Ten minutes later Ramage was at the head of a column of forty-eight men, most of whom carried muskets and four of whom had axes, keeping the blades concealed with rags. Near the head of the column stumbled six bedraggled men in handcuffs, all of them doing their best to look like prisoners. Wet hair, a few smears of sand and soil, and sodden clothes, made them seem pathetic figures, but a sharp-eyed onlooker would have noticed that each guard marching beside a prisoner, his musket at the ready, wore two pistols with belt clips, while all the other men with muskets had one pistol each. One would have to be very close to notice that none of the handcuffs was secured with padlocks; in fact the prisoners were having to hold them on.
The track up to the gateway to the semaphore tower was steep but smooth, the surface worn over the centuries by donkeys and peasants who had used it long before muskets and pistols existed.
Finally at the gate Ramage gave a sharp whistle and held up his arm to halt his men. A French soldier emerged from the guardhouse beyond the gate, weaving slightly and hastily pulling on a coat. He recognized Ramage as an officer and in a slurred voice politely asked his business.
'It is none of your affair', Ramage answered arrogantly, 'take me to your commanding officer!'
'But, sir' - the sentry gestured helplessly at the locked gate - 'orders. "Admit no one without him stating his business." It's more -'
'- than your life's worth!' Ramage interrupted impatiently. 'All right, go at once to your commanding officer and tell him that the captain of the frigate anchored in the bay down there has urgent business with him and requires a room in which to lock some English prisoners.'
The sentry nodded nervously, caught sight of the men in handcuffs and scurried along the track towards the buildings.
Ramage turned casually but hissed to the prisoners: 'Make sure none of you drop those handcuffs until you hear me give the word "Calypso"!'
The men muttered in reply and Jackson, now standing next to Ramage, said quietly: 'Bit of luck they don't have a full guardhouse like Foix, sir. One man! Still, at least he keeps the gate locked!'
Ramage saw the sentry running back down the track, struggling to remove a large key from a trouser pocket.
'The commandant's compliments, sir. He asks that you come to his house at once!' He turned the key in the lock and swung the gate open. 'I didn't have time to tell him you were not alone, sir, but -'
'Lead us to him; we have to sail before nightfall.'
'Yes, sir, indeed, please follow me, I'm sure he will understand ...'
He prattled on as he walked, but Ramage, realizing that the man was drunk rather than naturally stupid, looked carefully round the buildings. The only other soldiers in sight were two sprawled under a gnarled olive tree, their positions showing they had collapsed there drunk and would soon become the target for swarms of mosquitoes.
'How many of you garrison an important station like this?' Ramage asked amiably.
'Normally thirty-five, sir, but we have two men in Port Vendres with venereal disease, and one awaiting court martial. So today there are thirty-two. And the commandant, of course.'
Four buildings just like the barracks at Foix; that larger house at the end of this track and towards which the sentry was leading them must be the commandant's. Beyond it, on the rising ground, the great semaphore tower stood like a section of a wooden wall, its lookout now off duty.
Where the devil were the rest of the garrison?
'Supper time, eh?'
'Ah - no, sir', the sentry said with an inane giggle, 'the men are asleep. Today is the commandant's birthday, and everyone celebrated it. Some had a little too much Banyuls, and are ... resting. The commandant ...'
The commandant was very drunk. The door of his house flung open and a portly man, bald and bow-legged, lurched out holding a coat he was trying to pull over his shoulders, but in twisting his pear-shaped body to get an arm into the sleeve his belt came undone and he had to grab his trousers to prevent them falling.
The sentry stood paralysed, but Ramage moved quickly forward and, as if it was perfectly natural, said: 'Permit me to hold your coat while ...'
'Thank you ... thank you', the commandant said as he did up the belt. Ramage held the tunic and the Frenchman slid one arm into a sleeve with an almost desperate thrust but, Ramage realized, that had been luck: with the second arm he obviously still saw three or four armholes but lunged at the wrong one. Ramage retrieved the waving wrist, slid it into the sleeve and with Jackson's help pulled the jacket into place.
'De Vaux, lieutenant de vaisseau, commanding the frigate anchored down there, sir!' Ramage said briskly.
The commandant looked blearily down into the bay, obviously startled. 'Sacré bleu, all those ships! When did they come in? Should I fire a salute? I never know about these things. Anyway, my one gun is honeycombed, they tell me, and will explode if I fire it. You understand "honeycomb"? Air bubbles trapped in the metal while casting? It is my birthday and the men gave me a party. But no honeycomb, which I like, but much Banyuls, which I also like. De Vaux, that was the name of a young man I met once, commanded a frigate, or a fleet. Navy, anyway; not a soldier.'
He stopped talking and screwed up his eyes, trying to concentrate. 'That makes two of you, because you are called De Vaux, too. All those ships down there!' He turned on the sentry. 'Why was I not told? You are the lookout!"
'But, sir', the man protested, 'I thought the tower would -'
'Thought, thought - you have never thought in your life! A fleet sails in and you keep the gate locked.'
The commandant realized that there were several men behind Ramage and Jackson.
'You've brought some friends, eh? Here, sentry, get some more Banyuls. A cask. Collect mugs from the barracks. Toasts for the Navy. The Navy can toast me! Fifty-one years old and I can still chase the women.'
The sentry hurried off, heading for the first barrack building. Ramage glanced at Jackson and raised his eyebrows for a moment. Then he waited for the sentry to emerge again.
The commandant, meanwhile, had been buttoning up his tunic with ferocious concentration but, starting at the bottom and putting the next to lowest button in the lowest buttonhole, the whole garment was now askew and too tight, giving him the lopsided appearance of a man tottering along a steep slope.
At that moment the sentry came out of the building clutching an armful of mugs. He was alone. No one in the building, Ramage guessed, was prepared to help him or, more significant, not interested, or capable, of drinking more wine with the newly arrived sailors.
All the pretence with the 'prisoners' in handcuffs had been completely unnecessary - thanks to the fact that the commandant had been born fifty-one years ago today. Had his mother been a day earlier, or a day later ...
Ramage looked round at his men, giving a wave which attracted their attention because they were all watching him.
'Calypso', he said conversationally, his voice pitched so that the men could hear him, and they split into four groups each heading for a hut.
The commandant, now obviously realizing that either the wine had warped his body or something was radically wrong with his coat, tried to look down the row of buttons, but the outward curve of his belly meant he could only see the top three. He craned his head forward to see the rest but the effort was too much and he toppled forward, sprawling flat on the ground as though crucified.
The groups of seamen passed the sentry who, concentrating on balancing the armful of mugs, took no notice of them - if indeed he saw them.