by Dudley Pope
"Excellent, my Lord. He is quite right in saying it gives us a perfect opportunity to get rid of ventures. The stricter court of inquiry - you will recall that I've been suggesting that for two years. As for sacking the men at Falmouth ... some might be retired with advantage, others might be given the opportunity to transfer to some other station..."
"Better not antagonize too many people, you mean?" Auckland said.
Freeling nodded. "If we keep Falmouth as the packet port, we have to work with the local people there, my Lord, and they're all related to each other."
"Quite - we don't want to use Plymouth!" The minister coloured slightly and added hurriedly, "Bad holding ground for ships, they tell me, George; nothing against your people."
Lord Spencer nodded and said ironically: "You can also get into Falmouth in any weather, William; that's something you can't do at Plymouth. It's your strongest argument for continuing to use Falmouth..."
"Quite so, quite so," Lord Auckland said. "Well, no doubt Mr Ramage wants to make up for his long absence from the London social scene, and Freeling and I had better knock some sort of shape into the report to the Cabinet..."
He stood up and held his hand out to Ramage. "Thank you," he said simply, "much obliged to you and your men."
It was a sunny though chilly morning, and Ramage decided to walk back to Palace Street, trying to summon up the energy to face the journey down to St Kew. Much had gone off shopping before catching the coach back to Falmouth that night. He was impatient to beback with his family. Yorke was spending the rest of the day in Leadenhall Street at his office - seeing, as he told Ramage before leaving, "how many ships the hurricanes and the French have left me".
As he swung round into Palace Street and idly glanced along the short road, Ramage saw there was a large carriage outside his house. The carriage was blue and gold, and the coat of arms on the open door was familiar. Hanson was bent almost double over some luggage.
He found himself walking faster. Windows upstairs were being flung open, as if to air the house and someone was looking out of one of them; a young woman with black hair and a small, heart-shaped face. She was waving wildly to him and calling in a language the passers-by could not understand, and now at last free of mutineers and politicians and bureaucrats, he was holding his sword in his left hand and his hat in his right, and his heart was beating hard as if he'd run all the way from the Admiralty. He almost knocked Hanson over as he ran into the house, only vaguely hearing the old man's hasty, "The family, sir, and the Marchesa - they've just arrived!"
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