by Dudley Pope
“Steady on,” Ramage interrupted mildly, “the French haven’t caught me yet and you’re a long way from your twentieth birthday!”
“Now you mock me,” she snapped. “If it wasn’t for your father I’d forget all about you.”
“My father’s already married.”
“Oh, cretino!” she pummelled him with her fists, her eyes blazing with anger, and he gripped her wrists and twisted her arms until she was facing him, and then he kissed her.
“Stop shaking with indignation,” he said, “it makes our teeth click together.”
She jerked away from him. “I don’t love you. I inform you officially.” She frowned, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“I’ll make a note of it in the log,” he said. “Anyway, what happened after Lord ‘Spencair’ wrote?”
“I told your parents that if the Act was not passed, I would go to Lisbon with the money and pay for the ship myself, and—”
“But—”
“But nothing: the law says no British subject can pay money to a Frenchman. It doesn’t say anything about foreigners paying. Anyway,” she said arrogantly, “it would be my own money, and am I not the Marchesa di Volterra?”
He nodded numbly, overwhelmed by both her logic and her generosity. “What … what did Father say?”
“At first he was very angry—he has a worse temper than you,” she said reproachfully. “Then your mother said it was a silly law anyway because obviously it was supposed to stop traitors paying spies and things like that, but Parliament was so stupid it didn’t word it properly. That made your father change his mind. He finally agreed with her that it was the intention of the law, not the wording, that should concern us.”
“And then?”
“Well, I made him angry again because I said I didn’t care about intention, wording or law; that I was going to stop you being put in a French prison.”
“What did he do?”
“At that moment? Well, I walked out and your mother got angry with him, but by the time I came back he’d found out when the next packet sailed for Lisbon and was arranging a guard for me.”
“Guard?” Ramage exclaimed.
“Yes—one of the men on the estate. He came out as a passenger in the Princess Louise with me.”
“Where is he now?”
Gianna shrugged her shoulders. “On board the ship. I do not need him in Lisbon—it was in case of trouble on board the packet.”
Ramage froze for a moment. “But the Princess Louise sails at noon. It’s”—he pulled out his watch—”hell, it’s past noon! There’s not another packet for two weeks!”
“Why are you worrying? The guard went back in the packet. He stayed on board.”
“But I’m sailing tomorrow. You’ll be on your own. Look, you’d better stay on here at the Embassy.”
She looked puzzled. “But we both sail tomorrow. I come with you. The packet has plenty of room for passengers. A whole week with you,” she said excitedly. “It’ll be like the old days in the Mediterranean!”
“You can’t,” he said firmly. “I’m sorry. It would be wonderful, but—”
“Why not?” she interrupted angrily.
“Because the Arabella is no longer a packet. Once the French have handed her over, she comes under Admiralty orders and I’m in command.”
“Alora, then all is well.”
“It’s not; far from it. The ship is in a dangerous state—most of the wood in the stern is rotten. She’s not safe.”
“Then you mustn’t sail with her,” Gianna said promptly. “Tell the Admiralty and wait for the next packet.”
“But I can’t wait that long! Anyway, I have my orders. Besides, half the crew are likely to mutiny.”
“Mutiny?” She almost screamed the word. “Supposing they seize the ship and sail to France? You’ll be a prisoner—Madonna! After all the trouble so far!”
“Don’t worry,” he said comfortingly. “I have Southwick and Jackson with me. And Stafford and Rossi—you remember them. We can hold down a mutiny.”
“Well, if there’s nothing to worry about, then I can come with you.”
“But a King’s ship can’t carry passengers,” he said lamely, and then remembered the phrase in his orders, written in specially by Nepean to cover people like Yorke who were passengers from Jamaica.
She sensed he was only making excuses and stood up. “I’m going to see Mr Frere. I shall tell him to order you to take me. Ah—you didn’t know I knew about that, did you. But when he decided to tell that frigate to get ready, he explained to me that an ambassador can give orders to the Captain of a ship. He says the task of the Navy and the Army is to carry out the policies of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Is he correct, Lieutenant?”
