by Dudley Pope
He laughed. 'On the contrary: this sailor was admiring the vessel: he hasn't had much opportunity to examine her closely before.'
'Do your orders include flirtation, Lieutenant?'
Irony? A sly dig at his sour 'We have our duty, Madam' remark earlier in the day, or mischievousness?
'The Admiral would expect my behaviour to be that befitting a gentleman!'
'You have considerable latitude, then,' she said. 'But on a more serious note, Lieutenant, how much does one pay this doctor?'
'I'm afraid I have no money.'
'Then would you take my purse' - she offered it with her left hand - 'and pay him what he asks.'
'Yes, certainly. I must go and discuss a few details with him.'
He found the doctor still mopping his brow, but he had washed the blood from his hands.
'Now, Doctor, how strong is the patient, and when will she need further treatment?'
'Considering all things, the patient is strong. Much depends on what your plans are. Further treatment? Well, she should be seen by a surgeon within a day or two to inspect the sutures.'
'Can she be moved, I mean?'
‘Where to? And by what means?'
'To - to a port many miles away. In this boat.'
'It is a long way: the boat is small: the sun is hot ...'
'Doctor, please be precise. The longer we stay, the more chance of capture, and the longer we must retain you. I have to decide which is the lesser risk.'
'The lesser risk ' The doctor was talking to himself.'... I have applied the necessary ligatures, which must be removed in seven days ... There is much contusion but not enough to interfere with the natural healing processes. Yet - yet one must watch in case suppuration begins, because if it does ...' He gestured with his hand, as if cutting his throat. 'Some time in an open boat, the hot sun, poor food, to be weighed against the dungeon of Filipo Secondo ... She is young, well nourished and healthy...'
He looked up at Ramage. 'My friend: there must, of course, be considerable risk if you take her in the boat. But providing she receives professional medical attention within thirty-six hours, then that is the lesser risk. The lesser of two evils, you understand: not the best course to follow. When do you propose leaving?'
'At nightfall.'
The doctor burrowed into a waistcoat pocket and took out an enormous watch. 'Then you'll have an extra eight hours if I examine her again just before you leave.'
'I was hoping you'd suggest that, Doctor,' Ramage said, and thought, isn't that relief on the little man's face?
'Tell me, Doctor, when I brought you down here did you think you would live to see tomorrow?*
‘To be frank, my young friend, no.'
'But I gave you my word.'
'I know; but sometimes, to do the greatest good, a man is forced to accept the lesser of two evils....'
Ramage laughed. 'Yes, perhaps. By the way, I.. . er... the question of a fee...'
The doctor looked shocked. 'Sir! I would not think of it!'
'Please, Doctor: I appreciate your gesture, but we are not poor people.'
'No -1 thank you, but what little I've been able to do I did willingly. And since you know I cannot betray you even if I wished, I will tell you that I am not unaware of the identity of the person I have had the honour to attend, akhough she does not know that.'
'Oh?'
'I do not need a second sight; the town is full of posters offering rewards...'
‘How much?'
'A great deal of money.'
Ramage guessed the Marchesa's purse also contained a great deal of money. By not betraying them, by not asking him for even a percentage of the reward...
The doctor said, 'I know what you are thinking and I know the Marchesa gave you her purse. But you will offend me if you even suggest it.'
Ramage held out his hand, and the doctor shook it firmly.
'My friend,' the little man said, 'we are strangers: I can therefore speak with a certain frankness. Inside me here' - he tapped his left breast - 'I have more sympathy for the cause you are helping than I would dare admit to one of my fellow countrymen. But then you English - you must find us strange people: people apparently without morals, without lasting loyalties, without traditions that mean anything. But have you ever wondered why? Have you?'
'No,’ Ramage admitted.
'You are an island race. For more than seven hundred years no enemy has ever occupied your island, even for a day. No one in your family's history has had to bow to a foreign conqueror to prevent his family being murdered and his estates confiscated.
