by Dudley Pope
Watched by Tewtin, Ramage picked up the Admiralty orders and read them through once more. They had been drafted in good faith and neither Their Lordships nor Nepean could have anticipated the present situation. Tewtin could not interfere with a ship acting under direct Admiralty orders, but he was too cunning for that. The Admiralty had ordered the Calypso back to England, but they had not added a phrase like “with all possible despatch”, or “without delay”. This, Ramage noted bitterly, allowed Tewtin to claim that since the Calypso was returning to England anyway, she might as well take the convoy under her protection.
There was just one more card to play, a poor and miserable card but the only one he had left.
“To be perfectly honest, sir, I’m worried about the Count of Rennes. He is in a desperate hurry to get back to England, to see the Prince of Wales – and of course he has large estates in Kent. I had been wondering whether or not I should keep him on board the Calypso and make a dash for it.”
Tewtin nodded understandingly. “I see your problem, but I hope the Count is grateful to you – and the Royal Navy – for rescuing him. Now is not the time to show impatience – why, but for you he would be rotting on Devil’s Island. From what I hear, the prisoners don’t last very long down there. If your Count of Rennes makes a fuss,” he said portentously, “I’ll have a word with him. In the meantime, transfer him to that merchant ship – what’s she called? – where he has a suite awaiting him.”
At that point Ramage knew he was beaten: at the end of a week in Barbados, he was going to have to command a convoy back to England, and all he could do now was hope that the merchant ships were not too undermanned, that their sails were not so ripe they were furled in anything of a breeze, that their spars were not so sun-dried and shaken that they would forever be signalling to one of the escort that they needed assistance – which meant sending across a carpenter and his mates to fish a spar.
All of which meant that all too many shipowners sent their ships to the West Indies with too few men and ancient sails, with rigging and cordage that should have been replaced a year ago, spars and yards that had shakes in them wide and deep enough to trap a man’s finger, if not a whole hand – and always relying on the Royal Navy in an emergency to help them. And usually the Royal Navy had no choice: a disabled ship left behind by the convoy could be a ship lost to French privateers, and there would be violent letters of protest arriving at the Admiralty from the outraged owners and the insurance underwriters, and woe betide the poor frigate captain who was exasperated beyond control by these constant demands on his men and resources. Not for nothing did most commanders of convoys and the escorts refer to the masters of merchant ships as “mules”.
When would the Admiralty in its collective wisdom put its collective foot down and stop these profiteering shipowners from running their ships at the taxpayers’ expense? With very few exceptions, shipowners were making their fortunes, thanks to the war. To begin with, the convoy system stopped any rush for a ship to be among the first dozen or so to arrive in England with the new harvest of sugar, tobacco, nutmeg or whatever it was to reap a high price in the market place. The convoy system meant all the ships arrived at once, their cargoes swamping the market, which was bad luck for the shippers (the planters in the West Indies, in this case) but fine for the shipowners. In peacetime, the faster ships (well kept and well commanded) could reasonably charge the highest freight because the planters, first at the market with their produce, made a good profit. In wartime there was no need for fast ships, and unscrupulous ship owners were quick to buy up any hull that would swim and could be insured: the convoy system ensured that she would not be beaten into port by faster ships and the Royal Navy was forced (blackmailed, in fact) to keep her afloat. And, to save any strain and wear on sails, spars, masts and cordage (costs, in other words), the damned mules always reefed at night, no matter how scant the breeze.
In turn that meant that each could sail with a smaller crew: with no risk of having to reef in a squall, many of these smaller traders sailed with only a master, mate, a couple of apprentices (whose indentures meant they were paying to be on board) and half a dozen men. Food, from what Ramage heard, was bad, and any complaints by the crew to a master met with a standard response: a man or two could easily be handed over to the next pressgang that came in sight. The choice was simple: serve in a merchant ship with bad food but higher pay, signing on for a single round-trip voyage, or be swept into one of the King’s ships, serving until the next peace, which at the moment seemed a lifetime away.
When he returned to the Calypso and stepped through the entryport, Aitken met him with a broad grin on his face. “Mr Southwick wanted to talk to you before you go below, sir,” he said, “and I’ve passed the word for him.”
“What’s all this about?” Ramage asked impatiently: he had been sitting in his cutter so long that the heat now soaking him with perspiration seemed to come from inside his body, as though it was a glowing coal. At that moment Southwick, also grinning, bustled up.
“You have visitors, sir, and I took the liberty of taking them down to wait in the cabin, where it’s cooler.”
Why was Southwick so concerned about visitors? Why the grin? Why the “I’ve got a surprise for you” way he was rubbing his hands like a parson with the Easter offering? Ramage, still at the entryport, looked outboard along the boat boom, rigged out at right angles to the ship’s side and to which the painters of boats were secured. Only the Calypso’s cutter was now secured there, so how had the visitors arrived? Had they dropped from a passing cloud? And who wanted visitors at this moment: he was still so angry over Tewtin’s behaviour that he just wanted to go down to his cabin and brood in peace and quiet. Sulk, really, because Tewtin had trapped him with an Admiralty order, and the prospect of driving a convoy of a hundred mules back to England at an average speed (if he was lucky and found the right winds and persuaded the mules to keep enough canvas set) of perhaps four knots. Days and weeks must pass before he could discover anything about Sarah.
