Ramage & The Drum Beat

by Pope, Dudley

  The Marchesa di Volterra stood under the skylight of the captain’s cabin, which was hers for the voyage, twisting the looking glass in her hand first one way and then the other to make sure no stray locks of hair had escaped from the chignon that she had spent the last ten minutes trying to tie. Her arms ached. She was hot, and for the first time since the Royal Navy, in the shape of Ramage, had rescued her and her cousin from the mainland as they fled before Bonaparte’s cavalry, she wished herself back in her palace at Volterra, where her merest frown would bring a dozen maids running. For the first time in her seventeen years of life (nearly eighteen, she remembered proudly) she really wanted to make herself look beautiful to please a particular man, and she was having to do it in a tiny cabin without a maid, a wardrobe, or jewellery. How did Nicholas ever manage to live in such a cabin? She was much smaller – his chin rested on her head when she stood close – yet the ceiling, or whatever Nicholas called it, was so low that even now she had to stoop to hold the looking glass high enough. Impatiently she flung the glass into the swinging cot and sat down in the single chair in front of the desk which served as a dressing table. Accidenti! What was the use? If only her hair was blonde! Everyone had black hair, and she wanted to look different. Did he like high cheekbones? Hers were much too high. And the mouth – hers was too big and she wished the lips were thinner. And her eyes were too large and brown when she preferred blue or grey-green, like a cat’s. And why was her nose small and slightly hooked, when she wanted a straight one? And her complexion was shaming – the sun had tanned it gold so that she looked like a peasant girl instead of the woman who ruled a city and a kingdom (even if the kingdom was small the city was big). She ruled twenty thousand people, she thought bitterly, and not one of them was here now to help her dress her hair – except her cousin, Antonio, and he’d only laugh and tease.

  Well, Antonio could laugh, but he must help. When she called, a heavily built man with a short, squarely trimmed black beard came into the cabin, shoulders bunched to avoid bumping his head on the low beams.

  ‘Well, well! And whose garden party is my beautiful cousin gracing with her presence today?’

  ‘There’s only one, my dear Antonio. Hasn’t Lieutenant Ramage invited the elegant Count Pitti? Everyone will be there – Nicholas makes them put on their best clothes and sing hymns. Perhaps he’ll flog some of them with a cat of seven tails just to amuse you.’

  ‘Cat o’ nine tails,’ Count Pitti corrected in English.

  ‘Nine then. Antonio, help me tidy my hair.’

  ‘It doesn’t need it. You’re beautiful and you know it and if you want compliments…’

  ‘Will you help me tidy my hair?’

  ‘You love him very deeply, don’t you?’

  The question was sudden and unexpected but she neither blushed nor glanced away, Instead she looked directly at him, and said with awe, almost fear, in her voice, ‘I didn’t know it was possible. I was a child before I met him; he’s made me feel a woman. And he – he’s a man, Antonio; everything a man should be. I know only one other man like him.’

  ‘And he is?’

  ‘You, my dear cousin. One day a woman will feel for you as I do for him.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said soberly, ‘though I won’t deserve it. But you have known him – three weeks, a month?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘No – but never forget you met him in romantic circumstances. It’s the stuff of story books – the dashing young naval officer sweeping in from the sea to rescue the beautiful Marchesa from beneath the feet of Napoleon’s cavalry and…’

  ‘I know. I’ve thought all about that. But I’ve also seen him dirty and stinking and exhausted, seen him fighting Napoleon’s cavalrymen with only a knife, seen him unjustly court-martialled on a trumped-up charge of cowardice… Is this the stuff of story books as well?’

  Pitti shook his head. ‘No, but when you’re parted? When he’s at sea for months, perhaps years, what then? You’ve never had patience, Gianna. Since you inherited Volterra you’ve been able to have everything you wanted – at once.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she admitted. ‘But they were material things: jewels, gay balls, excitement. I think perhaps I wanted all that so urgently because I hadn’t met him. When you’ve no one to love, to confide in – to live for, in fact – you get bored; you need entertaining. When there’s no sun, you need many candles everywhere.’

