Diamond Rock

 

CHAPTER ONE

There was a faint smell of oil, turpentine and beeswax in the shop, and while an assistant scurried off to fetch the owner Ramage glanced first at the sporting guns in the racks round the walls and then at the pairs of pistols nestling in their mahogany cases which almost covered one end of the counter.

The guns accounted for the smell of oil. Then he noticed the polished floor of narrow wooden tiles, laid in a herringbone design to take advantage of the grain pattern. Turpentine and beeswax – the gun-maker used the same polish on his floor as he did on the stocks of his guns.

His father gestured round the shop with his cane. ‘My first pistol came from here nearly fifty years ago. This fellow’s father owned it then, and my father was one of his early customers.’

Ramage looked at the tall figure of the Admiral. His face was lined now and his hair was grey, yet he was erect, his brown eyes alert and looking out on the world with amused tolerance from under bushy eyebrows. He pictured his father as a shy young midshipman – a ‘younker’ nervously choosing a pistol, and no doubt anxious to be off to the sword cutler’s to complete his martial purchases before joining his first ship.

The Admiral nodded at Ramage’s right shoulder. ‘Your epaulet is crooked. I know it’s the first time you’ve worn it, but…’

Ramage tried to straighten it but the padding of the strap was new and stiff, unwilling to sit squarely on the shoulder-bone, and he was unused to the tight spirals of bullion hanging down in a thick fringe round the edges. The light reflecting on them caught the corner of his right eye and made him feel lopsided. He would get used to it, he thought wryly, but probably not before he had three years’ seniority and was entitled to wear an epaulet on the left shoulder as well.

Don’t grumble, he told himself as he tugged at the strap; it’s taken long enough to be made post and get this single epaulet. He was so used to being addressed as ‘Lieutenant Ramage’ that it was going to take a while to become accustomed to ‘Captain Ramage’. Admittedly his name was right at the bottom of the list of ‘The Captains of His Majesty’s Fleet’, but by next year many more lieutenants would have been ‘made post’, their names coming lower on the list, thus increasing his seniority and pushing him up the ladder of promotion.

Progress up the list of lieutenants had been slow: he had been less than a third of the way to the top when he had been unexpectedly made post three days ago. The jump from lieutenant to post captain was reckoned to be the hardest to make because in time of war it did not depend on seniority so much as on doing something that caught the Admiralty’s eye – or having enough ‘interest’ in high places. There was a lot of satisfaction in having been promoted as a reward for things done: he had begun to think he was remaining a lieutenant because his father was still out of favour, still regarded as a scapegoat for the stupidity of politicians some twenty years ago.

Cross-eyed, he tried to jerk the epaulet but was interrupted as the plump gun-maker came through the door at the back of the shop, a delighted smile spreading across his face as he hurriedly removed his leather apron.

‘My Lords!’ the man exclaimed with a quick bow and, noticing Ramage’s single epaulet, said with obvious pleasure: ‘Congratulations. Captain the Lord Ramage. Well-deserved, if I might say so, judging by the Gazettes for the past few years! It seems only a few months ago that the Earl brought you here as a young midshipman just off to join your first ship.’ He turned to the Admiral, his brow wrinkling in concentration. ‘It must have been a dozen years ago…yes, going off to join the Benbow.’

The Admiral nodded. ‘You have a good memory, Mansfield. He was made post last Friday.’

The gun-maker’s eyes twinkled as he put his oil-stained apron behind the counter. ‘The bullion of the epaulet…’

‘It’ll soon lose the new look,’ Ramage said. ‘It hasn’t had a breath of sea air yet.’

The Admiral sniffed. ‘The smoke and fog in this damnable city are enough to turn it green, even if it is gold.’

He pointed his cane at the sporting guns. ‘Well, Mansfield, mustn’t take up all your morning. I want a lighter gun for snipe – I’m getting a bit stiff in the joints and those blessed birds seem to jink more today than when I was younger. The captain wants a pair of pistols. He lost that pair you made, and he’s been making do with those confounded Sea Service models.’

As Mansfield moved towards the cases of pistols the Admiral said: ‘You’d better attend to me first; the Marchesa is buying the pistols as a present, and she’s raiding the shop next door. She’ll join us in a few minutes, after she’s bought a few cables of lace and ribbon.’

