darkening in the twilight, and Jackson looked towards the mainland. Over to his left was the great hump of Argentario, and he could see one of the two semicircular causeways which joined it to the mainland. In front, he could just see a small, flat reef of rocks, the Formiche de Burano, a black spot in the sea in line with Mount Capalbio. Just to the right of Mount Capalbio was Mount Maggiore, and on the coast in line with its peak was the little square tower, which Mr Ramage said they had to visit. It was too dark against the eastern sky to see it now, and anyway half of it was below the horizon.
The chart showed there was a big oblong-shaped lake behind the tower, running parallel with the beach and less than half a mile inland. From the middle of the nearest side a little river left the lake, running towards the sea past the north side of the tower, making a dog-leg turn to flow along the west wall – so the tower had a moat on two sides – and then straight for another couple of hundred yards, parallel with the shore, before curving round to flow into the sea.
Oh well, Jackson thought to himself, it will be nice to be on shore again, even if only for an hour or two. He looked at the watch. Another five minutes before he was due to rouse Mr Ramage.
Some of the seamen had already woken. One had persuaded another to retie his pigtail, while a third leaned over the side of the boat and began to hone his knife against the rock until Jackson told him to be quiet.
The American glanced round the gig and began checking off various items. The tiller was ready to be shipped; the oars were safely stowed; the two precious breakers of water were lashed under the thwarts, as were the bags of bread; the lantern was trimmed and ready for lighting; the bag of charts and papers was at his feet.
The seaman with the cut on his forehead rolled up a trouser leg and swore viciously, pointing at the mosquito bites on his ankle. He fished a rough canvas shirt from under a thwart and pulled it over his head.
‘Can’t we have a drink, Jacko?’ asked another sailor.
‘You heard what Mr Ramage said.’
‘You’re just a damned mean Jonathan.’
‘Ask Mr Ramage when he wakes.’
‘You like pushing us Limeys around.’
‘All right, you’re a Limey and I’m a Jonathan,’ retorted Jackson, ‘but that don’t make me any less thirsty than you.’
‘Anyway that thirsty bastard ain’t a Limey, he’s a Patlander,’ a man lying on the bottom boards said to Jackson. ‘He’s so Irish he salutes when we ship a green sea.’
‘Listen, the lot of you,’ growled Jackson. ‘Mr Ramage has two minutes’ more sleep and he deserves ’em; so put a couple of reefs in your tongues.’
‘Is he doing the right thing, Jacko?’ one of the men whispered. ‘After all, this gig ain’t a bleedin’ frigate.’
‘Scared? Anyway, we’d have had to do this last bit in a boat even if the Sibella was still swimming.’
‘Yus, but we wouldn’t have to row all the way there and back like a lot of bumboatmen.’
‘Well,’ Jackson said crisply, ‘make up your mind whether you’re scared or lazy. If you’re scared then you’ve no need to be with him on board’ – he jerked a thumb in Ramage’s direction – ‘and if you’re lazy you’d better watch out with this one on board–’ he jabbed a thumb to his own chest.
‘All right, all right, Jacko; I’d sooner ’ave ’im than you any day, so put me down as just being scared.’
Jackson glanced once again at the watch, and then climbed over a thwart to rouse Ramage.
The skin of Ramage’s face felt taut and stiff, scorched by the sun despite the tan; and a band across the top of his forehead, normally protected by his hat, was hot and sore. He opened his eyes and they felt full of sand. Realizing someone was gently shaking him and calling his name, he sat up, conscious of a momentary feeling of fear as he remembered the last time he had woken.
Almost nightfall; yet he would
The chart showed there was a big oblong-shaped lake behind the tower, running parallel with the beach and less than half a mile inland. From the middle of the nearest side a little river left the lake, running towards the sea past the north side of the tower, making a dog-leg turn to flow along the west wall – so the tower had a moat on two sides – and then straight for another couple of hundred yards, parallel with the shore, before curving round to flow into the sea.
Oh well, Jackson thought to himself, it will be nice to be on shore again, even if only for an hour or two. He looked at the watch. Another five minutes before he was due to rouse Mr Ramage.
Some of the seamen had already woken. One had persuaded another to retie his pigtail, while a third leaned over the side of the boat and began to hone his knife against the rock until Jackson told him to be quiet.
The American glanced round the gig and began checking off various items. The tiller was ready to be shipped; the oars were safely stowed; the two precious breakers of water were lashed under the thwarts, as were the bags of bread; the lantern was trimmed and ready for lighting; the bag of charts and papers was at his feet.
The seaman with the cut on his forehead rolled up a trouser leg and swore viciously, pointing at the mosquito bites on his ankle. He fished a rough canvas shirt from under a thwart and pulled it over his head.
‘Can’t we have a drink, Jacko?’ asked another sailor.
‘You heard what Mr Ramage said.’
‘You’re just a damned mean Jonathan.’
‘Ask Mr Ramage when he wakes.’
‘You like pushing us Limeys around.’
‘All right, you’re a Limey and I’m a Jonathan,’ retorted Jackson, ‘but that don’t make me any less thirsty than you.’
‘Anyway that thirsty bastard ain’t a Limey, he’s a Patlander,’ a man lying on the bottom boards said to Jackson. ‘He’s so Irish he salutes when we ship a green sea.’
‘Listen, the lot of you,’ growled Jackson. ‘Mr Ramage has two minutes’ more sleep and he deserves ’em; so put a couple of reefs in your tongues.’
‘Is he doing the right thing, Jacko?’ one of the men whispered. ‘After all, this gig ain’t a bleedin’ frigate.’
‘Scared? Anyway, we’d have had to do this last bit in a boat even if the Sibella was still swimming.’
‘Yus, but we wouldn’t have to row all the way there and back like a lot of bumboatmen.’
‘Well,’ Jackson said crisply, ‘make up your mind whether you’re scared or lazy. If you’re scared then you’ve no need to be with him on board’ – he jerked a thumb in Ramage’s direction – ‘and if you’re lazy you’d better watch out with this one on board–’ he jabbed a thumb to his own chest.
‘All right, all right, Jacko; I’d sooner ’ave ’im than you any day, so put me down as just being scared.’
Jackson glanced once again at the watch, and then climbed over a thwart to rouse Ramage.
The skin of Ramage’s face felt taut and stiff, scorched by the sun despite the tan; and a band across the top of his forehead, normally protected by his hat, was hot and sore. He opened his eyes and they felt full of sand. Realizing someone was gently shaking him and calling his name, he sat up, conscious of a momentary feeling of fear as he remembered the last time he had woken.
Almost nightfall; yet he would
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