‘Boat’s ready, sir,’ Southwick reported.
Ramage turned back to Laidman and repeated the Master’s words.
Once he had climbed down into the boat to go to the
Diadem
, Ramage found that the exhilaration which, without him fully realizing it, had been keeping him alert and active for the last twenty-four hours, with very little food or sleep, had gone, leaving him desperately tired and very depressed.
Up to then, although the
Belette
rescue had happened only that morning, it already had an air of unreality about it; almost as though it had never happened: perhaps a well-told tale he’d heard a few months ago. The
Sibella
affair too, was just a half-remembered dream.
Now, as Jackson steered the boat for the
Diadem
and Captain Laidman sat opposite, silent and morose, the whole business came back into sharp focus, as if he’d made a fractional adjustment to a telescope in his memory.
There was a thump, and Laidman lumbered to his feet: they had arrived alongside the
Diadem
and Laidman, as senior, climbed up first.
At the gangway Captain Towry greeted Laidman and told him the Commodore was waiting.
To Ramage, he said: ‘The Commodore will see you in five minutes.’
The young lieutenant standing anchor watch looked at Ramage, obviously wondering whether or not to say something, but Ramage was in no mood for small talk and began pacing the other side of the gangway. He barely noticed Captain Laidman leave the ship.
Eventually a lieutenant came up and asked: ‘Ramage?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Commodore will see you now.’
The lieutenant led the way. Outside the door to the Commodore’s quarters a Marine sentry snapped to attention, and the lieutenant knocked on the door, opened it when someone answered, and stepped inside. Evidently the Commodore was in his sleeping cabin, because without walking through to the great cabin the lieutenant said quietly:
‘Mr Ramage, sir.’
He turned and signalled Ramage to go in.
‘Ah, Mr Ramage!’
The voice was high-pitched and nasal, and Ramage was surprised how small the Commodore was: shorter than Gianna, narrow shouldered, face thin – and, he realized with a shock, one eye had a slightly glazed look. Of course, Commodore Nelson had lost the sight of an eye at Calvi only a year or so ago, but the remaining one was sharp enough.
Nelson might be physically very small, but already Ramage could feel the strength of the little man’s personality: he was taut as a violin string, yet perfectly controlled: his face seemed to betray excitement, yet a moment later Ramage realized the features were in fact quite calm. The man was like a coiled spring.
The Commodore pointed to a chair at the foot of the small cot.
‘Please sit down.’
Was he conscious of his size? Ramage wondered. It seemed an obvious move to put Ramage at a disadvantage. Why, incidentally, was the interview taking place in the sleeping cabin?
‘Now, Mr Ramage, why have I sent for you?’
The question was so unexpected that Ramage looked up quickly, thinking the Commodore was joking; but the single blue eye was frosty and unwavering.
‘Any one of half a dozen reasons, sir,’ Ramage said without thinking.
‘List them.’
‘Well – abandoning the
Sibella
… Trying to carry out the orders to Captain Letts to rescue the refugees.’
‘That makes two.’
‘And – well, Count Pisano’s complaint against me; and the trial, sir.’
‘Four.’
Ye gods, thought Ramage, I’ve jumped out of the Goddard into the fire.
‘Oh yes, the
Belette
operation, sir.’
‘And the sixth?’
‘I can only think of five, sir.’
‘Well, now what do you suppose my judgement will be on each of these escapades?’
His voice now had an icy edge to it and Ramage was tired and utterly defeated. Not because he was frightened, but because of all the captains and junior flag officers in the Mediterranean – in the whole Service in fact – he had been most impressed by what he had heard of Commodore Nelson. He suddenly realized he’d secretly hoped, after the trial was interrupted, that if the Commodore only knew all the facts he would clear him of any blame.
But that cold, almost offhand tone: Commodore Nelson’s manner showed that, at best, he had an unpleasant task ahead of him and did not relish doing it and, at worst, he was taking over where Goddard and Croucher had left off.
‘I don’t know what it
will
be, sir, but I know what it
ought
to be.’ Ramage’s voice was bitter and, unintentionally, almost insolent.
‘Go on, then, out with it,’ Nelson said impatiently, ‘and be brief.’
‘The
Sibella
– we couldn’t fight on, sir, and we couldn’t treat the wounded because the surgeon and his mate were killed. She was sinking so fast the French’d never keep her afloat long enough to patch her up. What I did meant medical attention for the wounded, as well as giving the unwounded time to escape in the boats.’
‘The idea of being a prisoner of the French frightened you into escaping after you had surrendered?’
There was a sneer in the Commodore’s voice which made Ramage flush with an anger that he could only just control.
‘No, sir! I didn’t surrender myself: I deliberately left the ship before the wounded surrendered her. An officer who allows himself and his men to be taken prisoner when he can escape and serve again ought to be tried as a traitor – well, almost a traitor. It’s that kind of a man the – the Articles of War are aimed at.’
‘Well spoken!’ said Nelson with an unexpected laugh. ‘That occurred to me when I read your report. An excellent report, incidentally, which is already on its way to Sir John Jervis with my covering letter. Now then, what about rescuing the refugees?’
‘We did our best, sir.’
‘What made you risk it with just a gig?’
The voice was cold again, and Ramage’s heart sank.
‘It seemed the lesser of two evils, sir. First, if there was any delay in the rescue, there was the danger the French would capture them. Second, if I tried getting them away, there was the danger we’d run into a gale with an overloaded boat.’
‘So you considered a rescue attempt using the boat offered the refugees the best chance of survival?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, if they stayed on shore they might be betrayed by peasants. I couldn’t do anything to prevent that. But if I took them off in the boat I was reasonably certain I could weather a gale somehow or other.’
