by Dudley Pope
“But she has no children!”
“Then she’d better hurry,” Ramage said vaguely, turning to watch the Lieutenant reach Lord St Vincent, open the small leather pouch he was carrying, and hand over a letter. “The Duke will want a son and heir,” he added lamely, realizing that Gianna was staring at him. “It’s only natural.”
“Is she pretty?” Gianna demanded.
“What—the Duchess?”
“Don’t be exasperating! The woman you keep staring at.”
“I was watching that officer delivering a despatch to the First Lord,” Ramage protested, turning to face her. “Anyway, if there was a woman here more beautiful than you, I’d look at her out of curiosity, but since there isn’t you can relax and stop stabbing me with those hatpin looks.”
She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “You Englishmen tell lies so gracefully. Still, you’re forgiven and I’ll act as lookout to save you turning round. How do they say it—Deck there, masthead here: Lord St Vincent is reading the letter … Ah, he waves to Lord Nelson, who walks over to join him … Lord Nelson reads the letter—and hands it back: it must be a short one … They talk together, both frowning. Bad news? The poor Lieutenant—ah, Lord St Vincent waves him away. They keep looking over their shoulders—making sure no one can overhear, I suppose. Lord Nelson may have only one arm, but he waves it about a lot!”
She paused and clapped politely as the orchestra stopped and, almost without pause, swept on to the next tune. As the dancers resumed, Ramage noticed that Gianna had suddenly tensed. “What’s the matter?” he said in alarm.
She made a placatory gesture with her fan. “It’s nothing. Lord Nelson waved, as though referring to someone over here, and now Lord St Vincent is quizzing everyone. He looks so stern!”
Ramage shrugged. “Half the King’s ministers are here tonight … perhaps they’ve just received a despatch saying that Boney’s coming!”
Gianna shivered. “Don’t make jokes about it!” She began reading the card that she had taken from her tiny handbag. “Ah, for the next dance my partner—”
But Ramage was not listening; instead he turned again and watched as the First Lord spoke abruptly to a tall and elegant young post-captain, who then began walking round the edge of the ballroom after a quick glance in Ramage’s direction. He took a shortcut across the corner of the floor, where there were few dancers, and Ramage saw that both Lord Nelson and Lord St Vincent had deliberately drawn apart from their group and were waiting impatiently.
Perhaps this was a common occurrence at a great ball attended by more than half the Cabinet: the sudden arrival of an urgent despatch requiring some equally urgent decision and action. He turned back to Gianna and envied whoever was being summoned to the First Lord’s presence; it might spoil the rest of the ball for the fortunate man and make him unpopular with his partner, but it would mean employment. At sea with a good ship and orders for detached service.
“I’m a dull fellow at a ball,” he said apologetically to Gianna. She was not listening but staring up at someone. He glanced up too and was startled to find the post-captain looking down at him.
The man bowed gracefully to Gianna and after a perfunctory “By your leave, Ma’am,” said to Ramage: “Lord St Vincent wishes to speak to you for a few minutes: his Lordship told me to remain with the Marchesa.”
“Most necessary, sir,” Ramage said, nettled by the man’s disdainful manner. “It says on the map, ‘Here be lions.’” He turned to Gianna, childishly gratified by the puzzled look on the Captain’s face. “if you’ll excuse me—I’ll hurry back.”
Gianna smiled politely but she said firmly: “No ship. Not for another eleven days, anyway. You tell him.”
Lord St Vincent had not changed in the two years since Ramage had last seen him: he was still the ramrod-stiff figure with a bowed head who spoke as crisply and as frankly as he wrote.
“Ah, Ramage, ‘fraid I have to interrupt your social life for a few minutes. Pity the King isn’t here tonight; intended to present you. His Majesty likes to meet the young officers he reads about in the Gazette. Still, there’ll be another opportunity—as long as you don’t blot your copybook, eh?” His Lordship gave a wintry smile. “You understand me, eh?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ramage said, and realized the First Lord had a better memory than he had thought.