For the next twenty minutes, as carriages clattered along Bond Street and hucksters shouted the merits of their wares, the Admiral and the gun-maker discussed sporting guns. Once they had selected a suitable design, Mansfield insisted on checking the measurement for the length of the stock, and when the Admiral protested that he had had those measurements for years the gun-maker said respectfully, ‘You keep a youthful figure, my Lord, but–’ he tapped the right shoulder, ‘you have put on a little flesh here, just where it makes a difference.’ He went behind the counter and consulted a heavy ledger, then came back again with a rule. ‘If you’ll just lean forward slightly – ah, yes, a difference of nearly an inch…’

The Admiral sighed. ‘So that’s it! I haven’t been happy with any of my guns lately; they just don’t sit right. I thought my muscles were getting stiff.’

The gun-maker nodded knowingly: ‘It’s not unusual, my Lord. Try the new gun when I’ve finished it, and if you find it comfortable I suggest you return your other guns and I’ll shorten and reshape the stocks accordingly. It won’t affect the balance – but I can guarantee it will affect your game bag. And–’

He broke off with an apology and hurried to the door as a small but strikingly beautiful woman in a pale blue cape swept into the shop. Over her shoulder Ramage saw Hanson walking away to their carriage with a large packet holding her latest purchases. The old man was always delighted to leave his domestic duties and go off on shopping expeditions with the Marchesa: her Italian accent and bizarre and impish sense of humour reduced any shop to an excited uproar in a matter of minutes. Ramage wondered idly whether the usually staid establishment they had visited in Albemarle Street an hour earlier had managed to get all the rolls of dress material back on the shelves. The Marchesa would still be there, asking to be shown yet more cloth, if the Admiral had not called a halt by protesting that they had seen enough material to make a suit of sails for a ship of the line, and declaring that her first three choices were by far the best, even though she had changed her mind a score of times since then.

The owner of the shop, surprised to find that Admiral the Earl of Blazey could not only stop the Marchesa but do it in a way that left her laughing and agreeing with him, hurriedly scribbled down the lengths she wanted and looked still more surprised when she nodded goodbye, turned to Ramage and said: ‘Now let us go to Bond Street for the pistols.’

The gun-maker welcomed her, guessing that she was ‘the Marchesa’ the Admiral had mentioned, and Ramage winked at his father: the poor fellow was in for a shock. Although she was only five feet tall, with finely chiselled features, high cheekbones and the imperious manner that befitted the ruler of the little kingdom of Volterra, her appearance gave no hint of her adventures in escaping from Bonaparte’s troops when they invaded Italy. That episode had given her a surprising skill in the use of pistols and a knowledge of firearms more usual in an Army officer. She could load, aim and fire a pistol with the casual elegance of a woman removing a necklace from a jewel box and placing it round her neck.

She nodded to the gun-maker and said to Ramage: ‘I hope you haven’t chosen yet?’

‘We’ve been waiting for you. I saw Hanson staggering off with your last purchases! Did you find all the ribbon and lace you wanted?’

‘The lace I want is still in Italy. They have a poor selection here. This ’Oniton they talk about – is that the town we pass through on the way to St Kew?’

‘“This Honiton”, young lady, happens to be the centre for the finest lace in this country,’ said the Admiral with mock indignation.

‘Perhaps,’ she said coolly. ‘But if the selection they have next door is a fair example of their work, then Volterra is the centre for the finest lace in the world.’

The Admiral flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the lace of his stock. ‘My dear Gianna, poor Nicholas and I have to make do with this – smuggled from Bruges, no doubt.’

‘No doubt,’ Gianna said tartly, eyeing the lace edge of the stock with disdain. She turned to the gun-maker. ‘Now, the captain wants a matched pair of pistols. Not duelling pistols,’ she added, ‘because a hair trigger is dangerous on board a ship. Those might–’

She broke off as Ramage took her arm and led her to the far end of the counter. He knew from long experience that it was useless to tell her that even though she was paying for them and knew about pistols, it was wiser to leave the actual choice between the man who made them and the man who was going to use them. In any other woman it would have been intolerable but in Gianna it was partly her upbringing and partly a measure of her love for him. He needed a pair of pistols and she wanted to give them to him as a present to celebrate his promotion. She insisted on the best because, better than most people, she knew that his life might one day depend on how reliably and truly either or both guns shot.

Ramage pointed to the case at the end of the counter.

‘The pair with hexagonal barrels,’ he said. ‘Mansfield will have to fit belt-hooks but–’ he lifted one of the guns from the case and turned it on its side, so the pan was downwards – ‘yes, that is easy enough.’

‘They’re very plain,’ Gianna said and pointed to the pair in the next case. ‘Look, what about these? Look at the design on the barrels – and the wood: the carving is beautiful.’

‘I want hexagonal barrels,’ Ramage said firmly. ‘The flat top surface makes an excellent sight when you have to shoot quickly, and I don’t like a lot of fancy work on a gun.’