‘Very well. Now for Count Pisano’s complaint.’
‘There’s nothing much to say, sir. I went back and found his cousin dead, but Pisano doesn’t believe that.’
‘You’ve no witnesses.’
‘No, sir. Oh yes, I have, though!’ he exclaimed, realizing the
Belette
operation had driven all thought of Jackson’s revelation from his memory.
‘Who is he?’
‘The
Sibella
’s cox’n, an American named Jackson. I didn’t know he’d seen the body after me. He didn’t know of Pisano’s allegations and didn’t realize he had evidence of any importance. Anyway, sir, the
Diadem
’s arrival interrupted his evidence.’
‘When did you find out all this?’
‘We were talking on our way up to the
Belette
.’
‘A conspiracy? No,’ the Commodore said, waving a hand to stop Ramage’s protest. ‘I’m not saying you two were conspiring. I’m just pointing out that it could be said. Why do you suppose Count Pisano made the complaint against you?’
‘To cover himself,’ Ramage said bitterly. ‘If he accuses me of failing in my duty by not going back, everyone forgets to ask him why he didn’t go himself.’
‘Not everyone,’ Nelson said shortly. ‘Now – what about the
Belette
? You’ve lost a lot of men?’
‘Yes, thirteen dead and fifteen wounded. An error of judgement on my part, sir.’
‘In what respect?’
‘I decided to rake the
Belette
and then wear round before her guns could bear.’
‘And–’
‘We raked her all right, but I found I couldn’t wear round in time: we were raked ourselves by her aftermost guns – I didn’t allow enough for the curve on her quarter.’
‘And what do you think will happen to you now?’
‘To begin with, I imagine the court will reconvene and finish my trial, sir.’
‘You seem remarkably ignorant of the Court Martial Statutes, Lieutenant, and remarkably unobservant.’
Ramage looked puzzled and the Commodore said, ‘Once a court has dispersed, it can never be reconvened. And you have failed to notice that the
Trumpeter
is not in the anchorage.’
‘Well, I suppose you’ll order another trial, sir.’
‘Perhaps. Follow me,’ he ordered, walking through the door and into the great cabin.
Gianna was standing against one of the great stern lights. She was wearing her usual black travelling cloak thrown back over the shoulders to reveal the red lining, and a high-waisted pearl-grey dress. She was watching him anxiously, her lips moist and slightly parted.
On her left a heavily built man with a short, square beard sat in a chair, clasping a walking stick between his knees. The stick was thick – he must be lame, Ramage thought, and then noticed that the left ankle appeared to be in plaster. The man was handsome, but the finely cut features did not hide that he was hard, tough and possibly ruthless. He was Italian: that much was certain from his face, but the clothes he was wearing – a dark grey coat, yellow waistcoat and pale-grey breeches – were not his, or else he had a bad tailor.
At that moment Ramage, speechless with surprise, looked at Gianna and saw she was glancing at the man with affection, almost adoration. The man was smiling at her with love in his eyes.
The shock was, for Ramage, almost physical: this must be a fiancé. Where the devil had he come from? Gianna had never mentioned him – yet there was no reason why she should, he thought bitterly.
The Commodore, apparently blissfully unaware of the tension gripping Ramage, was talking. He’d apparently introduced the seated man, who made an attempt to stand up, but Ramage motioned him to remain seated and walked over and shook his hand. The grip was firm; the smile on the face was friendly and genuine.
Ramage turned to Gianna, took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and then swung round to face Commodore Nelson without looking at her again.
The Commodore was obviously in jovial mood: he slapped his knee and exclaimed: ‘How about that, Ramage, eh?’
Ramage looked puzzled.
‘Bit of a surprise, eh? Dead men do tell tales after all!’
The other three were laughing. Was the Commodore one of these blasted practical jokers?
The Italian said, ‘We have almost met before,
Tenente
.’
‘You have the advantage of me, sir,’ Ramage said coolly.
Everyone seemed to be talking in riddles. It’s Gianna’s turn to have a dig now, he thought sourly, involuntarily glancing at her.
She looked as if he had just slapped her face.
‘Nicholas! Nicholas!’
She almost ran the four or five paces separating them, and gripped his arm with her left hand. ‘It’s Antonio! Don’t you understand?’
She was almost in tears. No, he didn’t understand, nor did he care about Antonio: he simply wanted to kiss her, but instead gently pushed her away.
‘Antonio, Nicholas! Antonio – my cousin:
Count Pitti
!’
The cabin slowly began moving round him; in a moment it was spinning and Gianna held him lightly, otherwise he would have fallen. A few seconds later the Commodore and Gianna were helping him to a chair while Pitti, now standing helplessly and leaning on his stick, kept repeating, ‘What happened? What is wrong?’
Ramage saw that exploded face, the shattered bones and remains of the teeth silvery-white in the moonlight, the torn flesh and slopping blood, black and caked in the sand. Yet Pisano had been right: Count Pitti was alive after all. God – no wonder no one believed he had gone back. But Jackson…
God damn and blast them all: he dragged himself out of the chair, conscious his brow was wet with cold perspiration, and asked the Commodore: ‘May I return to my ship, sir?’
Nelson looked puzzled but promptly said: ‘No – sit down.’ Ramage almost slid into the chair: there was no strength in his knees and tiredness was adding its quota to help fuddle his brain. If only they’d leave him alone.
Suddenly he realized Gianna was kneeling beside him, talking softly, and the agony and bewilderment in her face stabbed into his consciousness like a dagger.
‘But it is all right now,’ she was saying. ‘It is all right, Nico –
e finito, cara mia
!’