“Mr Ramage!” the First Lord said sharply, raising his voice above the orchestra, which had reached an exuberant passage, “that’s a very knowing smile you’ve rigged across your face. I’ve read all the correspondence concerning your recent actions. You’re a brave and resourceful fellow, but make no mistake; I know you’d sooner disregard orders than obey ‘em. Once in a thousand times that’s justified—perhaps once in a lifetime. You’ve done it half a dozen times already. Remember that—and remember that the Navy List is full of brave and resourceful young officers.”
Only a fool would disregard the warning note in what was, for Lord Vincent, a long speech. “Aye aye, sir,” Ramage said, hoping those three normally safe words would not get him into more trouble.
“My compliments and apologies to the Marchesa,” St Vincent said gruffly. “Looks as beautiful as ever. Going to marry her?”
The First Lord was famous for his often-stated view that the moment he married an officer was lost to the Navy, and Ramage was thankful he could answer honestly: “It’s never been discussed, sir.”
Lord St Vincent snorted and said suddenly: “Just remembered something His Majesty mentioned. He noticed that they don’t use your title in the Gazette.”
Ramage was not sure if it was a statement or a question, but Lord Nelson, who had been standing quietly in the background, moved closer and nodded a greeting as he said: “I think it goes back to the Lieutenant’s early days in the Navy, sir. Makes a pretty problem for a hostess seating her guests—does Lieutenant Lord Ramage take precedence over Rear-Admiral Sir John Smith …”
St Vincent nodded understandingly. “Well, Ramage, hurry up and get your flag and stop being a problem for the ladies, eh? Now, let’s find some privacy in the Duke’s library.”
With that he turned abruptly and with Lord Nelson walked towards a corridor leading from the ballroom. A puzzled Ramage was just going to rejoin Gianna when he saw St Vincent glance round and beckon him impatiently. “I’m sure His Majesty would be grateful if he knew you could spare his First Lord of the Admiralty a few minutes of your valuable time, Ramage,” he growled, “and I’m equally sure that the Marchesa will be flattered that a couple o’ hundred fellow guests saw you leave the ballroom in the company of one of the King’s ministers and one of his most famous fighting admirals.”
“Quite so, sir; I—er … didn’t …”
“Step lively and don’t talk so much.”
The library was a book-lined cavern, and Lord St Vincent went straight to a table and sat down, gesturing to Lord Nelson and Ramage to be seated opposite.
Lord Nelson looked across at Lord St Vincent. “There’s no doubt about this report, sir?”
“None. Wish there was.”
“But I don’t trust these French agents,” Nelson said querulously. “No patriotism; they’re doing it for money.”
Ramage wished he had heard the earlier part of the conversation, and was just reflecting that the question of allegiance depended upon whom you regarded as your leader, when the First Lord said: “This man is Scots born. Lived most of his life in France. Our best agent, I’m told.”
“Apparently the Secretary of State has heard nothing,” Nelson said doubtfully. “I’d have expected—”
“Lord Hawkesbury will have received the report half an hour ago,” the First Lord said impatiently. “This man’s an Admiralty agent: reports directly to us, and we send copies across to the Secretary of State.”
“That can’t make him popular in Downing Street,” Nelson commented. “The Secretary of State’s office like to deal with all intelligence activities.”
“Quite so,” St V
incent said acidly, “but they didn’t have any choice with this fellow: he’s highly placed in Bonaparte’s circle, so his life hangs by a thread.” He looked up and saw Nelson’s puzzled expression. “He’s the son of a former naval officer, and his reports reach England by—well, unusual seafaring routes. More convenient if the Admiralty handles them.”
Nelson reached out his hand. “Perhaps I could read the report again?”
At that moment there was a double knock on the door and a man Ramage recognized as Lord Hawkesbury walked in.
“Ah! There you are,” he said, sitting down at the table. He glanced at Ramage, gave him a perfunctory nod and then said pointedly to the First Lord: “I want to discuss this report we have just received.”
“It’s all right. Ramage here knows nothing about it yet, but he is likely to be involved. You know him, I see.”
The Secretary of State nodded absent-mindedly. “I guessed I’d find you here and came at once. What do you think about it?”
