Ramage Read online

  To an idle onlooker the Marchesa di Volterra was sitting elegantly in a cane chair, beneath a silken parasol, a glass of lemonade on a small table beside her, a fan folded in her lap. Ramage realized the same cold fear now sinking into his stomach must have been gripping her for the past five minutes: the fear of parting with a loved one in wartime. The first parting could be the last – yet it could also be the prelude to many happy reunions.

  She was sitting six feet away yet she seemed a part of his body: a part of his very existence was contained in her. He knew that wherever he went, wherever superior orders sent him – to the East Indies or the West, to the North Sea, to blockade duty off Brest – he would never be complete again; a part of him would always be with her, wherever she was, whether she was alive or dead.

  Would a landscape ever be beautiful again if she was not there to share it? Would life have any colour, taste or interest when he was alone? Or any purpose – except to get back to her?

  Would he ever again willingly risk his life on some mad enterprise, knowing what he now had to lose? Would he fret for her when he should be thinking of the Service? Old Sir John Jervis was notorious for his views on married officers: he reckoned anyone who married was lost to the Service and never hesitated to tell them so, either.

  Ramage could now understand why: a few days ago he did not care over-much about risking his life – certainly he was frightened of being killed, but he did not think too much about it since no one depended on him for money or security. But now – well, he’d certainly ‘given a hostage unto fortune’.

  He was just going to say something to reassure her when Sir Gilbert rose.

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some papers to prepare for the Commodore. By the way, my dear,’ he said to Lady Elliot, ‘the Commodore will be dining with us tonight.’

  ‘Oh, what a pleasant surprise,’ said her Ladyship. ‘The Marchesa is longing to meet him.’

  Ramage also stood up. ‘Will you excuse me, too? I must go to my ship.’

  My ship, he thought and touched his pocket to reassure himself the packet was still there; that he had not been dreaming.

  Lady Elliot said, ‘We shall be seeing you again soon, Nicholas? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  ‘I am afraid not, Madam: I have orders to sail almost at once.’

  He avoided looking at Gianna, who reached out for his hand.

  ‘You will return here?’ She spoke in a whisper.

  ‘I hope so, but – qui lo sa?’

  Lady Elliot, quick to sense the tension, said, ‘You can leave her in our care, my dear. And I’ll write to your parents to say we’ve seen you.’

  Ramage found Jack Dawlish waiting for him on board the Lively. ‘Salaams,’ Dawlish said mockingly, ‘I trust you’ve had a pleasant dalliance on shore?’

  Ramage grinned and bowed: ‘Yes, thank you, my good man: be good enough to unsaddle my horse and give it a good rub down.’

  ‘Talking of saddles, his Lordship’s sitting on his high horse waiting for you.’

  ‘Upset?’

  ‘No, not really: came back from seeing the Commodore expecting to see you on board, and took a round turn on my throat when he found you weren’t – until I explained you were on escort duty.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. By the way,’ Dawlish added, ‘I’ve got my sword back!’

  Ramage’s face fell: when the court broke up he’d forgotten to retrieve it from Blenkinsop, the erstwhile Provost Marshal.

  Probus was sitting at his desk when Ramage went in.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t on board, sir.’

  ‘I gather you had urgent business on shore,’ Probus said dryly. ‘You’ve presumably received orders from the Commodore?’

  ‘Yes, sir: bit of a surprise.’

  ‘You don’t sound very pleased: getting command of a cutter – even tho’ temporarily – used to be a young lieutenant’s dream when I was your age.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, sir: I just wondered why.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ exclaimed Probus, obviously exasperated, ‘this isn’t an appointment by Rear-Admiral Goddard. Do your best and say your prayers like the rest of us. Now listen carefully – here,’ he said, pushing pen, ink and a block of paper towards him, ‘sit down, and make any notes you want.’

  With that he stood up and began walking up and down the cabin, head and shoulders bent to avoid banging his head.

