Ramage's Trial (12 page)

“Captain Ramage must miss his new wife,” she said, her voice carefully flat.

“Yes. It's a terrible worry for him, not knowing if she's alive or not.”

“Alive?” She sounded shocked and he saw her glance across the table at Ramage, who was talking to her brother. “Why, has she been ill?”

Quickly, before the whispered conversation was noticed by the others, Southwick told her about the Brest escape and how Lady Sarah had left for England in the
Murex
brig, and how Ramage had learned in Barbados that the
Murex
had never arrived in England.

As the old man told her the story, Alexis realized the depth of his feeling for both Nicholas and this daughter of the Marquis of Rockley. She longed to quiz him about Lady Sarah, but if they continued whispering everyone would notice. Why had Nicholas not mentioned the
Murex
business when he told them he was married? Had he in fact told Sidney?

So Southwick had “mistaken him for dead” more than half a dozen times. That meant that each time he had been so badly wounded that he was unconscious. There were two small scars on his brow, and a tiny circle of white hair on his head which Sidney said was where there was another wound. How many times, she wondered, could a man be wounded badly enough to be “mistaken for dead” before eventually being wounded so badly that he died – or was killed instantly?

It was curious how (even when he was just sitting there, a hand playing idly with a long-stemmed glass) he seemed to be the centre of the room. Sidney once showed her how a knife blade affected a compass needle, pulling it round by an invisible (and, as far as she was concerned, inexplicable) force and holding it there until the knife was removed. Nicholas seemed to have that effect, and it was not just because he was a handsome man: no, if anything that would tend to make other men jealous, but with Nicholas he seemed to have a magnetic hold. She was not sure, remembering her own comparison of a minute or two earlier, whether he was the compass needle or the knife, but just by being in the room he seemed to dominate it without any of the eccentricities of dress, loud voice, affected accent or manner that some men (lesser men, she realized) adopted to make themselves stand out in a crowded room. No, he had a quiet voice, and a naval uniform reduced everyone to the same fashion. No mustard-yellow waistcoats, gaudy green cravats, absurdly patterned coats…No extravagant gestures. Then suddenly she realized what it was.

Captain Ramage – Nicholas – was sure of himself. Not cocksure, like so many of the young men who seemed to haunt London's most fashionable drawing-rooms; not dogmatic like so many of the older men, especially disappointed politicians. No, Nicholas was just sure of himself. Sure in the social sense – his background and title meant he could mix with whomever he liked without feeling uncertain. Sure in the naval, or professional sense: he was at a very early age (maddening that she could not discover exactly how old) a famous frigate captain. Mr Southwick had given more than a hint that his naval promotion was due to coolness and bravery; the influence of his father, Admiral the Earl of Blazey, may well have been a disadvantage.

The purser was at her elbow, asking in a whisper if everything was satisfactory, and she assured him it was, and as soon as he had left the saloon, Sidney was standing beside her.

“At this point the ladies withdraw,” he said, “and leave the gentlemen to their cigars.”

“They do indeed,” Alexis agreed. “I'll follow them…”

Sidney Yorke knew he was beaten and with a grin he turned to the men. “We must forget the social niceties, I'm afraid: my sister was brought up among savages…”

“Only one,” Alexis retorted, “and that was my brother, and the only manners he has, I regret to say, are those I've taught him.”

“It must have been an uphill struggle,” Ramage said. “But as an hostess you more than make up for his deficiencies.”

“Hear, hear!” Southwick said gruffly, followed by Aitken, who was still slightly out of his depth, finding the mixture of a formal meal and the easy informality of old friends hard to follow. He knew that only himself, Paolo and Mr Yorke's sister had not sailed together in the Post Office packet, and he now appreciated for the first time that it had been a desperate business, with Britons committing treason.

