by Dudley Pope
“Aha! You saw the packet come in, I trust?”
“Yes,” Ramage said. “Looks as though she could do with a new maintopsail.”
“They will cut the foot so flat, man-o’-war fashion, that it chafes,” Yorke said conversationally. “Means so much patching.”
Kerguelen was quick to join the conversation. “I was surprised how few spare sails the packets carry. Privateers usually have at least one extra suit.”
“They can afford it,” Chamberlain said, hurriedly trying to contribute something and then going red at his tactlessness. “By the way,” he added, making a great effort to sound casual, “I have a letter from the Postmaster-General.”
“Indeed! And how is His Lordship?” Ramage asked politely, and before the Agent could answer, said to Yorke, “Didn’t you have some question for Mr Chamberlain about the origins of fado?”
Yorke shuddered. “I did, but it’s too sunny a morning to discuss such a mournful subject. And Lady Auckland?” he asked Chamberlain. “I trust she is in the best of health?”
“His Lordship does not say,” the Agent said unhappily. “I expect he would if she wasn’t,” he added with little conviction.
Kerguelen thumped his chest. “Ah, but that English winter will soon be here, all the rain and fog and coughs and fevers …”
“Quite,” Chamberlain said. “Gentlemen, if you’d care to sit down …” He gestured to the chairs and unlocked a drawer in his desk with what he clearly hoped was a significant movement.
However, Kerguelen had thoroughly entered into the game that Ramage and Yorke had been playing, and commented to the Agent, with a lewd wink, “You leave your wife in England to brave that atrocious climate, eh, while you have your ‘establishment’ here in Lisbon?”
“Indeed I do not!” The Agent was shocked. “Mrs Chamberlain is here with me!”
“Ah, but things can be arranged more easily in Lisbon,” Kerguelen said knowingly. His voice was amiable and Ramage decided it was his turn to add to the Agent’s discomfort.
“Well now, I’m sure we’re all very pleased to hear about Mrs Chamberlain,” he said, his voice implying reproach that the Agent should waste time discussing his marital affairs when matters of state had to be decided, “but I do think you should tell us what His Lordship has to say.”
Chamberlain’s hands were pressed flat on the desk, the whitened nails revealing the pressure he was exerting in an effort to control himself.
“Certainly, Lieutenant, my apologies!” He reached into the drawer and took out a letter.
“His Lordship says the Act has been passed without a division—without having to put it to a vote,” he explained in an aside to Kerguelen. “He has empowered me to pay the agreed sum, against a properly notarized receipt. A decision has been made concerning the ship after the prize crew has left her.” He gave Ramage an appealing look, as if imploring him not to ask any further questions in front of Kerguelen. “He also says that Lord Spencer’s orders to you are being sent under separate cover. In fact I have them here.”
He took two packets from the drawer and passed them to Ramage. “Perhaps you would care to peruse them while Captain Kerguelen and I discuss the details of the payment?”
Only someone like Chamberlain would use a word like “peruse,” Ramage thought, and took the letters. “I’ll be in the hall.” He left the room knowing Yorke would make sure the Agent made no slip.
Sitting down in the most comfortable chair, Ramage saw that the two packets were numbered and opened the first. Again his instructions were signed by Evan Nepean. After the usual “I am commanded by my Lords Commissioners …” the Secretary went on to mention the passing of the Act and that, although the Post Office agent would be dealing with the payment, he had been instructed to “act in concert” with Ramage concerning the exact time the French prize crew left the ship.
This time should be noted with precision, Nepean emphasized, because from that moment the Lady Arabella would be under Admiralty orders, not Post Office, and Ramage would be in command, his commission being contained in the packet marked “Number 2,” which also contained the private signals and a copy of the Signal Book.
Any passengers on board should be brought home, Nepean continued. The original ship’s company would be under Ramage’s orders, and these instructions constituted authority to waive their Protections. Lord Auckland had sent instructions to the Agent covering this point, and should any difficulties arise, Ramage should apply to the senior British naval officer in Lisbon and show him the orders. Their Lordships were most concerned that Ramage should sail for Plymouth at the first possible opportunity, and forthwith report to them in London.