The gun-maker heard Ramage’s comment. ‘A pair of good plain guns with nine-inch barrels, my Lord?’

Ramage nodded. ‘But I’ll want belt-hooks fitted. Can you do that and have them ready in three days?’

‘Of course, of course. Your Lordship has chosen exactly the pair I would have recommended.’ He took the other gun from the case. ‘The safety bolt is ready for the thumb, and I’ve made sure it doesn’t protrude so much it might catch in clothing. The stock – will you grip it, please? Yes, it fits your hand nicely. Just watch one thing, my Lord: on this model I have made the trigger guard a little wider here – you see the flare on the forward side? You need to remember that. Or,’ he added hurriedly, ‘if you find it too wide I can change it to the normal width.’

Ramage ran his index finger along the guard and quickly crooked it round the trigger. ‘No, don’t change it: that is a good idea. What about belt-hooks?’

The gun-maker excused himself and went to the workshop, returning with a case which he put down on the counter and opened. He took out one of the two pistols inside and held it out to Ramage. ‘The same pattern of gun, my Lord, with a belt-hook already fitted.’

Gianna sniffed. ‘I don’t like that wood so much, and anyway, I prefer gold-inlaid mounts.’

‘I prefer silver,’ Ramage said firmly, ‘and this darker wood – cherry, isn’t it? – is more serviceable. Remember the salt air, and they’ll be getting only an occasional wipe with an oily rag. No one is going to spend hours polishing them.’

‘Silver tarnishes,’ Gianna reminded him, ‘gold does not.’

‘Quite so, my Lady,’ the gun-maker said politely, ‘but…’

‘Gold inlay would not look right on this pistol,’ Ramage said firmly, then added in a lighter tone: ‘When I become an admiral you can have Mansfield make me a pair of duelling pistols with as much gold work as you like.’

‘By the time you are an admiral,’ she said crossly, ‘I hope you won’t be depending on pistols for your life. Well, you decide what you want, I’m going to see what the Admiral has chosen.’ She looked at the fob watch hanging on a thin chain round her neck. ‘Don’t forget we still have to visit Mr Prater for your sword.’

When she had walked to the other end of the shop the gunmaker said: ‘A complete refit, sir?’

Ramage smiled ruefully. ‘I lost everything in the West Indies. Since then I’ve been using a Sea Service pistol and a cutlass, but the Marchesa decided to celebrate my promotion with…’

Mansfield grinned conspiratorially. ‘Well, sir, I think you’ll find these pistols are an improvement on the Sea Service! Clumsy brutes, they are.’

‘They have to be: they get dropped on deck and tossed into arms chests, and a seaman’s idea of using a pistol is jabbing the muzzle in the enemy’s belly or fetching him a bang on the head with it.’

The master gun-maker shuddered and changed the subject: ‘I saw Mr Prater the other day when I was down at Charing Cross. He has some lovely blades now. There’s such a call for them these days that he can afford to carry a good stock.’

‘Yes,’ Ramage said gloomily, ‘but I want a fighting sword; a solid blade slung in a shoulder belt. I have a feeling that the Marchesa will try to persuade Mr Prater that a post captain should always wear a dress sword suspended from slings on the waistband of the breeches.’

‘A lot of naval gentlemen wear a broad belt over the right shoulders these days,’ Mansfield said. ‘Outside the waistcoat and under the coat. More practical, I suppose, sir, though I must admit it doesn’t look so smart.’

‘When you’re boarding an enemy ship it’s more important that the scabbard doesn’t get between your legs,’ Ramage said lightly. ‘Now, these pistols…’

‘Ah, well, you have all you need here, my Lord: two powder flasks – note the spring measures work easily, and be careful no one oils the springs: it is quite unnecessary, and a drop of oil in the powder…’ he warned. ‘Wad cutter, shot mould, box for flints – I’ll fill that with a good selection; I have a new supply in from my flint knapper in Sussex – and oil bottle. Here you have the proof certificate from the Gun-makers’ Company – the Proof House on Tower Wharf is a busy place these days, I can tell you! Two keys for the case…’ He picked up one of the pistols and deftly checked it over. ‘Rammer – that is a choice piece of horn.’ He tapped the pointed spiral of the metal at the other end: ‘I’ve made this wormer a little stronger than most.’ He cocked the gun and squeezed the trigger. ‘I think you’ll find that a nice compromise, my Lord; not a hair trigger, but it doesn’t need a wrestler’s grip.’

