Ramage Read online

  ‘Probus or your cousin?’

  ‘My cousin.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That night at the beach beside the Torre di Buranaccio.’

  ‘Well, that’s nothing to get upset about: just tell them what you know.’

  ‘But what do I know?’ she wailed. ‘He says you deliberately left our cousin Pitti behind; he says you are a coward; he says–’ she was sobbing now and, finding it difficult to continue talking in English, lapsed into Italian ‘–he says your father was…was accused of cowardice…’

  Our cousin: the tie of blood: the divided loyalty. No, Ramage thought bitterly, not even divided, since both men were her cousins, but where he was concerned, she’d probably just been indulging in a mild flirtation.

  ‘Pisano is quite correct: my father was accused of cowardice.’

  ‘O, Madonna aiutame!’ she sobbed. ‘What am I to do?’

  She was in both mental and physical agony, and Ramage suddenly thought that perhaps it was not a mere flirtation for her. But nevertheless they’d reached a crisis in their brief relationship. How detached he was: as he knelt watching her sobbing he seemed to hear another person inside him whispering, ‘If she has any reservations about you; if she thinks you could leave Pitti like that, then you’re better off without her… How can she think you’d quit him after all the risks you’d already taken to get to Capalbio?’

  The cold-blooded other self was still in control when, watching her closely, he said in a low voice, ‘I’ve already told you your cousin was dead. Why do you still think I left him wounded?’

  She was looking down at the cot cover, and when he saw her right hand, despite the shoulder wound, plucking distractedly at the material, he realized he was still holding – gripping, in fact – her left hand, and he released it.

  ‘I do not think you left him wounded! I do not think anything! I dare not think anything! What can I think?’ she continued. ‘You say he was dead; my cousin says when we were in the boat he heard him crying for help.’

  ‘Did Pisano say how he knows his cousin wasn’t dead? Did he go back and look? If so, why didn’t he help him?’

  ‘How could he go back? The French would have caught him too! And anyway it was not his duty: he says it was your duty to rescue us.’

  Ramage stood up: she’d said that once before: again he’d run into the barrier of the different code, the muddled logic. He could understand her difficulty in deciding whether to believe him or Pisano; but he couldn’t understand why Pisano should be exempted from helping his own cousin.

  Even as he stood looking down at her he saw himself facing the court martial. If this girl – who appeared to have some affection for him – had difficulty in believing what he said, what chance did he stand against Goddard and his men? What chance in the face of the surrender of the Sibella, followed immediately by Pisano’s accusations?

  There wasn’t one witness he could call to defend himself: he was the only one who saw that faceless corpse. Pisano had all the advantages of the accuser: the court would be bound to take the Italian’s word – after all, he was one of the people considered important enough to send a frigate to rescue.

  Gianna was looking up at him: those deep brown eyes – twinkling an hour ago, but now sad and bewildered – were a window through which he glimpsed her agony of mind. She was holding out both hands (what pain it must be causing her even to move the right hand), pleading with the eloquence with which only Italian hands can plead.

  ‘Madam,’ said a strange strangled voice he did not recognize, though it came from his mouth, ‘we arrive in Bastia in a few hours. Within a day or two a court martial will decide whether or not I did my duty, and punish me if it thinks I failed.’

  ‘But Nico – I do not want you to be punished.’

  ‘You anticipate the court’s verdict.’

  ‘No! I did not mean that. You twist my words! Oh, Dio Mio! Please, Nico, do not stand there a hundred miles away. Have you no heart? Have you suddenly become a dummy stuffed with your awful English porridge?’

  Great sobs were shaking her; she was clutching her wounded shoulder with her left hand to lessen the pain. And he could do nothing: a ruthless stranger seemed to control him.

  ‘Nico… I want to believe you.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’ he demanded brutally. ‘I’ll tell you. If you believe me, you think you have to admit that Pisano is a coward. Other people won’t think that, but it doesn’t matter. Neither of you realize no one would expect Pisano to go back; that was our job: that’s why we are sailors. But Pisano is doing all this needlessly to save his bella figura. We were there to save your lives. The same bullet can kill an American sailor like Jackson or a – well, a peer of the realm like myself. Yet we came together to help you all. Death is very egalitarian, you know,’ he sneered. ‘Why, the same court martial can hang a seaman or a lieutenant, even if he is a peer of the realm.’