He was, and Ramage knew he would be wise to agree now, rather than force an issue she was bound to win.
“Darling—it will be dangerous.”
She shrugged and pointed to her left shoulder. “The French shot me once—remember?”
“Of course I remember. I’ll never forget the night in that damned boat. I thought you were going to die.”
“Did you?” She sounded surprised. “Oh, Nico, you shouldn’t have worried. Anyway, you hadn’t fallen in love with me then,” she said matter-of-factly.
“How do you know? I nearly went crazy. Why I—”
“When did you fall in love with me, then?” she asked curiously. “It was still dark. You saw me for the first time—oh, about midnight, and I was shot soon after.”
“What does it matter?” Ramage snapped, thoroughly exasperated.
“Oh! You say you love me and grumble because you worried about me one night—one night,” she repeated, her voice rising, “when I worry about you every night of the year. How can you love me when you can’t even remember when it happened?”
“I’ll look it up in the ship’s log,” Ramage said angrily. “Now, get packed and let’s go on board, otherwise you can wait for the next packet.”
“Ha, listen to him,” she said furiously. “You bully—oh, to think I wanted to rescue you! I wish they hadn’t passed the Act. I’d have stayed in England and you’d have rotted in a French prison for years and years—”
He put his arms round her and kissed her. “And you’d have slowly turned into an old walnut …”
The two burly boatmen groaned and swore as they lowered Gianna’s trunk so that it rested on the centre thwarts. “You told me you had very little luggage,” Ramage said mildly. “I don’t think these two fellows would believe you.”
“It’s only one trunk,” Gianna protested crossly. “I’d have had more if your mother hadn’t interfered.”
Knowing that his mother did not believe in travelling with the minimum of luggage, Ramage shuddered at the thought of what Gianna had intended to bring.
Finally the trunk was lashed down and the boatmen looked at each other in bewilderment. There was now little room left for two passengers in the small boat, which made up with brightly coloured paintwork what it now lacked in stability.
Ramage pointed to the forward thwart, and when the men protested that Gianna would get splashed by spray he held up his boat-cloak.
Five minutes later, with the two of them wrapped in the cloak, the lugsail hoisted and drawing, and the two men aft, one handling the sheet and the other at the tiller, the boat was heading for the Arabella.
The French mate is going to be puzzled, Ramage thought: instead of Kerguelen and the two Britons returning, there’s only one Briton with a strange lady and an enormous trunk …
As the boat tacked for the last board that would bring her down to the Arabella, Ramage noticed that the packet’s boat was secured astern by its painter. Perhaps Kerguelen had sent it back, with orders to the crew to return later when he and Yorke had sampled enough of what Lisbon had to offer.
Ramage pictured Southwick’s face when he looked down into the boat … The Master’s attitude towards Gianna was a curious mixture of awe,
respect and affection: Ramage had the feeling the old man had never quite reconciled the ruler of Volterra with the tomboy of the voyage from Corsica to Gibraltar, the occasionally cold and imperious Marchesa with the laughing girl he hoped his Captain would marry. The attitude of Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and the other Tritons who had helped rescue her a couple of years ago was both simple and straightforward: they worshipped her. Every letter Ramage had ever received from her always mentioned their names, and when he told them that the Marchesa was inquiring about them their delight was both spontaneous and genuine.
The privateersmen weren’t keeping a very good lookout: not a man in sight on deck. Well, once the boatmen hooked on he would be able to rouse out a couple of seamen to help with the trunk.
The Arabella was a pretty ship: nice sheer, graceful yet powerful. Sad to think of all that rot aft, hidden under the paint. I hope that damned rudder holds, he thought to himself …
Forty yards to go. He turned to Gianna and grinned. “Soon be home!” She squeezed his hand and smoothed her hair.
Suddenly there was a deep bellow: “What ship?”
