by Dudley Pope
“I don’t mind telling you, Ramage, that I had to word my report to the First Lord very carefully, otherwise his Lordship would have jumped on you for disobeying orders. So, remember that as far as Lord St Vincent is concerned, my orders were wide enough to allow your—ah, your visit to Amiens.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ramage said soberly. “May I—”
“Get yourself cleaned up and report to the First Lord at the Admiralty,” Lord Nelson said. “I am writing to him this evening and he’ll receive the letter before you arrive. It might be a good time to see about further employment. You’ve done me out of a job—you realize that, don’t you?”
Ramage looked flabbergasted. “But—you’re commanding the Squadron, aren’t you, sir?”
“I am at the moment, with orders to watch Bonaparte’s Invasion Flotilla and make sure it never crosses the Channel. Your sight of Admiral Bruix’s despatches means we have nothing to fear this year—so probably the Squadron for ‘a Particular Service’ will be dispersed.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Ramage said apologetically, “but—”
“I have no regrets; indeed, at the risk of being indiscreet I don’t mind admitting, young man, that you’ve done me a good turn: commanding this Squadron is not my idea of fighting the war. I just sit here, cold, damp and ill, my cough much worse and my eye inflamed …”
Ramage tried to look sympathetic and Captain Ross glanced away: Lord Nelson’s obsession with his health was always in violent contrast with his obsession for fighting the French wherever there was water enough to float a ship. However ill he was, though, the chance of battle always cured him.
The Admiral stood up and smiled at Ramage. Holding out his left hand he said as Ramage shook it: “Tell Lord St Vincent the story in the same way you told it to me, Amiens and all; and my best wishes to the Marchesa: you are a lucky young man.”