  ‘Hang?’ She was horrified: instinctively her hand went to her throat.

  ‘Yes. Sometimes they agree to shoot officers, particularly if they are peers,’ he added bitterly. He felt cold: his skin was contracting as if too tight for his body: his eyes were focusing more sharply than they’d ever done before: on the cross-stitch embroidery of the cot cover: the tiny blue veins on the backs of her hands: the softness of her mouth. Yet someone else had spoken: surely he couldn’t have said all that? Yet – ‘If you’ll excuse me, Madam.’

  ‘Nicholas…’

  But he was at the door: a hand – his hand, though it seemed to act of its own accord – reached out, turned the handle and pulled the flimsy door towards him. Some hidden force drew him from the cabin and closed the door behind him, and a moment before it shut he heard her crying as if her heart would break. His own heart was either broken or turned to stone. Honi soit qui mal y pense: evil be to him who evil thinks. But why did one deliberately crush a lovely flower? Because it was lovely?

  When he reached the top of the quarter-deck ladder he saw Probus, who indicated with a nod of his head that he should walk with him to the taffrail.

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Pisano made me be a witness while he questioned the Marchesa.’

  ‘Yes, sir, she’s just told me.’

  ‘She knows nothing about the beach episode.’

  ‘But she believes him.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Probus flatly.

  ‘They are blood relations – that counts for a lot.’

  ‘You are not hiding anything are you, Ramage? You did go back, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, he was dead; but I was alone and it was dark. To defend yourself against a charge of cowardice you need witnesses. No one saw me. It’s a question of who takes who’s word for what, and Pisano’s story sounds a likely one.’

  ‘The Marchesa told me earlier she wants to believe you, but you won’t tell her anything she can use to force her cousin to stop making these damned accusations. She thinks you’re hiding something.’

  ‘But I’m not. What can I tell her, sir, except that I went back? That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Believe me, Ramage, you can’t afford to have both of them against you. Otherwise Goddard’s got you and you’re done for.’

  ‘I realize that, sir.’

  ‘And there’s the Sibella.’

  ‘There are witnesses enough for that.’

  ‘Of course: I only meant you’ve enough canvas set already and the glass is falling. Anyway, you realize I’ve spoken to you as a friend, not as a senior officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I appreciate it,’ said Ramage, saluting before he turned away.

  As a friend, not as an officer: Probus could mean just that; but he might mean, ‘Don’t get me involved because I shan’t risk anything for you.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The gulls increased their frantic mewing and closed in on the ship, waiting for the cook’s mate to throw scraps over the side. With all her canvas furled or clewed up, the Livel
y slowly lost way, and at a signal from Dawlish an anchor splashed into the water and the cable snaked out through the hawsehole, smoking as friction singed the fibres of the rope.

  While the prize brig anchored close by, Lord Probus’ barge was hoisted over the side and his bargemen, rigged in red jerseys and black straw hats, rowed him briskly across to report on board the 74-gun Trumpeter, whose captain was the senior officer present in Bastia. Ramage noted with relief that Admiral Goddard must be at sea. There were two other line-of-battle ships and four frigates in the anchorage.

  One of the Lively’s quarter boats was lowered and the bosun climbed down into it, to be rowed round the ship to make sure all the yards were squared: that they were all hanging absolutely horizontally.

  Already the first of the bumboats was putting off from the quays laden with women, fruit and wine: the first two no doubt overripe and all three too expensive. Dawlish saw them coming and told some Marines the boats were not to approach within twenty-five yards.

  ‘Can’t trust these Corsicans,’ he commented to Ramage. ‘Half are sympathetic to the French and waiting for them to arrive; the other half are so scared we’ll be thrown out that they daren’t help us for fear of reprisals later. But they’re all united in one thing – cheating us.’

  ‘Corsican bumboatmen aren’t unique in that.’

