Ramage (35 page)

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.

‘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.’

‘But that was all spoken in Italian.’

Jackson looked puzzled.

‘Well, sir, about going to the peasant’s hut, and the Tower business, and how you carried the Marchesa, and how the other chap came to be killed – that sort of thing.’

Ramage glanced up quickly.

‘How the other chap came to be killed?’

‘Why yes, sir: you know, Count Pretty.’

‘Pitti.’

‘Count Pitti, then.’

‘What do you know about that?’

‘Only that he was shot in the head.’

‘How do you know he was shot in the head?’

Jackson flushed, as if angry because he thought his word was being doubted, but for the moment Ramage was too eager for the man’s reply to explain the question.

‘Well, sir – you know when you carried the Marchesa and I frightened the horsemen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then a few minutes later you called me to come back to the boat?’

‘Yes, yes – go on, man!’

‘Well, as I ran along the top of the dunes, I dodged in and out of the bushes: there were still some Frenchmen dashing around, and I didn’t want to bump into them.

‘I just came to an open patch between the two lots of bushes when I saw a man lying on the sand, face downwards. I turned him over and saw his face was blown off. I guessed it must have been Count Pretty.’

‘Oh Christ,’ Ramage groaned.

‘Why, sir, have I said the wrong thing?’

‘No – no, on the contrary. It’s just a pity Commodore Nelson didn’t arrive a few minutes later – after you’d told that to the court.’

‘But what difference would it have made?’ Jackson was completely puzzled.

‘I mentioned I was being accused of cowardice, didn’t I…’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, the accusation was that I pushed off in the boat and deliberately left Count Pitti behind wounded. It was even said that as we rowed away someone heard him calling for help.’

‘But didn’t you come up and find him after putting the Marchesa in the boat, sir? I saw footprints in the sand from the boat to the body and back: I thought they were yours.’

‘They were, but no one saw me go back. Nor was there anyone – as far as I knew – who could corroborate that I found him with his face blown off.’

‘Except me, sir.’

‘Yes, except you. But I didn’t know you knew – and,’ Ramage gave a bitter laugh, ‘you didn’t know I didn’t know you knew!’

‘Trouble was, sir, you were all talking in Italian. I knew you were having a row with that other chap, but none of us knew what it was about… Still, I can square that when the court sits again.’

‘Maybe – but I’m afraid the court might not believe you now: they might think we made the story up.’

‘They could, sir; but they’ve only got to ask the rest of the lads in the gig. They can vouch that I told them what I’d seen soon after I got in the boat: before the lady collapsed.’

‘Well, we’ll have to see. You’d better take the pistols and check them. And tell the steward to get me some supper.’

‘Man the – er, windlass,’ Ramage told the Boson’s Mate, and at once the shrill, warbling note of his call pierced the ship, sounding eerie in the darkness.

Ramage was tired; his eyelids felt gummed up, and he cursed himself for not making an inspection of the ship the previous evening: handling a small fore-and-aft-rigged cutter was a vastly different proposition from a square-rigged frigate: apart from the sails, the little
Kathleen
had a tiller instead of a wheel and a windlass instead of a capstan: he’d nearly made a fool of himself with almost his first order, just managing to change ‘capstan’ to ‘windlass’ in time.

The foc’s’le men and the ship’s half-dozen Marines ran to the foredeck and a couple of them disappeared below: they would stow the cable as it went down into the cable tier.