Ramage & the Renegades Read online

  “Will he have any leave before I go?”

  “That depends when you go.”

  “Next week,” she said. “I shall be leaving London next Wednesday morning. I am travelling to Paris with the Herveys: I met Lady Hervey at Lord Hawkesbury’s office this morning and she invited me to join them—they have room in their carriages.”

  Later that afternoon Ramage was sitting in his own room on the first floor, glancing at the latest edition of Steele’s Naval Chronologist. He looked out at the plane trees, and like calendars recording the passage of autumn, they were losing their leaves. The bark of the trunks reminded him of a beggar with some vile disease.

  So she was returning to Volterra, but he was puzzled and troubled by his own thoughts and feelings or, rather, by the contradictions in them which had been emerging over the last year or two and he was now being forced to examine.

  How should the love between a man and a woman develop? It was something about which he knew very little, because Gianna was his first real love. Since those early months (years, he corrected himself, the period between being a junior lieutenant and a junior post captain), the original blazing love had cooled slightly. Cooled? Well, changed, both in his actual feelings for her and in his eventual realization that they could never marry. Had that realization eaten into that love, silently like rust or old age?

  Could love really continue and develop when both people knew it would never reach the final stage of marriage? Neither he nor Gianna had talked about it; rather each of them (he was guessing her thoughts) had felt the pressures mounting. First there had been religion, and it seemed obvious that a woman accustomed to her own way in everything, as only the ruler of a nation could insist on it, would not accept that one of the oldest Protestant earldoms in the kingdom could never become Catholic by marriage.

  Nor did she ever consider that, even if marriage was possible, the people of Volterra would never accept their ruler back if she had married a Protestant foreigner while in exile. That the foreigner had rescued her from Bonaparte, that his family had given her shelter, that her heir served in the Royal Navy under him—no, the man was a straniero and a Protestant; and that would be enough. Gianna had mentioned that he could perhaps be appointed the British ambassador, but he wondered if she had considered whether either of them really wanted a lover-and-mistress relationship.

  Did the “deep love” still exist? Love, yes; enough to make him want to bend iron bars with the frustration of failing to persuade her not to go to Volterra. In the old days he would kidnap her rather than let her go. Now he was apprehensive, but as though she was a favourite sister.

  Guilt came into it, of course. The story of their romance was well known; the reception the Calypsos had given Gianna was proof of that. Ramage felt he had been urged on by what was expected of him—but with no opportunity of holding up a hand and explaining the difficulties: of religion and of the feelings of Gianna’s own subjects.

  He often felt that Paolo, young as he was, understood that he was in effect on a treadmill; as though instinctively Paolo had known there was no way round the twin barriers of religion and nationalism.

  He sighed and watched a sudden gust of wind send more leaves tumbling down. Duty was forcing Gianna to return to Volterra and abandon the man she loved; duty had forced him to accept that he could never marry her because their son would have to be raised as a Catholic, which meant that when he inherited … Duty, noblesse oblige, was armoured against Cupid’s darts.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALTHOUGH his head was buzzing and his nose was painful because of the strong smell of paint, Ramage was glad to be back on board the Calypso, and through the sternlights he could see the houses of Chatham beginning to move round as the frigate swung at the turn of the tide. The misery of drydocking was over; the copper sheathing had been replaced; the only work remaining to be done by the dockyard was building some extra cabins forward of the gunroom. They would be insubstantial structures, merely large boxes with sides made of battens and canvas.

  More cabins meant more men on board, and once again he looked gloomily at the latest letter from the Admiralty. “I am directed by my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty,” Nepean had written in the time-honoured opening phrase, “to direct you to prepare for the reception on board the vessel you command of the people listed in the margin … and who will accompany you on the voyage for which you have already received secret orders.

  “Their Lordships further direct me to enjoin upon you the need for secrecy and none of the individuals named in the margin know the details of the service upon which you are engaged. The circumstances under which such details may be imparted are described in your sealed orders.”

