Chapter Text
There was a knock at the door.
Ramage dropped his newspaper, and glanced at Sarah to make sure she was presentable. “Come in,” he called.
The door opened, and Paolo Orsini put his face around the door. “Uncle Nico.”
“Paolo! Come in!” Sarah said.
"Come in and warm yourself!" Ramage said. It was cold, miserable November weather, but the sitting room at the inn was warm and snug.
“Lady Sarah,” Orsini said, coming inside the room, and bowing politely to Sarah He shut the door behind him, and stood there awkwardly for a moment. Midshipman the Count Orsini had grown into a tall and handsome young man. His black hair was brushed forward in a fashionable Brutus cut, and the style suited his complexion and his liquid black eyes. Paolo Orsini could have been the model for a Caravaggio painting, Ramage thought, if Caravaggio had ever painted the uniform of a master’s mate.
"Is there a problem with the ship?" Ramage asked. "I'm on my way down."
"No, Uncle," Paolo said.
'Uncle,' Ramage noted. Not ship's business. Paolo rarely called him Uncle Nico, unless it was a private conversation between nephew and almost-uncle. When they were discussing the ship’s business, Orsini called him ‘sir.’ Whatever he was here for, it was private.
“Are you looking for your Aunt Gianna?” Ramage asked. “You just missed her.”
“No, Uncle Nico. We will say our farewells later. No, I have come looking for you, Uncle.” Orsini reached into his pocket, and brought out a letter. “I have a letter for you. I was asked to bring it to you in person, and put it into your hand directly. Which ... I am now doing.”
Ramage took the letter. His own name was written on it in rough print. He turned it over, and was surprised to see that the wax had been sealed with a knotted cord, instead of a signet. Only a sailor would use a rope knot for a seal, he thought.
“Do you know what this is?” Ramage asked, unease spreading in him.
“I do, Uncle, yes,” Orsini said. “They asked me to send it for them, because they were worried lest it be considered a mutinous assembly.”
“Is it a mutinous assembly?” Ramage asked, surprised.
“No. But also yes. It is hard to explain. I think you will understand when you read it. I was told the letter does not need a reply. Does not want reply, lest there be repercussions. By your leave, Uncle? I have other business for Mr Southwick?” and now Paolo was bowing, suddenly formal again.
“Of course,” Ramage said.
Paolo bowed to Lady Sarah, and then he was gone again. Ramage was left staring at the letter, his heart sinking. “I hope this isn’t what it looks like,” he said.
“What is that?” Sarah said. She got up and walked behind Ramage, resting her hands on his epaulettes to see over his shoulder.
“A round-robin. A letter of grievances from the seamen. A round-robin means they all write their signatures in a circle so that no individual can be singled out as a ringleader.”
“Surely it can’t be. Grievances? From the Didos?”
“I’ve never had one before, but the Navy takes a very dim view of them. I've never had one, but there's always a first time.”
“Well, go on, open it,” Sarah said.
"There's always a first time."
Ramage broke the seal and unfolded the letter. He looked down on a square of rough handwriting, with a swirl of signatures around it. He had to tilt the paper against the candle light to read it.
“Well!” Sarah said, reading faster. “It is a grievance. Of sorts!”
Dear Sir…
We are all good Freinds in this Ship and Honest Men and good freinds need to look after each othor and it is for this Resin that we are rating to you regoding our shipmate Mr Thomas Jackson of South Carolina who is a Good Man and true freind but he is also fifty three years in ages and that on the 24 instant of October last Month at Night he did nearly fall from the Fore Top Galant Mast being only presarved from his Doom by the Swift Action of a nearby Shipmate and that othor things of this Like have happened unseen by the Officers the Reason which we conker to be his age which is fifty three years in ages. We Respicfly submit that on your nolage of this you may be Moved to presarve Mr Jackson by removing him from the Watch and Station bill under the same Orders of Mr Southwick who is farbiding to climb anything hier than a Chair and not to leave the Deck under any sirk and stands. We Respectfully Submit that we wrate this Letter not in any Spirit of dischord or Mutunous Assembly but as we are all good and Loyal seamen and freinds of Mr Jackson and servants of the King God Bless Him.
“It’s the damnedest grievance I’ve ever heard of!” Ramage said. “And it is a round robin! But not because they’re scared of the Navy! Oh no! The Navy is not what frightens them!”