  ‘The Commodore told me to explain this to you. First, the French have landed troops about twenty miles up the coast, between Cape Corse and Macinaggio, just south of the Cape.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The Viceroy…’

  ‘Hmm. Well, they are advancing towards Bastia. Second, the frigate Belette was on her way round here from San Fiorenzo Bay with news of the landings when she came up with two privateer schooners just off Cape Corse. They were full of soldiers which the Belette’s captain guessed they intended landing somewhere round there.’

  ‘When was this, sir?’

  ‘Yesterday, in the forenoon. Anyway, the Belette chased ’em southward – remember that, always get between the enemy and his objective – and they made a bolt for a little port farther down the coast.’

  ‘Macinaggio?’

  ‘Yes, it’s very small and hardly any depth of water. The leading schooner managed to get in but the Belette was inshore of the second one and forced her to carry on southward. The Belette then bore away to get offshore of her, trapping her between the Belette and the coast. A good move, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir: the shore is as good as another frigate.’

  ‘Exactly: cuts down the alternatives open to the enemy. Then the Belette caught up with her. What would you have done then – boarded or sunk her?’

  ‘Sunk her, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If she was full of soldiers they’d outnumber the boarding party. Not worth risking trained seamen.’

  ‘Hmm…well, the Belette’s captain chose to board, but each time she closed the schooner edged inshore, until finally they came up to a small headland with sloping cliffs and a tower on top – the Tour Rouge.’

  Ramage nodded.

  ‘Either the privateer had a very shallow draught, or the French deliberately led the Belette on to an outlying rock or small reef – I don’t know which – but anyway the frigate hit, drove over and wrenched her rudder off. Before they could get her under control she’d run up on the rocks just below the cliff and under the Tower.

  ‘She hit the rocks with her starboard bow and finished up lying nearly parallel with the cliff and almost touching it. The impact sent her masts by the board but they fell against the cliff and ended up like ladders.’

  ‘No chance of towing her off, sir?’

  ‘None at all: a rock as big as a carriage and four is sticking up through her starboard bilge.’

  ‘Where do I come into it, then? My orders say to go to her assistance.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Probus said testily. ‘Her commanding officer realized the French troops had probably advanced well past where the ship was stranded; but apparently they hadn’t bothered with the Tower, which is in sight of the ship and only three or four hundred yards away.

  ‘So he sent the Marines up the cliff – they climbed most of the way along the masts – to occupy the Tower; rigged up tackles and managed to sway up a couple of brass six-pounders, powder and shot, food and water; then moved the whole ship’s company into the Tower.’

  ‘So I have to rescue them from the Tower.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too bad, sir.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet. While this was going on the schooner came back, had a good look, and obviously made all speed for Macinaggio to raise the alarm. One of the Belette’s lieutenants and a seaman were sent off to Bastia for help.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘The seaman’s dead – he fell down a ravine – and the lieu
tenant is in hospital: his feet are raw and he’s utterly exhausted.’

  ‘So I–’

  ‘So you sail before daylight tomorrow with the cutter Kathleen and get the Belettes out of that Tower.’

  ‘Sounds more like a job for soldiers, sir.’

  ‘Oh, certainly: you can see we’ve hundreds to spare in Bastia.’

  ‘Sorry, sir: I was thinking aloud.’

  ‘Well,’ said Probus, ‘you’d better think better than that. You can take it from me, as far as the Commodore’s concerned, you’re still on trial.’

  By the time the boat took him over to the Kathleen the sun had dropped below Mount Pigno and Bastia and the anchorage was almost in darkness. Ramage thought of Lord Probus’ last words. He’d already a plan in mind for the rescue, and his remark about soldiers – which Probus had taken as lack of enthusiasm – was meant as a joke.