Ramage picked up the second gun, checked it over and looked at the belt-hook. It was wide and substantial, with just enough spring to slip inside a belt without sticking and yet not bind when drawn in a hurry. More important, the whole gun fitted comfortably in his hand, so that the barrel seemed an extension of his forearm.

‘They’ll do,’ he said, putting the pistol back in the case, ‘and you’d better give me two spare rammers. Hmm…yes, do you have a complete spare lock?’

The gun-maker nodded and, taking an oily rag from his pocket, carefully wiped the metal of both guns before putting them back again. ‘Finger marks,’ he said, ‘they lead to rusting. Are you going to be away a long time, my Lord?’

‘A long time, and I’m going a long way.’

‘The West Indies again, my Lord?’

There was nothing secret about it, so Ramage nodded. ‘Their Lordships like to keep me moving about!’

‘You were in the Mediterranean at one time, were you not, sir?’

‘Mediterranean, Atlantic, West Indies, back to the Atlantic… The Admiralty is changing the pattern by sending me to the West Indies this time, instead of the Mediterranean.’

‘Rust,’ the gun-maker said sorrowfully, ‘that’s my biggest enemy in the West Indies. Some of my gentlemen bring back pistols from the West Indies that are just a useless mass of rust.

‘Yet they only need wiping over with an oily rag every week, and avoid finger marks. Must be a very wet place…’

‘Not so much wet but hot and damp,’ Ramage said. ‘The damp gets into everything – clothes mildew, metals rust, wood rots and tempers fray, too!’

‘It must have its compensations, I suppose; many of my gentlemen seem to like it out there.’

‘Plenty of prizes to be taken,’ Ramage said. ‘We poor naval officers need the prize and head money to pay your prices, my dear Mansfield!’

The gun-maker grinned as he locked the case and gave Ramage the key. ‘Since the Marchesa is buying these for you, my Lord, she’ll probably want you to take them now?’

When Ramage nodded, he said: ‘I will choose some more flints, and I’d like to give you a gross of lead balls which I cast myself. They’re polished and packed in a special box so they don’t get dented. You are staying at Palace Street, sir?’

‘Yes, Blazey House. I leave for Portsmouth on Thursday.’

‘My man will deliver them this afternoon, along with the spare rammers and lock.’

 

That night Ramage excused himself early and left the family to go to his room. There was much to do before he left for Portsmouth to take up his new command, and he knew that Gianna would be disappointed if he did not spend his last whole day in London in her company.

The table in the small room – he preferred one on the third floor because it was quieter – was covered with the day’s purchases. There was a black japanned speaking trumpet with a braided silk lanyard, the case of pistols and the sword and belt. Prater had started off by taking Gianna’s side in trying to force an ornate sword on him, a wretched affair more suitable for a subaltern in some fashionable regiment that never saw active service, but he had got his own way in the end. There were also two pairs of gold buckles for his shoes. He had always made a point of using pinchbeck while a lieutenant – some captains were touchy about young officers wearing gold – but gold buckles were an economy in the long run, since pinchbeck corroded so quickly.

He put the purchases on the floor. Items of clothing had already been put away in drawers and would soon have to be stowed in a trunk and sent to Portsmouth, but this evening he wanted to catch up with some of his paper work: once he was on board there would be so much more awaiting him that he would soon be swamped.

He put the inkwell, pen and some paper in the middle of the table, retrieved the sand box from the dressing-table, and took his commission from the drawer. It was an imposing document and he delighted in its archaic language, but it had cost him two guineas. He had officially acknowledged receipt of it already, now he had to send the money.

His instructions had arrived that afternoon and they too needed acknowledgement, but most of the evening was going to be taken up with drafting his ‘Captain’s Orders’. He bitterly regretted not having salvaged his original set when the Triton brig was lost; he had copied those from another commanding officer, adding various items of his own, but now he had to start from scratch.

Drawing up the Captain’s Orders was always a difficult business. They were really a set of standing orders showing how the captain wanted things done on board the ship while he was in command. Most captains had them aleady written down in a little book, which they handed to the first lieutenant soon after they stepped on board. Ramage knew from bitter experience as a midshipman that getting a sight of the book and copying out the details was a matter of urgency for all the ship’s officers since every captain had his own way of doing things, his quirks and idiosyncracies…

Some captains made the mistake of putting too much in the Orders. Others put too little, afraid of committing themselves to some routine, that, in a million-to-one chance, might not meet a particular situation and so leave them open to blame. And some captains, he thought ruefully, sat at tables staring at blank sheets of paper.