He looked at the signatures written all around the letter. William Stafford was there, and Alberto Rossi’s mark, and Gilbert, and twenty more. He knew all these men, all prime seamen. All of them were good friends of Thomas Jackson, Ramage's coxswain.
“No wonder they asked Paolo to delivery this!" Ramage said. "He would hit the roof. Bunch of chickens, they're all scared of him.”
“It’s true what they’re saying?”
“It’s true,” Ramage admitted. “He must be well over fifty by now!”
Thomas Jackson was listed in the Dido's muster book as the captain's coxswain, and as the only American. But the muster book said so little! Jackson had sailed with Ramage since 1793. Jackson had been at Ramage’s side, right from the Torre di Buranaccio, the night he met Gianna. Losing the Sibella, meeting Gianna, gaining his first command, meeting Nelson. Mutinies, and pirates ... hurricanes and wrecks … St Vincent and Trafalgar ... treasures and trials … and Jackson had been there through all of it.
Ramage realized that his hand was moving up to rub the old scar above his brow.
“He’s not a top-man any more?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Ramage said. “But I do send him aloft all the time. His memory for ships is incredible.”
“What will you do?” Sarah asked.
“The 24th wasn’t even a stormy night! I’ll have to think of an excuse to keep him on the deck.”
“He won’t be pleased.”
“I'll bet! Luckily, I’m not afraid of him!"
There was another knock at the door, and Ramage stuffed the letter away in his pocket. “Come in!”
A moment later Gianna herself came into the room. "Ma no, it is too cold out there! This English weather!”
“Come over here, and sit by the fire!” Sarah said.
Gianna sat down next to Sarah, and put both hands toward the fire. "Ah, that's better!"
Ramage watched them both with a smile.
What the fashionable London ton made of Lord Ramage’s household, he couldn’t imagine, and didn’t care. Ramage’s wife and his ex-lover lived in the same house when Ramage was at sea. Ramage had once been sure that Gianna was the love of his life. They met in 1796, in the Torre di Buranaccio, where he rescued her from Napoleon’s cavalry. They had loved each other wildly, then. But slowly, over the years, something changed. They were both too stubborn to change for each other, and love without change had not been enough. Duty, and religion, and character pushed them apart. During the Peace of Amiens in 1803, Gianna insisted on returning to Italy, to her own tiny kingdom of Volterra. Ramage met and married Sarah.
When Gianna disappeared in France, Ramage had reluctantly given her up for dead. Surely Bonaparte would never allow the Marchesa di Volterra to live? As soon as he had her in his reach, he would murder her, the way he had shot the Duc d’Enghien. Bonaparte would not allow a threat to live.
But Gianna slipped through Bonaparte’s fingers yet again, and back to England. Ramage’s father wept when he saw Gianna alive. His parents still loved Gianna like the daughter they never had, and Sarah accepted her as a de facto sister-in-law. To Ramage, that was all that mattered. The people he loved most in the world were happy. The fashionable London haut ton could gossip about the Ramage ménage à trois until they burst.
“Did you get the chance to say farewell to Paolo?” Ramage asked.
“Accidenti!” Gianna said, annoyed. “Yes, but not long enough! He had just two minutes for his Aunt Gianna!”
“He’s been busy!” Ramage said. “More than most, actually. I told you that Paolo has been doing most of Mr Southwick’s work for him?”
“He told me, too,” Gianna said. “He is very proud.”
“It’s a good arrangement,” Ramage said. “Southwick gets to rest his arthritis, and every scrap of Southwick’s knowledge will be useful to Paolo. There’ll be another lieutenants’ examination soon, and I’ll put his name forward again.”
Paolo had crashed disastrously through two attempts at his examination for lieutenant. He failed his first examination in Barbados, and failed his second here in England last week, but Ramage was sure he would pass it on his third attempt. Paolo would have his officer's commission, on his way to commanding a ship of his own one day.
“You are leaving too soon,” Gianna said.
“The week has flown by!” Sarah said. "I hate quayside farewells, but this time I half want to be there tomorrow!"
“You can come with me tomorrow morning!” Gianna suggested. “We can take the carriage to the – what is that place? Gullkicker Point? We can go there tomorrow, and then we can watch the Dido sail.”
“No, don’t,” Ramage said. “You’ll make yourself feel worse. And it’s undignified."
