by Dudley Pope
“For Heaven’s sake call him Nicholas. It’s embarrassing when you are so formal with my best friend!”
“But I’ve only just met him,” she protested. “He’s not my best friend!”
“If anything happened to me, you’d find he was,” Yorke said quietly.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, “he’s good company, so why not stay alive and let’s all be friends. Now, who else are we inviting – that delightful Mr Southwick, for one.”
“And the nephew – Paolo Orsini. He is a nice lad and I know Nicholas is very fond of him.”
“He speaks excellent English. Who is he exactly? Is he really related to Captain Ramage – to Nicholas?”
“Dear me, that’s a bit of a long story. Once upon a time,” he said, dropping his voice as though beginning a fairy story, “there was a handsome young lieutenant in the Royal Navy who landed from an open boat on the coast of Tuscany and rescued a beautiful young marchesa from under the very feet of Bonaparte’s cavalry.”
Alexis nodded. “That sounds a very romantic story – but I’m sure it doesn’t finish there, does it? All proper fairy stories have a happy ending.”
“We don’t know yet if this one has: it’s still happening. Anyway, Nicholas rescued her with some of his men, fellows like Jackson and Stafford, who came on board the other day with the lieutenant who brought a message.”
“Then what happened? Didn’t I hear that she came back to England? I seem to remember her family were old friends of the Ramages – or perhaps her mother was.”
“Yes, her mother. The Marchesa is the ruler of Volterra, so you can see Bonaparte was angry that she slipped through his fingers.”
“Sidney, come on!” Alexis said firmly, “you can’t leave the story there.”
“Well, that’s more or less all there is to it. Everyone thought Gianna and Nicholas would get married – until they realized the religious problems, she being Catholic.”
“Were they in love?” Alexis asked casually.
“Blessed if I know. He didn’t talk about her much when we were together in that Post Office packet – yet she was waiting for him when we arrived in Lisbon.”
“But he eventually married someone else…”
“Yes, very recently.”
“But why is the story of the Marchesa unfinished?”
“Well, it seems she was very anxious to get back to her people in Volterra. It’s not a large country but as soon as Bonaparte signed the Treaty of Amiens she decided to go back.”
“She trusted that dreadful man?”
“Don’t forget that most of the British government did, too. Addington and his half-witted friends thought they had pulled off a great coup, whereas they were falling into Bonaparte’s trap. But with the Marchesa, I think it was a sense of duty.”
“Why didn’t Captain Ramage dissuade her?”
Yorke stifled a smile: the “Nicholas” quickly reverted to a formal “Captain Ramage” when Alexis disapproved of something. “He told me that he and his parents spent days trying to warn her that she might fall into the hands of Bonaparte’s secret police.”
“Yet she went…”
“Yes, and during the Peace the Admiralty sent Nicholas with the Calypso on a long surveying voyage down to Brazil, and there he met his wife.”
“She is Brazilian?”
“No,” Yorke explained patiently. “I’m not sure of the details – damnation, I’ve only had time to speak to him a couple of times. Her ship was captured and he rescued her and her parents.”
“He seems to make a habit of rescuing beautiful damsels in distress.”
“Yes, doesn’t he,” Yorke said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Very lucky for the damsels, wouldn’t you say? Saved the Marchesa from Bonaparte’s assassins, and Sarah (that’s his wife) from a crowd of half-breed pirates.”
“All right, all right,” she said, “I was just being catty. If he wasn’t married I’d sit on a rock and imitate a Siren…”
“But the Sirens lured poor sailors to their doom,” Yorke protested.
“So they did,” Alexis said dryly and with a straight face.
Chapter Six
Shortly after dawn next morning Ramage stood at the forward end of the quarterdeck staring into the greyness, although his thoughts were several thousands of miles away. He heard the traditional hail from the lookouts on deck at six different positions round the ship, “See a grey goose at a mile” – the signal for a couple of men to go aloft, one to the foremasthead and the other to the mainmast, and watch the horizon.