He jotted down several headings which covered sail-handling and the day-to-day routine on board, and then he added half a dozen ‘Do nots’. Then he started writing them out in full – knowing that his clerk could make a fair copy when he went on board – and beginning: ‘Captain’s Orders, His Majesty’s frigate Juno, Nicholas Ramage, Captain.’ He glanced at his list of headings, and wrote first: ‘Slovenly evolutions: any evolutions performed in a slovenly manner will be repeated until satisfactorily executed. There will be no unnecessary bailings from aloft or from the deck.’

He had added ‘from the deck’ to ensure that enthusiastic but noisy commission and warrant officers watched their tongues: you could always be certain that a ship was badly run if you heard a lot of orders being bellowed by all and sundry.

‘Captain called: the captain is to be called at daylight; when the course cannot be laid; if a strange sail is sighted; if the weather threatens, or the barometer falls or rises suddenly or excessively.’ He could add that he should be called if land was sighted, or for a dozen other reasons, but the officer of the deck would be quick enough to call the captain in unusual circumstances. And that reminded him: ‘Appearance of land: all appearances of land are to be reported and the Master called at once.’

He glanced at his list and then wrote: ‘Trimming and shortening sails: the officer of the deck should trim, make or shorten sails as required, reporting to me after having done so.’ That made lieutenants use their initiative and judgement; there was no point in an officer rushing to the captain for permission to carry out a routine task.

‘Men’s dress: officers of the deck are responsible for the watch being correctly dressed and in a manner suitable for the climate.’

He reached for the list of headings. He had completely forgotten the section dealing with going into action. And ‘starting’ – that was strictly regulated in any ship he commanded. If the bos’n’s mates could not get the men moving fast enough without hitting them across the shoulders with rattans the fault was more likely to be with the bos’n’s mates – or even the captain – for not having a properly trained and willing ship’s company.

List of clothes: he had forgotten that, too, and he jotted down the items the seamen were expected to have – ‘3 jackets, 2 waistcoats or inside coats, 2 blue and 2 white pairs of trousers, 3 pairs of stockings, 2 pairs of shoes and 2 pairs of drawers.’ He could remember that without any effort, having inspected the clothing of hundreds of seamen since he first went to sea.

Keys – damnation, he seemed to have forgotten everything that mattered. ‘Keys of the magazine and storerooms are to be kept in the possession of the first lieutenant. The magazine is never to be opened without the captain’s permission. Storerooms must never be opened without the knowledge of the first lieutenant and the officer of the deck, and always with a midshipman present. The keys of the spirit, bread and fish rooms and the after hold are to be kept in the care of the Master, one of whose mates is to be the last man out of the hold or room to guard lights and lock the doors and generally take care there is no risk of fire.’

He was slowly getting through the first part. ‘Every day after dinner, and before hammocks are piped down in the afternoon, the decks are to be swept… Whether at sea or in harbour, no lights are to be left unattended in any berth or cabin and only lanthorns are to be used in the tiers… There will be no smoking except in the established place, which is under the forecastle… Spirits are always to be drawn off on deck and never below, and never by candlelight because of the risk of fire… No boats are to be absent from the ship during mealtimes except upon a special service, in which case the captain must first be informed… Every man on board shall be clean-shaven and freshly dressed by 10 o’clock every Sunday morning before being mustered by divisions… Likewise on Thursdays the ship’s company is to be shaved and put on clean shirts and trousers… The ship’s cook, immediately breakfast or dinner is ready, shall bring aft to the captain (or first lieutenant if the captain is not on board) a sample of all provisions being served to the ship’s company… Work done for an officer or warrant officer by any member of the ship’s company must not be paid for with spirits or wine… Officers will draw the captain’s attention to deserving men so that their merits are not disregarded…’

He had been writing for half an hour and, pausing for a few minutes, found himself thinking how remote it all seemed; how distant from this comfortable room and quiet house. These orders were for the conduct of a ship of war, where at any hour of the day or night two hundred or more men could be fighting for their lives against a sudden storm or enemy ships. He was responsible for the ship, down to the last roundshot and length of marline, and for ten score men, from their seamanship to their health. Yet at this moment it seemed remote, and the case of pistols, the sword and scabbard on the floor beside him, seemed as out of place as a dog kennel in a church vestry.

He began wondering what officers the Admiralty would send him. So much depended on luck, even his own promotion to command a frigate. He would probably still be a lieutenant but for the fact that he had had to report personally to the First Lord after carrying out his last mission, which had been a complete success. Lord St Vincent had been so pleased that he had decided to make him post and give him a frigate. Not only that, but he had told him to name his own first lieutenant, something the old tyrant rarely did. It was just Ramage’s bad luck that he had had no name to put forward.

