Ramage & the Saracens (39 page)

“Oh, we will, we will. Will your honour attend and bring your sailors?”

Before Ramage could reply a woman weeping hysterically had flung herself round Ramage's neck. “My man, have you brought back my man?” she cried.

Ramage, suddenly fearful that some of the men might have died before he arrived at Sidi Rezegh, said placatingly: “I am sure he is all right: wait here and you will see.”

The mayor insisted on taking Ramage to his house for a glass of wine, asking to be told all the details of the rescue. Ramage tried to describe it in terms the old man would understand, but found difficulty in describing the lethal effect of a round of case shot from the
Calypso
's carronades. But the old mayor was content with what he heard. He then declared: “Today will be a
festa!
And tomorrow. And the next day. Oh, what a holiday! As soon as the priest hears, you will hear the church bell ringing out. Oh, what a day!”

It was a good half an hour before Ramage could get back to the quay and by that time the
Calypso
's red cutter, with Orsini on board, was bringing the first of the men on shore.

Ramage was startled when several women started shrieking as they recognized their men sitting in the boat, and by the time the boat was alongside the quay more women, all of them laughing and crying with excitement, were jostling each other and too excited to talk sensibly.

Ramage found himself strangely moved by the touching reunions: each of the men had a dozen or more men, women and children round him, many of them patting him or holding on, as if to reassure themselves of his presence. Every five minutes or so the mayor ran up to Ramage and shook his hand again, babbling his thanks, and calling to whoever was nearest: “This is the man! You owe it all to him!”

Orsini, who had come on shore, said: “You ought to stand as mayor, sir; you are sure of being elected!”

Eventually Ramage left to go back to the
Calypso,
by which time the boats of the
Betty
and the
Rose
had started bringing in the women and the
Amalie
's boats were carrying in more men. On board the frigate Ramage told Aitken: “Send twenty-five men on shore with Orsini. They can join in the celebrations at the invitation of the mayor. But warn them what will happen if they get drunk. Tell the other men that they will get their chance at the other ports.”

He thought a moment and then said: “You go as well, and take Southwick with you: you deserve a little celebration. Orsini will introduce you to the mayor.”

“Why don't you come, sir? You haven't had a chance to relax for years.”

And suddenly the prospect seemed too good to miss. “I believe I will,” Ramage said. “It will do Kenton good to be responsible for a whole flotilla!”

The calls on the other ports were as touching as the one at Marsala: in each case the mayor thought their arrival heralded bad news; in every case the town then went wild when the men and women were landed, and seamen and marines from the ships went on shore to join in the celebrations.

Ramage suggested to Golightly that some soldiers should go too, but the major refused. He knew the result, he said: the men would get beastly drunk, start fighting among themselves, and some of them would desert.

“They've no personal loyalty to me,” he explained. “I only took command of them five weeks ago. Your men are loyal to you personally; they know that getting drunk or misbehaving will upset you, and they care about that,” he told Ramage. “With your permission, we'll give my fellows an extra tot: that'll satisfy them.”

Ramage agreed and the soldiers seemed satisfied. It seemed that—for those who were not seasick—just being afloat was a good enough change from drilling on a hot and dusty square in Naples. Those who had been seasick were still feeling shaky enough to be thankful to be left alone in their hammocks.

After the final port, Empedocle, the boats were hoisted in and the four ships prepared for the voyage back to Naples. Southwick, standing at the forward end of the quarterdeck, said to Ramage: “I wonder what the admiral will have in store for us this time.”

“Nothing as complicated as last time,” Ramage said. “At least, I don't expect so. Probably escorting some convoy. How would you like a beat to windward all the way to Gibraltar, escorting half a dozen stubborn merchantmen? No excitement, except chasing the mules back into position after they've reduced sail for the night.”

Southwick groaned and said with a grin: “There must be something between charging into Sidi Rezegh and escorting merchantmen!”

“I'm sure there is, but I don't think we stand high enough in Admiral Rudd's estimation to get it. No, my old friend, resign yourself to a convoy.”