“Triton!” A startled Ramage shouted in an automatic answer to the time-honoured challenge from a King’s ship; a reply indicating the Captain was in the boat. He realized his mistake just as Gianna nudged him and as he shouted, “Belay that—Lady Arabella!” a couple of dozen faces suddenly appeared along the bulwark: grinning and freshly shaven faces topped by hats carefully squared and hair neatly combed: the faces of Tritons—and Frenchmen. And Southwick, Kerguelen, Yorke, Bowen and Wilson looking down at them from the gangway …
As he helped Gianna on board, whispering that Yorke and Kerguelen must have hurried back to prepare a surprise, a bosun’s call trilled and a moment later Kerguelen stepped forward, sweeping off his hat in a graceful bow: “M’selle—welcome on board the Lady Arabella!”
Ramage introduced the Frenchman, and then Yorke, Bowen, Much and Wilson, and Gianna was very much the cool Marchesa. When she saw there were no more strangers to meet she turned to Southwick and as the Master stood awkwardly, obviously uncertain whether or not to salute, she stepped up to him, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
The privateersmen, delighted onlookers, cheered heartily and a moment later the Tritons joined in.
“Mr Souswick,” she said, and Ramage remembered she always had trouble pronouncing the name, “you look five years younger!”
“Thrive on trouble, ma’am, and I want to say how glad we are to see you.”
“Because I am more trouble, eh, Mr Souswick?” The Master went red as Gianna laughed, and she cut short his explanation. “I don’t believe a word you say—Nicholas has spent half the morning telling me what a nuisance women are on board a ship.”
She looked round. “Jackson! Stafford! And you Rossi! Sta bene? Piu grasso—you eat too well in the Royal Navy!”
Within a minute or two Gianna’s tiny figure was hidden by a throng of former Tritons, all eager to add their quota to the welcome she received, and as Ramage turned to speak to Kerguelen he was startled to see three burly Frenchmen hoisting the trunk on board, cheerfully cursing and speculating in their broad Breton accents how many yards of smuggled French lace had gone into making the gowns inside.
Kerguelen slapped him on the shoulder. “You never expected to see a crowd of French cut-throats acting as Cupid’s assistants, eh?”
“And you never pictured yourself as Cupid,” Ramage said with a grin, “but thanks. Whose idea was the reception committee?”
Kerguelen shrugged his shoulders. “Yorke and I decided to come back early and have a cabin tidied up ready. I freed all your men, incidentally. Then—”
“How did you know she would be sailing with us?”
“Even an Englishman couldn’t be so unromantic as to let her return in the Princess Louise,” Kerguelen said sarcastically. “Anyway, by the time the cabin was ready, Southwick and that American were so excited they started holystoning the decks, and then my men asked what was going on. When I explained that your—ah, fiancée—was coming on board, they joined in, and as soon as the ship looked tidy they all vanished below, and half an hour later they were shaven, hair tidied and rigged in clean shirts and trousers.”
Kerguelen moved closer and lowered his voice. “All except the original packetsmen. You’ve noticed they’re not on deck?” When Ramage nodded, the Frenchman said, “Keep your eye on them, my friend; I saw more than you give me credit for when we captured this ship …”
With that he went down to his cabin, saying he had to get ready to return to Chamberlain’s house to collect the money.
Ramage saw Yorke, Bowen and Much watching him.
“Haven’t seen you look so happy for months,” Yorke said.
“Wouldn’t you?” Bowen exclaimed. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!”
“All of that,” Much said. “Acts like a real queen,” he added. “Is it true she’s a queen, sir?”
“Not exactly,” Ramage said. “She’s the ruler of Volterra—that’s a small state in Italy. Or she was, until the French invaded. She escaped just in time.”
“Southwick was telling us about that,” Bowen said. “You had a romantic meeting!”
“She was pointing a pistol at him,” Yorke commented for Much’s benefit, remembering Ramage’s reference a few days earlier.
“Nothing would frighten that lass,” Much said emphatically. She finally left the group of Tritons. “Ah, it’s like old times! I hope we have some excitement on the way back!”
“Let me show you your cabin,” Ramage said hurriedly. “Oh, leave the trunk to the French fellows, Jackson; they hoisted it up and I think they’d like to finish the job!”