  ‘Tell me more about this English chandelier!’

  Even as she smiled she realized she knew very little about him in the conventional sense; but in the past month when the two of them had together faced so much danger, adventure, death and intrigue she’d learned things about him that in normal times a woman might live with a man a lifetime without discovering. And apart from the times of immediate danger she’d seen him in the secret agony of making decisions on which his men’s lives depended. She’d seen what probably none of his men ever saw, that command was desperately lonely, particularly for someone as young and sensitive as Nicholas. He’d been given command at an early age and it hadn’t yet (nor, she knew, would it ever) brutalized him so he became callous about his men.

  ‘He was twenty-one years old a few weeks ago and he’s been at sea since he was thirteen; the scar on his forehead is a sword wound from when he was boarding a French frigate last year, and when he’s nervous or under a strain he rubs it and blinks and has trouble pronouncing the letter “r”. I don’t really know why he never uses his title – as an earl’s son he has one, and the Navy uses it in official letters – but I think it makes social difficulties with superior officers if he is called “Lord”. His parents knew mine, Oh, Antonio, I sound like a catalogue. I can’t describe him!’

  ‘Wasn’t there some trouble about his father?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps you can remember the famous trial of Admiral the Earl of Blazey? I was too young. No? Well, anyway, that was Nicholas’ father. The French sailed a large fleet to the West Indies and the Earl was sent out much too late with a tiny British fleet. He fought them bravely but he didn’t win; nor did the French. Then the English people, who didn’t know how few ships the Earl had – and they were old and decrepit anyway – made a terrible fuss and the Government got frightened. Like all Governments it wouldn’t admit its mistake, so it court-martialled the Earl because he didn’t capture all the French ships.’

  ‘And he was found guilty?’

  ‘Yes – he had to be, to save the Ministers. He was the scapegoat. If he’d been found innocent then obviously the Government was guilty. Apparently the judges in a naval court martial are naval officers, and since many of them are mixed up in politics it was easy for the, Government – the Admiralty, anyway, which is the same thing – to choose officers supporting its own party for the court martial, Commodore Nelson told me it often happens. He says politics are the curse of the Navy!’

  ‘So the Earl must still have many enemies in the Navy, and this affects Nicholas. A sort of vendetta…’

  ‘Yes, very much so. That horrible man who had Nicholas court-martialled at Bastia after he had rescued me was the protégé of one of them, but luckily Commodore Nelson knew all about that.’

  ‘If the Earl still has enemies among the admirals, Nicholas will always be in danger,’ reflected Antonio. ‘You can always put someone in the wrong if you want to… Nicholas realizes that?’

  ‘Yes I’m sure he does, though he’s never mentioned it to me. But I often sensed, when he was making some important decision, that – well, he knew that even if there were only two alternatives, his father’s enemies would say whichever he chose was the wrong one. It never affected his decisions – just that I felt there was always something lurking in the shadows, threatening him. As if he knew he had the Evil Eye on him…’

  ‘You’ve discovered a lot about Nicholas in a month!’

  ‘Jackson told me some things, and so did the Commodore.’

  ‘This seaman Jackson – isn’t he an American?’

/>   ‘Yes – a strange man. No one knows much about him, but he has a great respect for Nicholas – even though he’s twice his age. It’s curious – when they’re in danger they seem to be able to read each other’s thoughts.’

  ‘Well, he saved my life,’ said Antonio, ‘and that’s enough for me!’

  Just then a shrill warbling note of a bosun’s call echoed through the ship, followed by shouted orders. ‘Time for church,’ Antonio grinned. ‘Your Nicholas makes a good priest!’

  Southwick was glad the inspection and Divine Service was over, and watching a handful of men dancing on the fo’c’sle as John Smith the Second perched on the barrel of the windlass scratching at his fiddle, he was thankful the Kathleen had such a good ship’s company. Out of the sixty-three men on board he’d like to change only a couple, whereas most ships he’d previously served in had only a couple of really good men out of five score.

