Ramage's Challenge (22 page)

“Suppose I should thank you but God knows you took long enough getting here. More than a year,” he said.

Ramage bowed. “I received my orders only six weeks ago,” he said politely, “and the Admiralty understood you to be at Pitigliano. We went there first and lost about seven days, for which I apologize.”

Cargill was not the man to give credit to anyone finding him at Giglio. “The Admiralty must be asleep,” he said loudly and querulously.

“They had no frigates patrolling so far inland,” Ramage said coolly, “and presumably received the information from other sources.” He turned to greet the next person, who had been announced as the Marquis of Stratton.

“Most grateful, most grateful, sir. I'm a neighbour of your father's, y'know. Couple of miles from St Kew. Never met you, though. You must've been away at sea, I suppose. I spend a lot of time in town, too. Very quiet, the country. Too quiet.”

The marquis spoke in disconnected spurts, like water from a hand pump, but he had a friendly face. Ramage guessed that he and his father were about the same age, and although the marquis had confessed to preferring London to the Stratton estate in Cornwall, he had none of the dissipated look of the older bucks haunting the gaming tables of the fashionable clubs.

The next man was Viscount Ball, who was plump, cheerful, and grateful. There was nothing he could do to hide the fact that he was
nouveau riche,
nor did he try. Ramage remembered that Ball was a very wealthy Navy Board contractor. Had there not been a scandal a few years ago about overcharging? Giving him a viscountcy in place of further contracts was the normal procedure.

The Earls of Oxney and Beccles clearly lived on their estates, and Ramage speculated on what had induced them to make the Grand Tour. The last two men were the youngest—neither looked more than twenty. The Honourable John Keene was, from memory, the heir of the Earl of Ruckinge, who was a friend of Ramage's uncle in Kent; and the Honourable Thomas Lewis was the son of the Earl of Granton, one of the old King's newer creations. Both young men seemed in awe of Ramage, and both thanked him profusely.

Noting that General Cargill was already slumped in the only armchair, Ramage turned back to Admiral Faversham, the most senior of the officers, unless the Earl of Innes wanted to quote dates of commissions.

“I hope
you
don't think we wasted time, sir,” Ramage said.

The admiral shook his head. “Don't take any notice of Cargill,” he said quietly. “Makes trouble all the time. Once—” the admiral chuckled at the memory, “—the French commandant in Pitigliano locked him in a room by himself for a week as punishment. Bread and water. We all had a little laugh, I can tell you, and we were thankful for the rest.”

At that moment Cargill shouted, “Is this the Royal Navy's hospitality? What about a tot o' rum? I'm dried out, walking down that damned hill. Come on, Ramage, where are your manners?”

Ramage looked down at the general. “I am sorry, sir, we are in the Mediterranean, so we have only wine, not rum, which is issued in the West Indies. Apart from the issue to the seamen at noon and in the evening, it's customary for officers to wait until the sun is over the yardarm before having a drink.”

Ramage saw both admirals turn away to hide smiles: they guessed that the
Calypso
had not stopped at Gibraltar and probably had no wine on board, except for Ramage's own store; and that there was plenty of rum, but Cargill's abrasive manner to a person so much his junior in rank deserved such a snub. Cargill was a man impossible to snub: he was too crude and sure of his own importance.

“Well, serve some dam' thing, Ramage, you've two thirsty officers of field rank, and three flag officers!”

Ramage thought of the thousands of miles back to England in this man's company and he turned deliberately to Admiral Faversham. “May I offer you a glass of wine, sir?”

Faversham shook his head, followed by the other two admirals. The Earl of Innes clearly had had enough of Cargill and also politely declined. Ramage turned to the marquis and the other men, all of whom had heard Cargill, and all of whom shook their heads.

“You seem to be in the minority, sir,” Ramage said, “so perhaps you would be kind enough to wait for dinner, which will be served in—” he looked at his watch, “—an hour's time.”

“No, I'll be damned if I'll wait. Generals aren't kept waiting on board one of the King's ships by some damned whipper-snapper!”