Ramage found his hands trembling with excitement as he broke the seal on the second packet and read the commission. He had a ship once again! It would be a brief command, and he tried not to read too much into the appointment—he was still smarting under Their Lordships’ “displeasure” of a fortnight earlier. He had been given the command simply because he was available to bring the ship home. No, that could not be entirely true; the senior of the captains commanding the two frigates could have been told to provide a lieutenant. Stop fretting, he told himself and be thankful that, unknown to Their Lordships, he had a dozen Tritons to stiffen up the packetsmen.
He went back into the Agent’s office and found himself sufficiently cheerful to look on Chamberlain with favour, if not affection. Kerguelen, too, looked cheerful: obviously there had been no hitches so far. The Frenchman was sitting close to the desk holding some papers, and Chamberlain was smiling.
“Ah, Lieutenant, the Captain has read the receipt and approved the wording; we’ve agreed on the mode of payment; and the transaction will take place here at four o’clock this afternoon, when I have arranged for a notary to be present. It only remains for you and the Captain to arrange the details of handing over the ship—handing back the ship,” he corrected himself. “It is agreed that any, ah, pillaging will not be the subject of claims on our side, nor will the Captain, nor his agents, heirs or assigns, make any claims relating to any injuries wounds or fatalities—”
“I’m glad to hear all that,” Ramage interrupted grimly. “It would make for some strange litigation! Well, Captain, when do you propose giving us back the Lady Arabella?”
Kerguelen’s brow wrinkled; he was obviously torn between wanting to make sure of receiving the money before handing over the ship, and not wanting to appear distrustful.
Ramage said, “Supposing we settle for midnight? By then all this”—he gestured towards the papers—”will have been completed.”
Kerguelen nodded vigorously, and Chamberlain said, “Very well, gentlemen, I’ll have that written into the receipt.” He rubbed his hands together and looked questioningly at Ramage. “I think that concludes everything—I’ll look forward to seeing M. Kerguelen later.”
Once again Chamberlain offered them the use of his carriage for the rest of the day, and as they were leaving the room the Agent called to Ramage and followed him with a letter in his hand.
“I nearly forgot to give you this,” he said. “One of the passengers in the packet gave it to me yesterday to pass on to you.”
“Thank you,” Ramage said absently, and followed Yorke and Kerguelen to the front door. While the coachman unfolded the steps of the carriage Ramage glanced at the letter. He stared unbelievingly at the handwriting. What had Chamberlain said? One of the passengers had given it to him? He relaxed, disappointed. The passenger was probably acting as a messenger, since the ship arrived last night.
“Anything wrong?” Yorke asked.
“No—just give me a moment to read this.”
He broke the seal and began reading, and slowly the garden and the house and the carriage seem to sway and start to spin, and a moment later Yorke and Kerguelen were holding him.
“I’m all right,” he muttered, “just a shock.” He smiled weakly. “Everyone’s getting shocks today. If you’ll just drop me off at the Emba
ssy—I’ll join you on board later.”
He tucked the letter in his pocket, took several deep breaths and climbed into the carriage. Once the other two men had joined him and the coachman had whipped up the horses, Ramage told them what the letter said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AT THE residence of His Britannic Majesty’s Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of Portugal, the two liveried and bewigged attendants in the hall were obviously expecting Lord Ramage; but equally obviously they were not expecting him to be a naval officer whose uniform had not received the loving care of a steward for many weeks and who was not wearing a sword: part of the regular dress of an officer visiting the Embassy.
When Ramage gave his name both men were too well trained to show surprise, and the elder smiled. “There has been some—er, concern, my Lord; you were expected earlier.”
Ramage nodded and sat down while the younger attendant disappeared along a corridor to announce his arrival.
“His Excellency has been inquiring every half an hour, sir, to see if you had arrived.”
