by Dudley Pope
Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press
BY ALEXANDER KENT
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho
Stand Into Danger
In Gallant Company
Sloop of War
To Glory We Steer
Command a King’s Ship
Passage to Mutiny
With All Despatch
Form Line of Battle!
Enemy in Sight!
The Flag Captain
Signal–Close Action!
The Inshore Squadron
A Tradition of Victory
Success to the Brave
Colours Aloft!
Honour This Day
The Only Victor
Beyond the Reef
The Darkening Sea
For My Country’s Freedom
Cross of St George
Sword of Honour
Second to None
Relentless Pursuit
Man of War
Heart of Oak
BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN
Halfhyde’s Island
Halfhyde and the Guns of Arrest
Halfhyde to the Narrows
Halfhyde for the Queen
Halfhyde Ordered South
Halfhyde on Zanatu
BY JAN NEEDLE
A Fine Boy for Killing
The Wicked Trade
The Spithead Nymph
BY JAMES L. NELSON
The Only Life That Mattered
BY JAMES DUFFY
Sand of the Arena
The Fight for Rome
BY DEWEY LAMBDIN
The French Admiral
The Gun Ketch
A King’s Commander
Jester’s Fortune
BY DUDLEY POPE
Ramage
Ramage & The Drumbeat
Ramage & The Freebooters
Governor Ramage R.N.
Ramage’s Prize
Ramage & The Guillotine
Ramage’s Diamond
Ramage’s Mutiny
Ramage & The Rebels
The Ramage Touch
Ramage’s Signal
Ramage & The Renegades
Ramage’s Devil
Ramage’s Trial
Ramage’s Challenge
Ramage at Trafalgar
Ramage & The Saracens
Ramage & The Dido
BY FREDERICK MARRYAT
Frank Mildmay or The Naval Officer
Mr Midshipman Easy
Newton Forster or The Merchant Service
BY V.A. STUART
Victors and Lords
The Sepoy Mutiny
Massacre at Cawnpore
The Cannons of Lucknow
The Heroic Garrison
The Valiant Sailors
The Brave Captains
Hazard’s Command
Hazard of Huntress
Hazard in Circassia
Victory at Sebastopol
Guns to the Far East
Escape from Hell
BY DOUGLAS W. JACOBSON
Night of Flames
BY JULIAN STOCKWIN
Kydd
Artemis
Seaflower
Mutiny
Quarterdeck
Tenacious
Command
The Admiral’s Daughter
The Privateer’s Revenge
BY JOHN BIGGINS
A Sailor of Austria
The Emperor’s Coloured Coat
The Two-Headed Eagle
Tomorrow the World
BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON
Storm Force to Narvik
Last Lift from Crete
All the Drowning Seas
A Share of Honour
The Torch Bearers
The Gatecrashers
BY C.N. PARKINSON
The Guernseyman
Devil to Pay
The Fireship
Dead Reckoning
The Life and Times of Horatio Hornblower
BY DOUGLAS REEMAN
Twelve Seconds to Live
The White Guns
A Prayer for the Ship
For Valour
BY DAVID DONACHIE
The Dying Trade
A Hanging Matter
An Element of Chance
The Scent of Betrayal
A Game of Bones
BY BROOS CAMPBELL
No Quarter
The War of Knives
Peter Wicked
Published by McBooks Press 2001
Copyright © 1981 by Dudley Pope
First published in the United Kingdom in 1981 by
The Alison Press/Martin Secker & Warburg Limited
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.
Cover painting by Paul Wright.
The paperback edition of this title was cataloged as:
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pope, Dudley.
[Ramage and the renegades]
Ramage & the renegades / by Dudley Pope.
p. cm. — (Lord Ramage novels ; #12)
Originally published: Ramage and the renegades. London :
Secker & Warburg, 1981.
ISBN 1-59013-009-X (alk. paper)
1. Ramage, Nicholas (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century—Fiction. 3. Great Britain. Royal Navy—Officers—Fiction. 4. Napoleonic Wars, 1800-1815—Fiction. I. Title
PR6066.O5 R29 2001
823’.914—dc21
2001026631
The e-book versions of this title have the following ISBNs:
Kindle 978-1-59013-531-0, ePub 978-1-59013-532-7, and PDF 978-1-59013-533-4
www.mcbooks.com
For Kyle and Doc
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE tiny island where Ramage and his men fought out their battle actually exists as described, 673 miles from Bahia. Still uninhabited, it belongs to Brazil. It was first surveyed by Captain Philip D’Auvergne R.N., Prince of Bouillon in 1782 and his original chart, in the British Museum, shows he made an error of only about 25 miles in plotting its position.
D.P.
Yacht Ramage
Marigot
St Martin
French Antilles
CHAPTER ONE
RAMAGE lowered the copy of the Morning Post and listened. A carriage was clattering to a stop outside the house and old Hanson, muttering “Coming, my Lord, coming!” as though someone was already hammering impatiently at the door, was shuffling across the hall. Pausing for a moment when he saw Ramage sitting in the drawing-room he called: “The Admiral’s back, Master Nicholas!”
