Ramage (26 page)

Well, did he love her? Or had his protective instincts been aroused because she was in danger when they first met? Was he just fascinated by her beauty and her accent, which made English so musical – and sensual, too, for that matter? He simply hadn’t thought of it in cold blood: it just happened: one didn’t suddenly say ‘I’m in love’. He’d known several girls in the past and never regarded them with more than affection, except for a married woman who’d – he felt himself go hot with embarrassment at the thought. Yet…now, at this very moment, he realized for the first time (admitted it, rather) that while she was in the ship – even after he’d stalked out of the cabin, ignoring her pleas – merely knowing she was near had been enough. When she’d gone away he became an empty shell, with no reason for existing, no reason – incentive was a better word – for doing anything. Was this love? It certainly wasn’t the brash, almost crude feeling he’d felt for the married woman: that was just a lot of tingling below the sword belt and breathing hard above it. No, he felt utterly lost without her; restless and incomplete. But when she –

‘You realize she’s in love with you?’ Probus said.

‘With me?’

‘My dear fellow,’ Probus exclaimed impatiently, ‘are you blind?’

‘No – but…’

‘The devil take the “buts”. I don’t know why I’m getting myself mixed up in your affairs; but do I have to draw a chart? You’re in very deep water. Until a few minutes ago I wasn’t too sure how much of Pisano’s story was true: no smoke without fire, you know. But for the Marchesa, I’d have believed half of it, and I’ll tell you why, although’ – he held up his hand to stop Ramage interrupting – ‘women are sometimes wrong in their judgement, and she wasn’t on board the
Sibella
when you struck.

‘For me, the
Sibella
was the biggest question mark, of course. Suddenly finding yourself with the responsibility of a badly damaged ship and a lot of wounded men – it’s natural enough to do something hasty: something you regret later. But I’ve had time to size up that fellow Jackson – I shouldn’t be telling you this, I suppose – and if he’ll risk the noose round his neck to save your reputation, then I’m prepared to believe you did the right thing in striking to the
Barras
.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Ramage said lamely. ‘It’s not the
Sibella
episode that bothers me: it’s the beach.’

‘Precisely: it did me, until I found the Marchesa wanting to believe you – but getting precious little help from you, I gather. That cousin really was dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why the bloody hell didn’t you convince the girl? She says you won’t explain anything. I suppose she thinks you are either a liar or too proud. You’ve only yourself to blame if she ends up listening to that bag of wind Pisano, haven’t you, eh?’

When Ramage made no reply, Probus appeared to lose his temper. ‘Answer me, man!’

‘Well, sir, to begin with I was pretty shaken at being accused of not going back; then I got angry at being called a coward by Pisano – dammit, sir, he was so yellow he bolted for the beach without so much as
ciao
to Pitti. So – well, I felt they weren’t worth wasting my breath on. Pisano’s only accusing me of cowardice to cover himself.’

‘But you had one very important person prepared to believe any reasonable explanation you gave – and presumably testify on your behalf.’

‘Oh? Who, sir?’

‘The Marchesa, you fool!’ Probus made no effort to hide his exasperation.

Ramage’s head whirled and perspiration soaked his clothes as the humiliating thought struck him like a dagger thrust that he had been so full of indignation, so puffed up with outraged pride and stung with injured innocence, that he hadn’t sat down and used his brain.

He realized now that Gianna had only wanted to hear from his own lips exactly what he’d seen when he went back: she only needed a few words of explanation and assurance from the stranger with whom she had – according to Probus anyway – fallen in love. Instead, he had just repeated like a pompous parrot that he had done his duty.

‘You look as if you’re going to pass out, Ramage. Here – sit down.’

Probus stood up and pushed a chair across the deck. As Ramage sat down, Probus took a bottle and glasses from a rack on the bulkhead.

‘This brandy’s almost too good for a fool like you,’ he said, handing Ramage a half-filled glass. After pouring himself out a drink he sat down in another chair and began tapping a fingernail against the glass, appearing to be absorbed in the bell-like note it made, then took a sip of brandy and gave an appreciative sigh.