Gianna’s arrival made the Lady Arabella’s last few hours in Lisbon a bizarre and festive occasion. It began with Yorke’s suggestion that they invite Kerguelen to dinner, whereupon Gianna demanded that Rossi be allowed to help her prepare the meal. While those two were busy in the galley, Kerguelen returned from his visit to Chamberlain, but his privateersmen seemed far more interested in the barrels he brought with him than the canvas bag which obviously held the money. The Frenchman explained that he had brought some wine for his men to celebrate with, and a case of champagne as a present for Ramage.
By midnight, when the Arabella was officially handed over, former Tritons and privateersmen were toasting each other with mugs of wine and singing raucous songs on the foredeck while Ramage and Kerguelen toasted each other with champagne on the quarterdeck, watched by Gianna, Yorke, Southwick, Bowen, Wilson and Much.
“A speech, a speech!” Wilson insisted drunkenly. “Got to have a speech!”
“Let’s hear the Marchesa,” Yorke said enthusiastically. “I’m so tipsy I can see three of her, an’ I don’t know which one’s the loveliest!”
Kerguelen took out his watch and held it close to the lantern. “Two minutes past midnight,” he said solemnly, “and the Lady Arabella begins a new life. What more appropriate than a few words from you, Mademoiselle?”
Gianna nodded and put her glass on the binnacle. “Yes, I will make a speech. The last time I saw a Frenchman, he shot me in the shoulder. I had hoped never to see another one until long after this hateful war ends. But I was curious to meet the Frenchman that Nicholas respected, and pleased to find when I met him that he respected Nicholas. I shall pray,” she lowered her voice and spoke slowly, so that they should not miss the significance of what she was saying, “that you will never meet again until after the war is over …”
Then she looked round and said gaily, “But I am jealous of all you men: you have had Nicholas’s company for so long, while I have been waiting for him in England.”
“You haven’t missed anything, ma’am,” Southwick said unexpectedly. “Very snappish he’s been most of the time, an’ all because he missed you.”
“Well spoken,” Yorke said. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But …”
At t
hat moment they heard the many bells of Lisbon’s churches as they struck midnight.
Kerguelen took out his watch again and looked at it ruefully. “Well, now I can afford to buy a new one!” He stood still for a moment, his stance indicating a change of mood. “Everything is yours, Lieutenant,” he said softly. “Will you all wait a moment?” With that he went below.
Yorke glanced at Ramage, who shrugged his shoulders. There was little Kerguelen could do: most of his men were drunk on the foredeck. The Frenchman returned in a minute or two with three swords under his arm. “A ceremony,” he said, glancing round to make sure Southwick and Captain Wilson were present.
“Lieutenant Ramage—it gives me great pleasure to return your sword!”
With a flourish he extracted Ramage’s and presented it to him. “Mr Southwick—I believe this is yours. And Captain Wilson …”
It was a gracious gesture, and Ramage felt he ought to say something.
“On behalf of your former prisoners, Captain, I want to thank you for being such an amiable captor, and …” Ramage broke off: Kerguelen knew what he was trying to say, and the two men shook hands.
By dawn, with the last of the privateersmen taken on shore, the Arabella’s boat was hoisted up and Ramage, having moved into the captain’s cabin, sent for Much and Southwick to discuss the merits of the various packetsmen before Southwick drew up a quarters, watch and station bill. Ramage’s first surprise was Much’s warning that no trust should be put in his own son, Our Ned.
“No father would like to admit it,” the mate said apologetically, “but though Our Ned’s a smart seaman he’s a bad lad. I’m going to warn him, Mr Ramage, just as soon as you give me the word; but he’s not to be trusted, no more than the bosun, nor any of the Arabella’s men!”
Ramage stared at him. “Any of them?”
“Mebbe one or two, but ignore ‘em. Best rely on the Navy men. Your own men.”
“But I can’t keep the packetsmen prisoners!”
“No, but if ‘twas me, I’d make sure each Navy man was told to keep an eye on a particular packetsman. Just in case.”
Ramage felt his elation at the prospect of commanding the Lady Arabella slowly vanishing like sugar dissolving in warm water. Would anything in his life ever be straightforward? With Stevens out of the way and the packet back in British hands was it asking too much that the voyage home would be free of complications?