Gianna tossed her head with a sudden flare of anger. “Undignified!” she said. “What about watching your husband sail away again after only one week? That’s undignified!”
“That’s not undignified; that’s the Navy,” Ramage protested mildly.
“Ah!” she wagged her finger at him. “The Navy promised you six months! And now they say, No, turn around, you must go now! Andiamo! That's undignified! The Navy has other ships! What about that big one? The Gladiator? The coalescent ship!”
“Convalescent ship,” Ramage corrected.
Gianna shuttled back to Italian. “Nico, I can tell when you are losing an argument, because you start correcting my English!”
“I can tell when you’re losing an argument because you switch to Italian!” Ramage retorted in English. Here they were, fighting again! Infuriating woman!
“Bah!” Gianna said, dismissing his words with an imperious flick of her hand. "Tomorrow I am coming. I want to see."
“I forbid it!” Ramage growled, exasperated with her.
“You forbid it. Since when do you forbid me? If you see me tomorrow, you turn your big ship around and come back to forbid me! Yes, that I would like to see! Boh! Englishman!”
She stamped her foot for emphasis; a stamp which Ramage knew all too well. Ramage opened his mouth, and was surprised to hear Sarah snort. Ramage glanced at her, surprised.
She saw his face, and tried to cover her laugh with both hands.
And just like that, Ramage’s battle was lost.
“There!” Gianna said, turning to Sarah and waving one hand at Ramage. “He is not as stupid as he looks. You just have to be firm with him! Allora, I will have the carriage ordered around at six, and we will both go. You can wave at him, and I can throw things.”
Ten minutes later, Ramage left the George Inn and walked down to the docks through the rain, feeling sick and heavy inside. He could still feel Sarah's last kiss on his lips. He had to turn and walk out of the door before both of them were crying.
He was leaving behind the woman he loved more than anyone in the world – but he could do nothing else. He had a duty to do. He had a family heritage to uphold. Noblesse oblige: along with his family's title came the expectation that he would do his duty, as his ancestors had done.
His family's Earldom was one of the oldest in the country, and the Viscouncy which Ramage held as a courtesy title was even older. And for almost all of those generations, the Ramage family had served their Kings at sea. The family church at St Kew in Cornwall was filled with memorial plaques, commemorating ancestors who had died on distant waters, fighting forgotten battles. Inherit the title, hold the land, serve the Crown, and pass the whole package on to the next generation. That was what he was required to do, what he had always known he must do.
Ramage walked through the dockyard gates, keeping his face rigid. The dockyard workers streamed past him, knocking-off from their day's labours. Nobody paid any mind to the naval officer in his black cloak, walking through the rain. He hired a boat from the water steps to take him out to the Dido.
The boatmen left him alone to think. He had time to look at his ship as they approached her over the cold dark water.
HMS Dido loomed like a fortress, as if she had been built into the water like a tower. A seventy-four was a damned big ship. She was 170 feet long, with a crew of 625 men (and four women he was not supposed to know about) Her gunports concealed enough cannons to sink his beloved Calypso in a single broadside. Her figure-head scowled out to sea: Dido, the warrior queen of Carthage.
She was one of the most complex machines that mankind had ever built – and she was his. Ramage was responsible for every spar and rope in her, every shot she fired, and every knot she sailed.
It took a few minutes for the Dido’s lookouts to notice the boat approaching. “Boat ahoy!”
“Dido!” shouted the boatman. The boatmen tossed their oars, sluicing icy water through the air, and hooked onto the Dido’s black hull.
Ramage stood up, waited for the sea to lift the boat to meet the Dido, and stepped across to the battens in a single stride. Then he was securely on the ladder, and climbing. He pulled himself in through the break in the bulwark.
The salute broke out around him. Ramage's first lieutenant was waiting for him with a salute and a smile.
“Mr Kenton,” Ramage said, returning both the salute and the smile.
“Captain,” Kenton said, dropping his hand. His face was soaking wet. Peter Kenton was small and slim, red-haired and with freckled skin that tormented him in the tropics. He was a quiet man, undemonstrative and amiable, but he was respected by officers and seamen alike.
Ramage turned to walk aft to the quarterdeck. “Are we ready for sea, Mr Kenton?”
Kenton fell into step next to him. “I regret not, sir,” Kenton said, “But we will be by dawn.”