Admiral Sir Henry Faversham did not move, but in the silence that seemed to echo through the cabin he said quietly, “I should make it clear to everyone present that the captain of one of the King's ships is in complete command of the ship and everyone on board.”

“He's not in command of
me,
” Cargill growled with ill-grace. “By God, just wait until the War Office hears about this!”

“Gentlemen,” the admiral said, deliberately talking to them all although obviously warning Cargill, “the captain's functions are laid down by various Acts of Parliament, the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, and particularly the Articles of War. Captain Ramage holds the King's commission, so it behoves us all to obey his orders or face the consequences, and help him when possible.”

Cargill snorted and muttered something, which sounded to Ramage like: “A year late and full of excuses!”

The marquis and both the earls moved across the cabin to talk to Admiral Faversham; instinctively, they tried to help Sir Henry out of what could be a direct confrontation. Cargill remained sitting in the armchair like a sack of potatoes, staring at the desk, quite unembarrassed—oblivious, Ramage noted, to the atmosphere his boorish manner had created.

The two young men, Keene and Lewis, came over to Ramage and started asking questions about the
Calypso:
her size, how many men she carried, how many guns, and, given a good wind, how fast she could sail.

After a few minutes Ramage's raised eyebrows brought Aitken to his rescue, and he was able to talk to Admiral Faversham, although it was hard to hear over the chatter of so many voices in the confined cabin—everyone, it seemed to Ramage, might well have been in solitary confinement for the past year and suddenly wanted to make up for the long silence.

Sir Henry had obviously been waiting for Ramage to escape from the rest, and asked, “How did you know where to find us?”

“We marched to Pitigliano, sir, and found you had been taken to Santo Stefano. When we heard a frigate had carried you all away from there, I didn't have much choice. If the French had taken you somewhere like Toulon, we'd never catch up, but there was just a chance that you'd been imprisoned on one of these islands. Giglio was the first one we—ah, inspected.”

“Dressing up as Italians and French, with a gaggle of seamen pretending to be more hostages—whose idea was that?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “It just evolved, sir. I have some French seamen on board who were recently in France, and they sewed the French uniforms and forged French documents. And I have an Italian midshipman and an Italian seaman.”

“You spoke Italian to us—seemed to be very good Italian.”

“I spent my childhood in Italy, sir.”

“What puzzles me is why you came to look for us.”

“Admiralty orders, sir.”

Sir Henry looked puzzled. “Yes, so you told Cargill, but what did the Board's orders say—you don't have to tell me, of course,” he added tactfully.

Ramage paused a moment, thinking of the Admiralty's warning about secrecy. “Well, sir, their Lordships knew that Bonaparte was keeping a number of people hostage, and they simply ordered me to rescue them.”

“Just like that, eh?”

“They had some idea where you would be, sir. Pitigliano, I mean.”

Sir Henry nodded. “Well, you made a superb job of it, and I shall make that clear in my report.”

Ramage nodded appreciatively in turn. Nods and winks seemed to be the routine for conversation in such a crowd.

“The others,” Sir Henry asked, “are they already on their way to Gibraltar?”

Ramage felt suddenly chilled. “What others, sir?”

“The French kept us in two groups. I haven't seen my wife since we were arrested in Florence more than a year ago, when the war started again. Nor has the marquis, who was in Siena, the Earl of Innes, nor the other two earls.”

“Where are they being kept, sir?” Ramage asked, hoping Sir Henry did not notice the hollow note in his voice.

Sir Henry had changed visibly in a few seconds from an admiral near the top of the Flag List to being a husband worried sick about the safety of his wife. He shook his head. “We don't know. We were allowed to write a letter to each other once a month, although there's no reason to think they were regularly delivered. Questions asked in one letter were rarely answered in another.”

“But you know they're in Italy somewhere?”

“No, I've just assumed it. The commandant at Pitigliano refused to tell us; he just jeered and said they were safe in the hands of Hercules.”

“Hercules?”

“Well, pronounced the French way, of course. I suppose he was making some obscure reference to the Strait of Gibraltar, since the old name was the Pillars of Hercules. A crude joke telling us that they were still in the Mediterranean area, not sent to France.”