  But trust Mr Ramage to spot something, he thought ruefully. Every captain he’d ever served under looked for brick-dust, sand, dirty coppers or a bit of mildewed biscuit in a bread barge. But not Mr Ramage. Out of nearly two hundred round shot in the racks beside the carronades he’d spotted two that had sufficient rust scale under the black paint to make them no longer completely spherical, so that they might stick in the barrel while being loaded and also wouldn’t fly true. The man who noticed that without passing each one through a shot gauge could see through a four-inch plank. Yet Southwick readily admitted, although he was only a youngster, Mr Ramage was the first captain he’d ever served under who was more concerned with the way a ship could fight than the way it could be scrubbed and polished, and that was a dam’ good thing since there was a war on. And in twenty-six years at sea he never thought he’d ever daily see men actually enjoying three solid hours of gun drill in the hot sun of the forenoon followed by two more before hammocks were piped down. Still, a lot of it was due to the Marchesa. Southwick didn’t know whether it was her idea or Mr Ramage’s, but having her standing there with Mr Ramage’s watch in her hand timing them certainly kept the men on their toes. And it rounded off the day nicely when she awarded the prize tots of Mr Ramage’s brandy to the crew of the gun that had been first to report ‘Ready to Fire!’ the most times.

  But Southwick was certain the Kathleen was a happy and efficient ship simply because, young as he was, every man on board trusted Mr Ramage as their captain. His twenty-six years at sea had taught the Master that that was the only thing that mattered. Certainly, under the regulations they had to salute the captain and call him ‘Sir’; but they’d have done so anyway. Although he was quick enough to rub ’em down for slack sail-handling or slowness in running out the guns, the ship’s company knew Mr Ramage could do most things better than they and he had a happy knack of proving it when necessary with a matter-of-fact smile on his face, so that the men, far from being resentful, took it as, well, a sort of challenge.

  Suddenly remembering he was still holding his quadrant, Southwick picked up the slate and went down to his cabin to work out the noon sight he had just taken. Mr Ramage would soon be calling for the day’s reckoning, since at sea the new day began at noon.

  Ramage felt like singing. He’d watched a tiny wind shadow dancing over the sea to the north; then more appeared and closed with the Kathleen. Within a minute or two he had the men cheering as they heaved down on the halyards, hoisting the great mainsail, then the largest of the cutter’s jibs and foresails. A few moments later the maintopsail was set, followed by the jib topsail, and while the men afted the sheets under Southwick’s orders, Ramage looked at his watch and then at the luffs of the sails.

  When the Master saw the last sail trimmed properly, he bawled ‘Belay that’ to the sheetmen and swung round to Ramage, an inquiring look on his face. Ramage, noticing the men had also stopped to look at him, put his watch back in his pocket with deliberate slowness and shook his head.

  Southwick looked crestfallen and he sensed the men’s genuine disappointment so that he was slightly ashamed of his deception and called with a grin, ‘All right, all right, you’ve just beaten the record – by half a minute!’

  Southwick slapped his knee with delight – he’d obviously been thinking of a few seconds – and the men were laughing as the Master dismissed them. Southwick and all except those on watch went below. Ramage, disappointed Gianna did not stay on deck now the Kathleen was under way once again, decided against sending for her to enjoy the breeze with him because she might be sleeping. Then for no apparent reason he suddenly felt uneasy, and he remembered how his mother sometimes shivered and said, ‘Someone’s walking over my grave!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  When he was sober, John Smith the Second looked sly and foxy, an impression heightened by his small, wiry body; but once he had sunk his tot of rum – and any others he’d won by gambling – his features softened and the shifty eyes settled down so his drink-mottled face had the blissful look of a poacher after a successful night’s raid on the squire’s game preserves. Rated in the muster book as an able seaman, and listed as ‘the Second’ to distinguish him from another seaman of the same name, Smith was also the Kathleen’s band. He had a fiddle which, as long as he was not sober, he enjoyed playing, and Sunday was his busy day. He played hymns for the service in the forenoon, and in the afternoon sat on the barrel of the windlass scraping away as the men danced.