Ramage climbed the steps up to the quarterdeck, and turned to look forward at the ship. Rain steamed in haloes around the lamps. The Dido was a mess! There were piles of stores on the decks. Bundles and boxes were still streaming in over the sides, handed up through the ports, or swung over in bundles of netting.
“What are we still lacking?” he asked
“Carpenter’s stores, sir. Gunner’s stores, hay for the manger…” Kenton rattled off his list from memory, ticking each item off on his fingers. “The doctor is still away. And only one of the new midshipman came aboard; the other’s still missing.”
“And the men?” Ramage asked.
“All back but four, sir.
“We’ll just have to sail without them,” Ramage said.
"One of them's Maxton, sir.”
"Damn!"
The port admiral had looked at Ramage as if he was off his head when he said he was giving the larboard watch two weeks’ leave. Most Royal Navy men would desert if given the chance, but Ramage knew his men. He had given his men liberty before, and got them all back again, but this time their shore time had been cut short a week early, thanks to the new orders, and they'd had to be recalled from across Portsmouth by messengers. Maxton would not have deserted. More likely, he didn't even know that their ship was sailing without them.
"We'll just have to sail without them."
The second lieutenant, George Hill, was approaching Ramage and Kenton.
“Good evening, Captain,” he greeted, touching his hat.
“Evening, Mr Hill,” Ramage returned the salute.
George Hill was the opposite of Kenton in every way. He was tall and languid, with a louche attitude that took some people aback. He was the son of a London banker and a rich Parisian socialite; about as French as an Englishman could be, but Hill had proven that he could fight in English or in French equally well.
“All of our water’s stowed, sir,” Hill said. "Six months worth, as ordered."
“Good.”
Ramage looked forward over the waist of the ship.
The third lieutenant, William Martin, was talking to the ship's purser by the main hatch. Martin was a cheerful young man, with bright blue eyes and a round face. He was a fine musician, and a skilled flute-player - a skill he was trying to teach Orsini without much success.
On the fo’c’sle, Mr Southwick, the elderly sailing master, was supervising a group of seamen, carrying out last-minute checks of the foremast standing rigging. Ramage could see Southwick’s long white hair hanging wet around his face.
Paolo Orsini was half-way up the topmast, being Mr Southwick’s eyes aloft.
And there was Thomas Jackson by the larboard gangway, coordinating the falls of the red cutter.
Jackson turned, as if he had felt someone watching him, and spotted Ramage. They were too far apart for a salute, but Jackson raised his hand in a flicker of a greeting, and Ramage returned it.
Ramage could feel the crinkle of the letter in his pocket. How old was Jackson now, anyway? He’d been around forty when Ramage met him, old enough to be Ramage’s father, which meant he must be well over fifty by now.
Ramage knew the mastheads well from his years as a midshipman. He rarely climbed aloft now, but there were some things you did not forget. When you were so high, the ship’s motion was amplified. The wind clutched at your body. The void seemed to drag at your eyes. The deck looked as tiny as a wooden clog.
The topmen who worked up there were the best seamen in the ship; they had to be. They had to know exactly what they were doing up there, because they had to climb up and do it in any weather, any time of day or night, and without orders from the deck. There were no life-lines up there. No second chances. A fall from that height would be fatal; maybe not instantly, but inevitably.
Ramage had a sudden mental image of Jackson spiralling down to crack broken on the deck… No; he could not see that happen.
But it wouldn’t be enough to just order him down, or he would know someone had ratted out his secret. The letter in Ramage’s pocket was a plea for help from Jackson’s friends to the only man who could help them. Ramage would have to move Jackson around in the Watch and Station Bill, so that Jackson never had a reason to go aloft. And he would have to be clever about it so that he never knew.
If he was going to do that, he would keep Jackson aft. A seventy-four was a damned big ship. If he promoted Jackson to some station away from the quarterdeck, he would never have reason to speak to him again. Ramage would have to think of something; some innocuous post that would keep Jackson’s feet squarely on the deck, and right where Ramage could see him …
Kenton broke into his thoughts. “By your leave, sir, I think I can see Mr Loach coming back with the green cutter. Please God, may he have our gunner’s stores with him…”
“Very good. Carry on, gentlemen,” Ramage said.
“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said cheerfully, and moved away, rubbing his hands together energetically. “All right, you lot!” he called. “Let’s get back to that lift, the green cutter’s coming back!"