  ‘No, I mean the people generally. I wouldn’t like to be the Viceroy: old Sir Gilbert must have a deal of patience to handle them. And the Army – you know, we’ve only about 1,500 soldiers to defend this place.’

  ‘Probably enough to defend the port itself.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. How the devil did we ever get landed with Corsica in the first place?’ asked Dawlish.

  ‘Well,’ said Ramage, ‘about three years ago this fellow Paoli led the Corsicans in revolt against the French, threw them out, and asked for British protection. The Government sent out a Viceroy – Sir Gilbert. But I don’t think it’s much of a success: Paoli and Sir Gilbert don’t agree now, and Paoli’s quarrelled with his own people. If you’ve got two Corsicans, you’ve got two parties on your hands. And Paoli’s an old and sick man.’

  ‘I don’t see how Bonaparte can possibly invade,’ said Dawlish. ‘We’ve searched for transports in every anchorage from Elba to Argentario, and captured or sunk the few we found. They do say, though, that all manner of privateers are sneaking over at night from the mainland with Corsican revolutionaries – on a cash basis, a couple of dozen or so at a time. Some of the prisoners we took in the brig said the French were so sick and tired of the Corsicans in Leghorn they’re giving them arms and cash and encouraging ’em to go and liberate Corsica just to get rid of ’em. The French reckon they’ve nothing to lose: if we capture ’em at sea it means fewer causing trouble in Leghorn, and if they manage to land – well, it’s trouble for us.’

  Dawlish suddenly put his telescope to his eye. ‘Midshipman! Look alive there! The Trumpeter’s hoisting a signal.’

  A boy scurried to the bulwarks, steadying his telescope against one of the shrouds.

  ‘Four-oh-six,’ he called out. ‘That’s us, sir!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, boy!’

  ‘Two-one-four – that’s for a lieutenant from ships of the fleet, or ships pointed out, to come on board. Then – Christ! That’s funny!’

  ‘What’s funny, boy?’

  ‘Next hoist is number eight-oh-eight, sir: a ship, but I don’t know her. I’ll look in the list.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Ramage, ‘that was the Sibella’s number. They want me. Acknowledge it, Jack, and let me have a boat, please. By the way, who commands the Trumpeter now?’

  ‘Croucher, I’m afraid; one of Goddard’s pets.’

  ‘And I can see more than five post captains.’ Ramage waved a hand to indicate the warships at anchor.

  Dawlish looked puzzled.

  ‘You’ve forgotten the Courts Martial Statutes,’ said Ramage. ‘Remember – “If any five or more of His Majesty’s ships or vessels of war shall happen to meet together in foreign parts…it shall be lawful for the senior officer…to hold courts martial and preside thereat…”’

  ‘Oh – of course; so Croucher can…’

  ‘Exactly – and will, no doubt. Can you lend me a hat and sword?’

  The 74-gun Trumpeter was very large compared with the Lively, and her shiny paintwork and gilding showed Captain Croucher was rich enough to dip deeply into his own purse to keep her looking smart, since the Navy Board’s issue of paint was meagre – so meagre, Ramage recalled, as the boat’s bowman hooked on and waited for him to climb on board, that one captain was reputed to have asked the Board which side of his ship he should paint with it.

  Ramage scrambled up the thick battens forming narrow steps on the ship’s side and, saluting the quarter-deck, asked the neatly-dressed lieutenant at the gangway to be taken to the captain.

  ‘Ramage, isn’t it?’ the lieutenant asked disdainfully.

  Ramage glanced at the spotty face and then slowly looked him up and down. A few months over twenty years old – the minimum age for a lieutenant – with very little brain but a great deal of influence to ensure rapid promotion. The spotty face blushed, and Ramage knew its owner guessed his thoughts.

  ‘This way,’ he said hurriedly, ‘Captain Croucher and Lord Probus are waiting for you.’

  Captain Croucher’s quarters were vaster than Lord Probus’: more headroom, so that it was possible to stand upright in the great cabin, and more furniture. Too much, in fact, and too much silverware on display.