Southwick seemed to have lost his sense of humour temporarily and gave a prodigious sniff. “There are times when I long for the West Indies. When I look back it always seems something was happening there.”

“Don't forget we once escorted a convoy from Barbados all the way back to England, and thanks to that madman it ended up with me being court-martialled for something I didn't do.”

Southwick chuckled at the memory. “Yes, that was quite a trial. One of few courts martial where the accused ends up a hero!”

“Don't remind me of it: it still gives me cold shivers.” Southwick laughed heartily. “Very exciting it was; I can remember it almost word for word.”

“So can I,” Ramage said. “That's why I wish I could forget it.”

The voyage back to Naples was uneventful. The wind gradually backed to the south-west, giving them a beat as they sailed round the western end of Sicily, but after that they had a soldier's wind to give them a straight run into the bay of Naples, where the flotilla anchored in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius.

Ramage noticed that there were no new ships in the port; at the moment there were just the flagship and the two 74s, apart from a host of merchantmen and smaller craft.

After the usual salutes were fired, Ramage had himself rowed over to the flagship. Jackson and the boat's crew had smartened themselves up for the occasion, their hair neatly tied in fresh queues, newly shaven, and with clean shirts and trousers. Ramage wore his second-best uniform and his Lloyd's presentation sword. He carried his own despatch on the operation and a copy of Major Golightly's report to his senior officer.

When Ramage entered the great cabin, he found Rear-Admiral Rudd in a good mood. Not jovial, but not cold and abrupt. It was a mood, Ramage suspected, which the admiral used while he waited to see what his subordinate had to report: it would require little effort to change one way or the other. Congratulations or recriminations could flow without much effort.

“Well, Ramage, how did you get on?”

Ramage said offhandedly: “Well enough, sir. All the Sicilians the Saracens kidnapped are now safely back home. We lost about 125 soldiers, marines and seamen dead and wounded.”

“As much as that?”

“The Saracens are brave fighters and we were outnumbered, sir. I have my despatch here, and a copy of Major Golightly's report.” He got up and put them on Rudd's desk.

“I'll read that later. Tell me in your own words what happened. Leave nothing out.”

Ramage began with them leaving Naples, including the call at the various ports in Sicily so that Southwick could draw up a chart, and then their arrival off Sidi Rezegh. When Ramage described how the two frigates had gone aground on the shoal, the admiral sniffed but made no comment. Finally, when Ramage had described how the women had been taken on board the
Rose
and
Betty,
and the men embarked in the
Calypso
and
Amalie,
Rudd nodded, the first indication he had made so far apart from the noncommittal sniff. Then Ramage described the Saracens' last charge and the toll taken by the
Calypso
's carronades.

After he had described how he had taken the men and women back to their respective towns, Rudd allowed himself a comment. “It was careless of you to go aground,” he said, “but at least you carried out the rescue. The minister will want to see a copy of your despatch, of course, and he will tell the king that his people have been restored.”

“Very well, sir,” Ramage said, relieved that the admiral had not added a stronger condemnation about him going aground, a factor which had seemed to absorb him, at least temporarily.

“Now, Ramage, your ship is still provisioned for three months, less the time you took for this expedition?”

“Yes, sir,” answered a puzzled Ramage.

“I may want you to go to Gibraltar. It will be a special operation and the final decision does not rest with me. I want you back here on board at noon tomorrow, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, perfectly,” said Ramage, standing up ready to leave.

S
OUTHWICK was sure it meant a convoy, but Ramage pointed out that the admiral had said the final decision did not rest with him, which seemed to rule it out.

“It's going to be a convoy of troopships, and the admiral has to get the general to agree to a small escort,” the master persisted. “You wait and see. The admiral wasn't expecting us back yet, and now he has a frigate to spare he's going to use us as escort. Perhaps with the sloops.”

“Perhaps,” Ramage agreed, because he could think of no other reason for the admiral's enigmatic remark, “The final decision does not rest with me.”

