by Dudley Pope
The Tropics were a destroyer: leave a jacket hung in a locker for a week and it grew a fine crop of green mildew wherever a trace of food or drink had spilled on it. Leather, whether boots, shoes, belts or scabbards, grew rich yellow and green mildew as fields sprouted new grass and clover. Iron and steel rusted: a sword or dirk left in its scabbard for a few weeks would rust even if coated with grease - the rust seemed to grow beneath the coating. Rope lost its springiness and became dead, apparently from the sunlight, although no one could explain exactly what happened. Sails suffered too; the humidity and constant tropical showers brought on the mildew, while the blazing sun took the life out of the threads so that it was easy to poke a finger through canvas which looked perfectly sound. Even worse, the material was so weak that the stitches securing a patch just ripped it away like a slashing knife. He had seen a patch blown clean out of a sail - and a few moments later the sail itself had split, starting from the hole left by the departed patch. Yes, most interesting, but what the devil was it that the first lieutenant had ordered him to do? Quickly Paolo tried to remember the conversation. Mr Aitken had said he had just received a letter from the captain saying he was bringing the Marchesa and his parents down to Chatham for a visit to the Calypso, and he wished Midshipman Orsini, able seaman Jackson, and ordinary seamen Rossi and Stafford to be available. Then he said they would be coming down by carriage and mentioned the name of the hotel they would use. And the Commissioner of the dockyard was making his yawl available and they would be leaving the jetty of the Commissioner's residence to board the ship at ten o'clock in the forenoon. Then what? The chair! That was it: the red baize needed replacing; and a whip had to be rove on the starboard main yardarm.
The English language was sometimes absurd. On land a whip was something you used on a horse or mule; in a ship it was a small block and a rope. Then there was a block - on land that was a large piece of something, like a block of wood. In a ship a block was what men on land called a pulley. And a sheet! That was the most hilarious of all - on land you found a sheet on a bed, although you could also have a sheet of paper. In a ship a sheet was a rope attached to the corner of a sail to control its shape. A seaman did not 'put' a rope through a pulley, he rove it through a block, or he was ordered to reeve it. Paolo saw the first lieutenant coming up the companionway. Damn, where was the chair stowed? The bosun would know.
Aitken paused and looked round him. To an untrained eye there was chaos, with seamen running here and there like ants when their anthill was disturbed, but a seaman could distinguish order. Apart from young Orsini - clearly he had been standing daydreaming - the seventh 12-pounder was already hoisted out and slung over the side, the men under Jackson lowering it into the hoy.
But devil take it, how was he to have the ship ready for tomorrow's visitors? The captain would understand and, from what everyone said, the Marchesa would too. But Admiral the Earl of Blazey was the fifth most senior admiral in the Navy (he knew that because the moment he received the captain's letter, he had looked up the father in the latest edition of Steele's List of the Navy). Still, even a senior admiral would make allowances for the necessary activity. So that left the Admiral's wife. Well; all admirals' wives brought only misery and harassment to first lieutenants, whether of frigates or 100-gun flagships, and the Countess of Blazey was unlikely to be an exception.
Orsini had finally bestirred himself: no doubt asking the bosun where the chair was stowed. He was a remarkable young lad, and Aitken looked forward to meeting the aunt. It was curious how at first, when he joined the captain, he had assumed that Paolo's aunt, the Marchesa, was a wrinkled old Italian dragon, full of unpredictable whims and with enough influence to break a post captain with a pointing index finger and a mere lieutenant with a flick of a little finger. He had been quickly corrected by those who knew her - old Southwick, for instance, who doted on her - and told that she was five feet tall, about twenty-three years old, and the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. She had striking blue-black hair, large brown eyes - and, when she felt like it, was imperious.
Still, that was not surprising, because she had once ruled the kingdom of Volterra; her family had done so for centuries, until Bonaparte's invading army forced her to flee to the coast, to be rescued by the captain - then a junior lieutenant. And they had fallen in love. Hardened sinners like Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, who were in the ship's boat that rowed her to safety (even though one of Bonaparte's cavalrymen had put a bullet in her shoulder), fell in love with her too.