His wary mention that he would be grateful if he could have old Southwick as Master had struck some chord in His Lordship’s memory and he had agreed and at the same time said jokingly that he assumed Ramage was also going to ask for that bunch of scalawag seamen he seemed to manage to drag from one ship to the next.

Ramage knew enough of the Service to realize that by not asking for a particular first lieutenant he had left a vacancy which would be filled by one of His Lordship’s favourites, or a man long overdue for promotion, and that His Lordship was well aware of that when he agreed to let him have Southwick as Master. So Ramage had grinned and said that by chance there were a dozen of those scalawags at Portsmouth and with His Lordship’s approval of course… Lord St Vincent had given one of his dry chuckles and told Ramage to leave a list of the men’s names and their ships with the Board Secretary, Mr Nepean.

There had been a knowing look in the old Admiral’s eye: he was a fine seaman and knew that a young captain who had never before commanded anything bigger than a brig needed an experienced master whom he knew and trusted – and who knew and trusted him. And a dozen prime topmen were far more useful than a smart first lieutenant. A good captain and an experienced master might make up for a slack first lieutenant, but however good the captain and first lieutenant, they could never make up for a bad master. One could sail through an anchored fleet and point to the ships with bad masters…

Lord St Vincent had allowed him to have Southwick and the dozen men – but then he had settled down to a little bargaining of his own. By tradition the captain chose his own midshipmen, often relatives or sons of friends. With four allowed for every hundred men, Ramage was entitled to a maximum of eight. His Lordship had said, very casually: ‘I suppose you have all the midshipmen you need?’ knowing full well that Ramage had only learned ten minutes earlier that he was being given a frigate. He had only one candidate. A young nephew of Gianna’s had recently arrived in England and been given permission to join the Royal Navy if he could find a captain to take him.

A newly promoted captain would have a dozen applications in as many minutes after it was known outside the Admiralty that he had been given a ship, but so far the news had not travelled outside the First Lord’s office, so Ramage mustered a pleasant smile and said: ‘I have only one at the moment, sire – a nephew of the Marchesa’s. Can I be of service to you?’

It so happened that he could, Lord St Vincent had said with obvious relief. The son of a cousin of Her Ladyship needed a berth – although it was entirely up to Ramage. Ramage nodded his agreement as he remembered Bowen, who had served with him in two ships: a brilliant surgeon who, ruined in London by drink, had joined the Navy but had now been cured. He was an amiable companion. If the First Lord’s wife’s cousin had a problem, now was the time for trading!

‘I should consider it an honour, sir. If the young gentleman will present himself on board at Portsmouth?’

‘Of course, of course; I’ll see to it myself. Much obliged to ye, Ramage – and look’ee, Ramage, make sure you get a round turn on him right at the start.’

‘Aye, aye, sir. By the way, may I make so bold as to request a particular surgeon? The man who was of especial service in the Lady Arabella, sir.’

‘That was the Post Office packet you saved, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember. Very well, then, give Nepean his name. I presume he is in England?’

‘Yes, sir, he is on leave at the moment: he and his wife had dinner with us a few days ago.’

‘Drink!’ the First Lord suddenly exclaimed crossly. ‘Doesn’t he drink heavily?’

Knowing that next to officers who married too young, the First Lord most abhorred heavy drinkers, Ramage said hurriedly: ‘He did, sir, before he first joined me.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Well, Southwick – that’s the Master I requested – and I managed to cure him. He hasn’t touched a drop for more than two years now.’

‘By Jove!’ the Admiral said. ‘Curing the sawbones, eh? Now look’ee, I’ve just remembered a chaplain…’

He paused for a moment, watching Ramage closely. The captain of a frigate was not required to carry a chaplain unless one applied to join his ship. There were good and bad chaplains. A 32-gun frigate, with a ship’s company of only 215 men, rarely provided a chaplain with enough work, even if he gave lessons to the midshipmen, so the captain and ship’s company tended to be at the mercy of the man’s quirks, foibles and prejudices. A High Church chaplain soon upset all the Low Church men on board; a Low Church chaplain inevitably ran foul of the Catholics. Ramage had long ago decided that the men’s spiritual needs were quite adequately catered for every Sunday morning by a short service conducted by the captain. Some rousing hymns did the men the world of good, and were the captain’s best weathercock as far as their spirits were concerned. A contented ship’s company sang lustily; a disgruntled crew did little more than mumble, with the fiddler’s scraping nearly drowning their voices.

