Tarrant’s promised supper proved a dead bust. It was too late in the day for the inspection party to ride back to Messina in the dark, General Malcomb was by dusk so drunk that serving him a bowl of soup might have drowned him, face-down, and his aides were not in much better shape, either. They had to be lodged overnight, turfing subaltern officers from their lodgings in their mess, then roused out in the early-earlies and given an indifferent breakfast to speed them on their way, a breakfast that Lewrie pointedly skipped.
If Lewrie expected a quiet morning and a good breakfast aboard his own ship, though, he was wrong, for Mr. Quill and his new-come assistant were still in camp, and, not an hour after the inspection party had clattered away, Don Julio Caesare showed up, as if he had been in the vicinity, watching, for just such an opportunity, and Lewrie was summoned ashore once more, un-shaven, with only a sketchy sponge-down.
“Ah, Signore Capitano,” Don Julio amiably cried, arms out wide in greeting from Col. Tarrant’s shaded gallery, “You have the visit from il pezzo grosso from Messina, hey? Sorry I miss them. I come to speak with Signore Quill, Colonnello Inglese, and you. I have news of a new place you might wish to strike, heh heh! Congratulaziones, about the bridge! The traffico is at a complete stop! Nothing is move! Though,” Don Julio added with a scheming look and a rub of his chin, “with multi timber, they might re-build it.”
“Sir Alan has thought of that, Signore,” Col. Tarrant told him with a confident smile. “He’s written his superior, Admiral Charlton, to suggest that a smaller warship cruise close ashore of the bridge every fortnight or so, and take it under fire to daunt the workers on the project, and knock down what they’ve accomplished. Wood timbers will shatter a lot easier than old stonework, hah!”
“Traffic’s backed up either side of the bridge, you say?” Quill eagerly asked.
“Oh sì!” Don Julio expansively told him. “Multi waggons full of supplies north of the bridge, at Maida and Filadelfia, and empty ones at Pizzo and Sant’ Onofrio, hah hah! Tempting, but, povero me, multi, multi Francesi soldati with them. Alas, I meaning.”
“And too far inland for us to hit,” Tarrant said with a grim nod, as if he was indeed tempted to try it on, anyway.
Tarrant’s orderly made the rounds to refill coffee cups with a fresh, steaming brew, and, whilst Don Julio expounded on what some of his men had learned following the raid, Lewrie gave him a look-over.
He’s even more prosperous-lookin’ than a London banker, Lewrie thought; Comin’ up in the world, are we? Crime does seem t’pay!
At their first encounter in Messina, Don Julio Caesare had been the epitome of a wharf rat, pirate, or poor fisherman, but now he was garbed in fine red-brown boots, dark green corduroy trousers, a white silk ruffled shirt, and long, old-style waist-coat of supple black leather, lined with red silk. Beside his chair, a wide-brimmed tan beaver hat sat. And, of course, he still sported a red waist sash in which he wore his chased pistols and bejewelled dagger sheath.
“Long ago, I mention a place where il Tedeschi soldati camp, sì, Signore Quill?” Don Julio resumed after spooning several spoonfuls of sugar into his cup and stirring it up. “Germans? Bastardos brutale!”
“Where, Signore?” Quill eagerly asked.
“At Melito di Porto Salvo, west of Cape Spartivento, Signore,” Don Julio informed him, sitting more upright with his elbows on his knees, and getting a crafty look. “Like Tropea, there is the regiment, but only half are in town at any time, the rest looting the paisanos in the countryside, collecting the taxes, and storing things of multi value in the town’s pierside warehouses. Much grain, pasta, wine, and cured meats, which the Francesi in Reggio di Calabria now need even more, sì?”
“You and your men have scouted it, sounded the waters, and such, sir?” Quill asked him.
“Not yet, Signore,” Don Julio said with hands spread wide in apology, “but if it interests you, I can send ’Tonio to do it.”
“Which ’Tonio?” Lewrie just had to ask.
“The ’Tonio who scout your bridge, Capitano Inglese!” Don Julio said with a sly look, and a hearty laugh.
“Well, alright then!” Lewrie exclaimed happily.
“In the meantime, though, Don Julio,” Mr. Quill suggested, “I’ve a wee chore for you to perform for me. Colonel Tarrant ran into some partisans who, quite by chance, attacked the guards on the bridge at the same time as his men were launching their attack. They are led by a fellow who styles himself ‘Spada,’ the Sword, and I would dearly love to establish connexions with him and his band. The Colonel promised them aid and arms, which I hope will soon arrive.”