  The list comprised seven men, each name followed by a description of his function. The first read, “The Rev Percival Stokes, chaplain,” and was the reason for Ramage’s irritation. No ship smaller than a ship of the line was compelled to have a chaplain—unless one volunteered. There were captains whose religious beliefs bordered on fanaticism and who had the ship’s company praying twice daily. Most captains were like Ramage, respecting the fact that a man’s religious beliefs were his own affair and limiting the enforced observance to Divine service on Sundays.

  Chaplains were not at this stage of the war—at the moment, he corrected himself—very popular among either captains or ships’ companies. Some were splendid fellows who, in a ship of the line, kept the six or seven hundred men cheerful and were a help to the captain and officers responsible for their welfare. Others stayed remote from the men, regarding the wardroom and the quarterdeck as the limit of their perambulations. The third type were members of what Ramage always called “the pursed lips party”: narrow-minded and self-righteous, regarding a ship-of-war solely as a floating house of God which they controlled, they were usually the centre of intrigue and complaint. Either they found a fanatical captain who listened to their every word, or else he ignored them and they whined at the most senior of the lieutenants who cared to listen.

  The general dislike of chaplains, though, was based on something much simpler: there were so few of them that although ships of the line had in theory to carry them, only one in three had a chaplain: in wartime parsons, it seemed, preferred a rectory or vicarage where a fire blazed of a winter’s night. The ship of the line with a chaplain was usually carrying a clerical friend of the captain. Frigates, with a ship’s company a third of the size of a ship of the line, rarely saw one; Ramage could not remember a single case.

  Now, however, with peace, were chaplains going to flock to sea? And what on earth made the Reverend Percival Stokes apply to join the Calypso? He was probably the penurious friend of a friend of one of their Lordships. Ramage saw an endless vista of members of the ship’s company complaining: in one of the King’s ships carrying a chaplain it was more restful, to say the least, being Church of England.

  Well, Mr Stokes had better be a careful man: the Calypso’s First Lieutenant was a Highland Scot and certainly Low Church; the Master was, surprisingly, a free-thinker; the single Midshipman an Italian Catholic. And the Captain refused to discuss religion with anyone.

  The next two names in the margin of Nepean’s letter had “surveyor” after them, followed by two draughtsmen, an artist and a botanist. A previous letter from Nepean had told Ramage that six miners and six masons were being sent to join the ship’s company, volunteers who should be entered in the Calypso’s books as supernumeraries for both victuals and wages. Several tons of bricks and materials for mortar were being brought by hoy from Maidstone, and shovels, plasterers’ trowels and wooden buckets had already arrived on board. The Calypso was going to be sailing well down on her marks: he was under orders to provision for five months—only possible because the Calypso was to carry a peacetime quantity of powder and shot—and water for three. There would be difficulties if the map of Trinidade was wrong about the presence of fresh water …

  Ramage pushed aside Nepean’s letter and reached for the one
which had arrived from London at the same time. He recognized his father’s writing and broke the seal. The Earl had written:

  I called on Hawkesbury, and must confess the only real information I received from him was extraordinary enough for me to note down. Up to yesterday, passports for visits to France had been requested by 5 dukes, 3 marquises, 37 earls and countesses, 85 viscounts, 17 barons and 41 elder sons and heirs. This comprises a third of the House of Lords, so if Bonaparte wishes to play a trick he could tear up the Treaty and intern the peers.

  Hawkesbury mentioned these figures to justify the advice he gave Gianna. When I pointed out that although one third of the House of Lords, and their women, were visiting France, all were British subjects and not one of them was the ruler of a nation which Bonaparte still occupied and obviously intended to keep.

  He told me I worried unnecessarily, but when he said Lord St Vincent held the same views as himself and was already preparing proposals to place before the Cabinet for paying off two-thirds of the Navy’s strength, quite apart from a comprehensive plan for scrapping many older ships of the line and frigates, I must confess I lost my temper.