He admitted he had not at first been too pleased when the captain told him that the Marchesa's nephew would be joining the ship as a midshipman: he had visions of a spoiled Italian brat expecting privileges and constantly running to the captain. Instead the Marchesa's nephew (who would inherit the kingdom of Volterra if she had no children) was quite as tough as a young Scot of the same age would have been. He had proved something of a contradiction. He was hopeless at mathematics (and he and Southwick had to be careful about that, because the captain's own mathematics were said to be sufficient and no more) and tended to daydream, and he was famous throughout the ship for his forgetfulness. But in action, with roundshot and musket-balls whistling about his ears, cutlasses flashing and clanging, and the odds against him at about ten to one, then he had the quickness of a snake, the cunning and ingenuity of a highwayman, the clear thinking of a gambler, and the bravery of - well, someone like the captain, or Southwick.
Aitken knew little of Italian character, but from what he had heard and seen (people like the seaman Rossi) Paolo Orsini was a happy mixture of the best of the British and Italian characters. As important as his behaviour in action was his attitude towards the day-to-day running of the ship: he was a leader. Aitken doubted if he was yet sixteen years old, but as a midshipman he had to give orders to seamen who had been at sea for twice as many years as he had lived. With many young midshipmen this led to trouble - and with old ones, too: failing their lieutenants' examination, or passing but not getting a ship, resulted in midshipmen of forty who were almost invariably bitter drunkards. Orsini had such a cheerful manner, and he had learned so fast and was so anxious to go on learning, that he was the ship's favourite. He had heard seamen exchanging stories of Orsini's exploits in action, and they were related with pride, as one man might boast about his village's prize fighting cock.
He spotted a white mop of hair up on the fo'c'sle, showing Southwick busy with some men. He had to discuss with the master the programme for tomorrow's visitors because the old man knew them all. Then, Aitken decided, he would inform the lieutenants and then, before the midday meal, muster the men and tell them: they would want to get their queues retied and start the day with clean shirts. It was a Thursday, so they had to shave, but they would have done so anyway.
'The Frenchies made it fancy enough,' the bosun said as he held up the legless chair for Paolo's inspection. 'The lady sits on the seat, then this bar drops across the front from arm to arm and locks to hold her in. She sits back and up and away she goes.'
'Yes,' Paolo said doubtfully. 'As soon as someone's rove the whip I'll try it out. Then we'll change some of this red baize. It looks as though the rat did not like it.'
'Not surprised, sir; it's the same baize that's used for covering the handle o' a cat-o'-nine-tails and the bag to put it in. Not that we need it with this captain.'
'No, I've never seen a flogging,' Paolo said, with all the curiosity of the young. 'Is it really bad?'
'You probably won't ever see one if you serve with Mr Ramage 'cos he don't believe in flogging; but yes, it's 'orrible. Most frigates like us'd have at least three or four a week. Not because the captains are cruel but a few bad men keep getting drunk or regularly make mischief. Mr Ramage managed long ago to get rid of the few bad apples and keep the good ones.'
Paolo looked up at the starboard main yardarm. One man was passing a rope through a block while a second paid out more from a coil slung over his shoulder. Paolo picked up the chair and wa
lked over to one of the guns, followed by a puzzled bosun. Holding it by the arm he lifted it and then banged the seat across the breech of the gun. Dust particles lifted in a cloud.
'Just making sure there's no dry rot or woodworm at work under that baize,' he said. 'Seems strong enough.' He looked up again and saw that one end of the rope had almost reached the deck. 'Come on, hoist me up to the yardarm; I weigh a good deal more than my aunt or the Countess.'
At ten o'clock next morning Ramage, once again wearing the heavy blue coat of a post captain, with its gold-braided lapels and the single heavy epaulet on his right shoulder indicating that he had less than three years' seniority, stood on the Commissioner's jetty and looked across the muddy Medway at the Calypso.
He had expected to find her heeled to starboard or larboard because the French guns had been hoisted out on one side or the other and lowered into the hoys. Instead she was floating on an even keel; all the yards were square.