'But we' - he gave a despairing shrug - 'we of the Italian states are invaded, occupied, liberated and invaded again nearly every decade: it is as inevitable as the passing of the seasons. Yet, my friend, we have to stay alive. Just as a ship has to alter course, to tack, when the wind changes, if she is to arrive at her destination, so do we, if we are to get to our destination. My destination - and I am honest about it - is to reach old age and meet death sitting up comfortably in my bed.
'Years ago, my friend, the wind of history was the Libeccio, blowing us invaders from Spain; then from the north-west came the Hapsburgs. Today it is the Tramontana, coming across the Alps from France. Although our Grand Duke made us the first state in Europe to recognize the French Republic, little good it has done us: Bonaparte walks through our cities like a conqueror.
'For myself, I am a royalist and I hate them - or, rather, the anarchy and atheism they stand for. But who are we real Tuscans (as opposed to the Hapsburg Tuscans) against so many? So let us hope the wind changes again before long.
'Forgive this long speech: I am nearly at the end of it. I want to say’ - and now he spoke in an embarrassed rush - 'that although I have to alter course, I recognize in you a brave man — one who, because of his island tradition, would die rather than alter course. I also recognize a brave woman, and she' - he pointed to the Marchesa - 'is such a one. Although she has inherited a different tradition from yours, it is a family one which is just as strong. So, my friend, until the wind changes again, I shall remember nothing of today's events.'
'Thank you,' Ramage said. It seemed an inadequate reply; but there was little else he could say.
Chapter 12
With THE bright moon making a sharp mosaic of light and shadow it was hard to judge the distance to the beach, but as far as Ramage could make out the gig was now half a mile off Punta Lividonia.
'Are you comfortable?' he whispered to the girl in Italian.
'Yes, thank you. Will your people come?'
'I hope so. We deserve some good luck.'
‘Yes - touch iron!'
‘Touch some wood as well.'
‘Why?'
'In England we touch wood for luck, not iron.'
He saw her reach out and feel for the bottom boards on which she was lying. He then took her hand and guided it to the metal tiller. 'That will do for iron!'
The men, whispering among themselves, seemed completely unworried; quite happy to live for the present moment and leave the next one to him. If only he had as much confidence in his own judgement as apparently they had ... Now the gig was out here, Ramage could think of a dozen reasons why the frigate would not arrive.
A few moments later the girl said in a low voice: 'May I ask you something, if I whisper?'
'Yes,' he said, bending so that his head was near hers.
'Your parents — where are they now?'
'Living in England: at the family home in Cornwall.'
'Tell me about your home.'
'It’s called Blazey Hall: it was a priory once.' That was a tactless remark to make to a Catholic.
'A priory?'
‘Yes - Henry VIII confiscated much land from the Catholic Church and gave or sold it to his favourites.'
'Your family were his favourites ?'
'I suppose so: it is a long time ago.'
‘What is it like - the palazzo?'
How could he
describe the mellowed stone against the background of great spreading oaks, the riot of colour in the flower gardens his mother supervised so lovingly, the sense of peace, the polished yet comfortable furniture, to an Italian used to the flamboyant yet strangely arid Tuscan countryside and the palazzi which could never be homes because of their sparse furniture and the attitude of their owners? And a measure of the difficulty was that English was one of the few - if not the only - languages which had the word 'home' in it. Vado a casa mia – I’m going to my house.
'It's hard to describe. You must go and stay with my parents and see for yourself.'
'Yes. The idea frightens me a little. Your father - he must be too old to be at sea with a fleet?'
'No - he ... well, I'll explain when there is more time: politics are involved: there was a trial and now he is out of favour with the Government.'
'Does this affect you too?'
'In a way, yes - my father has many enemies.'
'And through you, they try to wound him?'
‘Yes. It's natural, I suppose.'
'Normal,' she said with unexpected bitterness, 'but scarcely natural!'
'You don't remember me from when you were a little girl?'
'No - at least, sometimes I can picture your parents and a little boy - a very shy boy; then when I try to remember another time my mind is empty. Do you remember me?' she asked shyly, almost cautiously.
