by Dudley Pope
"Don't be absurd!" Arbuthnot said angrily. "You are just trying to dodge having to search."
Ramage shook his head wearily: it was disheartening when someone behaved exactly as expected, and so far Arbuthnot was conforming to the patterns with depressing precision.
"No, sir: they were taken off two days ago by a French frigate, the Marie. They were counted by the mayor of Capraia and his total came to within a dozen of ours."
"But that's three French frigates!" Arbuthnot protested feebly.
"And two ships of the line," Ramage reminded him, trying to keep the malice out of his voice.
"But how did this Marie know about the prisoners?"
"I'm sure she didn't sir. She may have had a rendezvous with one or both of the other two frigates, and when she didn't find them here she may have sent a boat on shore to get news and found the two crews there."
Clearly Arbuthnot was now puzzled what to do next: should he give chase or return to Naples? That was obviously a question to which for the moment he had no answer.
"When did you say this frigate arrived?"
"Two days ago. The day after I landed the prisoners."
"And which way did she go?"
"To the north. The wind would have been from the southwest."
"To the north, eh? Then she could have rounded Capraia and made for Toulon."
"She could have done," Ramage agreed. "Especially if she was short of water or provisions."
"Two days on her way to Toulon . . . no, we'd never stand a chance of catching her."
Ramage said nothing: it was Arbuthnot's decision, and with this kind of man if he was blamed by the Admiral he would mention that Ramage had agreed with him, even if all Ramage had done was rub his nose. No, Ramage decided, if Arbuthnot wanted any second opinion, let him get it from Slade, in the Phoenix: Slade was second-in-command of the little squadron, and was a devil of a sight higher up the Post List than Ramage.
"You can return to your ship," Arbuthnot said. "I will talk to you later."
Yes, Ramage thought, you'll give me orders after you have had time to talk it over with Slade. You are scared of Admiral Rudd: responsibility does not sit easily on your shoulders.
As soon as Ramage was back on board the Calypso he sent Orsini on shore with instructions for Kenton, Martin and Rennick: they were to return with their men at once.
The signal for Ramage to return to the Intrepid was not made for two hours, during which time Orsini reported that Captain Slade had visited the Intrepid and returned to the Phoenix. Arbuthnot, Ramage thought to himself, has got his second opinion. It was ironic that a man who dodged responsibility would get promotion to admiral - providing he lived long enough - simply because of seniority. Ramage did not know Arbuthnot's number on the Post List, but (like Ramage himself) he was advancing up it as those captains above him died off or were killed and new ones appeared below him, to help push him up the List.
That was the fault of promotion in the Navy: once one had made the final step - through influence or merit, because they were the only two things that could do it - of being made post (which was a complicated way of saying that you had been given command of a ship that had to be commanded by a post-captain) then becoming a admiral was simply a matter of staying alive and accumulating seniority: promotion to rear-admiral, the first rung on the nine steps of admiral, came when you reached the top of the list of post-captains and one of the rear-admirals died. Then you survived as a (ear-admiral until you reached the top of the list and you became a vice-admiral when one of them died and made a vacancy. And having got thus far, you hoped to stay alive so that you became full admiral by the same process. Nor did one have to be serving at sea because promotion was automatic: an admiral, be he rear, vice or full admiral, could be retired and drawing a pension for longer than he had served at sea. Indeed, there was one notorious case of an admiral ninety-nine years old who had been retired for forty-nine years after serving at sea only forty years, when his highest rank had been post-captain. Forty-nine years an admiral and no
never commanded a fleet; indeed, had never commanded more than a 74.
Arbuthnot would like that, Ramage thought sourly; he would not mind that the only people that called him admiral were the domestics and the people in whichever village he chose for retirement. He wondered for a minute what sort of man Captain Slade was: did he like being a second opinion? Perhaps he liked the responsibility. Perhaps he did not.
Again Arbuthnot went through the ritual of taking Ramage down to his cabin and seating him in the chair opposite the desk.