  Towers seemed to be looming large in his life these days: the Torre di Buranaccio, and now the Tour Rouge. Why red? Probably the colour of the stone used to build it. Towers and trials. Did Probus mean he was on trial in the sense the Commodore was trying him out, testing him? Or that he was expected to make a mess of this job as well and so…he deliberately stopped himself thinking any more about it: if he wasn’t careful he’d soon think every man’s hand was turned against him.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said cutter to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments, with all due respect and obedience unto you, their said captain… Hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril…’

  Ramage finished reading his commission in as loud a voice as he could muster without shouting, the wind whipping the words from his mouth, and rolled up the stiff rectangle of parchment. He looked at the fifty or so men standing in a half-circle round him on the cutter’s flush decks. Both he and they had heard a captain ‘read himself in’ many times before, legally establishing himself as commanding officer; luckily they’d never know his schoolboyish elation now he was doing it himself. Even the sonorous words took on a new significance – particularly the phrase about failing ‘at your peril…’

  Well, they looked an efficient ship’s company. The Master, Henry Southwick, was middle-aged and tubby; he had a jolly face and seemed popular and competent, fudging by the way the seamen responded when he’d ordered them aft as Ramage came on board. The Master’s Mate, John Appleby, was a former midshipman waiting for his twentieth birthday so that he could take his examination for lieutenant. A cutter did not rate a bosun, but the Bosun’s Mate, Evan Evans, was a thin and doleful Welshman whose nose, bulbous and purple, obviously had an unerring instinct for pointing into a mug of grog.

  After reading himself in, it was usual for the new captain to make a little speech to the ship’s company which, depending on his personality, was full of threats, encouragements or platitudes. Ramage could think of nothing to say, yet the men expected a few words – it gave them a chance to size up their new captain.

  ‘Well, I’m told you’re good seamen. You’d better be, because in a few hours’ time the Kathleen’s going to try something which’ll either give you a good yarn to spin to your children or make ’em orphans.’

  The men laughed and waited for him to continue. Blast, that was supposed to be the end of his speech. Still, now was the chance to explain why they were going to risk their necks: it might well make them work that much faster when the time came. He described how the Belettes were marooned in the Tour Rouge and ended by saying: ‘If we don’t go and take ’em by the hand and lead ’em home, the French’ll make butcher’s meat of ’em – and if we make any mistake we’ll be put down as “Discharged Dead” – that’s if I remember to send the muster book to the Navy Board before I drown.’

  With that the men roared with laughter and gave a cheer – a spontaneous bellow of enthusiasm and amusement. The fools, he thought; already, on no better evidence than flatulent claptrap, they’d put their trust in him. But before sunset tomorrow, if he misjudged a certain distance by as much as a foot, they’d all be dead… But fools or not, they were willing and loyal, which was all that mattered.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Fall out the ship’s company. Carry on, Mr Southwick!’

  He walked aft a few feet to the companionway and went down the narrow steps to his box of a cabin. Even with his neck bent so much that he was forced to look down at the deck he could not stand upright. The small lantern in gimbals on the bulkhead showed the cabin was furnished with a cot, a tiny desk, cupboard and rickety chair.

  He opened the only drawer in the desk and found the Kathleen’s muster book. Looking at the names he saw they were the usual mixed bag – the column headed ‘Where born’ revealed a couple of Portuguese, a Genoese, a Jamaican, a Frenchman and, last on the list, an American. He glanced across the page at the name and saw it was Jackson’s – he’d already been entered as cox’n, just above his own name, ‘Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage… As per commission dated October 19th, 1796… Bastia.’ The Master had made sure the paper work was up to date, Ramage noted with relief: the Kathleen’s previous commanding officer had suddenly been taken to hospital several days before.

  Glancing through the captain’s order and letter book, he saw they contained only routine matters. Later he’d have to sign receipts for them and signal books, inventories and a host of other papers; but for the moment there were more important tasks. He called to the sentry at the door, ‘Pass the word for the Master and tell him to bring his charts.’