“Arms, buono!” Don Julio enthused as if he’d just been promised a keg of gold guineas. “Multi guns is good!”
“Before they arrive, though, I’ve a man I wish to land ashore to make contact with them,” Quill told him. “Ah, Signore Silvestri, farsi avanti, per favore.”
The young man’s arrival from inside Tarrant’s quarters where he had been waiting made everyone take note of his sudden transformation, and Don Julio to sit stiffly erect and squint in suspicion, for he no longer appeared a London dandy. Silvestri now resembled an Italian peasant; hair lank and loose under a shapeless felt hat, in a coarse shirt rolled to the elbows, ragged, dirty trousers, and sandalled feet covered with dust. One day after introductions, Silvestri had grown a suitable stubble on his face, which, like all his bared skin, was a sun-bronzed olive tone.
“Signore, allow me to name to you Giovanni Silvestri,” Quill said with some smug sense of satisfaction.
“What is this?” Don Julio demanded, confused.
“He’s my eyes and ears on the mainland, sir,” Quill told him, “and will speak with my voice. I wish you to smuggle him ashore near the bridge, and set up places and times to deliver my instructions to him, and retrieve his letters to me.”
All Don Julio could do for a moment was splutter, then break out into nervous laughter. “Oh, Signore Quill,” he managed to say at last, “he will not last a day! Sì, he is … costumed!… to look the part, but as I said before, one must be Italian, a Calabrian, to his fingertips, or the Francesi and their ass-kissers will discover him, and he is dead! Finito!”
Giovanni Silvestri scoffed with a laugh, and launched into a long palaver in Italian, to which Don Julio rejoined with what sounded like scorn and sarcasm, dismissing the whole idea. Silvestri gave in kind, which was simply Greek to Lewrie, and even Col. Tarrant’s smattering of Italian left him in the dust, smiling tautly and watching the long exchange like a man watching a tennis ball being volleyed.
“Enough! Abbastanza!” Mr. Quill demanded at last, raising hands and speaking with more authority than Lewrie thought he had. “I wish you to get him ashore over there, Don Julio. It will be worth your time, I assure you, as always. It is vital to the interests of your country, and mine, that he be gotten into service.”
“Big risk,” Don Julio objected, tossing up his hands as if to absolve himself of responsibility. “If you wish this, then it is on your head, Signore. He might pass, but … only God knows. Sì, we will set him ashore, but the risk will be worth multi guineas. Boats must be off the coast all the time, waiting for letters, making the deliveries of guns and powder. I must obtain more boats, small ones, for that.”
“And that will cost, yes, I know,” Quill said with a knowing nod of his head, “for which you shall be recompensed, handsomely.”
“Hmpf! If he is caught, Signore Quill, he may cost you more than you know,” Don Julio ominously said. “The Francesi make him talk, they will know about you, where Colonnello Inglese camps, know about Capitano Inglese and his ships, and know about me! And if I and my men, my boats, are made known to the Francesi, then it will be too dangerous for me to sail over there for any reason. And then I cannot help you at all, and all is ruined.”
And your lucrative smugglin’ trade goes smash, too, Lewrie told himself, giving Julio Caesare a leery look; That’s what you’re really worried about!
“Then it’s up to me to not be caught, isn’t it, Signore?” Silvestri said with a confident cock of his head, and a wee, taut grin.
“It would be much appreciated if you did not,” Mr. Quill said, sounding almost jolly.
“Sciocco … foolish,” Caesare pronounced the decision. “But … if that is what you want, I will do it for you. How soon?”
“Within a day or so, Signore,” Quill told him, “pending winds and weather, as Sir Alan is wont to say.”
“No, no, it will take longer than that,” Don Julio objected as he polished off his cup of coffee and rose to his feet, clapping that fine beaver hat on his head. “Must get more small boats, the older and the poorer looking, the better, so no one will suspect. And, I have the business to see to, first.”
“Signore Silvestri and I will be at Messina, then,” Quill told him, rising as well to shake hands on their new deal, “waiting for word from you. He’ll be lodging separately, as he has since he came to Sicily.”