Arbuthnot clasped his hands together and composed his face into what he clearly thought was a stern and confident look.
"I have given the situation my attention," he told Ramage, "and I have come to the conclusion that it would be a pointless waste of time and quite beyond the scope of my orders to search for this frigate. By now it is probably halfway to Toulon."
Ramage was clearly expected to make some sort of comment.
"Very well, sir," he said.
"I could of course send you in chase," Arbuthnot said. "What do you think about that?"
Ramage decided that two could play at this game. "If you think there is any chance of me catching her, sir, I would be happy to try."
It was obvious that it was an idea that Arbuthnot had already discussed with Slade, and it was equally obvious what their conclusion had been.
"You think you might have a chance?" Arbuthnot asked, obviously startled by Ramage's reply. Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "One can but try, sir."
Arbuthnot seemed to decide that this sort of sparring could go on all afternoon; that he was not going to trap Ramage into saying something that he could relate to Admiral Rudd as confirming whatever decision he had made.
"You agree with me that a two-day start is an advantage we could never hope to overcome."
Again Ramage shrugged. "It's impossible to say, sir, because we don't know for sure that she is making direct for Toulon. She might have a rendezvous with another ship somewhere so that she could unload some of the survivors on board. She may be becalmed Who knows?"
Now it was Arbuthnot's turn to shrug his shoulders. "I consider that most unlikely, and so does Captain Slade."
"In that case, sir," Ramage said, "what are my orders?"
Arbuthnot again composed his face. "I intend taking the squadron back to Naples and reporting to Admiral Rudd," he said. "He will not be very pleased at the idea of losing so many prisoners."
And you and Slade are annoyed at losing so much head money. Ramage thought; how blatant can you be?
Down in the wardroom Martin was playing his flute and the red-haired Kenton was sitting in the doorway of his tiny cabin listening to him. Although they were physically very different types, both had family links with the Navy. Martin, known to the other lieutenants as "Blower" because of his flute playing, was the son of the master shipwright at Chatham Dockyard while Kenton. heavily freckled and with his face continually peeling from sunburn, was the son of a half-pay captain.
When Martin paused, Kenton said: "You know, Blower, we were damned unlucky that French frigate just happened to come along and rescue those survivors."
"I don't know, I wasn't looking forward to climbing over the island looking for them."
"No, but we lost a lot of head money."
"No, we didn't," Martin contradicted. "I heard the captain telling Southwick that the Admiral said all the head money would go to the Phoenix and the Intrepid because technically they would have captured the men."
"Why, that's monstrous!" Kenton exclaimed.
"All admirals are monstrous," Martin said lazily. "With the exception of Lord Nelson, and that was why he was killed. He was the only man who wasn't a monster ever to be made an admiral."
At that moment Hill came into the wardroom. "Come on Blower, start playing that thing."
"I've been playing for an hour. I was just telling our friend here that we didn't lose any head
money over the prisoners."
"No," said Hill, "we had already been cheated out of it by the Admiral, judging from what I heard Mr Ramage tell old South wick. So our French friends have helped spread a little justice round: we get cheated out of head money, and then the Intrepid and the Phoenix get cheated out of it by the French frigate. No head money for anyone."
"Well, we earned it," Kenton grumbled.
"We certainly did, but unless we had carried all of the prisoners back for the Admiral to count, we ran the risk of losing it. You must get out of the habit of thinking there is any justice in this world."
Kenton acknowledged Hill's remark with a dismissive gesture that implied he was annoyed at being thought so naive. "We don't need the money, at least I don't," he said airily. "Thanks to prize money I shan't be reduced to shining boots when I'm retired on half-pay. Nor will Martin. You joined too late, George. Still, if you fall on hard times in the future I'll employ you as my valet. Would you make a good valet, George?"
"That depends on the state of your wardrobe. If you expect me for ever to be stitching stocks and darning stockings, then the answer is no. I shall only valet for the gentry - the rich gentry."
