Ramage

by Pope, Dudley

  ‘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 Twelve

  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?’ excla
imed 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 the Superb. 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 heir 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’ 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’ 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 into pick ’em up and tow out any worthwhile prizes – you’d better give me a short verbal report.’

  With that Probus led the way aft to the taffrail, out of earshot of the men.

  Briefly Ramage explained how the Barras had caught the Sibella, listed the British casualties, and described how, after finding himself in command, he was forced to quit the ship, leaving the wounded to surrender her. Finally, after he had outlined the story from then until the gig arrived alongside the Lively – omitting only Pisano’s allegations against him – Probus said, ‘You’ve had a busy time. Let me have a written report in the forenoon.’

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed as several flashes lit up Santo Stefano, ‘Dawlish has woken ’em up! My God, he took long enough to get there. Cox’n! My night glass.’

  In a few moments, telescope to his eye, he was trying to get a glimpse of boats in the gun flashes. He said to Ramage, ‘You’d better turn in and get some sleep. I’ve told the junior lieutenant to shift into the midshipmen’s berth and give you his cabin. By the way, who is this fellow Pisano?’

  ‘The Marchesa’s cousin, sir.’

  ‘I know that! What’s he like?’

  ‘Hard to say, sir. A bit excitable.’

  There was more firing from the direction of the port and Probus said, ‘Hmm…all right, we’ll discusss it further in the morning.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir; good night.’

  ‘’Night.’

  Discuss what further? Ramage wondered; but he was too tired to let it bother him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Next morning Ramage thought sleepily that he was beginning to be nervous about waking. The cot swung gently as the ship rolled, suspended at each end by ropes from eyebolts in the deckhead above, and the creaking of the ship’s timbers showed the Lively was under way with a fair breeze. Had they any prizes in company?

  The ship stank: he’d been too tired to notice it last night, but the past few days spent out in the fresh air emphasized the extent and variety of unpleasant smells in a ship of war. From the bilges came the village pond stench of stagnant water, the last few inches in the bottom of the well that the pumps never sucked out, and which was a reservoir for all sorts of muck, from the mess made by the cows and pigs in the mangers forward to seepage from salt meat and beer casks. The gunroom itself reeked of damp woodwork and mildewed clothing, and was overfull of the thick atmosphere resulting from many men sleeping in a confined space which neither daylight nor fresh air penetrated.

  A wash, shave, and something to eat and drink.

  ‘Steward!’ he called. ‘Sentry! Pass the word for the gunroom steward.’

  A moment later the steward knocked on the door. Since the cabin was one of a row of boxes formed by stretching painted canvas over w
ooden frames, and was five feet four inches high, six feet long and five feet wide, the knock was simply a courtesy.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Is the galley fire alight?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, hot water, soap and towel for washing; and please borrow a razor from one of the other officers. And some hot tea, if there is any. None of your baked breadcrumbs coffee.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  A few minutes later he was sitting at the gunroom table freshly washed and shaved, with half a pint of weak but almost scalding tea inside him. He was about dress in his old clothes when the gunroom steward went to a cabin. After rummaging around he came out with a pair of white breeches, a shirt, waistcoat, jacket and various other oddments of clothing over his arm.

  ‘Mr Dawlish told me to give you these, sir, so I can have a chance of cleaning up your clothes. And the Captain passed the word ’e wants to see you when you’re ready, sir, but says it’s not urgent.’

  ‘Right. Thank Mr Dawlish and put the clothes in my cabin, please. Take my boots and give them a good blacking.’

  The steward left and Ramage sat at the table for a minute or two, reading the names of the ship’s officers over the cabin doors opening off each side of the room. Apart from that of Jack Dawlish, he did not recognize any of them. The Marchesa was lying in a cot only a few feet away, one deck higher…for a moment he felt guilty because he had given her hardly a thought since waking.

  Lord Probus was in an amiable mood, standing on the windward side of the quarter-deck and surveying his little wooden kingdom. The bright sun was blinding after the half darkness of the gunroom, and Ramage could see that towing astern of the Lively was the small brig he’d last seen at anchor in Santo Stefano.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ asked Probus.

  ‘Very well, sir, and too long, by the look of it.’

  ‘You probably needed it. Now,’ he said lowering his voice and glancing round to make sure no one else was within hearing, ‘tell me more about this fellow Pisano.’