“Accidenti!” Paolo Orsini complained. “This English weather! I do not understand why the people of England do not all move to France! It is warm in France!”
He climbed from the foremast shrouds to the rail, and jumped down to the deck. His clothes were wet outside and in, as clammy as if he had been pressed into a pastry-case.
The old sailing-master Mr Southwick met him on the ship’s fo’c’sle. Southwick was strictly forbidden to climb anything higher than a chair, so Orsini was doing all the physical climbing for him instead.
“I don’t know why you dislike the rain so much, when all that is right alongside!” Southwick gestured with one hand over the ship’s side to the sea.
“Because that does not fall into my eyes!” Orsini said, waving to the sea.
“You’ve only sailed in warm waters, my boy,” Southwick said. “Just wait. We might be posted to the Baltic next. You’ll cry for this nice warm English rain one day, you’ll see.”
“I will deal with that when it happens," Orsini said firmly. "For now, let us go to Lisbon!”
“You have thin blood, that’s what your problem is, lad. You need a brisk Baltic winter to toughen you up.”
Southwick looked upward, bending from his knees so that his spine did not bend the wrong way. He watched the men who were working in the foretop, ensuring that nothing up there had perished under the baking sun of the West Indies.
Orsini watched him. He could tell that Southwick’s spine was hurting him. Soon, he knew, Mr Southwick would be retiring to his cabin with a hot water bottle and a mustard plaster. Southwick was much too old to be at sea.
And yet, no-one wanted to leave Mr Southwick on the beach! Even the captain did not want to leave Mr Southwick behind! Uncle Nicholas had immediately agreed when Orsini offered to take over the physical parts of Mr Southwick’s job. Orsini had not even needed to use any of the elaborate rhetorical arguments he had prepared to plead his case. He was officially Mr Southwick's deputy now, a Master's Mate.
Speaking of Uncle Nicholas … Orsini turned around, and stared aft.
He could see Uncle Nicholas on the quarterdeck, pacing back and forth.
The Captain was rubbing those scars on his brow, the way he always did when he was thinking. If only the Captain knew how well his men knew his mannerisms! The combinations of stammering, blinking, and rubbing those scars were like a Masonic code to the crew. “When Mr Ramage starts blinkin’ his eyes and wobblin’ his Rs, it’s time to tack about, toot sweet!” Was he thinking about the letter Orsini had delivered, or Lisbon?
“Mr Orsini!” Southwick’s exasperated voice broke into Orsini’s thoughts. “Are you going to stand there and dream all night? Out along the jib-boom, if you please, my boy! Same thing as before, and report back.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Ramage's cabin door opened directly behind the ship’s wheel, so that he could reach it in a few strides if there was an emergency at night. He walked around the wheel, and nodded a greeting to the Marine sentry, Hales The Huge, who stood guard on his door tonight. He went into his cabin, unwrapped his oilskins, and threw them onto the back of his chair. He unwound his scarf from around his neck. It was soaked through, and taking it off immediately made him feel warmer.
He walked through his day cabin, bypassing the desk and its heap of unfinished paperwork. He walked aft through the glass doors into the great cabin, with its black-and-white checkered deck. Ramage stopped in front of the sternlights. They stretched across the whole width of the stern, and he stood for a while looking at his own reflection in the dark glass. The captain in the reflection looked back like a stranger.
In the Royal Navy, rank equalled space, and the captain had the most space of all. The great cabin was furnished for the domestic comforts of a gentleman. In candle-light, the white bulkheads softened to a buttery yellow. Ramage had a long dining table, comfortable armchairs, and a wine cooler. Just forward of the great cabin were Ramage's sleeping cabin, on one side, and his day-cabin or office on the other side. He even had a private water-closet, built into the corner of the stern gallery. The great cabin could have been any gentleman's study ashore - except for the hulking black 12-pounder cannons yoked to their gun-ports. The Dido was a machine of war, before all else.
He had work of his own to do tonight. That heap of paperwork was all his own fault. He had limitless authority in the ship, but he also had limitless liability. He could delegate everything, but he alone could sign for everything. He’d procrastinated the paperwork in favour of arguing with the dockyard for more powder and water and spar cordage for the ship in order to turn around inside a week, and now his priorities were coming back to bite him.