"By the way," asked Martin, putting his flute back in its case, "has anyone heard if we are going back to Naples?"
Hill shook his head. "I should think so, but I haven't heard anyone mention it. Why? Do you fancy a Neapolitan romance?"
"Orsini tells me the Neapolitan women are very beautiful," Martin said seriously, "but there's some difficulty with what I think Orsini said were cicisbeos." "You mean husbands?" asked Hill.
"No, as far as I can make out, a cicisbeo is a lady's recognized follower: the husband knows all about it and agrees: the cicisbeo acts as a combined escort and chaperone."
"If I was the husband I wouldn't agree to that," Kenton said.
"No, he escorts the lady to the opera or takes her for rides in a carriage: it is all very honourable."
"It wouldn't be if I was a cicisbeo" Kenton said firmly. "The husband would be a cuckold within the hour."
Hill said: "There's probably an old Neapolitan tradition among husbands that cicisbeos who overstep the mark get their throats cut within the hour, too!"
Martin snapped the catch of the flute case and said: "It all sounds too easy, so there's bound to be a snag. I can't see Neapolitan husbands, of all men on earth, making their wives freely available. On the contrary, I would say that of all places on earth Naples is where the wife's honour - or perhaps I mean the husband's honour - is the most closely guarded."
"I'll bear that in mind when I go on shore," Hill said lightly. "No married women!"
"The unmarried women will be guarded by mothers who can make a wild tiger look tame, you can be sure of that," Kenton said.
"You two aren't making Naples sound a very attractive place," Hill grumbled. "I must say that from seaward Naples Bay looks very romantic."
"Obviously we are going to have to question Orsini more closely," Martin said. "He just mentioned it in passing. I don't think he knows Naples very well - Volterra, where he and his aunt come from, is about a hundred miles north of Rome."
"Do they have cicisbeos in Rome and other places?" Kenton wondered.
"From the way Orsini spoke," Martin said, "they are peculiar to Naples. Don't forget that Naples is so far south that it is a very different city from Rome or those places in the north."
"Well," declared Hill, "we're going to have to wait and see. But thanks for the warning: it seems the innocent young English naval officer is in great danger from both the cicisbeo and the husband, and he has to beware the mother if the girl is a spinster."
CHAPTER NINE
The Calypso had been at anchor in Naples Bay for three days before the flagship hoisted her pendant number and the signal for captain. Both cutters were swinging at the boat boom, and as soon as he had changed to a fresh stock and buckled on his sword, Ramage set off.
From the time the Intrepid and Phoenix had arrived in Naples Bay with the Calypso in company, Ramage had heard nothing from Arbuthnot. Orsini had reported seeing Arbuthnot being rowed over to the flagship soon after they had anchored, and the Admiral had sent for him once. Otherwise, until now, Ramage had been left to himself.
Now what was the matter? He thought it seemed a long time had passed for the Admiral to want to rake over the Capraia affair. But it was hard to be sure: Admiral Rudd had not given him the impression of being a very stable sort of man: the more Ramage thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the Admiral could have spent three days brooding, working himself up into a temper, and now he was going to unleash it.
What could have caused it, though? The loss of head money, the fact that the French frigate had appeared on the scene, that the Calypso had not gone off in chase? No, the question of the Calypso going off in chase was Arbuthnot's decision; he had been the senior officer and Ramage could not have gone off without Arbuthnot's permission even if he had wanted to. So what was bothering the Admiral? Ramage shrugged his shoulders: it was impossible to guess, and anyway there was very little point in trying: he would know for .sure in ten minutes' time.
Jackson brought the cutter alongside the flagship, hooked on and waited for Ramage to board. He was met at the entryport by the flagship's first lieutenant who, Ramage had to admit, ran a smart ship: there had been sideboys holding out handropes, and the, handropes were well scrubbed. The deck was almost white from vigorous holystoning, and the brasswork's shine showed that many men had been busy polishing with brickdust.