  Croucher was painfully thin. His uniform was elegantly cut and immaculately pressed, but all his tailor’s skill could not disguise the fact that Nature had sold him short; as far as flesh was concerned, Croucher had been given ‘Purser’s measure’, in other words only fourteen ounces to the pound.

  ‘Come in, Ramage,’ he said as the lieutenant announced him.

  Ramage, who had never met Croucher before, almost laughed when he saw the truth in the man’s punning nickname, ‘The Rake’. The eyes were sunk deep in the skull while the bone of the forehead protruded above them so that each eye looked like some evil serpent glaring out from under a ledge in a rock. The man’s mouth was a label which revealed meanness, weakness and viciousness – three constant bed-fellows, thought Ramage. The hands were like claws, attached to the body by wrists as thin as broom handles.

  Probus was standing with his back to the stern lights so that his face was in shadow and he looked uncomfortable, as if dragged into something which he could not avoid but which embarrassed him.

  ‘Now, Ramage, I want an account of your proceedings,’ said Croucher. His voice was high-pitched and querulous, exactly suited to the mouth.

  ‘In writing, sir, or verbally?’

  ‘Verbally, man, verbally: I’ve a copy of your report.’

  ‘There’s nothing more to say than that, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, then, what about this?’ asked Croucher, picking up several sheets of paper from his desk. ‘What about this, eh?’

  ‘He can hardly know what that is,’ Probus interposed quickly.

  ‘Well, I can soon enlighten him; this, young man, is a complaint, an accusation – a charge, in fact – by Count Pisano, that you are a coward: that you deliberately abandoned his wounded cousin to the French. What have you to say to that?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Nothing? Nothing? You admit you are a coward?’

  ‘No, sir: I meant I’ve nothing to say about Count Pisano’s accusations. Does he say he knows for certain his cousin was wounded and not dead?’

  ‘Well – hmm…’ Croucher glanced over the pages. ‘Well, he doesn’t say so in as many words.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be so deuced offhand, Ramage,’ Croucher snapped, and added with a sneer, ‘it’s not the first time one of your family’s been involved over the Fifteenth Article, and no
w perhaps even the Tenth…’

  The Fifteenth Article of War laid down the punishment for ‘every person in or belonging to the Fleet’ who might surrender one of the King’s ships ‘cowardly or treacherously to the enemy’; while the Tenth dealt with anyone who ‘shall treacherously or cowardly yield or cry for quarter’.

  Croucher’s remark was so insulting that Probus stiffened, but Ramage said quietly: ‘You’ll forgive me for saying the Twenty-second Article prevents me from replying, sir.’

  Croucher flushed: the Twenty-second Article, among other things, forbade anyone from drawing, or offering to draw, a weapon against a superior officer: one that prevented a disgruntled junior officer from challenging a senior officer to a duel.

  ‘You’re too glib, young man; much too glib. Now, are you not the senior surviving officer of the Sibella?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then the day after tomorrow, Thursday, you will be brought to trial in the normal way so we can inquire into the cause and circumstances of her loss.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  As the boat took Ramage back to the Lively, he was surprised to find he felt reasonably cheerful. Now the trial was imminent, now he’d seen the enemy himself, the prospect seemed less frightening. Obviously Admiral Goddard had received a report from the Sibella’s Bosun when the three boats arrived in Bastia, and had left instructions with Croucher telling him what to do when Ramage arrived. Little did Goddard dream that Croucher would have such an easy task…

  Next morning, Wednesday, as a prisoner at large, Ramage had no duties in the ship, which seemed curiously empty now the girl and her cousin had been taken on shore to lodge at the Viceroy’s house. No doubt, Ramage thought bitterly, Sir Gilbert and Lady Elliot were hearing for the tenth time Pisano’s wretched story. Well, Sir Gilbert was a hard-headed Scot who’d known the Ramage family for years. Would he be shocked?

  Late that afternoon a boat from the Trumpeter arrived alongside the Lively and a lieutenant delivered several sealed documents, and after the receipts had been signed went on to visit each of the other ships in the harbour. A few minutes later Lord Probus’ clerk brought Ramage a bulky letter addressed to him.