by Dudley Pope
'A messenger just brought this: your father signed the receipt,' she said without expression. 'I hope it doesn't . . .' she did not finish the sentence but Ramage knew what she meant. The letter might say he was not to have the Juno after all. Gianna would be sorry for his sake yet delighted if he went on half-pay for three months or so - she had seen little enough of him since she had reached England from the Mediterranean.
He broke the seal and opened the letter. It was from the Board Secretary, Evan Nepean, and began with the usual time-honoured phrase, 'I am directed by My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty ...’ He read through to the end. It took five lines of flowing prose to say that he was to leave for Portsmouth in time to arrive on board the Juno by noon on Wednesday, take command according to the commission already in his possession, and be under way by Friday. Why the Admiralty should suddenly decide to order him on board two days earlier Ramage was not told.
'Stop making faces and shrugging your shoulders,' Gianna said impatiently. 'What does it say?'
'I must leave for Portsmouth first thing tomorrow –‘
'But that is two days early!'
"Something must have happened.'
'Nonsense, it is just that some silly man in the Admiralty is impatient and thoughtless - why, you've had only a few days' rest after carrying out those last terrible orders. Lord St Vincent should be -'
'Cara mia' he interrupted, 'there are hundreds of captains but only a few frigates. I am very lucky.'
He heard his father's heavy tread outside and the Admiral, a worried look on his face, came into the room. 'They haven't changed their minds, have they?'
Ramage gave him the letter and when he read it the Admiral shook his head. 'You have trouble down there, my boy. I don't think Admiral Mann was exaggerating when he told me that your predecessor's court martial was a messy affair and that most of the officers should have been tried at the same time. The fellow was only in command six months, but in that time he let the ship's company go to pieces. A bad business. And you have to be under way by Friday with new officers . . .'
Ramage nodded and Gianna knew that she was temporarily forgotten: already Nicholas's face was animated as he called for Hanson to help him pack. Father and son were alike. Looking at the Admiral, she could see how Nicholas would be in thirty years' time - if he wasn't killed in this damnable war. Both were slim - the Admiral was putting on a little weight but would never let himself get plump - and it made them seem taller than they were. Both had the deep-set brown eyes and aquiline nose of the Ramages - most of the men in those family portraits at St Kew stared down at her out of their frames with those same eyes and made her shiver: those forebears were all dead, and yet the painters somehow kept them alive, the great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers ...
Nicholas was nervous; she saw he was rubbing the upper of the two scars over his right eyebrow. Each was the result of a wound; on two separate occasions he had been lucky not to have his skull split open by the enemy. For a moment, before she could crowd the picture from her imagination, she saw him lying in a pool of blood on the deck of a ship, dying from a third wound. She crossed herself: she had this terrible fear that if the picture kept appearing, then it would happen.
The Admiral took her arm and led her from the room. As they walked down the stairs he said gently: 'It is always worse for the people staying behind. Watching Nicholas beginning to pack makes me realize what my wife must have gone through so many times...
'But it is so unfair,' she burst out. 'They give him such fantastic orders. That last affair - fancy sending him to France! How he escaped the guillotine I shall never know, and it goes on and on and on. This war will never end!'
'Nicholas chose the Navy, my dear,' the Admiral said quietly as they reached the drawing-room and his wife stood up and came towards Gianna, her arms outstretched. 'Nicholas now has to leave first thing tomorrow,' he explained. 'Naturally Gianna is upset.'
The older woman led Gianna to a chair. 'For years I was always saying goodbye to my husband, and now it is to my son,' she said simply. 'I find it helps to think that the sooner I say goodbye, the sooner I welcome him back!'
'But every time it is a miracle he comes back,' Gianna sobbed. 'Every time he is a little changed, a little more pre-occupato!’
'That is not the Navy's fault,' the Admiral said crisply. 'Our experiences change us little by little. That's maturing.'
His wife glanced at him. 'I think you should go up and help Nicholas pack his trunk: he has not much time.'
Gianna jumped up, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. 'No, no, I will. I am sorry; it is just - well, the West Indies are so far away.'