'She looks very smart, Nicholas,' his mother said.
'Very French, that sheer,' the Admiral commented. 'A handsome ship. Not surprised they bought her into the Service after you captured her. A nice pile of prize money for your men.'
'With that and the money from the convoy we captured, most of them would be rated wealthy by their neighbours,' Ramage said. 'They deserved it!'
'The yawl, my Lord,' Wedge said, gesturing to the white-painted boat at the end of the jetty. The dockyard commissioner looked to Ramage like a Gillray cartoon of a corrupt public official: rolls of fat began at his chin like canvas hose and circled to below his hips. His eyes were never still, jerking from face to face as if frightened of missing a proffered bribe or a warning glance.
'Yes, yes,' the Earl said impatiently, 'we're having a look at the ship from here.'
'And very nice she seems, sir,' Wedge said predictably, like an ingratiating parson entertaining the patron of his living to tea.
Ramage turned to Gianna. 'Watch this,' he said, having just realized that the two figures on the quarterdeck were Aitken and Southwick but there was not another man in sight on board the ship. Wedge had spotted this too, and was grumbling to himself just loudly enough for Ramage to ' hear. 'Seem to be asleep on board there. So much work to be done. The rest of the guns to be hoisted out...'
Suddenly the shrouds of the fore, main and mizenmasts changed in appearance from thin cobwebs of rope to thick trunks of trees as scores of men raced up the ratlines. The first kept going and a couple of dozen walked out along the topgallant yards while below more spaced themselves at arm's length on the topsail yards and the fore and mainyards. In a matter of moments the men were equally spaced out on all the yards, facing forward with arms outstretched, the tips each man's fingers touching those of his neighbours on each side.
Gianna gave a gasp of surprise and pleasure and the Countess, who had so often seen a ship's company man the yards years earlier, turned to her son. 'You shouldn't have arranged that just for us, Nicholas!'
'I didn't,' Ramage admitted. 'You can thank Aitken and Southwick when we get on board. Anyway, let's go out to her now.'
The yawl came alongside the Calypso and hooked on. The Earl looked at Ramage, who nodded. By the custom of the Navy, the senior officer was the last into a boat when leaving a ship but the first out when coming alongside.
Two side-ropes hung down, one each side of the battens forming narrow steps, or ledges, secured to the ship's side from just above the waterline to the entryport at deck level. The ropes, knotted with diamond knots and covered with red baize, hung a couple of feet away from the hull, held out by sideboys at a comfortable distance for a climber to grip them, like the banisters of a staircase, as he made his way up the side. The ship's side was manned - the normal routine for the visit of a flag officer or captain.
The Admiral went up with a briskness that surprised Ramage, and Gianna was just beginning to get up from the thwart and gather her skirt round her when Ramage gestured to her to remain seated. The Countess had not moved and smiled reassuringly at Gianna, guessing that although she had been in a frigate several times before she had never made an official visit.
Gianna's eye was caught by a red object high above her, and a rope dropped into the stern of the boat and then another dropped into the bow. A moment later a seaman slid down each one and nimbly scrambled to the middle of the boat in time to catch and hold the red object as it was lowered into the boat, and which she now recognized as a sort of chair suspended on a rope which went up to the mainyard.
Then suddenly she recognized one of the seamen. 'Rossi! Come sta!' She held out her hand and the Italian lifted it to his lips, suddenly too shy to speak.
Then she saw who the other man was. 'Stafford! What a wonderful surprise, the pair of you dropping out of the sky on me! Where is Jackson?'
Rossi pointed upwards at the deck and turned the chair, flipping back the arm but waiting for the Countess to sit in it first.
'I'll go first, dear,' the Countess said tactfully, 'then you'll see how it is done.' The remark was spoken softly, and Gianna was grateful, realizing that in the Navy's table of precedence the Countess of Blazey came first.
The Countess settled herself in the chair. Ramage quickly inspected it and swung over the bar to secure it. She smiled at the two seamen and spoke to them for a few moments while Ramage climbed up the ship's side.