  I pointed out that the newspapers carried reports that French transport ships were busy at places like Brest and Rochefort embarking troops, and ships-of-war were commissioning, and the same was true for Dutch and Spanish ports. He protested that Otto had already explained that French troops were intended to subdue a rising among the blacks in St Domingo.

  I pointed out that such a powerful force could be used for recapturing Trinidad; that now we had just returned all his sugar islands except Guadeloupe, Bonaparte would be sending out large garrisons as soon as possible, and may plan attacks on our own islands. This wretched man Jenks—I can think of him only by that name—then produced the excuse used by all political scoundrels: it was Cabinet policy, he said. I took my leave; it was as much as I could do to stop myself rapping him across the shins with my cane. When I think of all our seamen and soldiers who died in the drunken projects of Dundas, and the risk at which sober idiots like Jenks put people like Gianna, I find myself ashamed of my country. Are we so impoverished of talented men that we are reduced to ministers like Addington and Jenks?

  Ramage locked his father’s letter away in a drawer and slid Nepean’s among the pages of a book labelled “Captain’s Orders—Received.” With its companion volume, “Captain’s Orders—Issued,” it was also kept under lock and key. All the years he had been at sea, such volumes were stored in a canvas bag secured by a drawstring and weighted with a bar of lead in the bottom. Now there was peace, a locked drawer in his desk was enough. That, and the use of lights when under way at night, would be the most obvious signs that Britain was at peace.

  Quite deliberately Ramage had hurried over the last few paragraphs of his father’s letter. They described the violent arguments Gianna had had with Paolo. Or, rather, the violent arguments Paolo had had with her. Ramage had said nothing to the boy when giving him leave to go to London. According to the Earl, Gianna had not mentioned her plans to her nephew for a couple of days. She had then chosen an afternoon when the Earl and Countess were out paying a social call. They had returned to find an outraged Paolo waiting for them, almost distraught and appealing to them to forbid his aunt to leave England. Paolo had immediately seen the dangers, though he thought they came mostly from certain members of his family who had remained in Volterra and, by fawning on Bonaparte, gained power they certainly would not give up to the Marchesa arriving back in Volterra on her own. And Paolo knew enough of the realities of Italian politics, where a dagger was more commonly used than a speech in the senate, to realize that nothing short of a few battalions would suffice to protect her. Traitors, he had told his aunt, especially related by blood, were not fish that willingly swam into the net.

  The sentry outside the cabin door reported that Mr Southwick had arrived, and Ramage called for him to be sent in. The old Master sat down as Ramage waved him to the only armchair, and skimmed his hat on to the settee.

  “The dockyard chippies,” he said crossly. “They work more slowly and make more mess than a band of monkeys. These extra cabins will never be finished. Their foreman as good as said five guineas would see them all completed by Friday, otherwise it would take a couple of weeks.”

  Ramage stared at Southwick. “‘As good as said?’ Was he openly asking for money?”

  “Yes, I was being polite, sir. His actual words were, ‘Tell your Captain that five guineas will see it all finished by Friday: otherwise we’ll still be here a week on Friday.’”

  Ramage sighed and picked up the papers still on his desk. “The First Lord knows there’s corruption in dockyards and throughout the Navy Board,” he said as he locked the papers in a drawer. “The trouble is I can hardly bother him with the case of a corrupt foreman carpenter. Still, by next Monday I intend to be at sea. The extra people join the ship this Thursday—in three days’ time.”

  “Perhaps if you saw the Dockyard Commissioner, sir …” Southwick’s tone showed he was simply being polite.

  “I can tell you exactly what the Commissioner would say,” Ramage said bitterly. He thought for a minute or two, saw and understood the glint in Southwick’s eye, and nodded at the Master.

  “As you know, I have secret orders I can’t yet open. The general orders I have, though, mean that we must sail as soon as possible. The ship’s company are back from leave, we have the miners and bricklayers, and we are provisioned and watered. If the cabins were completed, we could even sail on Friday; we’d be clear of the Nore by Friday night …”

  “But it’d cost us five guineas,” Southwick said.