'I don't remember you: I remember a little girl who, for the mischief she caused, was more like a little boy!'
'Yes, I can imagine that. My mother wanted a son so desperately: she treated me as if I was a boy - I had to ride a horse as well as my male cousins, use a pistol and fence - oh, everything. I loved it, too.'
'And now?'
‘Now it has to be different: when my mother died I became responsible for five big estates and more than a thousand people: overnight I became a Marchesa. Every morning is taken up with estate affairs and I have to be molto serio and every evening with social affairs, when I have to be molto sociale. No more riding, except in a carriage with postilions, no more—'
'Don't say "No more pistols"!'
‘Well, that was the first time for years. Did I frighten you?'
‘Yes - mainly because I thought you didn't know how to handle it. How did the estates descend to you and not a cousin?'
'Some ancient decree or dispensation: if there is no son everything passes through the female line until there is a son. If I marry—'
Ramage touched her to stop her talking: one or two of the men were pointing uncertainly over the starboard quarter. He turned and saw several small, indistinct darker patches on the sea. They were too big, and moving too steadily, for dolphins, which loved to leap and jink, playing in the sea like children, and which lookouts often mistook for small craft. But maybe they were fishermen, returning from a day's fishing.
'Five boats, sir,' whispered Jackson. 'Full o' men and oars muffled. I reckon it's them, sir!'
'Ready, men - we'll cut across their bows: quietly, then - oars ready... out... give way together....'
Now came the most dangerous part: he had to attract the boats' attention and identify himself without raising the alarm on shore. A quick hail, using a typically English expression, would do the job, Ramage decided.
How far now? About fifty yards and the beach was at least another five hundred yards beyond. He stood up and cupped his hands to his mouth to aim his voice:
'Ahoy there: ahoy there: hold your horses a minute!'
The boats neither slowed down nor speeded up. Supposing they were guard boats from the French ships, packed with soldiers and patrolling the approach to the harbour? Another hail or not? But a hundred muskets - not to mention boat guns - fired into the gig at this range...
'Ahoy there!' he repeated, 'we're survivors from a British ship. Ahoy there, do you know the flags eight-oh-eight?'
That had been the Sibella's number: if challenged or wanting to identify herself, she would hoist flags representing that number, and anyone referring to the signal book could read her name against it in the list.
'Name the ship!' demanded a voice from the leading boat.
'Sibella’
'Toss and boat your oars, then, and don't try any funny business.'
He saw the five boats were turning and fanning out: the officer in charge had obviously ordered them to approach from different directions, avoiding a trap.
'Do as he says, Jackson,' said Ramage, 'and speak up!'
'Way enough, me boys,' the American yelled. 'Toss your oars ... Beat your oars. Look alive there or the Admiral'll stop yer grog.'
Ramage smiled: Jackson had adopted a Cockney accent and used just the kind of threat a British naval officer would recognize as genuine.
A few minutes later one of the boats came closer alongside: the oarsmen backed water and took the way off the craft just as the officer growled at the Marines to be ready with their muskets.
'Stand up whoever hailed me.'
He stood up. 'Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, late of the Sibella, or rather of the late Sibella.'
'Good God, Nick, what on earth are you doing here?' exclaimed the voice.
'Who's that?'
'Jack Dawlish!'
Coincidences were normally too frequent in the Navy for anyone to pay much attention, but he had spent two years with Dawlish as a midshipman in theSuperb. Indeed, Dawlish and that fellow Hornblower had done their best to teach him spherical trigonometry.
'Hold on, Jack - I'm coming on board.'
He scrambled into Dawlish's launch, leaping from thwart to thwart until he reached the sternsheets, where he shook Dawlish's proffered hand.
'What the devil are you doing here, Nick? But give it a fair wind, we've a job to do!'
'The Sibella was sunk: I'm the senior surviving officer. I've important refugees in my boat - one of them's badly wounded and must see a surgeon. Where's your ship?'