Lord St Vincent gave a wintry smile before Ramage answered, and said: ‘Very well, I’ll place him somewhere else. Currying favour with senior officers is not one of your faults, my lad; most young officers just told they’re being made post and given a frigate would willingly ship ten chaplains if they thought it’d please the First Lord.’

‘I was thinking of my ship’s company,’ Ramage said, then realized that he could hardly have made a more tactless remark added: ‘I mean, sir, that–’

‘I know what you mean,’ the Admiral said, obviously enjoying Ramage’s embarrassment. ‘I was a young frigate captain once. I doubt there are any tricks you’ll contrive that I don’t know about.’

He had gone on to tell Ramage that the Juno frigate was lying at Portsmouth; that Ramage was replacing a captain removed from his command by sentence of court martial; that the ship’s company wanted licking into shape, and that all the officers and midshipmen were being transferred to give the new captain a chance.

‘Discipline had become too slack,’ the Admiral growled. ‘I can’t give you more than a few days to get a round turn on them because Admiral Davis needs a frigate in Barbados to carry out the instructions you will be taking with you.’

His Lordship was notoriously a man who disliked questions, but Ramage could not resist asking, ‘May I take it, sir, that the instructions refer to some – er, some mission for me?’

‘That depends on Admiral Davis. The Juno is to join his command. My instructions for him concern a particular service, but whether he chooses you or one of his own captains is up to him.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Nothing to stop him sending off one of his own frigates, and using you and the Juno for convoy work. Plenty of that, you know; very essential work, too, up and down the Windward and Leeward Islands. Just the thing for keeping a ship’s company taut: plenty of sail handling, anchoring and weighing…’

His Lordship had finally sat back in his chair and said: ‘Your father keeps well?’

When Ramage said that he did, the First Lord commented: ‘He will be pleased at your promotion. It hasn’t gone unnoticed here that the Earl had never tried to use his interest on your behalf: he left you to earn your promotion. Now you’ve got it, take care you always deserve it.’ His face became stern again. ‘I’ve said this to you before, and so has my predecessor in this office, and I say it again: you’ve done some good work and you’ve been devilish lucky. But if you are going to rise in the Service, you’ve got to stop disobeying or stretching orders. You got away with it half a dozen times or more as a lieutenant, but now you have been made post all that’s changed. You are supposed to be a mature and responsible man, and that’s how you’ll be held to account. Discipline, Ramage; that’s what holds this great Service together.’

He had stood up and held out his hand. As Ramage shook it the old man said: ‘I’m no believer in rapid promotion. At each step fewer men are chosen, and it is part of my job to make sure they are the best. This is going to be a long war, and if we are to win it, our captains must be the finest in the world.’

Ramage had left the Admiralty walking a foot above the ground. A post captain with a frigate! But he had not crossed the cobbled courtyard to pass through the gateway into Whitehall before the exhilaration subsided, and he pictured himself doing convoy work in the Caribbean, work only slightly less dreary than shepherding Atlantic convoys.

He picked up the pen and for the next hour wrote rapidly, rarely crossing out. Then he put the pen down and read through the Orders from start to finish. They were longer than he intended, but luckily they were still shorter – crisper, anyway – than many he had read in the past. He would let Southwick go through them before the clerk made a fair copy.

That put an end to paperwork for a day or two, though there would be a mountain waiting for him on board the Juno. The stores and equipment had to be signed for, certifying that they were on board, quite apart from the papers needed for getting to sea. The whole damned Navy floated on a sea of paper…

He went over and picked up the case of pistols. They were not as ornate as Gianna would have liked – though only because she wanted a present that was beautiful as well as useful – but they were splendid examples of the gun-maker’s art. Opening the lid he looked at the two guns nestling in their recesses. They were well made, and so were the accessories: the shot mould was sturdy, not something that would rust quickly after constant heating; the flasks were shaped so that they fitted the hand; the lever which was pressed down to let out the right measure of powder fitted the thumb perfectly. He closed the box. He ought to start checking through his clothes; Hanson would have to pack the trunk tomorrow, and he had only the morning to buy anything he lacked.

A quiet knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and Gianna came into the room, pausing for a moment in shadow. In that moment Ramage went a thousand miles in space and back three years to the time he had first seen her: she had suddenly flung back the hood of her cloak and stood there watching him: candlelight had glinted in hair shining blue-black like a raven’s feathers and shown a beautiful face with high cheekbones and large, widely spaced eyes, a mouth a little too wide and with lips too full and warm for classical perfection. A face that could be coldly imperious or warm and generous. He had thought of Ghiberti’s carving of The Creation of Eve on the east doors of the Baptistry in Florence, the naked Goddess with the bold slim body and small jutting breasts… But the Eve standing at the door was holding an envelope and even before she spoke he recognized the heavy Admiralty seal on the back.