“I believe it,” St Vincent said firmly. “I’ve been expecting something like this. That’s why his Lordship,” he gestured toward Nelson, “has been given this ‘Squadron upon a Particular Service.’”
“Quite so,” Lord Hawkesbury said. “But the agent makes a very bald statement!”
St Vincent shrugged his shoulders. “He could have used a thousand words to say the same thing, but mercifully he didn’t.”
“But he gives no proof,” Lord Hawkesbury complained.
“He never does. He is a member of Bonaparte’s staff, and he knows we are aware of that. But if you’ll look at the report again—” he motioned to Nelson to pass the sheet of paper, “you’ll see it’s so worded that no one reading it could guess. It’d be a death sentence for him if it was intercepted.”
“Very well,” the Secretary of State said reluctantly, glancing at the page. When he had finished reading it he said querulously: “The more I read it, the less it seems to tell me!”
“There are two separate items,” St Vincent said patiently, controlling his notoriously short temper. “First, the troops. The fact that another 50,000 men are at this moment marching towards Boulogne and Calais means a considerable reinforcement: we know Bonaparte has 100,000 there already.”
“But is that likely?”
“Why not? Since he signed the Treaty of Luneville and put the Austrians out of business, Bonaparte isn’t fighting anyone on the Continent of Europe—”
“I know that,” Lord Hawkesbury interrupted impatiently.
“I know you know that,” St Vincent said calmly, “i mention it as a foundation for the point I am about to make, not as fresh news.”
“‘Pologies,” Hawkesbury said, “i’ve had a tiring day.”
“Well, Bonaparte has had three or four months to re-equip his armies and make new plans—”
“And he’s decided Great Britain is his last enemy,” Hawkes-bury said in a return of his impatient autocratic manner.
“That’s reasonably obvious,” the First Lord said, clearly controlling himself with difficulty, “but until now, until the early summer, he lacked allies.”
“What allies?” Hawkesbury was puzzled, as St Vincent had intended him to be.
“The east wind and a calm sea,” St Vincent said grimly, “and a new moon.”
“When can you anticipate that trio coinciding?”
“The new moon is predictable enough—three weeks’ time. The east wind—anyone’s guess. We’ve always anticipated that Bonaparte would have to pick a new moon period, but we need more specific intelligence, otherwise we’d have to bring the Channel Fleet up to the Strait of Dover once a month.”
“An east wind, eh?” Hawkesbury mused. “What if Bonaparte can’t wait for it? Can he risk sailing his invasion Flotilla in a west wind?”
“He could, but ideally he wants if not an east wind then some wind with east in it, because his barges won’t go windward. They need a following wind.”
“Are you saying we’re safe with a west wind? I’ve never heard that view before.”
“A strong wind with any west in it will keep ‘em in port; but we aren’t completely safe in a light west wind or a calm; the small barges and gunboats could be rowed across. Hard work but possible.”
“A long row, eh? That’ll give your frigates and line-of-battle ships a chance to get amongst them!”
St Vincent shook his head. “I’m afraid a sea as calm as that would mean no wind, so the fleet and the frigates would be becalmed.”
“Of course,” Hawkesbury snapped, annoyed with himself for not realizing that. “Very well, the agent hasn’t told us much, then.”
“We’ve only discussed the first item,” St Vincent said sourly, “which is that 50,000 extra troops are making for Boulogne. The second item—” he picked up the paper, “says less but tells us more: Bonaparte is about to ask Bruix—he’s the Admiral commanding the Invasion Flotilla, as you know—how soon the flotilla can sail.”
“Hmm—I can’t see that tells us much,” Hawkesbury said.
St Vincent folded the paper with great deliberation and put it down on the table. “On the face of it, it tells us that Bonaparte the General considers the Army is ready to cross the Channel, and he’s asking Bruix the Admiral for the earliest date the Flotilla can embark it. The question is urgent only if the Flotilla can be made ready fairly soon. In three weeks’ time,” he said ominously, “or a month after that.”
“Quite so,” Hawkesbury said, “so that narrows the date down to two periods of a very few days—I gather a full moon is no use?”