'One and a half miles due north of this point,' Dawlish gestured towards Punta Lividonia. 'About a mile from here, in other words. His Majesty's frigate Lively, commanded by my gallant Lord Probus, and despatched by Commodore Nelson to capture or destroy any ships that might try to carry Bonaparte's rude soldiery across to Corsica and disturb the peace,' said Dawlish, assuming a mock pompous voice.
'Commodore Nelson?'
'Yes, got his broad pendant a week or so ago. He'll soon get his flag, mark my words. Little chap with big ideas.'
'Never met him. Well,' Ramage said airily, 'I won't delay you. Paddle on a bit farther, Jack, and at anchor in the first bay, half a mile this side of the Fortress, you'll find a heavily laden brig, two small schooners and a couple of tartanes. If you keep this distance off the beach they'll mask the guns in the Fortress. The brig's nearest.'
'Oh?' exclaimed Dawlish in surprise. 'Been into the town lately?'
'Yes, I had a stroll through it this morning. By the way - six 32-pounders on the Fort facing seaward: they'll depress enough to fire at you. And on this side there are six long 18-pounders. None of 'em fired for months. Keep close in and the merchantmen will be in their line of fire.'
'Thanks! Did you tell them we were coming?'
'No - you aren't the most punctual of people, Jack: I didn't want them to wait up unnecessarily!'
'Most thoughtful. Well, tell my Lord Probus his First Lieutenant was last seen charging down a cannon's mouth!'
'By the way,' said Ramage, 'is your Surgeon any good?'
'At swilling wine, yes. For butcher's work - well, we've had more clap and costive complaints than gunshot wounds lately, so I don't know.'
‘Well, we'll soon find out. See you later.' He scrambled across to the gig just as Dawlish called after him the Lively's challenge and the reply.
He sat down in the sternsheets of the gig. 'Carry on, Jackson: the Lively's a mile due north of here. The challenge is "Hercules" and the reply "Stephen".'
Hercules and Stephen: so Captain Lord Probus, the he
ir to the earldom of Buckler, had a sense of occasion. Ramage thought he'd test Jackson's reaction.
'Why "Hercules", Jackson?'
'Er - don't know, sir.'
‘Port' Ercole. The port of Hercules. And "Stephen" is obvious.'
'Yes, sir,' said Jackson, but his mind was clearly on the tot of rum awaiting him in the Lively.
'Just over there, sir: fine on the starboard bow,' said Jackson suddenly.
The ship was so black in silhouette that it made the night sky seem a very deep blue.
Within a few minutes a challenge rang out from the ship, brassy as it issued from a speaking trumpet.
'Hercules!'
'Stephen!' yelled Jackson.
It was the moment he had been praying for since before the Sibella had been surrendered, but it had arrived and Ramage was curiously disappointed. Now, as he crouched in a tiny cabin on board the Lively, washing himself thoroughly, he had no responsibilities: Gianna had been put in Lord Probus's sleeping cabin, and the Surgeon was busy attending her; the seven former Sibellas, Jackson among them, were now feeding and would soon be listed in the Lively's muster book as 'Supernumeraries'.
So now Ramage had no lives on his hands; no decisions to make where a mistake would lose those lives; no urgent questions requiring equally urgent answers. He should be relieved but instead felt lonely and unsettled, without knowing the reason. The only possible explanation seemed both ridiculous and sentimental. The ten of them in the gig had, with one exception, become in effect a family; a small group of people knitted together by the invisible bond of shared dangers and hardships.
Lord Probus's steward soon arrived to say his Lordship wanted to see him on deck. Probus must be a puzzled man, Ramage thought; apart from a brief explanation when the gig first arrived alongside in the darkness, he can have no idea why the Marchesa and Pisano are on board.
Ramage found Probus standing by the wheel, looking towards Punta Lividonia. The frigate was lying hove-to in a very light breeze, guns run out and the men at quarters.
'Ah, Ramage — your folk are being looked after properly?'
'Yes, thank you, sir.'
"Well, while we're waiting for my men to give the signal — I'm going in to pick 'em up and tow out any worthwhile prizes - you'd better give me a short verbal report.'