‘A messenger just brought this: your father signed the receipt,’ she said without expression. ‘I hope it doesn’t…’ she did not finish the sentence but Ramage knew what she meant. The letter might say he was not to have the Juno after all. Gianna would be sorry for his sake yet delighted if he went on half-pay for three months or so – she had seen little enough of him since she had reached England from the Mediterranean.

He broke the seal and opened the letter. It was from the Board Secretary, Evan Nepean, and began with the usual time-honoured phrase, ‘I am directed by My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty…’ He read through to the end. It took five lines of flowing prose to say that he was to leave for Portsmouth in time to arrive on board the Juno by noon on Wednesday, take command according to the commission already in his possession, and be under way by Friday. Why the Admiralty should suddenly decide to order him on board two days earlier Ramage was not told.

‘Stop making faces and shrugging your shoulders,’ Gianna said impatiently. ‘What does it say?’

‘I must leave for Portsmouth first thing tomorrow–’

‘But that is two days early!’

‘Something must have happened.’

‘Nonsense, it is just that some silly man in the Admiralty is impatient and thoughtless – why, you’ve had only a few days’ rest after carrying out those last terrible orders. Lord St Vincent should be–’

‘Cara mia,’ he interrupted, ‘there are hundreds of captains but only a few frigates. I am very lucky.’

He heard his father’s heavy tread outside and the Admiral, a worried look on his face, came into the room. ‘They haven’t changed their minds, have they?’

Ramage gave him the letter and when he read it the Admiral shook his head. ‘You have trouble down there, my boy. I don’t think Admiral Mann was exaggerating when he told me that your predecessor’s court martial was a messy affair and that most of the officers should have been tried at the same time. The fellow was only in command six months, but in that time he let the ship’s company go to pieces. A bad business. And you have to be under way by Friday with new officers…’

Ramage nodded and Gianna knew that she was temporarily forgotten: already Nicholas’ face was animated as he called for Hanson to help him pack. Father and son were alike. Looking at the Admiral, she could see how Nicholas would be in thirty years’ time – if he wasn’t killed in this damnable war. Both were slim – the Admiral was putting on a little weight but would never let himself get plump – and it made them seem taller than they were. Both had the deep-set brown eyes and aquiline nose of the Ramages – most of the men in those family portraits at St Kew stared down at her out of their frames with those same eyes and made her shiver: those forebears were all dead, and yet the painters somehow kept them alive, the great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers…

Nicholas was nervous; she saw he was rubbing the upper of the two scars over his right eyebrow. Each was the result of a wound; on two separate occasions he had been lucky not to have his skull split open by the enemy. For a moment, before she could crowd the picture from her imagination, she saw him lying in a pool of blood on the deck of a ship, dying from a third wound. She crossed herself: she had this terrible fear that if the picture kept appearing, then it would happen.

The Admiral took her arm and led her from the room. As they walked down the stairs he said gently: ‘It is always worse for the people staying behind. Watching Nicholas beginning to pack makes me realize what my wife must have gone through so many times…’

‘But it is so unfair,’ she burst out. ‘They give him such fantastic orders. That last affair – fancy sending him to France! How he escaped the guillotine I shall never know, and it goes on and on and on. This war will never end!’

‘Nicholas chose the Navy, my dear,’ the Admiral said quietly as they reached the drawing-room and his wife stood up and came towards Gianna, her arms outstretched. ‘Nicholas now has to leave first thing tomorrow,’ he explained. ‘Naturally Gianna is upset.’

The older woman led Gianna to a chair. ‘For years I was always saying goodbye to my husband, and now it is to my son,’ she said simply. ‘I find it helps to think that the sooner I say goodbye, the sooner I welcome him back!’

‘But every time it is a miracle he comes back,’ Gianna sobbed. ‘Every time he is a little changed, a little more preoccupato!’

‘That is not the Navy’s fault,’ the Admiral said crisply. ‘Our experiences change us little by little. That’s maturing.’

His wife glanced at him. ‘I think you should go up and help Nicholas pack his trunk: he has not much time.’

Gianna jumped up, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘No, no, I will. I am sorry, it is just – well, the West Indies are so far away.’

The Admiral held her shoulders for a minute and said with deliberate harshness: ‘Yes, nearly a quarter of the way round the world from London. But remember, the French coast is only twenty-one miles from Dover, yet that’s where Bonaparte’s men caught him and wanted to cut off his head…’

 

CHAPTER TWO