“No. The French want a new moon—setting two or three hours after it is dark—to get their vessels safely out of harbour without collisions and too much confusion. After that they want darkness for the crossing, to put our ships at a disadvantage, and dawn should see them just off our beaches.”
“If the wind is right.”
“As you say,” St Vincent agreed.
“Then what more do you want to know, my dear Admiral?” Hawkesbury asked, obviously puzzled.
“Well, sir, the problem is—we think … “ he broke off and gestured to Lord Nelson, who put his hand down on the table and leaned forward slightly in a movement that reminded Ramage of a spring being wound up taut.
“Bonaparte may have marched the troops and asked Bruix when he will be ready just to spur on his generals and admirals, sir,” Nelson said quietly. “He has another three months of summer left, another three suitable moon periods, and we can’t be sure he won’t postpone it at the last minute. if we assume the next new moon period is the real date and start moving the fleet round to the Strait of Dover and mobilizing our defences, should Bonaparte then postpone the attempt for a month he is bound to conclude that we knew of his plans, since we made no such move at the last new moon.”
“But surely preparing ourselves at each new moon is a logical reaction?” Hawkesbury asked.
“Yes—but we would rather that Bonaparte does not discover what our precise plans are.”
“But,” Hawkesbury protested, “if he knows the Fleet is ready, he’s less likely to sail!”
Now Ramage saw Nelson in a fresh light: he was a new man, his single good eye shining, his face flushed, the fingers of his hand drumming on the table.
“We can’t smash Bonaparte’s invasion plan if he keeps his ships and men safe in harbour, sir. We want his Army out on the open sea, so that we can sink or burn every ship. it takes a great army—and heavy losses—to destroy another army of 150,000 men on land: an army we can’t muster. But our fleet can destroy such an army at sea—can and will, providing it sails.”
Hawkesbury was worried. “it’s a deuced risk: something the Cabinet ought to consider. Better keep the devils bottled, up in Boulogne and Calais, I say.”
“Not while I occupy the office of First Lord,” St Vincent interrupted. “i have a great respect for Mr Addison, but I only joined his government on the clear understanding that I was given a free hand.”
“Oh, I agree,” Hawkesbury said hastily, realizing he had stepped beyond his professional responsibility, which was foreign affairs. “I was expressing a personal view, you understand; my colleagues probably would not agree with me.”
“Be that as it may,” St Vincent said uncompromisingly, “I assure you the Admiralty want the French to sail because it is confident that they can’t land in England, so—”
“Very well,” Lord Hawkesbury interrupted. “Now, why can’t we rely on our agents—especially this man in Paris—to warn us in time enough if and when Bonaparte decides to sail his flotilla?”
Nelson glanced at St Vincent before replying: “It is not the kind of information our agents in Boulogne—such as they are—will discover. That throws the responsibility on to the man in Paris. Unfortunately he never travels with Bonaparte. It seems that Bonaparte has a special staff that travels with him, and his regular staff remains in Paris.”
“How does that affect this situation?”
“I think we can assume that Bonaparte will leave Paris and travel to Boulogne fairly frequently from now on. We have no way of knowing—unless our man gets some hint—if he is simply going to review the troops and cheer ‘em up, or get ‘em to sea.”
Lord Hawkesbury turned to the First Lord. “Well, what are you going to do about this report?” He pointed to the paper on the table. “Mr Addison will be asking me.”
“I’m sending a man to Boulogne,” St Vincent said. “This man,” he added, pointing at Ramage.
“Are you, by Jove?” Hawkesbury said. “What do you think about that, young fellow? You look a bit startled. What are you going to do when you get there, eh?”
Ramage swallowed hard, hoping one of the admirals would come to the rescue, but when they remained silent he said, in a wild guess, “Find the answers to his Lordship’s questions, sir, and send back a report.”
“Speak much French? Spying is a dangerous job.”
“Enough, sir. I—” suddenly the idea came. “I can pass for an Italian, sir; it lessens the risk.”
He was aware that both the admirals were looking at him, and Lord St Vincent said gruffly, “No need to worry about Ramage; he’s used to this sort of thing.”