  “You know, Southwick, I don’t see why I should pay an Englishman five guineas to be allowed to go about the King’s business

  … These fellows have grown rich by blackmailing captains anxious to get to sea again to fight the King’s enemies. Now the King has no enemies, except these wretched crooks. Perhaps we should have a look at this particular scoundrel. Tell the sentry to send for him.”

  Southwick went to the door and passed the order, but he looked worried when he sat down again. “Corrupt they may be, sir, but if we make an enemy of Commissioner Wedge we’ll never get anything done. It’s not this refit nor even the next one I’m thinking about; it’s the one after that. A commissioner can keep a ship and her captain locked up in a drydock for months—he has only to keep finding defects which, he says, he’s anxious to make good for the ship’s safety.”

  “I know that,” Ramage said shortly. “We are concerned now with a carpenter, not a commissioner. If you feel squeamish, you’d better take a walk in the fresh air.”

  “Squeamish?” Southwick grinned. “No, I think I shall enjoy this.”

  A knock on the door and the sentry’s hail announced the foreman’s arrival. When he came in Ramage saw he was a big hulking man who had to crouch to walk into the cabin, with its headroom of five feet four inches.

  The man was at least six feet tall and almost handsome, the narrow face and greasy black hair seeming not to belong to the broad shoulders and large hands.

  “You are the foreman carpenter?” Ramage asked politely.

  “Yes, sir.” Now he had an ingratiating smile. Already he had noted Southwick’s presence and (Ramage sensed) had probably guessed that the message about the five guineas had been passed.

  “Your name?”

  “Porter, sir. Albert Porter.”

  “You live nearby; I can tell from your accent.” Ramage’s voice was friendly, and from the way the man’s eyes were sweeping the desk he was looking to see where the pile of coins was waiting.

  “Ah yes, sir. Born in the Hundred of Hoo, I was, and served my apprenticeship at a shipyard that side of the river before starting in the dockyard. Twelve years ago, that was.”

  “Three or four years before the war began,” Ramage commented.

  “S’right, sir. Kept us busy, the war. Still, now peace is here and I got my little house
and four children. Big expense, a wife, a house and children.”

  “So I believe,” Ramage said dryly. “I’ve been at sea all the time, so they are three problems I don’t have.”

  “Ah, you’re a lucky man, sir, a lucky man.”

  “However, I’ve been wounded four times, and with Mr Southwick here I’ve lost a couple of ships. I’ve read the funeral service over more of my men than I care to remember …” Ramage let his voice die away, as though stifled by memories. He had the memories, but far from stifling him they were making him hot with anger, although this lout was too greedy to realize it.

  “You must have saved hard to pay for a house—or do you rent it?”

  “No, sir, all paid for it is; I don’t owe any man a penny piece.” Ramage nodded understandingly. “Your children marry, you spoil your grandchildren, and enjoy a happy old age, eh?”

  “S’right, sir,” the man grinned. Here was an understanding captain who was in a hurry to sail. Five guineas had been pitching it much too low. Some said he was a lord, and ten guineas should have been the price. Perhaps he’d get the chance of saying that the Master, Southwick or some such name, had misheard him.

  “I wonder how many of the Calypso’s officers and men will live to become grandfathers …”

  The foreman looked puzzled. The Captain seemed to be talking to himself, and he was still almost mumbling. “… All the officers of the Sibella were killed except me … A lot of men killed when we lost the Kathleen cutter … Several died in the Triton brig … We lost Baker in Curaçao, when I had a bullet in the arm and this bang on the head …” He tapped a small patch of white hair. “No, they won’t ever be grandfathers.”

  Albert Porter, his head and shoulders bent below the beams, suddenly found he was staring into a pair of deep-set brown eyes that seemed to be looking right through him and seeing, across the river, his house built with the bribes he had managed to extract from impatient captains—men impatient to get to sea, the poor fools, where they stood a good chance of having their heads knocked off by round shot. Albert Porter just had time to realize he had made a mistake when a cold but quiet voice seemed to wrap itself round him and penetrate his clothes like a chill Medway fog.