - or it starts raining and the tinder gets soaking wet."
Ramage led the way out through the wicket gate and almost immediately a small red eye winked over on his left and a musket ball thudded into the heavy gates a foot away.