Ramage took the opportunity of asking a question.

‘Why do you think Jackson’s doing this for me, sir?’

‘How the devil should I know! Pisano acts like that because he’s Pisano. Jackson’s a seaman. You know a seaman’s an odd customer – he’ll lie and cheat and get fighting drunk at the sniff of a cork, but he’s got one of the highest developed senses of justice on this earth: you’ve seen enough floggings to know that.

‘I always know when I’m flogging the right man – I just look at the faces of the ship’s company. Although I’m flogging one of their messmates, if he’s guilty, then they accept it. But if he’s innocent, I know by their attitude. No murmurings, no mutterings; but I know.

‘I’d say that’s how Jackson’s mind has worked. He probably knows your father was a scapegoat. He’s been around long enough to know the Ramage family have enemies. Once he knew they were bringing cowardice into the trial, he realized pretty quickly why he and the rest of the Sibellas were being shipped off to the
Topaze
. Quicker than me, incidentally,’ Probus added.

Ramage said: ‘All this makes me feel pretty humble. First you, then Jackson. I don’t want to sound ungrateful or offend you, sir, but I’d rather you didn’t get mixed up in this any further.’

‘My dear fellow, I’m not going to! Already I feel quite ill, and soon after midnight I’ll be far too sick to think of attending a court martial in the forenoon – as a certificate duly signed by the surgeon will inform the president of the court. Since there are six post captains among the ships here there’ll be one more than the necessary five, so the trial can continue.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Don’t thank me: I’m not helping you – I’m looking after myself. I don’t propose running foul of Goddard, but I know far too much about the case to be able to sit as a member of the court. Since it’d be a trifle difficult to explain to the president of the court how I came by that knowledge, it’s fortunate I now feel quite feverish and sick, and must take to my cot. So good night to you.’

‘Jackson, sir?’

‘Leave him to me. Insolence, didn’t I say? To me, not to you. You were a witness: the only witness. It happened – as far as I can remember – some time before I received the order to transfer him and the rest of the Sibellas to the
Topaze
. I must write a report for Captain Croucher. Oh yes,’ he added absent-mindedly, ‘that reminds me. I’ve another letter to write, too.’

Ramage waited, thinking Probus had more to say about the letter, but the Captain glanced up and said, ‘It’s all right, you can go; I’m not writing it to you. Good night.’

When the gunroom steward woke him next morning with a cup of tea, Ramage had the usual brassy taste in his mouth and headache resulting from sleeping in the tiny, almost airless cabin. He knew the tea would be tepid and taste awful; it always was, and presumably – for lieutenants, anyway – always would be. His trial was due to begin in an hour or so: the condemned man drank a hearty breakfast.

The steward returned. ‘Mr Dawlish said to give you these, sir,’ and he put a sword and hat on top of the small chest of drawers. ‘There are some other things I’ve got to get, and there’s this, sir: it came off from the shore just now, sir.’

He handed Ramage a letter which had been closed with a blob of red wax but bore no impression of a seal. In the half-darkness of the cabin it was difficult to read, but he saw the writing was bold but jerky, and the calligraphy indicated the writer was probably Italian: certainly not English.

He climbed out of his cot to read the letter under the gunroom skylight. There was no greeting and no signature. Just three lines of writing:

‘Nessun maggior dolore,

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella, miseria.’

He recognized Dante’s words from the
Divine Comedy
: there is no greater sorrow than to recall a time of happiness in misery.

True enough, he thought; but who wants to remind me on a morning like this. He held the page to the skylight and could just distinguish a watermark: a crown on a sort of urn, with ‘GR’ beneath it. So the writer had access to official notepaper…

Suddenly he was back in the Tower, standing before a beautiful girl in a black cape who was pointing a pistol at him and demanding: ‘What’s all this about
L’amor che muove il sole e l’altre
stelle
?’ So she’d sent the letter, writing jerkily because of the wound in her shoulder, on notepaper borrowed from the Viceroy. But what ‘time of happiness’ was she recalling?