The Yorkes, Aitken now saw, were not just “trade”: he had picked up enough of the social rules and regulations to know that “society” as typified by the Marquis of Rockley, for example, who was Mr Ramage's father-in-law, would not normally mix with “trade”, in this case a shipowner. But it was now very clear that Mr Yorke and Mr Ramage were extremely good friends and Mr Yorke was from an old family and descended from the famous Ned Yorke, who, a century and a half ago, led the Buccaneers and later became the most powerful man in Jamaica (and probably in the whole West Indies) – certainly the man most feared by the Spaniards on the Main. And Mr Yorke was his several greats nephew. How many of that old Ned Yorke's pieces of eight and Jamaica plantations were still in the family? Both brother and sister had that ease of manner that came with wealth, and they both had the good taste and restraint that came from good breeding. Aitken realized that somehow he had learned while serving with Mr Ramage how to distinguish all this. He knew well enough that he had learned from Mr Ramage a good deal of seamanship and all he knew about sea warfare, but he had not (until this moment) realized he had also learned something about society. He did not live “in society” naturally, but he had discovered that the real society (as opposed to the
nouveau riche
) was quick to open its doors to men of ability. The door stayed shut to those who knocked on it with a bouquet of pretensions, but it was flung wide open for men like Southwick: brave and honest men who were recognized as being more at home with a sword and pistol than cut glass and spotless napery.

Aitken was just realizing that Mr Ramage had been unconsciously showing him how to open some of the social doors, when he saw the door of the saloon open and one of the ship's officers signalled to Mr Yorke, who immediately left his seat, spoke to the man, and came back to Mr Ramage.

“Sorry, Nicholas, but the
Calypso
's hoisted a signal with our number over it, so I presume it is for you.” He described the flags.

“They've sighted a strange sail,” Ramage said. “Well, it's time we made our farewells.” He walked round the table. “The memory of today's visit will last a long time, thanks to our hostess. I'm afraid we have very plain fare in the
Calypso
, but the warmth of our welcome will – I hope – make up for the culinary deficiencies.” He kissed Alexis' hand and led the way to the door, followed closely by Aitken, who saw that the
Emerald
's officer had already called the
Calypso
's boat's crew.

 

Ramage was already settling down in the boat's sternsheets as Jackson began giving orders to the men at the oars when he saw the
Calypso
fill her backed foretopsail and start to run down towards the
Emerald
.

“Mr Wagstaffe's going to make it easy for us,” he commented to Jackson. “He'll come across the
Emerald
's stern and heave-to to leeward of us.”

“He's spoiling us, sir,” the American coxswain replied. “It won't put muscle on these men's backs just letting them row down to leeward. They need a couple of miles to windward!”

“I don't, though,” Ramage said. “I've just had a splendid dinner and I'm damned if I want to be soaked with spray. Nor does Mr Southwick – he's about ready to doze off.”

As he spoke Ramage was looking round the horizon. He had not wasted time looking round while on the
Emerald
's deck because a distant sail would already have been closely inspected from the
Calypso
's masthead, and whatever the identity or intention of the stranger, he could do nothing about it until he was back on board the frigate.

Wagstaffe met him as he stepped through the
Calypso
's entryport and his quick salute was followed by: “Over to the southeast and well up to windward, sir: a frigate about five miles away and closing. She was steering north when we first spotted her. I think she was slow to see us, because it was a good ten minutes before she bore away to head for us. Her lookouts must have been dozing.”

“Hmm. Ten minutes! Time enough for a good snooze. I trust you've assured yourself she is not enemy?” Ramage asked ironically.

“Yes, she's British-built, sir, and British-cut sails. As you see, she's not close enough yet for us to be able to read flags.”

“Very well. Beat to quarters, Mr Wagstaffe.”

The second lieutenant looked startled. “Standing orders, Mr Wagstaffe,” Ramage said sharply. “We must meet every strange sail ready for action.”

