Ramage's Trial

CHAPTER SIX

Shortly after dawn next morning Ramage stood at the forward end of the quarterdeck staring into the greyness, although his thoughts were several thousands of miles away. He heard the traditional hail from the lookouts on deck at six different positions round the ship, "See a grey goose at a mile" - the signal for a couple of men to go aloft, one to the foremasthead and the other to the mainmast, and watch the horizon.

Because Admiral Clinton would be continuing a tight blockade of Brest, and there had been no frigate flying into Barbados with a warning that the French Mediterranean fleet had left Toulon and broken through the Gut into the Atlantic, the Royal Navy for the time being could take one thing for granted: that the chances were that any squadron or fleet of ships they sighted would be friendly, although single ships could be privateers.

Anyway, the Calypso's eyes could now see a good deal further and almost every minute, as the sun, although still hidden, came up the eastern side of the earth heading for the horizon, the circle of visibility widened. After spending a moonless night unable to see more than a couple of hundred yards (the advantage of a tropical night was the clarity of the stars, which made their own light) the lookouts would soon be able to see to the horizon; from a height of eye of one hundred feet, they could see a distance of ten miles, and a ship beyond that would be visible the moment the tips of her masts began to rise over the far side of the horizon.

The officer of the deck, the small and red-haired third lieutenant Kenton, whose heavily freckled face was continually peeling because of the sun, came up to Ramage and formally reported that the lookouts were aloft.

Kenton waited for the next step in the routine by which one of the King's ships greeted a new day at sea in wartime. At the moment, every one of the Calypso's 12-pounder guns and six carronades were ready to fire: the ship was at general quarters, the way every King's ship met the dawn at sea, ready to defend herself or attack.

Ramage took one last look round the horizon (almost a formality, since Kenton's telescope would have spotted even a distant gull perched on a bottle).

"Very well, stand down from general quarters." Kenton saluted and then turned away, grasping the japanned speaking trumpet. The son of a half-pay captain, he had inherited all his father's seagoing characteristics except a stentorian voice. Kenton's shouted orders needed the help of the speaking trumpet to lob his voice as far as the fo'c'sle.

The men ran in the guns and secured them, covered the flintlocks with aprons, small canvas hoods that tied down securely to protect the flint and mechanism from salt spray, put pistols and muskets back into the deck lockers, slipped the ash staves of the long boarding pikes into the racks round each mast, and then made their way below.

Ramage saw the fourth lieutenant coming up the quarterdeck ladder to relieve Kenton. Young Martin was, with Kenton, the newest of the Calypso's lieutenants but at twenty-three or four - Ramage could not remember which - Martin had already experienced as much action as most officers saw in a lifetime. The son of the master shipwright at the Chatham Dockyard, Martin was known throughout the ship as "Blower", an improbable nickname used openly by his fellow officers and discreetly by the rest of the ship's company and bestowed out of admiration, because Lieutenant William Martin was a superb flautist. He played the wooden tube as though it was a part of his own body: the sheer pleasure that it and music gave him found an echo among the men, who did not care whether he was playing an obscure piece of baroque music or one of the traditional forebitters, used when the men were heaving at the capstan, bringing the anchor home.

Ramage watched the two young lieutenants: Kenton reporting the course and any orders from the captain that remained unexecuted (there was none), plus any unusual occurrences, thus carrying out the captain's standing orders for handing over the deck. The two lieutenants now faced forward, and Ramage guessed they were discussing the convoy. Yes, there were still seventy-two ships, and considering all things they were in reasonable formation. For that Ramage knew he could thank a night of steady southeasterly winds and probably the impression he had made at the convoy conference. But steady winds and past impressions did not last; one should never trust the weather or one's memory . . .

A convoy under way with dawn breaking is always an impressive sight, and he continued looking at the ships. The increasing pinkness now spreading over the eastern horizon like a water-colour wash gave the flax of the merchant ships' sails a warmth which was gently shaded by the curve into which the wind pressed them. Yet it was hard to believe the ships were more than toys being pulled by unseen strings across a village pond: at this distance each seemed much too small to be carrying hundreds of tons of valuable cargo in her hold. For all that, cargoes from the West Indies were smelly rather than exotic, he reminded himself, mostly molasses and hides . . . Sometimes there were more aromatic spices such as nutmeg, but molasses were a touchy cargo, liable to absorb the smell of anything else stowed near it.