Rossi, watching him disappear through the entryport, whispered something to the Countess, and then made a circular movement with his raised hand. Slowly but steadily the chair rose, taking the Countess with it. 'I love this,' she called down to Gianna, 'it gives one such an unusual view of everything!'
The chair swung slowly inboard once it had been raised clear of the bulwarks and entryport and was then lowered until it was two or three feet above the deck.
'Jackson!' the Countess said delightedly as the seaman stepped forward with two other men to steady the chair, open the bar and help the Countess out. In a moment the chair had been pulled clear and men bustled about tactfully as she shook out her skirt, adjusted her hair and acknowledged her son's salute.
While the chair soared up and was then lowered over the side again for Gianna, Ramage said formally: 'Madam, allow me to present my officers.'
Ramage guessed he had about three minutes for the presentation before Gianna soared on board, and knew his mother was accustomed to all the ritual and timing of Court and naval etiquette.
'Ah, Mr Aitken - my son's right hand! Will you have time to visit Perth? . . . Mr Wagstaffe - you had a good voyage to Gibraltar with that prize frigate? ... Mr Kenton, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before, but I've read and heard all about your adventures ... So you are Mr Martin. May I call you by your nickname and ask you to play for us - it is not often we can listen to a flute. My husband has known your father for years, of course . . . Mr Renwick, I've heard so much about you and your Marines that I feel I've known you for years! . . . Mr Orsini - Paolo!' She kissed him. 'You left us a boy and you've come back a man! Your aunt will be with us in a moment! . . . Mr Southwick - not a day older. What is your secret? You have a recipe for eternal youth!... Mr Bowen, I hope my son has not been giving you too many patients! Oh, so few? That's the way it should be in every action!'
She had just spoken to all the officers, with the Earl walking beside her, when seamen hoisting on the fall of the rope brought the red chair up above the bulwarks and Jackson hauled gently on the guy, fitted to an eyebolt beneath the seat, to make sure Gianna landed in exactly the right place. She was smiling with pleasure and recognized Jackson at once, laughing as he steadied the chair while Aitken appeared, apparently from nowhere, to swing back the bar and help her stand up.
'Blower' Martin, fourth in the line of officers waiting to be introduced to her, was suddenly finding it hard to breathe: he seemed to have an invisible band round his throat, like the Spanish garotte, and it happened the moment he first saw the Marchesa's face as the chair rose above the level of the hammock nettings on
top of the bulwarks. He realized that without any qualification or argument she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes widely spaced and - from this distance - seeming black. Her hair was as black as a raven's wing. As she stepped out of the chair, he saw she was tiny. Her dress was a very pale green, probably silk. Laughing over something Mr Aitken had said, she was pointing to Jackson. Now she was pointing at Southwick and hurrying - to Martin it seemed like dancing - over to embrace the old man. Embrace be damned, she had just given him a smacking kiss on the cheek. He was laughing and now they were dancing a jig - and from aloft the ship's company were cheering and singing!
Martin glanced round nervously: such behaviour with Admiral the Earl of Blazey on board, quite apart from the Countess of Blazey, could get Mr Ramage into trouble ... Then he saw them both laughing, obviously delighted, and remembered that the Marchesa lived with them, was young Paolo's aunt, and that she and Mr Ramage were in love.
Now he understood why seamen like Jackson, Stafford and Rossi talked so much about her: she had more life and high spirits in her little finger than any woman William Martin had previously seen had in her whole body. Jackson and another seaman with Mr Ramage had saved her life. That was some years ago now, but Martin remembered he had seen the spot where it had happened: someone had pointed it out during the attack on Port Ercole with the bomb ketches. He felt a sudden jealousy: to have helped rescue such a lady, and to know her so that when she kissed your cheek the whole ship's company spontaneously cheered.
Five minutes later, as she was formally introduced to the Calypso's officers, 'Blower' Martin was tongue-tied, able only to stare and then to bow, and it was Paolo who stepped forward and described how they had been in action together 'tante volte', which Martin guessed must mean several times, and how Lieutenant Martin had commanded the bomb ketch. The Marchesa knew all about it, and made him describe how they had aimed the mortars.