"The Admiral will see you in his cabin, sir," the first lieutenant said with the superciliousness that first lieutenants of flagships inevitably adopted to post-captains at the lower end of the Post List. However, Ramage had met this too often to be intimidated.
"If you lead the way down," he said, at once putting the first lieutenant in the position which could have been occupied by a midshipman, and leaving him with no chance of a direct refusal.
Ramage found Rear-Admiral Rudd seated at his desk, and he acknowledged the Admiral's gesture to sit in the chair in front of him.
"So now we have got over the farce of Capraia," the Admiral observed sourly. "You might have anticipated that a French frigate would pick up those survivors."
The comment was so absurd, Ramage found it easy not to answer: any admiral who tried to blame a subordinate in such a crude way deserved sympathy: he must be very unsure of himself.
Admiral Rudd shifted in his chair and said suddenly: "You know about the Algerines?"
Ramage nodded. "I captured one of their ships once," he said.
"They're still present; in fact they are increasing. We've just had an official complaint from the King of the Two Sicilies, and we have to do something about it. They've suddenly started swarming over the ports along the coast of southern Sicily - kidnapping for their galleys and looting and raping. They are also taking fishing boats and apparently adding them to their own fleet."
"Do we know roughly what ships they have?" Ramage asked.
"All small stuff. Nothing like a frigate. Galleys, fishing boats crowded with men, that sort of thing. As far as I can make out a dozen or so of them attack a particular port one day - they don't bother to wait for nightfall to do their work - and then vanish for a few days, then they attack somewhere else."
Ramage thought for a minute and then asked: "Is there any pattern to these attacks, sir, or are they random?"
"No, they're not random: I was just going to tell you. Appar ently they work their way along the coast, attacking one port and then, a few days later, they arrive off the next. They've nothing to fear from the Sicilians so they needn't bother about surprise."
"What about the Sicilian Army?"
"What do you expect?" Rudd asked sourly. "They are doing nothing and His Majesty has a dozen reasons for their inactivity. He says the ports are often separated by cliffs, and it is almost impossible for troops to move along the coast. That's why he has come to us
."
"It seems reasonable enough," Ramage admitted. "But catching two dozen fishing boats is like trying to catch a shoal of herrings with a single hook."
"I don't see why," Rudd said uncompromisingly. "Anyway, I can't spare any of my brigs or sloops: you're the only person I can send."
"Very well, sir: I'll do my best."
Rudd held up a small packet. "Here are your orders. And don't forget the King of the Two Sicilies and the British government are involved in all this. The British Minister is particularly concerned that we root out the scoundrels."
Ramage took the packet. "Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes, but make sure you understand that this isn't just a jaunt chasing pirates: with the King involved this becomes a major operation. If I had anyone else to send," Rudd said bluntly, "I would. I am not very satisfied with your behaviour so far under my command. You seem far too light-hearted."
"I'm sorry, sir: I do assure you I take my duties very seriously," Ramage said, wishing he could make a comment about his opinion of the attitude of the flag officer under whom he was serving. After a polite farewell he left the cabin and went back to the cutter.
Seated at his desk back on board the Calypso Ramage broke the seal on his orders and unfolded the single sheet of paper. After the usual formalities they told him that the Algerine pirates had so far raided Marsala and Mazara at the western end of the island of Sicily, and appeared to be making their way eastward. In view of representations from the Court of the King of the Two Sicilies, Ramage was requested and required to take the ship under his command and destroy the pirates.
And that was it. One thing about Rear-Admiral Rudd, Ramage thought ruefully, he does not waste any words. Even more surprising, the orders were straightforward and unambiguous; there were no hidden threats concerning the penalty for failure.
Before calling his clerk to have the orders copied into the orders book, Ramage sent for Aitken and South wick: it was his habit to discuss orders with them, not because he had any doubts but because he had long since accepted that he was mortal, and if he was killed then it would be up to Aitken as first lieutenant, and therefore second-in-command, and Southwick, as the ship's wise old man, to complete his orders. They would have more chance of doing that successfully if they knew how he had been thinking.
