"Quickly - out, or we'll be trapped," Ramage snapped. "The blasted French are coming back!"
Several more musket shots sent balls thudding into the gate and Ramage could see that the French were returning the way they had run out, but keeping closer to the walls. He knew he had one advantage - the burning macchia outlined the French, while the four Britons were against the dark walls of the fort, lit only by the general glow of the flames.
But the French had muskets - which they were no doubt busily reloading now - while the four Britons had only pistols. The French could fire at two hundred yards' range; the Calypsos would be lucky to hit anything at twenty.
Did the hostages get away safely? They must have: there were no bodies lying between the door and the edge of the macchia. Very well, every minute he could hold this damned French garrison here at the fort gave the hostages an extra minute to reach the cliff and scramble down to the boats.
As he crouched against the fort's wall beside the gates Ramage could see the French troops forming up in two lines, the nearest kneeling and the second standing. He pointed them out to Southwick. "A regular firing squad!"
Southwick gave an uneasy sniff. "They must have twenty muskets. They'll just pick us off one by one as we bolt across this gravel . . ."
"That's five musket balls each," Ramage commented. "Still, gravel isn't suitable for a quadrille, so we must keep these fellows occupied for a while."
With that he raised his pistol, aimed carefully at the French (noticing an officer pacing up and down behind the two files of men, obviously giving orders) and fired. The ball might reach - with enough impact to break an egg.
Turning to Jackson and Stafford, he said: "Fire at them - not together, just enough for the flashes to make them nervous."
Hurriedly he reloaded his own pistol, cursing that he had thrown away the other one. Powder, wad, ball, ram, wad, ram: flip open the pan cover, priming powder into the pan, snap the cover closed, rammer slid back under the barrel, cock the lock...
He looked up to see the row of French muskets again winking red eyes but heard only an occasional ball ricochet from the wall.
"They can't see us: they're aiming at the flashes of our pistols. Reload, but don't fire again until I give the word."
Yes, the French would be puzzled, with a couple of acres of macchia to windward of the fortress blazing merrily and obviously set on fire by whoever was attacking the fort. Looking at the dancing flames, Ramage guessed that the garrison commander must reckon it was the work of more than twenty men. Then he had seen men - only four - coming out of the fort, but he would think that no enemy dare attack with fewer than - well, seventy-five men: fifty to attack the fort while twenty-five set fire to the macchia. The Frenchmen must be worrying where the other forty-six were . . .
No wonder the commander was not leading a charge back into the fort: he must suspect that by now the hostages were released, even though still inside the fort.
Ramage almost laughed aloud as he pictured the Gallic shrug: why walk into trouble when they could cover the gateway and pick off the attackers and hostages as they tried to escape ...
The Frenchman would have counted four men and assumed that dozens more were to come. He must assume they were either Italian guerrillas or British, but it was unlikely that he realized that most had already left the fort before he came in sight of the wicket gate. He would think he was seeing the first four, never guessing they were the last.
"Southwick, work your way along there -" Ramage pointed inland, away from the flames and the waiting French, "- and after twenty yards fire at our friends over there."
"But it's hard enough to hit 'em at this range without adding another twenty yards!" Southwick protested.
"You're not supposed to hit them," Ramage said ironically. "The muzzle flash represents another twenty of us waiting to attack the wily French."
"Oh, I see," Southwick said. "A good idea."
As the master crept away, keeping close to the wall, Jackson said: "Supposing I do the same thing that way, towards the French, sir?"
Ramage looked along the foot of the wall. When the clouds let the moonlight flood down, the overhanging battlements threw shadows, and the flames from the macchia were increasing and making a confusing flicker. "Very well. Ten yards the other side of the gate, no more."
"That leaves me, sir," Stafford said. "Can I make a bolt for it -" he gestured across the gravel-covered open space, "- and shout loud enough to seem like a company of Marines gettin' ready in the macchiaT'
One man crouching low and moving fast to make a surprise move? It would probably work. "Very well, but don't fire twice from the same place, otherwise you'll get musket balls falling on you like bird shot."
Stafford was off and halfway across the open space before Ramage had time to say anything more: the Cockney went off like a hare breaking cover - and, like a hare, he was jinking before disappearing into the macchia.
From behind, Ramage heard the thud of Southwick's pistol, followed a minute later by Jackson firing. Ramage glanced across the open square, looking where Stafford had vanished, but the pistol flash when it came was several yards to the left, nearer to the French. He guessed the Cockney was hoping to make the French think he had merely joined (taking orders to?) a group hidden in the macchia solely to cover the gateway.
That poor French commander, Ramage thought, must think he is almost surrounded. He was still chuckling when a row of red flashes beyond and to the right of the French sent the two files of soldiers rushing to the fort's wall so that it protected their rear while they grouped into a half-circle to defend themselves against more attacks.
Ramage fired his pistol at the group, not that he expected to hit anyone but the muzzle flash would show Hill (for obviously it was him with his bucket men) where some of his shipmates were. Stafford fired again, from a different position, then Southwick's pistol barked, followed by Jackson's.
Where were the hostages now - at the cliff top? Embarking in the boats? Ramage cursed because he had seen only the men. They seemed spry enough, but what about the women? Was there a rheumaticky and querulous old dowager among them, arguing the toss all the way to the cliffs? Well, even if there had been half a dozen, Aitken and Rennick had enough sturdy men to piggyback them to the cliff top.
His watch showed that, surprisingly, time was now racing instead of slowing down: the hostages had been gone a good twenty minutes. Another crackle of pistol fire and red dots, like bloodshot fireflies, showed that Hill knew what he was about and was now closer to the French.
Nevertheless, Ramage decided that they had delayed possible pursuit by the French for long enough: now was the time for all the remaining British to disappear into the darkness, making sure only that the French had no idea of the direction they took. To the French the Calypso must remain a French frigate quite innocently anchored in the lee of Isolotto, unaware of a dastardly attack on the fort by - well, Italian guerrillas probably, since they had only pistols, not muskets. . .
Would Hill hear a hail at this distance? Did any of these Frenchmen understand English? While he thought of a phrase that Hill would understand, Ramage called to Jackson, Stafford and Southwick: "When I give the word, run inland until you pick up the track that went on to Port' Ercole. Turn left along it and run for the clifftop."
He took a deep breath, made a trumpet of his hands and bellowed: "Hill! Can you hear me?"
"Very well, sir!" Hill's voice answered from barely forty yards away. "I'm over here with Stafford. My men are looking after themselves!"
"You've all done a good job. Now back to the cliff top and down to the boats. Take your men back along the cliff, but put the flames between you and the French before you make the turn. We'll be coming along the Port' Ercole track. When you hear me barking four times like a dog, you'll know we're on our way. Now get back to your men."