Ramage nodded. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind to allow for small talk, though it was reassuring that Mr Hookham Frere was a conscientious Ambassador.
Damn this waiting: it was all he had done since leaving Jamaica. Waiting for weeks for the sight of a privateer; waiting to see if Kerguelen would agree to ransom the Arabella; waiting to see if the Government would agree to paying. Now, just when the ransom was about to be paid and all the waiting seemed to be over, here he was sitting in the hall of the Embassy, once again waiting.
He was too jumpy to sit still but, not wanting to fidget in front of the attendant—who had more than an inkling of why he was here—he took the letter from his pocket, unfolded it, smoothed the paper, and read it again. There were few words, carefully chosen and neatly written. They told him a lot, yet left a lot unsaid. They raised more questions than they answered and left his heart thudding.
“Hmm … sir … if you’ll follow my colleague …”
A startled Ramage glanced up to find the older attendant looking down at him anxiously, as though he had said the same thing several times.
Folding the letter and tucking it back in his pocket, Ramage stood up. “I was daydreaming. Thank you.” The attendant smiled understandingly and bowed.
Ramage found his heels jarred unpleasantly on the hard, polished mosaic of the floor: for months he had been used to the forgiving wood of a ship’s deck. The corridors were cool from windows opening on to a central courtyard, but he was hot, his shirt sticking to him. Hot, nervous and puzzled; excited yet apprehensive. The story of my life for the past few weeks, he thought sourly.
He followed the attendant up a wide staircase and along another corridor. Suddenly the man stopped, knocked gently on a door and entered.
“The Lord Ramage,” he announced quietly, and stepped aside to let Ramage pass.
It was a large, high-ceilinged room with pale blue walls on which hung portraits in heavy gilded frames. Several walnut chairs with caned seats and backs, and a long day-bed. Two bookcases and a matching secretaire. Thick rugs on the mosaic floor and the curtains of heavy blue velvet drawn back to let the sunlight stream in.
She was standing by one of the windows, a tiny motionless figure watching him uncertainly with large brown eyes, hand now reaching up nervously to brush back a stray strand of hair that seemed as blue-black as a raven’s wing. The door clicked shut and she ran towards him without a word. Her kiss spun back the clock: the past year vanished and he had no sense of time or space—just Gianna in his arms, a dream suddenly become improbable reality in an upstairs room in a British Embassy.
“You were so long,” she finally whispered, “we were afraid of treachery …”
“The Post Office Agent gave me your letter only a few minutes ago.”
“Mr Frere—he was worried in case the French took the money and killed you: he is writing orders for one of the frigates to—oh Nico!” She clung to him, half laughing, half weeping. “That fool of an Agent said he would give you my letter at once.”
“Well, I’m here,” Ramage said lightly, trying to kiss away the tears, “and so are you. But how—I mean why …” He broke off as she kissed him again.
“I wanted to see you,” she said. “So I went on board the packet at Falmouth and here I am. You”—she looked at him, suddenly alarmed—”you aren’t angry with me?”
Ramage shook his head. “Of course not! But we sail for England tomorrow night.” Suddenly he recalled her reference to the Ambassador. “What did you say Mr Frere was doing?”
“Oh, telling one of the frigates to rescue you all, or some such thing.”
Ramage recognized the imperious ruler of the little state of Volterra: the wilful young Marchesa forever hiding behind the golden-skinned Gianna.
“Quick,” Ramage snapped, “I must see him at once! My God! This could wreck everything.”
“In a moment, Nico,” she protested.
“Come on,” he said hurriedly, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the door. “My men could get killed because of this!”
The Ambassador had been as affable as he was efficient. By the time Ramage and Gianna had arrived in his office one messenger had already been despatched with orders to the frigate Captain cancelling his earlier instructions, a second messenger was on his way to the Post Office Agent demanding to know why the Ambassador had not been informed immediately the ransom arrangements had been concluded. And Frere had commented sourly that the Agent could be thankful the attendant in the Embassy hall had reported Ramage’s arrival.