  Ramage had been on watch for half an hour and although he valued Smith both as a seaman and a means of keeping the men happy, the sawing of the fiddle was an outrage to a musical ear; so much so that Ramage felt he could cheerfully shoot the fiddle out of John Smith the Second’s nimble fingers.

  Suddenly he remembered the case of duelling pistols which the Viceroy of Corsica, Sir Gilbert Elliot, an old friend of his family, had sent on board at Bastia as a present when he heard Ramage had been given his first command. He had not yet had time to try them out, and now was a good opportunity. He passed the word and a few moments later Jackson had the brass-edged mahogany case open on the cabin skylight, wiping off the protective film of oil from both the pistols. They were a beautiful matched pair made by Joseph Manton, whose lion and unicorn label was stuck inside the lid of the case. Each gun had a long hexagonal barrel and a rich-grained walnut stock.

  Ramage picked up one of them. It was perfectly balanced. The stock fitted into his palm as though the pistol was a natural extension of his arm; his index finger curled round the trigger as if the gun had been specially made for his hand. And the mahogany case was fitted with a mould for casting shot, a stamp for cutting out wads, flasks of powder and a box of extra flints. The set was, Ramage thought, a credit to the gun maker of Hanover Square, and he richly deserved the proud announcement on the label, ‘Gun Maker to His Majesty’.

  In the meantime Jackson had loaded the other pistol.

  ‘It’s a lovely piece, sir,’ he said, handing it to Ramage. ‘I’ll go down and get some bits of wood from the carpenter’s mate to use as targets.’

  ‘And pass the word to ignore the sound of shots!’ Ramage said.

  A few minutes later Jackson was back with a bundle of wood under his arm. Ramage, who had loaded the second pistol, climbed up on to the breech of the aftermost carronade, balancing himself against the roll of the ship. He sighted with the pistol in his right hand, then tried the left.

  ‘Right, Jackson, throw over the largest piece!’

  The wood arched up into the air and splashed into the sea several yards off and began drawing away as the ship sailed on.

  Ramage had cocked the pistol and brought up his right arm straight from his side, sighted along the flat top of the barrel, and squeezed the trigger. A tiny plume of water, like a feather, jumped up two yards beyond the piece of wood.

  ‘All right for traverse but too much elevation sir!’ Jackson called.

  Almost at once Ramage fired the second pistol with his left hand. The wood jumped and the shot whined off in ricochet.

  ‘Phew,’ commented Jackson.
‘Left-handed, too!’

  Ramage grinned. It had been a lucky shot because usually he had a tendency to pull a pistol to the left when firing with his left hand.

  He gave both pistols back to Jackson to re-load and as he jumped down from the carronade he saw Gianna coming up the companionway.

  ‘Accidente!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are the enemy in sight?’

  ‘Target practice – I’m trying out the pistols Sir Gilbert gave me.’

  Southwick came up, and then Antonio joined them and watched Jackson as he rammed the shot home.

  ‘Duelling pistols, Nico? Surely they’re rather long in the barrel for use in a ship?’

  ‘Yes – but a pleasant change. Our Sea Service models are so heavy on the trigger you need to jam the muzzle in a man’s stomach to be sure of hitting him. But these – just a touch on the trigger.’

  Gianna took the pistol Jackson had loaded.

  ‘Careful,’ Ramage warned.

  She looked at him scornfully, lifted her skirts and scrambled on to the carronade.

  ‘Look, you see that bit of weed? I’ll hit it! You’ll wager me?’

  ‘One cestesimo.’

  ‘More. Two – hurry!’

  Without waiting for a reply she cocked the pistol and fired. The shot sent up a tiny spurt of water several feet beyond the piece of floating weed.

  ‘The ship moved!’

  ‘You didn’t allow for the roll!’