Because Admiral Clinton would be continuing a tight blockade of Brest, and there had been no frigate flying into Barbados with a warning that the French Mediterranean fleet had left Toulon and broken through the Gut into the Atlantic, the Royal Navy for the time being could take one thing for granted: that the chances were that any squadron or fleet of ships they sighted would be friendly, although single ships could be privateers.
Anyway, the Calypso’s eyes could now see a good deal further and almost every minute, as the sun, although still hidden, came up the eastern side of the earth heading for the horizon, the circle of visibility widened. After spending a moonless night unable to see more than a couple of hundred yards (the advantage of a tropical night was the clarity of the stars, which made their own light) the lookouts would soon be able to see to the horizon; from a height of eye of one hundred feet, they could see a distance of ten miles, and a ship beyond that would be visible the moment the tips of her masts began to rise over the far side of the horizon.
The officer of the deck, the small and red-haired third lieutenant Kenton, whose heavily freckled face was continually peeling because of the sun, came up to Ramage and formally reported that the lookouts were aloft.
Kenton waited for the next step in the routine by which one of the King’s ships greeted a new day at sea in wartime. At the moment, every one of the Calypso’s 12-pounder guns and six carronades were ready to fire: the ship was at general quarters, the way every King’s ship met the dawn, at sea, ready to defend herself or attack.
Ramage took one last look round the horizon (almost a formality, since Kenton’s telescope would have spotted even a distant gull perched on a bottle).
“Very well, stand down from general quarters.”
Kenton saluted and then turned away, grasping the japanned speaking trumpet. The son of a half-pay captain, he had inherited all his father’s seagoing characteristics except a stentorian voice. Kenton’s shouted orders needed the help of the speaking trumpet to lob his voice as far as the fo’c’sle.
The men ran in the guns and secured them, covered the flintlocks with aprons, small canvas hoods that tied down securely to protect the flint and mechanism from salt spray, put pistols and muskets back into the deck lockers, slipped the ash staves of the long boarding pikes into the racks round each mast, and then made their way below.
Ramage saw the fourth lieutenant coming up the quarterdeck ladder to relieve Kenton. Young Martin was, with Kenton, the newest of the Calypso’s lieutenants but at twenty-three or four – Ramage could not remember which – Martin had already experienced as much action as most officers saw in a lifetime. The son of the master shipwright at the Chatham Dockyard, Martin was known throughout the ship as “Blower”, an improbable nickname used openly by his fellow officers and discreetly by the rest of the ship’s company and bestowed out of admiration, because Lieutenant William Martin was a superb flautist. He played the wooden tube as though it was a part of his own body: the sheer pleasure that it and music gave him found an echo among the men, who did not care whether he was playing an obscure piece of baroque music or one of the traditional forebitters, used when the men were heaving at the capstan, bringing the anchor home.
Ramage watched the two young lieutenants: Kenton reporting the course and any orders from the captain that remained unexecuted (there was none), plus any unusual occurrences, thus carrying out the captain’s standing orders for handing over the dec
k. The two lieutenants now faced forward, and Ramage guessed they were discussing the convoy. Yes, there were still seventy-two ships, and considering all things they were in reasonable formation. For that Ramage knew he could thank a night of steady southeasterly winds and probably the impression he had made at the convoy conference. But steady winds and past impressions did not last; one should never trust the weather or one’s memory…
A convoy under way with dawn breaking is always an impressive sight, and he continued looking at the ships. The increasing pinkness now spreading over the eastern horizon like a water-colour wash gave the flax of the merchant ships’ sails a warmth which was gently shaded by the curve into which the wind pressed them. Yet it was hard to believe the ships were more than toys being pulled by unseen strings across a village pond: at this distance each seemed much too small to be carrying hundreds of tons of valuable cargo in her hold. For all that, cargoes from the West Indies were smelly rather than exotic, he reminded himself, mostly molasses and hides…Sometimes there were more aromatic spices such as nutmeg, but molasses were a touchy cargo, liable to absorb the smell of anything else stowed near it.
