by Dudley Pope
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 plu
m 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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ramage was already settling down in the boat's sternsheets as Jackson began giving orders to the men at the oars when he saw the Calypso fill her backed foretopsail and start to run down towards the Emerald.
"Mr Wagstaffe's going to make it easy for us," he commented to Jackson. "He'll come across the Emerald's stern and heave-to to leeward of us."
"He's spoiling us, sir," the American coxswain replied. "It won't put muscle on these men's backs just letting them row down to leeward. They need a couple of miles to windward!"
"I don't, though," Ramage said. "I've just had a splendid dinner and I'm damned if I want to be soaked with spray. Nor does Mr Southwick - he's about ready to doze off."
As he spoke Ramage was looking round the horizon. He had not wasted time looking round while on the Emerald's deck because a distant sail would already have been closely inspected from the Calypso's masthead, and whatever the identity or intention of the stranger, he could do nothing about it until he was back on board the frigate.
Wagstaffe met him as he stepped through the Calypso's entryport and his quick salute was followed by: "Over to the southeast and well up to windward, sir: a frigate about five miles away and closing. She was steering north when we first spotted her. I think she was slow to see us, because it was a good ten minutes before she bore away to head for us. Her lookouts must have been dozing."