The Admiral held her shoulders for a minute and said with deliberate harshness: 'Yes, nearly a quarter of the way round the world from London. But remember, the French coast is only twenty-one miles from Dover, yet that's where Bonaparte's men caught him and wanted to cut off his head ...’
CHAPTER TWO
Vauxhall turnpike, Putney Heath, Esher ... on to Godalming, Liphook, Petersfield and Horndean . . . Change horses here, change horses there, hurried meals, and then the Porstdown Hills, Cosham and finally, after more than seventy miles, Portsmouth. His new breeches were uncomfortably tight and his coat stiff; his shoes were hard and his feet throbbed. As a younker, posting to Portsmouth to join your ship had always been exciting; as a lieutenant it eventually became tedious; as a captain, Ramage found it seventy miles of unrelieved irritation. The 'chaise jogged and rattled too much for him to be able to write down the things he suddenly remembered, and each thought was crowded out by a succession of others before the 'chaise reached the next stop to change horses. An alteration to his Captain's Orders, something more to insert, an important note for the Surgeon, several items for the Master - all forgotten between changes of horses. His memory was like a bucket without a bottom.
He reported to the crusty old Port Admiral at his office in Portsmouth Dockyard, found that the Juno was anchored off the Spit Sand outside the harbour, and was told that the new Master had gone on board but that the new lieutenants had not yet reported. From the Port Admiral's attitude it was obvious that the Juno was not his favourite frigate, and his parting words were: 'We have so many court martials at the moment that captains don't have time to get their ships ready, so keep your troubles to yourself.'
It was a discouraging hint about the state of the discipline in the Juno, and an ambiguous warning that the Port Admiral would not welcome Ramage bringing any delinquent officer or man to trial. He was to get the ship ready 'and sail in execution of your orders'.
Early on Wednesday morning the little cutter carrying him from the Point steps out to the Juno at Spithead was close-reaching in a brisk south-westerly breeze, the boatman moving the tiller from time to time to ease her over the occasional large wave. Ramage's trunk was wrapped in a tarpaulin to keep off the spray, and he was thankful to be wearing his boat cloak.
The burly boatman and a lad who was probably his son had glanced at each other when he hired them and named the Juno. The shortcomings of her previous captain were obviously common knowledge. A spot of bother in one of the dozen of ships of war anchored at Spithead was always interesting gossip for the seafaring folk living at Portsmouth or Gosport.
'Took the new Master out last night, sir,' the boatman said conversationally, raising his voice against the wind and the slop of the waves.
Ramage nodded. 'There'll be more business for you today or tomorrow, if you keep a sharp lookout at the Steps; four lieutenants, some midshipmen, a surgeon, Marine officers . . .'
The boatman grinned his gratitude: knowledge that particular officers were expected helped with the tips: it flattered a young lieutenant to tell him that the captain had mentioned he was due. You could usually tell a lieutenant's seniority - the more junior the larger the tip.
He watched the young Captain out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he dare ask a question or two, but decided against it: those eyes looked
as though they could give you a very cold stare. He contented himself with a grunt to the boy that he wanted the mainsheet easing as they bore away for the last few hundred yards to round another anchored ship before luffing up alongside the Juno.
Ramage had already begun his survey of the Juno. Her yards were not square and there were two boats lying alongside at the larboard gangway, instead of being streamed astern. The paintwork looked in fair condition though, which was fortunate since there was no time to do anything about it before sailing. The black hull and sweeping sheer were shown off nicely by the pale yellow strake just below the gun-ports. She was one of Sir John Willams's designs, and he had a reputation for building fast ships, though Ramage had heard some captains grumble that they were rather tender and apt to heel a lot in a strong breeze, making it hard work for the gunners.
As the cutter drew nearer he saw some marks on the black hull forward, which showed that the ship's company threw buckets of dirty water and rubbish over the side instead of going straight forward to the head and lowering the buckets well down before starting them. Within the hour he would have men over the side with scrubbing brushes,
The more he saw as the cutter closed the distance, the more furious he became; the ship was thoroughly neglected. Seamen were lounging about the deck as though they were on the Gosport Ferry, and he could see the hats of a group of officers gossiping on the quarterdeck. They are in for a shock in a minute, he thought grimly, as soon as the sentry challenges, in fact.