In England it was an hour before noon. In France about the same. What was Sarah doing at this moment? Could she be at home with her parents – in London, or their estate in Norfolk? Or was she a prisoner in France? Bonaparte must be a vile man: never before had women been treated as prisoners of war – at least, among civilized people. Nor, for that matter, were civilians accidentally caught in a country by a sudden war – oh, to hell with it; continually worrying would not tell him whether or not she was safe, although worrying was all he could do. Worry and watch over these damned mules across 3,500 miles of the Western Ocean – more if the winds played tricks and headed them.
“The Emerald, sir,” Martin reported, his voice seeming to come from another planet. “Wheft at the foretopmast – ‘To communicate with the commander of the convoy’.”
“Very well,” Ramage said in the usual response. “Can you see any other sail beyond her? Has the Robuste hoisted any signal?”
If there was an emergency – a privateer in sight or a French man-o’-war – then the Emerald would have hoisted the appropriate signal, and the Robuste would have sighted her as well. No, Sidney Yorke had a routine message to pass – probably, Ramage guessed, the opening round in the social invitations exchanged between the more important merchant ships and escorts. In fact it was usually restricted to the commander and one or two merchant ships whose masters were old friends. Whatever the circumstances, such invitations broke up the monotony of the voyage, both for the officers invited and the men who had to row them over: the hospitality usually included the men, and it was a wise coxswain who kept an eye on the drinking in the fo’c’sle.
“Well, Mr Martin, let’s pass within hail of the Emerald and see what she has to say.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And Mr Martin, let’s do it in the fewest tacks and gybes possible, from this position. Over to her and back here again.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Martin said doubtfully, knowing this was a test.
Just half an hour later, with the rising sun bringing a freshening wind, the Calypso bore away a couple of points and surged close under the Emerald’s quarter, the frigate’s bow butting up sheets of spray as she sliced through the bulky merchantman’s big quarter wave.
Right aft Ramage could see Sidney and Alexis waving: the girl seemed to be jumping up and down with excitement, and even the ship’s master stood at the taffrail, a hand upraised.
Now Sidney had a speaking trumpet to his mouth and Ramage rapidly reversed the one he was grasping, holding the mouthpiece to his ear like a deaf beggar.
“Dinner…today…you…nephew…Southwick…as many officers as you…”
And then, as Ramage waved an acknowledgement, the Calypso was past her and angling across the bow of the ship leading the next column, which had her rail lined with white faces – it must be disturbing to have a frigate steering at you, even though for only a minute or two.
Then the Calypso was out ahead of the convoy and just as Martin was going to bring her about, to tack round the eastern side of the convoy again, Ramage stopped him. “That was well done, but we’ll carry on and do a circumnavigation of the whole convoy. Won’t do any harm to let the mules know we can turn up alongside ’em while they’re busy having breakfast. Hey, what’s the matter with you? You look as though you’re going to faint!”
“I’m all right now, sir; it was just those last few minutes!”
A startled Ramage stared at the youth. “Blower” treated musket shot and cannon balls with contempt. What on earth could make him go white like that? “What ‘last few minutes’?”
“Passing under the stern of the Emerald so close, sir. I know the owner is a friend of yours, and the lady was watching, too.”
Ramage smiled as he shook his head. “Martin, remember this: the fact the owner of that ship is a friend of mine didn’t make her one foot nearer or farther away.”
“No sir,” Martin agreed, “but if we’d hit her the crash would have sounded a thousand times louder.”