Next day he dressed in his second-best uniform again, carefully pressed by his steward, pulled on his high polished boots, straightened his silk stock and put on his Lloyd's sword. He felt no excitement: whatever Rudd had in mind would possibly be unpleasant and certainly boring, perhaps both. Rudd's attitude over the Sidi Rezegh operation had been at best grudging; whatever he had in mind was not a reward for a good job done; it was simply the next operation on the list, too unimportant for a 74, but perhaps too important for a mere sloop—so what the devil was it? Ramage gave an impatient shrug as he climbed down into the cutter and told Jackson to cast off.

Once again it was a bright sunny day with a ten-knot breeze from the west: just enough to stop the sun getting viciously hot. That was the difference between the Mediterranean and the West Indies. Out in the islands the sun was a lot hotter but there was nearly always a Trade Wind blowing to keep a man cool. Here in the Mediterranean, during the long summer, the sun was often blazing hot with no cooling wind, so that one just sweltered, particularly at night when there was no breeze to blow through the cabin.

Apart from the hurricanes during the season and the particularly vile diseases for which the area was notorious, the West Indies were perfect. Almost every day of the year brought a wind between north-east and south-east, so one could plan passages with more confidence.

The cutter was rowed past a couple of tartanes which were working their way through the anchorage. The
Amalie,
he noticed, had not squared her yards properly: the fore-topsail yard was not horizontal. At least, he thought inconsequentially, the yards are not a'cockbill, each alternate one hanging at a different angle, as a sign of mourning—the death of the captain, or the admiral. (Did admirals ever die? They seemed to have a grim hold on life. The only admiral he knew who had died was Lord Nelson, a man who deserved to live into ripe old age.)

Ramage felt he was in no hurry to get to the flagship: he was tired of the Admiral Rudds of this world, devious men who never said what they really thought, and who never thought fairly in any case. Come at noon: yes, sir, I shall be prompt, with my hat under my arm and my sword clasped in the other hand. Look, sir, my boots are highly polished in your honour; my steward spent an hour on them this morning.

And then the cutter was alongside the flagship and Jackson had hooked on. Ramage climbed through the entry port and was greeted by the first lieutenant, who led him to the admiral's cabin.

Rudd was alone in the cabin and he waved Ramage to the settee, not to the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit down, we have to wait for a visitor. I may as well tell you now who he will be: I am expecting Mr Arthur Paget, his Majesty's Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of the King of the Two Sicilies.”

The admiral said it with such a flourish that Ramage guessed he was supposed to look impressed. “Indeed, sir.”

“Yes. And by now he will have read your despatch on the Sidi Rezegh affair—not that this is what he is coming to see me about. No, he is coming to look you over.”

“I'm flattered, sir,” Ramage said, knowing that the sarcasm would be lost on Rudd.

With that the admiral picked up some papers from his desk and began reading them. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and the first lieutenant called: “Mr Paget is coming alongside, sir.”

“Very well. I'll come down to meet him.”

The admiral got up from his desk and jammed on his hat, saying to Ramage: “Wait here.”

When he came into the cabin with the admiral, Ramage saw that Arthur Paget was a red-faced man of medium height, too fat and puffing after his exertions. He flopped down in the chair opposite the admiral's desk and said: “I must say it is easier to call on the army, Rudd; none of this damned messing about with boats. I just climb into my carriage!”

“Quite so, sir,” Rudd said ingratiatingly, “but at least it is pleasantly cool afloat; you'll grant me that.”

Paget grunted and said suddenly: “Is this the young fellow?”

“Ah yes, may I present Captain Ramage?”

As Ramage stood up, Paget said sharply: “Ramage? Not Lord Ramage, the son of the Earl of Blazey?”

“Yes, sir,” Ramage said, bowing slightly.

Paget turned to Rudd. “Well, that settles that—no question about it. By the way, that was a splendid effort of yours at Sidi Rezegh: I read your despatch this morning. The king will be very pleased. The war between the Sicilians and the Saracens has been going on for centuries: not often that the Sicilians come off on top.”