  Southwick was with him in a moment, a roll of charts under his arm.

  ‘What’s the condition of the sails and standing and running rigging, Mr Southwick?’

  ‘Typical Mediterranean, sir,’ Southwick said bitterly. ‘Can’t get a scrap of new stuff. All the running rigging’s been turned end for end half a dozen times. Sails are as ripe as pears – and more patches than original cloths. The whole bloody outfit ought to have been condemned a year ago. Masts, spars and hull are sound though, thank God.’

  ‘What about the ship’s company?’

  ‘First-class, sir, and I mean it. Being as we’re so small, we’ve mostly been on our own and always at sea. None of the hanging around in harbour that rots the men.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Ramage. ‘Now let’s have a look at the chart for this coast to the northward.’

  Southwick spread it on the desk, putting the muster book on one end to prevent it rolling up.

  Briefly Ramage outlined their task while taking a pair of dividers from a rack over the desk and measuring off the distance to the headland on which the Tour Rouge stood, and comparing it with the latitude scale at the side of the chart. Fourteen minutes of latitude, so it was fourteen sea-miles. The wind was now west and by dawn he could reckon on half a gale. Sails and rigging not too good; but the rescue was urgent. He needed daylight for the operation. A couple of hours from weighing anchor should see them off the Tower, allowing for a tack or two at the headland to size up the situation.

  ‘Right, Mr Southwick, we get under way two hours before dawn.’

  With the ship under-officered – he was short of a lieutenant and a second master – all the work would fall on Southwick, the young Master’s Mate, Appleby, and himself.

  ‘You’d better get some sleep,’ he told Southwick.

  For the next ten minutes Ramage studied the chart, converting it into a mental picture of the contours of the coast and the sea bed. He was cursing the sparseness of the soundings when he heard someone coming down the companionway and a moment later, after knocking on the door, Jackson came in carrying a letter and two parcels.

  ‘Boat’s just come out with these, sir, addressed to you. A shore-boat, sir.’

  ‘Very well, put them on the bunk.’

  As soon as Jackson left
, Ramage picked up the longer parcel, guessing its contents from the shape. He tore off the wrappings and indeed it was a sword. He unsheathed it and the blade was blue in the lantern light, except for its cutting edge, which glinted cold to the eye, the steel sharpened and then polished. The blade itself was extravagantly engraved – but solid and well-balanced; the basket handle was finely carved, but strong. It was a magnificent fighting sword; not an expensive, lightweight piece of elegance for ceremonial use.

  In the other parcel he was surprised to find a brass-bound mahogany case of pistols. As soon as he opened it he recognized a pair of duelling pistols which he had last seen only that afternoon, on a rack in Sir Gilbert’s study: they had looked such a fine pair that he had commented on them. They were deadly accurate, although the hair-trigger meant they were not ideally suited to the rough-and-tumble of boarding an enemy ship; but they were as perfect an example of the gunmaker’s art as anyone could wish for. The case was complete with a powder horn, extra flints, mould for casting shot, and cleaning brushes.

  Ramage then opened the letter. It said simply: ‘Please accept these three stalwarts who will, I hope, prove as reliable to you in an emergency as you have to – yours truly, Gilbert Elliot.’

  He called to the sentry, ‘Pass the word for my cox’n.’

  When Jackson came down, Ramage gave him the case.

  ‘Check these over, please: fine powder, good flints, and ready for me in the morning, loaded.’

  ‘Phew!’ Jackson exclaimed. ‘They’re a rare pair of barkers!’

  Ramage thought that now was as good a time as any to talk with the American.

  ‘Jackson – thank you for what you did over the trial: you took a tremendous risk.’

  The American looked embarrassed and said nothing.

  ‘But tell me, what evidence did you think you had that wouldn’t be given by the Bosun and Carpenter’s Mate?’

  ‘Only the part while we were in the boat, sir.’