After politely refusing Frere’s invitation to stay at the Embassy for a few days or, failing that dine with him, Ramage had explained that he planned to sail for England with the Arabella in a few hours, and there was much to be done before then. Frere had nodded sympathetically and shot a questioning glance at Gianna.
Much to Ramage’s surprise she had formally thanked Frere for his hospitality and told him she would be leaving the Embassy within the hour. Ramage had been about to suggest she would be more comfortable at the Embassy than waiting in a hotel for the next Falmouth packet to sail in ten days or so, but he decided against it. Gianna must have her reasons.
They walked back to the first-floor room. Gianna chattered cheerfully, giving him fond messages from his father and mother. She was so excited she did not notice Ramage’s silence. Why, he wondered, isn’t she going to stay here? He did not like the idea of her staying in one of the hotels without a chaperone. Without a guard, for that matter: the French had made one desperate attempt to capture her in Italy, and the moment they discovered she was alone in Lisbon they might try to kidnap her.
Ramage shut the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit down for a moment; I’ve some questions!”
“They can wait,” she pouted. “So serioso, Nico! I came all this way … Did you forget me in the West Indies? Don’t you love—”
“I love you!” he said almost savagely. “That’s why I’m worried. Love and war don’t mix!”
“If that Bonaparte hadn’t driven me out of Volterra, you’d never have met me,” she reminded him. “So you’re wrong, caro mio …”
“Accidente! Tell me, what made you take the packet from Falmouth?”
“Nico! Shall I say I have a lover waiting in Lisbon, and I thought I’d see you at the same time?”
That smile, Ramage thought to himself; and that body, and as always he remembered Ghiberti’s beautiful carving of “The Creation of Eve” on the east door of the Baptistry in Florence. Eve’s bold and slim body with the small, jutting breasts; the small, finely chiselled face (Gianna’s was fuller, more sensuous). He glanced at the body hidden by the white dress: the flat belly and rounded thighs, the long, slim legs.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said.
“Indeed you don’t,” he said, flushing.
“I do!” she said furiously. “You are thinking this
Gianna is a nuisance, and why didn’t she stay at St Kew, out of the way, and—and—”
Ramage stood helplessly as she searched for words: they’d been together ten minutes and were already quarrelling. Why the devil couldn’t she understand what he meant?
“Listen,” he said, “let’s get it over with—”
“There you are! You don’t love me!”
“No—oh darling—”
“So you don’t love me, you just said so!”
“No—I mean I was saying ‘No’ because you said that I said I …”
They both burst out laughing. She stood up, pushed him to a chair, and as soon as he sat she curled up on the floor at his feet, her head resting on his knee.
“Ask all the questions you want, sir!”
“Very well, signorina: tell me how you got here. From the beginning. From breakfast the day you had the idea!”
“Not breakfast,” she said promptly, “Your father always complains I don’t eat enough breakfast. That porridge—ough! I’d get fat like a fishwife. Well, Lord Spencair wrote—”
“Spencer,” he corrected.
She sniffed. “—’Spencair,’ then. He wrote to your father describing all the trouble out here, and a silly new Act of Parliament they had to pass. Your father laughed,” she added as an afterthought. “He thought it very funny that you were the cause of a special Act of Parliament. He made me cross.”
“Why? I hadn’t thought of it like that, but it is amusing.”
“Amusing? But supposing those cretins in Parliament hadn’t passed it? What then, eh?”
Ramage laughed: the “eh?” and the upraised palms was so typically Italian.
“You laugh,” she protested, “but if you get put in a French prison for years it is me—it is I,” she corrected herself, “who has to wait at home and grow old and wrinkled and when you come back I am too ugly for you and you—oh, don’t think a quick kiss on the head will silence me,” she said furiously. “A shrivelled old walnut, that’s how I’ll look; all my youth wasted waiting for you and you are faithless—”