Dear old Hanson; for as long as Ramage could remember the butler always muttered “Coming, coming” as he walked across the hall to answer the front door, and at every third step his right hand, with thumb and finger extended, lifted to his face to push his pince-nez back up over the bridge of his nose. It must be a most sensitive nose because Hanson’s spectacles rarely slipped right off the tip to dangle from their black cord. Ramage remembered as a boy, fifteen or twenty years ago, watching fascinated as the butler lovingly polished the silver. Would they … would they … yes, there—but a quick movement of the right hand would, disappointingly, catch them just in time.
Hanson was always so relieved when any of the family returned home to the house in Palace Street, even after only an hour’s absence, as though a social call or a shopping expedition was as dangerous as a for
ay into dense jungle. On this occasion Ramage’s father had been over to Wimpole Street to call on Lord Hood (who, as a characteristically brief note explained, was beneaped in his house with gout). The two old Admirals enjoyed gossiping and discussing foreign affairs, and certainly Bonaparte’s latest move must have given them plenty to talk about. Had father been able to learn more than the rumour reported in the newspapers?
Gianna would be pleased the carriage was back: she was anxious to use it to call on her dressmaker. Instead of having the woman visit the house, Gianna wanted to go to her establishment to inspect rolls of materials, and Ramage was hoping his mother would go with her: as the first week of his first leave for nearly two years came to an end, he was at last managing to relax quite happily in an armchair. In a few more days he might agree to plunging into the London social activity, to be shown off by his mother and Gianna, but for the moment (as Gianna had grumbled last night) the bear was happy sleeping at the end of his chain, and would have been much happier to have come back to England and found Gianna and the family staying in Cornwall: Blazey Hall, sitting four-square among the crags and rolling hills, was always peaceful; the village of St Kew was “home,” not London with its noise, smells and crowds.
Yet London this morning was still surprisingly quiet: the hucksters and piemen had not yet reached Palace Street, the air was still and the house seemed glad of the rest. The high ceiling made the room seem larger than it was, and his mother’s choice of a very pale grey paint and a blue the shade of ducks’ eggs set off the oak panelling. The glass of the diamond panes in the windows showed that Mrs Hanson had kept a close watch on the window cleaner, and the doorknobs shone with a brilliance that would bring an approving nod from most first lieutenants.
He heard the sharp clatter of the carriage steps unfolding. His father said something to the coachman, Albert, and a few moments later was in the hall, with Hanson taking his coat, hat and cane. Both Gianna and Lady Blazey had heard the arrival and were now coming down the stairs, greeting the Admiral. Ramage heard his mother ask if there was anything wrong, and the Earl must have answered with a gesture because she said: “We’ll join Nicholas in the drawing-room and you can tell us about it.”
Ramage stood up as his mother came into the room, followed by Gianna. The Countess of Blazey, wearing the large amethyst brooch Ramage had given her last week on her 51st birthday (causing her to burst into tears, exclaiming that his unexpected return to Britain and a month’s leave was the best present she could have), sat down and said: “Your father is just going to change into some comfortable clothes … Now, tell us what the newspapers have to say, so we are all prepared for his gossip.”
Ramage knew Gianna was becoming excited by the rumours, but both he and his father had discounted them to her; there was no point in letting her build up hopes to have them smashed when it was discovered that the British government was the victim of a spiteful jest by Bonaparte.
“I haven’t read The Times yet, but the Morning Post only reports what we’ve already heard.”
“Read it, caro,” Gianna said.
“There are a few lines on the front page and I am sure it’s just speculation, not based on anything they’ve been told by the Secretary of State’s office.”
“Read it, anyway,” Gianna said firmly. “This Lord Hawkesbury is still so pleased at finding himself His Majesty’s new Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs that he talks only to the King and the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
The Countess laughed. “Surely you hardly expected him to reveal matters of state at last night’s ball, my dear? After all, the Duchess of Dorset was standing beside you, and she’s a terrible gossip.”
“I expect him to provide information for the ruler of a friendly state invaded by Bonaparte. After all, I am the Marchesa di Volterra!”
“Yes, dear,” the Countess said, smiling at what she called Gianna’s “imperious outbursts,” “but if Hawkesbury had any news about Volterra or, indeed, Tuscany or even Italy, he might tell you if you called at his office in Downing Street, or his home in Sackville Street, but hardly at a ball!”
“He did not suggest I call,” Gianna said coldly. “Is he one of these new Irish barons? Wasn’t he known as ‘Jenks’?”
Her tone, Ramage knew, was haughty enough to freeze even the chilly Secretary of State. “He’s the son of the Earl of Liverpool. He’s also Member of Parliament for Rye and his nickname comes from his family name, Jenkinson.”
“This Liverpool—a new creation?”
Ramage laughed and the Countess joined in. “Yes, ‘a new creation.’ His father received an earldom about five years ago and Jenks has one of his father’s courtesy titles. Like me, in fact, except I don’t use it.”