At such a time a man wanted solitude, just as a sick animal hid away in a dark corner. He did not want to be surrounded by a noisy throng, all of whom would be fortifying themselves with rum punches and determined to cheer him up, not realizing that trying to cheer up a man in these circumstances only emphasized his loneliness: one was never more alone than in a crowd.
But Southwick and Aitken were still waiting expectantly, and he walked aft to the companionway. He clattered down the ladder, acknowledged the salute of the Marine sentry outside his door, pushed it open and walked into the cabin which, because his eyes had been dazzled by the sun reflecting up from the sea and the scrubbed decks, seemed very dark. There was a man sitting at his desk and he was just conscious of another smaller figure on the settee.
As the man stood up, Ramage recognized him and suddenly realized that of all his friends – few as they were – this was the one he most wanted to see at this moment. No wonder Southwick was grinning: the three of them had been shipmates several years ago, when Ramage had been under orders to find out why so many of the Post Office packets were being captured by French privateers.
As a startled Ramage just stared the man laughed. “You didn’t expect to find that fellow Sidney Yorke sitting at your desk, eh?”
Ramage shook his head, trying to gain a few moments while he collected his thoughts. “No, hardly! I expected you to be in London, chasing clerks, bullying your shipmasters, and becoming very rich. Oh yes, and marrying and beginning a large family.”
As he finished the last sentence he followed Yorke’s eyes round to the settee and saw that the person sitting on it was a woman of such beauty and poise that he felt dizzy, almost disoriented by the surprise. Yorke had found an exquisite wife, and Ramage found himself walking forward in a daze to kiss the proffered hand and muttering “Daphne”.
“You two have never met,” Yorke said, his voice revealing a pride in both of them.
“But I have heard so much
about you, Captain,” the woman said, “that I feel I have known you for years. Why Sidney never persuaded you to visit us I don’t know!”
Ramage hurriedly thought back across the years. Yorke had never mentioned a wife.
“The gallant captain was always rushing about in those days,” Yorke said, “and of course there was the beautiful Marchesa!”
“Ah yes,” the woman said, “the Marchesa. But we heard before we left England that she had returned to Italy…”
She broke off, as if realizing she should not have mentioned it, but Yorke said: “It’s all right: Nicholas must know she was caught in France when the war started again. Have you any news of her?”
Ramage shook his head. “Not a word. I know she stayed a few days with the Herveys in Paris, but whether or not she had left for Italy, I don’t know.”
Ramage pulled himself together and realized he was still holding the woman’s hand, and Yorke introduced them formally: “Captain the Lord Ramage…Miss Alexis Yorke…”
Ramage kissed her hand and then said politely: “Sidney, I trust you and Mrs Yorke will stay to dinner? Are you travelling in one of your own ships?”
As Yorke accepted the invitation, the woman laughed: the charming and tinkling laugh of a happy person who had just heard something amusing.
“Answering the last question first, yes. We came out in the Emerald. We planned a nice quiet voyage to celebrate the peace, and who knows, I might have found out here what I can’t find in England!”
“And what is that?”
“Who is that,” Yorke corrected, grinning.
“Very well, who. And have you succeeded?”
“A wife, and no, I haven’t succeeded.”
A dumbfounded Ramage turned to the woman, who burst out laughing. “I thought you heard Sidney introduce me as ‘Mrs’, but he said ‘Miss’ Alexis Yorke. I am (thank goodness) his sister, not his wife. In fact I have been sorting out the widows, fortune-hunters and desperate mothers among the islands and–”
“–and she has rejected the whole lot of them,” Yorke said.
“Out of hand,” Alexis said firmly. She looked up at Ramage, who realized she had large eyes which seemed in the shade of the cabin to be black, and she gave what could only be described as an impish grin. “You see, it isn’t just a question of a wife for Sidney, but a sister-in-law for me.”
“Quite,” Ramage said carefully. “It could be a problem.”
“Not ‘could’, but ‘will’. Sidney will expect his bride to be immune from seasickness and as fond of going to sea in his ships as he is. She won’t, of course; she’ll hate the sea and will get sick even in a well-sprung carriage going down the Mall, so she will stay at home when he goes off on his voyages and every day she will come round and weep on my shoulder.”
“You have no sense of family loyalty,” Yorke chided. “You should be only too glad to console a grieving sister-in-law.”
“I’ll console a grieving sister-in-law,” Alexis said, “but not a moping one, and if I don’t keep an eye on you we’ll end up with a moper.”
“You could get married and live at the other end of the country,” Ramage commented, but she shook her head.