In England it was an hour before noon. In France about the same. What was Sarah doing at this moment? Could she be at home with her parents - in London, or their estate in Norfolk? Or was she a prisoner in France? Bonaparte must be a vile man: never before had women been treated as prisoners of war - at least, among civilized people. Nor, for that matter, were civilians accidentally caught in a country by a sudden war - oh, to hell with it; continually worrying would not tell him whether or not she was safe, although worrying was all he could do. Worry and watch over these damned mules across 3,500 miles of the Western Ocean - more if the winds played tricks and headed them.

"The Emerald, sir," Martin reported, his voice seeming to come from another planet. "Wheft at the foretopmast - 'To communicate with the commander of the convoy'."

"Very well," Ramage said in the usual response. "Can you see any other sail beyond her? Has the Robuste hoisted any signal?"

If there was an emergency - a privateer in sight or a French man-o'-war - then the Emerald would have hoisted the appropriate signal, and the Robuste would have sighted her as well. No, Sidney Yorke had a routine message to pass - probably, Ramage guessed, the opening round in the social invitations exchanged between the more important merchant ships and escorts. In fact it was usually restricted to the commander and one or two merchant ships whose masters were old friends. Whatever the circumstances, such invitations broke up the monotony of the voyage, both for the officers invited and the men who had to row them over: the hospitality usually included the men, and it was a wise coxswain who kept an eye on the drinking in the fo'c'sle.

"Well, Mr Martin, let's pass within hail of the Emerald and see what she has to say."

"Aye aye, sir."

"And Mr Martin, let's do it in the fewest tacks and gybes possible, from this position. Over to her and back here again."

"Aye aye, sir," Martin said doubtfully, knowing this was a test.

Just half an hour later, with the rising sun bringing a freshening wind, the Calypso bore away a couple of points and surged close under the Emerald's quarter, the frigate's bow butting up sheets of spray as she sliced through the bulky merchantman's big quarter wave.

Right aft Ramage could see Sidney and Alexis waving: the girl seemed to be jumping up and down with excitement, and even the ship's master stood at the taffrail, a hand upraised.

Now Sidney had a speaking trumpet to his mouth and Ramage rapidly reversed the one he was grasping, holding the mouthpiece to his ear like a deaf beggar.

"Dinner . . . today . . . you . . . nephew . . . Southwick ... as many officers as you ..."

And then, as Ramage waved an acknowledgement, the Calypso was past her and angling across the bow of the ship leading the next column, which had her rail lined with white faces - it must be disturbing to have a frigate steering at you, even though for only a minute or two.

Then the Calypso was out ahead of the convoy and just as Martin was going to bring her about, to tack round the eastern side of the convoy again, Ramage stopped him. "That was well done, but we'll carry on and do a circumnavigation of the whole convoy. Won't do any harm to let the mules know we can turn up alongside 'em while they're busy having breakfast. Hey, what's the matter with you? You look as though you're going to faint!"

"I'm all right now, sir; it was just those last few minutes!"

A startled Ramage stared at the youth. "Blower" treated musket shot and cannon balls with contempt. What on earth could make him go white like that? "What 'last few minutes'?"

"Passing under the stern of the Emerald so close, sir. I know the owner is a friend of yours, and the lady was watching, too."

Ramage smiled as he shook his head. "Martin, remember this: the fact the owner of that ship is a friend of mine didn't make her one foot nearer or farther away."

"No sir," Martin agreed, "but if we'd hit her the crash would have sounded a thousand times louder."

Poor "Blower", he had been determined to bring the Calypso close enough for them to hear the Emerald's hail, even if he scared himself to death. He did not realize that if there had been a collision the responsibility would have been Ramage's but, Ramage realized, this was not the time to point that out: "Blower" had handled the ship splendidly under the impression that one mistake would see him court-martialled and dismissed the Service. It was an experience which added to his confidence.

"At least a thousand times louder," Ramage said.

Southwick knew he had eaten too much but the dinner given by Mr Yorke was more like a banquet than anything he had eaten on board a ship for a long time. Those John Company fellows were supposed to live like pashas (indeed he had eaten some good meals on board ships of the Honourable East India Company), but nothing to compare with what the Emerald had to offer. John Company masters ran to heavy and highly-spiced food; a curry so hot you lost the taste in the furnace created in your mouth, and found comfort in the stream of perspiration erupting on your face. A course like that, Southwick thought sadly, was the kind of thing that "old India hands" loved, and once they had caught their breath again they could make half an hour's animated conversation out of the piquancy. Well, usually they had not much else to discuss, so curry often became a staple subject, the rules and standards as well defined (and as boring) as a political speech.