'What ship?' came a casual shout, and Ramage nodded to the boatman to make the time-honoured answer that would tell everyone on board the Juno frigate that her new Captain was in the boat. 'Juno!'the boatman bellowed, as he glanced at Ramage and risked a wink.
For years the old boatman had been taking officers out to every kind of ship of war, from tiny sloops to 98-gun ships of the line. Better than many junior officers he could glance at masts, yards, sails and hull and tell a great deal about a ship's officers. He had looked at the Juno and had seen her through Ramage's eyes. And he had seen the taut look on the Captain's face.
Heads were now appearing over the Juno's bulwarks and fifty men's faces from one end of the ship to the other were staring down at the little cutter. An officer appeared at the entry port, gesturing to someone behind him. A bos'n's call shrilled faintly, and then Ramage could not watch any more. The little cutter was coming alongside and he had to keep an eye open to make sure that the flapping mainsail did not scoop off his hat as it was lowered, or that a dollop of sea thrown up between the two hulls did not hit him in the face and make a farce of his arrival on board his new command.
Then the cutter was alongside, lines were thrown, and there were the gangway steps dancing up and down as the boat rose and fell in the swell waves. He pulled the flaps of his boat cloak clear, jammed his hat firmly on his head, swung back his sword scabbard and, as the boat reached the top of a wave, grabbed a manrope in each hand and began climbing up the wooden battens which passed for steps. The manropes were greasy and dirty, instead of being scrubbed white.
Then he was standing on deck with a confused set of impressions. Two sideboys were standing to attention, others were running from forward, and a lieutenant was saluting but without a telescope under his arm. Long untidy tails of ropes were snaking over the deck as though the ship was a chandler's shop on a busy afternoon, and there were many spots of grease on the deck, which had not been scrubbed for days. Not a man on deck was properly dressed.
A tall, thin and pale-faced man lieutenant with bloodshot eyes stood in front of him at the salute. There was a moment of complete silence on board and he knew every man on deck was watching: in this instant they would form their initial impressions of the new Captain, impressions that often turned out to be lasting.
He eyed the lieutenant coldly but for the moment did not return the salute, so the man stood there, arm crooked. Then he slowly stared round the ship. First his eyes ran along the deck forward, across the fo'c'sle, noting that the ship's bell had not been polished for a week, then up the foremast where at least four topsail gaskets on the larboard side were too slack and two on the starboard side of the furled topgallant were almost undone,
Where was Southwick? Ramage returned the lieutenant's salute and nodded as the man repeated his name. He was the First Lieutenant. 'Muster the ship's company aft, if you please,' Ramage said, his voice deliberately neutral, 'and then report to me in the cabin. My trunk is in the boat...'
As he turned aft to go down to the Captain's cabin he saw he had made the impression he wanted: the men were looking apprehensive, like naughty boys caught raiding an orchard; the First Lieutenant looked crestfallen, and Ramage had guessed the fellow had followed Ramage's eyes and perhaps seen the ship's condition for the first time in many weeks. He was half drunk, Ramage was certain.
As he reached the companionway he saw Southwick hurrying up the ladder from the lower deck, his face shiny and freshly shaven. Southwick saluted, his round face showing his obvious pleasure, his flowing white mop of hair already beginning to escape from his hat as random eddies of wind tugged at it. 'Welcome on board, sir: I was shaving - the sentry...'
Ramage returned the salute and then shook the old Master's hand. A few seamen were watching curiously and Ramage gestured to Southwick to precede him down the companionway to the cabin. Unbuckling his cloak and throwing it on the settee, Ramage sat down and told Southwick to sit opposite. The low headroom made it uncomfortable to stand, and he suddenly felt tired after the journey from London and the hurrying round Portsmouth.
'Is it as bad as it looks?' he asked.
