Ramage (34 page)

‘Yes: interrupted finally by the Commodore’s arrival.’

‘Well, I trust all ends well. You are three headstrong young people.’

‘Three, sir?’

‘Yourself, the Marchesa and her cousin.’

‘Oh – yes. I suppose so.’

‘I was unaware of what was going on this morning. In fact my wife and I assumed the Marchesa was in bed until the doctor called, and we found she had – er, gone visiting, leaving a note in her room.’

Ramage did not know if Sir Gilbert genuinely did not know, was being diplomatic, or simply indicating that he did not intend being involved, until the old Scot added: ‘I suppose you know we too are old friends of the Marchesa’s family?’

‘Yes – her Ladyship mentioned it a few minutes ago.’

‘Perhaps you think this influenced my request that the refugees should be rescued?’

‘No, sir: I hadn’t connected the two.’

‘In fact, if we are ever to free the Marchesa’s unhappy country from Bonaparte, we’ll need something with which to rally the people – rather as Bonaparte uses crude standards for his troops, as though they are the Roman legions of old…

‘Well, we shall need people, not emblems. Many regard the Marchesa’s family – particularly the Marchesa herself and the cousin who was killed, Count Pitti – as the progressive element which the Grand Duke of Tuscany has been trying to crush. The Grand Duke has behaved oddly, to say the least of it, in treating with Bonaparte. And what could be a better standard, a better inspiration, than a beautiful young woman?’

‘The modern Joan of Arc!’

‘Indeed! Well, let us join my wife and our graceful standard.’

He led the way back to the terrace.

They barely had time to sit down before a steward came out, whispered something to Sir Gilbert, and hurried indoors again.

‘Someone has called to see you,’ the Viceroy explained.

Ramage felt guilty: Probus was probably angry because he’d left the ship for a few hours, although Jack Dawlish said he’d explain they could not let the Marchesa return to the Residency unescorted…

The steward led out a young midshipman who paused by the glass doors and looked round in bewilderment: the transition from the midshipmen’s berth in the
Diadem
to such a terrace clearly bewildered him.

Ramage beckoned.

‘I am Lieutenant Ramage.’

‘Casey, sir, from the
Diadem
. I’ve to’ – he hauled a letter out of his pocket – ‘to deliver this to you, sir. There’ll be no answer, they said, so if you’ll excuse me.’

Ramage thanked him and put the envelope in his lap, politely affecting unconcern, but desperately anxious to read it. Was the court martial to reconvene? Was he to return to the ship and remain under close arrest?

The Elliots had seen too many official documents delivered to regard the midshipman’s arrival as anything unusual, and Sir Gilbert, noticing Gianna’s worried glance at the oblong packet, said: ‘Carry on, Nicholas.’

Ramage broke the seal, and read the letter – orders, in fact – twice. The first time he was unable to believe his eyes; the second he read in amazement. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He searched across the anchorage, looking for a small cutter: yes, there she was. She looked trim enough – about 190 tons, cost about £4,500 to build, a crew of about sixty men, carried ten carronades, and had a snug sail plan – about 1,700 square feet in the mainsail, about a thousand in the topsail, another thousand in the jib, and half that in the foresail. Draught – not that it mattered in these waters – about eight feet forward and fourteen aft. She’d be about seventy-five feet long from taffrail to sternhead with another forty feet for the bowsprit. With a good breeze she’d make nine knots, providing her bottom was clean – which would be unlikely: it’d be encrusted with barnacles and weed.

Glancing up, he saw Gianna looking at him with barely concealed anxiety and he realized she was afraid the letter meant he would be leaving her. He smiled but could not explain: the orders were headed ‘Secret’.

Leaving her…the idea flickered lightly across his mind, then jerked back violently as the two words took on a harsh reality. He felt the smile fade from his face; now he could understand why she was looking at him like that: her eyes were speaking, her lips silently pleading; it seemed her whole body was trying to cling to him; yet the Elliots noticed nothing.

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 lieutenant 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.’