The steward entering the gunroom brought Ramage back to the present with a start: finding an officer standing naked under the skylight stopped the man as effectively as if he had walked into a wall, and he simply held out an armful of clothing.

‘Mr Dawlish, sir. One pair o’ shoes is his, but the uvvers belong to uvver officers. Question of which of ’em fits, sir.’

‘Quite – leave them in the cabin.’

‘And Mr Dawlish said to say for you to pass the word when you was ready, sir, ’cos the Provost Marshal’s arrived, and the boat’s due to leave in fifteen minutes, sir.’

In fifteen minutes one of the
Trumpeter’
s cannon would fire, and the Union Flag would be run up at her mizen peak: the signal that a court martial was to be held, and warning everyone concerned to repair on board.

Under the Regulations and Instructions, when the senior of five captains ordered a court martial he could also act as president; so that Croucher would preside today and be in the fortunate position of both accuser and judge.

But, Ramage reflected, why think about it? Realizing he was still naked, he hurriedly washed: the water was almost cold because he had not noticed the steward bring it in.

The surgeon, no doubt, was examining Lord Probus and writing the certificate which, by law, was necessary to excuse him from attending the court martial; the Master would be carrying out the usual morning routine of seeing the yards were squared, inspecting the rigging, and probably arranging for empty water casks to be sent on shore to be refilled; while the purser would be preparing to issue victuals. The lieutenants would have made sure the ship was spotless: the decks had been scrubbed at dawn, the brasswork polished with brickdust until it gleamed, and awnings rigged to keep the hot sun off the decks.

The stockings were silk – a thoughtful gesture on Dawlish’s part, since lieutenants could rarely afford them – and Ramage straightened them out, heaved on the breeches, tucked in the shirt and carefully tied the stock. The waistcoat and coat fitted quite well and were obviously Dawlish’s best; but the shabbiest pair of shoes were the only ones that fitted. He could imagine Pisano having difficulty in getting himself rigged out for the trial – there’d be nothing sufficiently elegant and gaudy to suit the Count’s taste in Sir Gilbert’s house…

Well, he was ready for the Provost Marshal, and he called to the sentry to pass the word for him to come down to the gunroom. Interesting to see whom Croucher had appointed, since only a flagship had a regular provost marshal.

Someone came clattering down the after ladder and he heard the sentry salute. Suddenly there was a thump and a body hurtled headlong through the gunroom door. In the split second before the man fell flat on his face, cocked hat flying out ahead of him and sword caught between his legs, Ramage recognized the pimply young lieutenant from the
Trumpeter
, Blenkinsop. Ramage swiftly snatched up the hat and hid it behind him. Blenkinsop, his face red, stood up, extricating from between his legs the offending sword which had catapulted him through the door, pulling his coat straight and tugging at his stock. He glanced round for his hat, barely conscious in his embarrassment that Ramage was standing only a few feet away. He looked like an owl on a branch of a tree: the similarity was striking.

‘Are you looking for this?’ Ramage asked innocently, offering the hat. ‘It arrived a few moments before you.’

‘Thank you,’ he answered stiffly. ‘You are Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage?’

‘Indeed I am,’ he said politely.

‘Then I–’ he paused, looking for the paper he had been holding as he fell.

‘I think you’ll find that the warrant appointing you “Provost Marshal on the occasion” has slipped under the table.’

Blenkinsop went down on his knees to retrieve it, his hat falling off in the process. Finally, hat back on his head and the warrant unfolded, he began reading: ‘To Reginald Blenkinsop, a lieutenant of His Majesty’s ship
Trumpeter
. Captain Aloysius Croucher, of His Majesty’s ship
Trumpeter
and senior officer present at the port of Bastia, having ordered a court martial to be assembled to try Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, formerly of his late Majesty’s ship–’