'Worse, if anything, sir. We'll never do anything with these lieutenants!'
'We don't have to try,' Ramage said grimly. They'll be off the ship first thing tomorrow. We're to have all new officers, although I know nothing about them. His Lordship kindly gave me the choice of First Lieutenant, but I traded it for you as Master.'
Now it was Southwick's turn to grin. He was a good sixty years of age but for all his red face, stout build and white hair - which once led someone to liken him to a martial bishop from a country diocese - he was a fine seaman, firm with the men but fair. ‘I’m grateful, sir, but I'm afraid we have more than our share of scalawags in this ship.'
Ramage went to the door and closed it, and when he sat down again he said: 'Everyone I've met keeps dropping hints. All I know is the Captain was dismissed the Service. The Port Admiral is suitably mysterious, and the ship looks more like a fairground.'
'Drink,' Southwick said cryptically. 'The Captain was a drunkard. He was tried for "conduct unbecoming ..." but in fact he used to lock himself up in his cabin with a bottle for days on end.'
Ramage remembered the First Lieutenant with the bloodshot eyes and slightly hesitant manner. 'The First Lieutenant drinks too: do you think he found the strain too much?'
Southwick shook his head vigorously. 'At least, sir, not in the way you mean: for him the only strain is keeping away from a bottle too.'
'And the other lieutenants?'
Southwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven't seen much of them, sir; but from the gossip I picked up in Portsmouth they are good men who had no backing from the First Lieutenant, so they gave up.'
'With the Captain and the First Lieutenant drinking, it's a mercy they didn't put the ship ashore.'
'The First Lieutenant nearly did, I gather, right here at Gilkicker Point. The other three managed to get her anchored, and the Port Admiral came out to see what was going on and found the Captain insensible here in the great cabin and the First Lieutenant standing with his back hard up against the capstan to avoid falling down.'
'I wonder why they didn't try the Captain for "negligently hazarding the ship"?' Ramage mused.
'Hard to prove, sir: you need the evidence of the First Lieutenant on a "negligently hazarding" charge, and here the two of them were at fault.'
There was a loud rapping on the door, and when Ramage answered the First Lieut
enant came in, stood to attention as best he could with the low headroom, and reported the ship's company mustered aft.
He was drunk all right, and although he was not yet thirty years of age the muscles of his face were slack and the flesh puffy, the eyes shifty and his brow and cheeks covered with perspiration. He had been a heavy drinker for years.
‘Very well. I notice there is no sentry at the door of this cabin.'
'No, sir, I er ...’
'Is my trunk on board yet?'
'Well, yes, sir, but -'
'Come along, Southwick,' Ramage said, taking a small parchment scroll from a pocket in his cloak and picking up his hat.
On deck the sun was occasionally breaking through low cloud; there was enough breeze to knock up occasional white horses although the Juno was tide-rode. Ramage strode to the capstan and turned to face forward. The men were drawn up in a hollow square in front of him. To his left the Marines stood stiffly to attention, a diminutive drummer boy at the end of the file. In front of him and to his right were the seamen and behind him the officers.
The deck was even filthier than he had thought at first: cracked pitch in many seams showed they were long overdue for re-paying or running over with a hot iron. Many ropes' ends needed whippings, the wood of many blocks was bare and showing cracks for lack of oil. Even on deck the stink of the bilges was nauseating - when had they last been pumped? Curiously enough the 12-pounder guns were newly blacked, the carriages freshly painted and the tackles neatly coiled. Perhaps the gunner was the only conscientious man on board.
Ramage looked at the sea of faces. It would be days, if not weeks, before he could put names to them all. They were an untidy crowd but they were nervous; there was just enough movement of feet and hands to reveal that. Every one of those men knew what was about to happen: the Captain was going to 'read himself in' by reading aloud his commission. Until it was done he had no authority on board, but after that he could order them into battle so that not a man lived; he could order them flogged - which was more than the King could do - and he could have them arrested and charged with crimes which put their necks in hazard. He could be judge and jury, father and confessor ...