“Ah, that is best, buono,” Don Julio said with a nod, “else any enemy spies see him with you, and end this before it begins. For now, arrivederci, Signores.” He performed a sketchy bow to all present, then turned to shout at one of his henchmen who had been holding the reins of a pair of horses cropping grass beneath the shade of a tree nearby.
Don Julio swung up into the fine, gleaming saddle of his horse, a tall, sleek hunter of at least fourteen hands, which all of the Englishmen present envied at once, clucked, thumped with his heels, and cantered away towards Milazzo.
“A damned impressive beast he has,” Col. Tarrant commented. “I’d imagine it’d be worth over an hundred guineas back home.”
“Stole it, most-like,” Lewrie sourly commented, “or he’s makin’ such a pile o’ ‘tin’ from his other pursuits that he can afford it.”
“Very possibly, sir,” Col. Tarrant said with a wee laugh. “What Don Julio said, though, Mister Quill … you and your man travelled here together? Might there be people in French pay who…?”
“Not to worry, Colonel,” Quill dismissively said, “John lodged at a good hotel in the upper town when he first landed, and he and I came separately.”
“And that fellow, and his assumed identity, disappeared once I checked out of my lodgings,” Silvestri assured Tarrant. “I return to Messina as a poor paisano, in the back of a loaded farm cart, whilst Mister Quill makes his own way. ’Til Don Julio’s boats are ready, we will play strangers to each other, and Mister Quill sends his little lad, Fiorello, to set the plan in motion.”
“Which we should be doing now,” Quill said, pulling out his pocket watch and looking aloft to reckon the position of the morning sun. “I do not know which will prove more uncomfortable, the back of a farm cart, or the poor prad I hired to ride out here. The beast simply has no recognisable gait, just shamble, trot, then plod, as it wills!”
They said their goodbyes, then Quill went to his own horse, and Silvestri set off on foot in a shambling, lazy stride down the road to Messina, leaving Lewrie and Tarrant alone at last.
“One must suppose that Caesare will provide us the information on his proposed target, ehm … what did he call it?” Tarrant asked.
“Melito di Porto Salvo,” Lewrie prompted. “Quite a mouthful, hey? Some of Admiral Charlton’s squadron bombarded it from the sea in that big raid a few months ago, but we didn’t land and raze it. Hmm, not so far from Reggio di Calabria. We’d have to transit the Strait of Messina at night, with no lights showing, or the French’d be alerted, else. Sail from here just before dusk? But, we’d have to stand off-and-on ’til just before dawn to attack the place.”
“Whatever all that nautical talk means,” Col. Tarrant dismissed with raised hands, as if perplexed, even after months of dealing with ships and boats. “One would suppose sailing all the way round Sicily would be a deal worse, what? Stage down to Catania or Syracuse, out of sight of the French watchers, and strike from there?”
“We’ve hit them three times, now, though, sir,” Lewrie pointed out, “and they’re aware of our presence, and what we can do. Did we sail beyond sight, we’d have to go down the Strait, and surely they’d be watching for us. Next thing you know, they’re on the alert, from Naples to Taranto. It’s not going to get any easier. Which is why we really need your re-enforcements, and I need more transports.”
“Or, we need Brigadier Caruthers to fulfill his ambitions, and turn one of his regiments into ‘sea-soldiers,’ hah hah!” Tarrant rejoined. “Did we have two regiments to work with, the French would pull their hair out, trying to determine when and where we strike, at two places at the same time!”
“But, at our cost, sir,” Lewrie gloomed, “what he manages to get deprives us. I know he wishes to. We’re active, he’s idle, we’ve won some fame, and he’s only his one battle to boast of since. Probably couldn’t do it without findin’ a way t’get a horse ashore with him. Caruthers looks good on a horse, and he knows it.”
“Perhaps Don Julio can steal one and sell it to him,” Tarrant suggested, “and a special boat to carry it ashore, as well.”
“Hope Caruthers has a deep purse, then,” Lewrie sniggered, “for I’m sure Caesare will soak him for it.”
“Ah well, Colonels walk or wade, whilst Brigadier-Generals get to gallop, wave a sword, and look gallant. Now, what would be a suitable mount for me, Sir Alan?”
“Oh…” Lewrie mused, then grinned. “I could get you a crocodile, so you could slither ashore.”
“Do you think the French would be impressed?” Tarrant laughed.
“Awed and terrified, sir,” Lewrie agreed, laughing, too.