Poor “Blower”, he had been determined to bring the Calypso close enough for them to hear the Emerald’s hail, even if he scared himself to death. He did not realize that if there had been a collision the responsibility would have been Ramage’s but, Ramage realized, this was not the time to point that out: “Blower” had handled the ship splendidly under the impression that one mistake would see him court-martialled and dismissed the Service. It was an experience which added to his confidence.
“At least a thousand times louder,” Ramage said.
Southwick knew he had eaten too much but the dinner given by Mr Yorke was more like a banquet than anything he had eaten on board a ship for a long time. Those John Company fellows were supposed to live like pashas (indeed he had eaten some good meals on board ships of the Honourable East India Company), but nothing to compare with what the Emerald had to offer. John Company masters ran to heavy and highly spiced food; a curry so hot you lost the taste in the furnace created in your mouth, and found comfort in the stream of perspiration erupting on your face. A course like that, Southwick thought sadly, was the kind of thing that “old India hands” loved, and once they had caught their breath again they could make half an hour’s animated conversation out of the piquancy. Well, usually they had not much else to discuss, so curry often became a staple subject, the rules and standards as well defined (and as boring) as a political speech.
Yes, he was going to pay for this present meal in an attack of wind, but it would be worth it. It was curious that on board a John Company ship the master felt it necessary to emphasize India instead of wanting a change. Yet by the same token in the West Indies everyone seemed to drink the local rum – anyone offering something else like gin was assumed to have bought a few cases cheaply.
Curious…the thought struck Southwick as he reached for his glass of port that the real curry lovers, the men who became excited at the prospect and then discussed the memory as though recalling a loved one, were almost without exception extremely dull fellows. Was there any relationship between brains and a liking for a particular food? He was just parading people he knew and putting them in categories when he realized someone was speaking to him.
It was Mr Yorke’s sister, and she wanted to know if the sherbert had been too sweet for him.
“No, ma’am, it was just right.”
“But you hardly ate any; you left most of it on your plate!”
“No discredit to the sherbert, ma’am: I have to admit I’ve eaten too much of everything – or nearly everything. The meal is a credit to–” he hesitated: could such a beautiful young woman arrange a dinner like this? Would she? Or would Mr Yorke leave all the details to the purser and the cook – to the chef, rather?
She gave him a mischievous smile and Southwick blessed whoever had arranged the seating for having put her next to him. She guess
ed the reason for Southwick’s pause.
“You can give me the credit for choosing the menu. My brother deserves credit for finding the chef – he is a Scotsman who had a French mother.”
“A remarkably successful combination, ma’am,” Southwick said. “I have never eaten so well afloat before.”
She whispered: “Do you think that Captain Ramage has enjoyed the meal? I mean, is it the kind of food he likes, or would he have preferred curry, or anyway spicier food?”
Southwick thought for a moment. This was going to be a long and probably slow voyage, and Mr Ramage would be dining on board the Emerald several times before they reached the Chops of the Channel. It was worth the risk of being tactless.
“Ma’am,” he whispered back, “I was praying you wouldn’t give him curry or food that’s too heavy or spicy. He really hates curry. Leastways,” he qualified the remark, “I’ve never been too sure whether it’s really curry or the people that eat it. Anyway, take my word for it, ma’am, he’s not one for too much spice.”
“He likes more subtle food?”
“That’s just the right description,” Southwick assured her. “‘Subtle’ – that’s just the word. Not that we ever eat anything subtle in one of the King’s ships! The galley is just a big copper.”
“So you can boil clothes and plum duff, but that’s about all!”
Southwick grinned again, running a hand through his mop of white hair. “So you’ve heard about duff, ma’am. Best thing to fill a hole when you’re hungry and warm you up on a cold day!”
“You’ve served with Captain Ramage a long time?”
“Since he was a young lieutenant given his first command,” Southwick said. “You were a little girl then!”
“He’s not so old,” she said unexpectedly, and Southwick glanced at her in time to see her blush.
“Depends how you measure time,” the old master said dryly. “In many ways he’s as old as Methuselah.”