“Don’t suggest that,” Yorke said. “She’s already inspected all the eligible men and found them wanting. If she lives at the other end of the country, I’ll have my house forever cluttered up with a brother-in-law complaining that his wife has just gone off on a sea voyage…”
“I love sea voyages,” Alexis said, and her laugh seemed to make the Calypso come alive. “But not every man does.”
“What she means is that when the suitors come knocking on the door, the first question she asks is whether or not they like sea voyages. If they say no, they don’t cross the threshold.”
Ramage excused himself for a moment: he had to give instructions to his steward for the meal. Silkin, sensing that with two guests the captain would at last allow him to fetch out all the silver and cut glass that stayed so long in drawers amid green baize, and napery that yellowed with disuse, listened carefully. The courses he and the captain would like to serve were limited by the frigate’s cooking facilities and the fact that he could not get on shore and buy a prime cut of meat in time to roast it. Roasting food was a time-consuming job in a frigate’s galley.
“Lobsters,” Ramage said. “You can do much with lobsters. The wardroom bought a lamb yesterday. See if they will sell me enough to make up a plate of cold cuts.”
“The prizes,” Silkin reminded him. “All those salami sausages, or whatever the French call them. There are those what likes that sort o’ thing, sliced thin. And we’ve a couple of hams left that go ten pounds each.”
The midday meal, traditionally eaten by the captain about two o’clock and called dinner, was going to be a pleasant one. At that moment, Ramage realized that he had never enjoyed a meal he had to eat alone: it was as if guests were needed to give food any piquancy.
He went up on deck into the dazzling sunlight to find Aitken and explain why Southwick and not he was being invited to dinner, but the Scotsman understood only too well: the master had already told him how Mr Yorke was with them in the Post Office packet.
Ramage turned to go back down the companionway and found that Alexis had come up the steps and was now looking through one of the gunports. She turned and smiled as he approached.
“Are visitors allowed on deck?” she asked.
“Visitors such as yourself are encouraged to be on deck,” Ramage said lightly. “The sun seems brighter.”
Again that impish smile. “You are very gallant, Captain.”
“The opportunities are very rare,” he said dryly.
“Who is ‘Daphne’?” she asked quietly.
“Daphne? I don’t know anyone of that name,” he said lamely. The name had sprung to mind the moment he saw her in the shadowed cabin; but surely he had not spoken it aloud?
“I heard you say it and I saw your lips forming it,” she said, “but I must not pry into your secret.”
“Secret? No secret, I assure you,” he said, trying to hide his embarrassment. He managed to muster a laugh. “Oh indeed, no secret!”
“Very well, then who is Daphne?”
She was wearing a long, close-fitting olive dress which was pleated below the knees, obviously intended to give her free movement in awkward places like ship’s companionways. Her hair was long and the colour of honey except on the top and sides, where the sun had bleached it. She had left her hat below in the cabin, he noticed. Her face was heart-shaped but with high cheekbones, and her nose–
“I shan’t allow myself to be inspected until you tell me about Daphne,” she said with feigned sternness.
“I really can’t tell you,” Ramage found himself stammering.
“You are blushing,” she said. “Is she very beautiful?”
The devil take it, Ramage thought: she is a stranger who through Sidney has known of me for years; she is being persistent, and if I do not answer now I shall never hear the last of it.
“She’s very beautiful, yes; but she’s cold and lifeless and ignores me completely.”
“You set me a puzzle,” she said. “Now I have to guess who Daphne is! Could I have met her?”
“No, you could not possibly,” he said, now alarmed. “She doesn’t exist. She’s imaginary.”
She stood closer and murmured: “The Daphne I saw in your eyes existed: I was watching you. You looked round, saw me and said ‘Daphne’. Had it not been so quiet I might have thought you said ‘Damn me!’ from surprise, but I was sure you said ‘Daphne’ and you’ve just confirmed it.”
“Confirmed it?” Ramage exclaimed. “How? I said I didn’t know anyone of that name!”
“There’s some association, then. Ah – you are blushing under all that sun-tan. Tell me, or you’ll never have a moment’s peace.”
“Oh, very well,” Ramage said ungraciously. “A marble statue. Of Daphne. You’ve never seen it.”
&nbs
p; “I hope I have,” she said. “As a very young girl when I felt clumsy and ugly, when I was making the Grand Tour and seeing what Italy had to offer. Let me see, Daphne is tall and slender, both arms are lifted in the air, and most of her is naked. Except for her left leg, which is turning into the bark of a tree trunk, and her hands too are changing into sprigs of laurel, and she is crying out to her father for help to stop this terrible metamorphosis – and close, holding her with one hand but helpless to do anything, is Apollo, from whom she is fleeing. You flatter me, Captain!” She moved back a pace, as if to let him see her more clearly. “Surely I am not really like the Daphne created by Bernini!”
His eyes dropped to her breasts, outlined perfectly beneath the dress, and he could imagine the flat belly on which, in the statue, Apollo’s hand rested.