“Yes,” Ramage said. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Your orders,” Sir Henry asked carefully, “how do you interpret them now, in the light of what I've just told you?”

Ramage began to feel a liking and respect for the tall man with pale blue eyes, bristling white eyebrows, and hair which was short by usual standards (in fact, Ramage had the impression that, while a hostage, the admiral cropped it himself). The admiral was not asking the question as senior officer present and a man who could blast Ramage's future career with a few strokes of his pen. No, he was being punctilious. He acknowledged that Ramage had orders from the Admiralty which could not be overridden by anyone else, be he at the top of the Flag List or an ambassador. No, Sir Henry was the husband, enquiring because his wife was still in the hands of the enemy.

What a different type of person from General Cargill. Ramage guessed he could easily trace Cargill's career so far—a commission bought for him in a “good” regiment by a wealthy father, then a captaincy and later majority. Then Lieutenant-Colonel Cargill would have his own battalion, and finally—with how much experience of actual battle?—he had become a major-general. But only one of dozens. What made him so important? One of the King's favourites or a friend of the Prince of Wales? Unlikely—the fellow was crude and blatantly
nouveau riche,
and even allowing for the Prince's notorious lack of taste … still, it did not matter; Cargill was in the group of hostages and had been rescued, and that was all that mattered.

Sir Henry had seen Ramage looking at Cargill slumped in the armchair.

“The general joined us recently,” he said quietly. “I have the impression that in—how shall I put it?—well, in trying to explain to the French how important he was (no doubt, to hurry an exchange, which would be natural enough) he gave them the impression that he was very important to the British government, so the French decided to put him in with the hostages instead of exchanging. I don't know the present rate, but I'd expect a couple of dozen captains for one major-general.”

“That would explain it,” Ramage said, trying to keep his voice neutral, and Sir Henry smiled.

Ramage's cabin slowly began to empty as Aitken and Kenton started showing the former hostages to their cabins. Orsini was the first to have to stow his trunk and then move out of the midshipmen's berth. Because Ramage had only one midshipman on board, instead of the more usual six or eight, Orsini, for a long time, had the entire midshipmen's berth to himself. Now eight hammocks had been slung and eight of the hostages were about to be shown how to get in and out of them.

Sir Henry refused Ramage's invitation to use the small dining cabin and took Aitken's. Admiral Lord Smarden had Kenton's cabin, and Admiral Keeler had taken over Hill's. The marquis had wanted to sling a hammock among the marines, who were quartered by tradition between the seamen and the officers, but was finally persuaded to take Martin's cabin.

While the purser worried about feeding the
Calypso
's distinguished guests (a problem which concerned the purser and first lieutenant a good deal more than the guests, who, with the exception of Cargill and the admirals, were as excited at their new surroundings as schoolboys starting off on a picnic), Ramage worked at his desk. His steward collected linen from Ramage's stock for Sir Henry and found a tin water jug and hand basin from somewhere.

Hercules. A man making a joke which he thought would go over his listeners' heads might accidentally give away a good deal. Hercules in Latin, and coming from the Greek Heracles. Ramage cursed his inattention while a tutor had tried to drum Greek mythology into his head. Hercules … famous for being so strong. While serving a king (whose name Ramage could not recall), he had to perform twelve labours. Ramage opened a drawer, taking out pen, ink, and paper.

He wrote down the first task he could remember—killing a monstrous lion. Then he had to kill the Hydra, the many-headed serpent breathing fire. Catch the Arcadian stag—yes, that was the third, and capturing the Erymanthean boar was another. Cleaning the Augean stables. Catching the man-eating mares of Diomedes. And the Cretan bull. And destroying the Stymphalian birds.

Hmm, that made eight. The Queen of the Amazons came into it—yes, she was Hippolyte, and Hercules had to get her girdle. And get the golden apples of the Hesperides. Ramage dipped his pen in the ink. Two more labours to go—for Hercules, anyway. Yes, the oxen of Geryon: he had to capture them. Then the worst one of the dozen—bring Cerberus up from Hades.