Yes, he was going to pay for this present meal in an attack of wind, but it would be worth it. It was curious that on board a John Company ship the master felt it necessary to emphasize India instead of wanting a change. Yet by the same token in the West Indies everyone seemed to drink the local rum - anyone offering something else like gin was assumed to have bought a few cases cheaply.

Curious ... the thought struck Southwick as he reached for his glass of port that the real curry lovers, the men who became excited at the prospect and then discussed the memory as though recalling a loved one, were almost without exception extremely dull fellows. Was there any relationship between brains and a liking for a particular food? He was just parading people he knew and putting them in categories when he realized someone was speaking to him.

It was Mr Yorke's sister, and she wanted to know if the sherbert had been too sweet for him.

"No, ma'am, it was just right."

"But you hardly ate any; you left most of it on your plate!"

"No discredit to the sherbert, ma'am: I have to admit I've eaten too much of everything - or nearly everything. The meal is a credit to -" he hesitated: could such a beautiful young woman arrange a dinner like this? Would she? Or would Mr Yorke leave all the details to the purser and the cook - to the chef, rather?

She gave him a mischievous smile and Southwick blessed whoever had arranged the seating for having put her next to him. She guessed the reason for Southwick's pause.

"You can give me the credit for choosing the menu. My brother deserves credit for finding the chef - he is a Scotsman who had a French mother."

"A remarkably successful combination, ma'am," Southwick said. "I have never eaten so well afloat before."

She whispered: "Do you think that Captain Ramage has enjoyed the meal? I mean, is it the kind of food he likes, or would he have preferred curry, or anyway spicier food?"

Southwick thought for a moment. This was going to be a long and probably slow voyage, and Mr Ramage would be dining on board the Emerald several times before they reached the Chops of the Channel. It was worth the risk of being tactless.

"Ma'am," he whispered back, "I was praying you wouldn't give him curry or food that's too heavy or spicy. He really hates curry. Leastways," he qualified the remark, "I've never been too sure whether it's really curry or the people that eat it. Anyway, take my word for it, ma'am, he's not one for too much spice."

"He likes more.subtle food?"

"That's just the right description," Southwick assured her.

"'Subtle' - that's just the word. Not that we ever eat anything subtle in one of the King's ships! The galley is just a big copper."

"So you can boil clothes and plum duff, but that's about all!"

Southwick grinned again, running a hand through his mop of white hair. "So you've heard about duff, ma'am. Best thing to fill a hole when you're hungry and warm you up on a cold day!"

"You've served with Captain Ramage a long time?"

"Since he was a young lieutenant given his first command," Southwick said. "You were a little girl then!"

"He's not so old," she said unexpectedly, and Southwick glanced at her in time to see her blush.

"Depends how you measure time," the old master said dryly. "In many ways he's as old as Methuselah."

"And in others?"

Southwick shrugged his shoulders. He was getting into shoal waters in what could be a twisty channel. "In others? Well, he's been at sea in wartime since he was a young lad, so there hasn't been much time for social life or horseplay."

"Just killing Frenchmen?" she teased.

"Yes," Southwick said seriously. "And trying to avoid being killed by them, too. He's been wounded enough times; I've mistaken him for dead - oh, half a dozen times or more."

"The voyage you both made with my brother in that Post Office packet - that was dangerous."

Southwick suddenly realized that Miss Yorke must know a good deal more about Mr Ramage than she had let on, and he knew he was being used to satisfy her curiosity. Well, the captain was a handsome man and attractive to women, and she was one of the most beautiful and lively young women that Southwick had ever met; a mild flirtation with Mr Ramage on this voyage, whether Mr Ramage was married or not. . . Anything, Southwick thought, that took the captain's mind off the fate of Lady Sarah. After all, Mr Ramage had always regarded Mr Yorke as one of his best friends (although they had little chance of seeing each other) and Southwick had been surprised to find that Mr Ramage and the sister had never met before. He found himself speculating about what might have happened if they had met before the Calypso had sailed for Ilha da Trinidade, where Mr Ramage had met Lady Sarah.

"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 longtime, 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's 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.