“Yes, I know sir, but…”

“Mr Wagstaffe,” Ramage said patiently, “we captured the last two prizes without too much trouble just over a month ago when they assumed that because this ship is French-built she is still in Bonaparte's navy. That ship over there–” he nodded towards the approaching frigate, still little more than a faint smudge on the horizon, “–might have been built in an English yard, but since then she could have been captured by the French who intend playing the same trick on us that we've just played on them. Anyway, it's time that young drummer gave his goatskin another good thumping.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said an embarrassed Wagstaffe, who realized that the combination of escorting a convoy of merchant ships (which could hardly be less warlike than the mules they were called) and the fact that the destination was England had combined to dull his normal sharpness. On the way up to Barbados from Devil's Island, he recalled ruefully, any sail, be it even a wretched dugout canoe spreading some old cloth to help her to leeward, put him on his guard.

And that, he told himself, is why some men become admirals and others stay lieutenants. Not an invariable rule, admittedly, because in all too many cases influence and patronage helped, but to be a competent captain or admiral, then you had to react precisely as Mr Ramage had done. He recalled the exchange. Lieutenant Wagstaffe had said, in effect: “Ah, a British frigate has just hove in sight.” But Mr Ramage had said: “Ah, a British-built frigate has just hove in sight.
But is she British?”

The other thing, Wagstaffe thought to himself as he looked round for Orsini, was that Mr Ramage would not have wasted two or three minutes with his head full of idle thoughts. “Orsini!” he bellowed, “tell the drummer to beat to quarters! Step lively there and be thankful that's not a French fleet up there to windward!”

Ramage noticed that the little drummer was thumping away in only a matter of seconds, making up in volume what he lacked in skill. The drum was regarded by everyone on board the
Calypso
with a good deal of pride. Carefully painted on the front were the arms of Bonaparte's France (Revolutionary France, in other words) and below them the name
L'ESPOIR
.

Ever since they had captured the
Calypso
from the French, the men had been sent to quarters by bosun's mates shrilling their pipes and shouting. Yet nothing was more unmistakable (and more thrilling, getting the men into the right martial mood) than the beat of the drum. The Marine lieutenant, Rennick, had often bewailed the lack of a drum, claiming to have a lad who could beat out a tune, and Southwick had often sniffed and said that the song of a bunch of Spithead Nightingales was no way to send men into battle. Well, the bosun's calls deserved their nickname, but on the few occasions he had been in London Ramage had forgotten to buy a drum (he had to pay for it out of his own pocket because they were not issued to frigates).

So, when Sergeant Ferris found this drum in the prize and presented it to his senior officer, Rennick, the Marine lieutenant had brought it in triumph to Ramage, complete with a well-reasoned argument why they should ignore the sentence in the Articles of War about not removing any objects from a prize before “a proper inventory” had been taken. The Army, Rennick had pointed out, was very proud of itself when soldiers captured the colours of an enemy regiment, and always kept them – usually in some special place at their own headquarters, where they were displayed with pride. The Navy had no such mementoes. He had to agree with Ramage that soldiers did not get prize money and that, given the choice, soldiers and sailors alike would probably choose prize money in place of captured regimental colours.

For Ramage the choice was easy. He knew that although he did not want to see the arms of Revolutionary France so frequently, the drum itself was in good condition (and, as Sergeant Ferris had been quick to point out, there were five spare goatskins so they were well off for replacements when the drummer beat his way through the present one). Nor was Ramage concerned with the drum as the naval equivalent of regimental colours: to him a drum (any drum, even a tom-tom made out of goatskin stretched over a butter firkin, a favourite in the West Indies) was a more effective way of sending men to quarters, quite apart from the other orders that could be passed by the beat of a drum.

As Ramage turned to go down to his cabin and change out of his best uniform, he saw a grinning Rennick standing by Wagstaffe, and the Marine snapped to attention as he saw Ramage looking at him. “The drum, sir,” he explained, “first time it's beat to quarters in earnest: it's always been daily routine up to now.”

Ramage smiled and nodded and went below. It was startling to find out what gave the men pleasure, and what made them proud. Bashing away on an old French drum delighted the Marines – and probably the whole ship's company – so it was a good thing he had forgotten to buy one in London. The fact that this one was French, and had the French arms painted on it, and came from one of their prizes, was what mattered: it gave it a martial tone, Ramage realized, that could not be equalled (as far as the Calypsos were concerned) by any other drum. This was
their
drum, and whack it, lad!