“I wish you would,” Gianna said, beginning to thaw. “You are not ashamed of being the son of the Earl of Blazey, and you inherited one of his titles, so why not use it?”
“Darling, I’ve told you enough times,” Ramage protested. “Admirals with knighthoods don’t like having young captains serving under them with titles like ‘earl,’ or ‘viscount.’ It can often mean midshipmen and junior post captains have higher precedence at receptions than their commander-in-chief.”
The Countess said: “If Nicholas had attended a dinner at which Hawkesbury was present, before he became a minister, Nicholas would have had much higher precedence—if he used his title.”
“All the more reason for using it,” Gianna said. “Jenks is a cold pudding.”
“A cold fish,” Ramage corrected.
“Accidente! I always know when I am winning an argument because you begin correcting my English!”
“Nicholas,” the Countess reminded him, “you were going to tell us the news in the Post.”
“Ah, yes. It says that—well, I’ll read the item. ‘We understand that M. Louis-Guillaume Otto, the French Commissioner for the Exchange of Prisoners, resident in London, has been a frequent visitor at the office of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs during recent days. It is believed that M. Otto, who has been living in London since the beginning of the present war, has been acting as an envoy of Bonaparte, discussing proposals from Bonaparte for a general peace.
“‘We further understand that Lord Hawkesbury has put Bonaparte’s proposals before the Cabinet and that Mr Addington has informed the King of the details. We believe Mr Pitt’s supporters are violently against a peace. M. Otto can rely on the support of Mr Fox and his faction.
“‘M. Otto has had little official work to do for the past two years: so few French ships put to sea that the Royal Navy cannot take many prisoners. On the other hand the bold British ships are constantly attacking the enemy’s coasts and ports and naturally some are lost, so the French have many British prisoners in their jails. Unfortunately few can be exchanged because we do not have enough Frenchmen to make the numbers even.’”
Gianna sighed and rearranged the skirt of her pale dress. “Let us hope Bonaparte’s terms are generous.”
The Countess shook her head disapprovingly. “Gianna, I know you want to go back to Volterra, but don’t let us fall into a trap just because we want peace.”
“No, Bonaparte would not be offering terms unless it was to his advantage to end the war,” Nicholas said.
At that moment the Earl came into the room: a tall, still slim man with silvery white hair and the same thin, almost beak-like nose and high cheekbones of his son. Gianna looked from Nicholas to his father. Yes, she thought, that is how Nicholas will be in thirty years’ time. For the first time since she had met him, she felt she could think of him in old age: until now he had been at sea, being wounded regularly once a year, being in action at least once a month … Peace would mean he could resign his commission and live in London and Cornwall.
And now, also for the first time, she could picture him growing old without her beside him. Until recently, she always thought of their lives after the war as being lived together, but now, after the years she had lived here in England
, mostly at St Kew, she accepted that it was impossible. Noblesse oblige. It was a phrase, but for the two of them it was a code, a law—and for her a sentence of eventual banishment.
In the first couple of years, when she thought of little else than Nicholas and returning to rule her kingdom of Volterra the moment Bonaparte’s troops were driven out, she had ignored religion. Yet she was Catholic and Nicholas was Protestant. Marriage would force Nicholas to agree that their children would be Catholic, and in turn that would mean one of the oldest earldoms in Britain would become Catholic the moment Nicholas died after inheriting from his father.
The twelfth Earl of Blazey a Catholic … For the first year or two in England she could see no difficulty about such an old Protestant earldom changing its religion to Rome, but eventually she had come to understand that Britain was built on Protestant foundations, and to ask Nicholas (who would be the eleventh Earl when he inherited from his father) to sacrifice the earldom—for that was how it would be regarded—was something that an enemy might do, but not the woman who loved him.
Her other plans—she saw now they were but dreams—were equally impractical, because of that same phrase. Her idea that Nicholas would resign his commission after the war and come to Volterra as her husband was hopeless, and Nicholas himself had made that clear. Volterra, still turbulent after years of French occupation and no doubt still affected by the talk of French revolutionaries, would be in no mood to accept a straniero as their ruler’s husband; not even one who spoke Italian as well as any of them and who had rescued their ruler from Bonaparte’s troops. A foreigner was someone from the next state; to some people a man from the next town. She thought that Nicholas might have in mind that she would hand over the kingdom to her heir, her nephew Paolo Orsini, at present serving as a midshipman in Nicholas’s own ship but—as she had finally been forced to admit to herself—there were at least two things preventing that. First, Volterra, once liberated, would need a firm ruler for the early years of peace, someone who understood the complicated relations, friendships and enmities of the leading families. Paolo knew nothing of all this, and might well fall victim to an assassin. And secondly, his life was now the sea: it was unlikely he would exchange the Royal Navy for the falsehoods and sycophancy that made up life at Court.
Paolo was a new generation: he had never lived in an atmosphere of noblesse oblige so he would sacrifice nothing for it. For her and Nicholas it was as much a part of life as breathing and, she realized with something approaching bitterness, comparable with breathing: it was always there, unobtrusive, noticeable only when you thought of it, but an essential part of life itself.