His clerk Luckhurst usually dealt with the grunt work, sending documents past Ramage’s signature like a good sheepdog sending sheep past the shepherd, but poor Luckhurst had developed a bloody cough two days out from Portsmouth. Doctor Bowen had sent him ashore to the hospital, and Ramage would have to handle the mountain of paperwork single-handed.
Or … perhaps not?
Oh, he thought suddenly … Oh.
He was genius. He felt the hairs rush up in a flood of delight at the thought of solving both of his problems at once.
He went quickly to the cabin door, and opened it. "Evening, Hales," he said to the Marine. "Please pass the word for my coxswain."
"Aye aye, sir!" the Marine said, and inhaled his huge chest. Ramage closed the door behind him quickly before the thunderstorm burst.
"PASS THE WORD FOR THE CAPTAIN'S COXSWAIN!"
Ramage turned his idea over again, but he could find no flaws in his plan. Once he had connected his two problems, they seemed to click together in his mind like two magnets. It was a beautiful plan; an elegant plan. The two problems solved each other.
Ramage just had time to open the book that listed the Navy’s rates of pay and look up the figure he wanted, when the Marine sentry announced that his coxswain wanted to come in. Ramage quickly slipped the round-robin from his pocket and hid it in the book.
“Come in, Jackson!” Ramage shouted.
A moment later Jackson came into the day cabin. He saw Ramage through the glass door, and walked through to the great cabin to meet him. He paused with his hand at his brow. “You sent for me, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, I did,” Ramage said. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. Let’s sit, shall we?”
"I'm wet, sir."
"We're all wet! Sit, dammit!"
Ramage sat down on the bench under the sternlights, and waited. Jackson took a seat on the settee opposite him.
“Remind me, Jackson – how long have you been in the Navy?”
Jackson ran his hand over his thinning hair. “Let’s see, sir. I joined the Sibella frigate in Toulon in ‘93. So that would be about fourteen years, sir.”
“I offered you a promotion to master’s mate before, but you didn’t take it."
“No, sir. Reckon I’m a bit long in the tooth to be jumping around with the midshipmen.”
Long in the tooth… that was one way to say it.
How had Ramage not noticed that Jackson was growing old? His hair had always been thin, but now that he was looking closely, Ramage saw that what hair was left was more grey than sandy. Jackson’s face was lean and tanned. The lines around his eyes were deeply graven, from years of staring under tropical skies. Those grey eyes were still sharp, though. He was watching Ramage as keenly as Ramage was watching him.
"Sir?" he prompted.
“The reason I asked is thatI would like to offer you a new berth in the ship,” Ramage said.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’ve heard about Luckhurst?”
“I did, sir. Poor man. That cough did not sound good.”
“I want to offer you his berth.”
Jackson blinked. “You want me to be a clerk?”
“Not clerk! Secretary."
“I’m not skilled at pushing papers, sir.”
"Thomas Jackson, confidential secretary to Captain Lord Ramage … how does that sound?”
"Not much better, sir." Jackson wrung up his mouth, as if the idea was a novel flavour that he wasn’t sure he liked yet.
Ramage had a vision of Jackson suddenly forgetting how to write in a round hand.
“It doesn't have to be permanent," he said quickly. "But it does have to be right now. I don't have time to look for someone else before we sail. The fact of the matter is that I need you, Jackson. I need a man I can trust absolutely. You'll take Luckhurst's cabin here, and you'll have the right to walk the quarterdeck, as one of the cockpit officers. I'll change your pay rate in the muster book as of today."
Jackson ran his hand over his hair. “I'll do it, sir, on one condition.”
“You're not in a position to make conditions,” Ramage told him, sharply.
"Is this an order, sir?"
"Well, no - but you can't always arrange things to your liking!"
“Well, you know my motto, sir. Life, liberty, and arranging things to my liking.” Jackson grinned.
"Habit-forming, is it?" Ramage grinned.
"Constitutional, sir."
Ramage suspected he had just had a piece of revolutionary rhetoric lobbed at him, but he had fallen into his own trap. He’d sold himself his brilliant idea, and suddenly he wanted no-one else as his clerk. Jackson wasn't an educated man by any means, but he was intelligent and energetic, and he was never shy about stating his opinions. Perhaps it came by virtue of his nationality, which gave him an outsider's perspective that most lower deck seamen lacked. He wasn't shy about simply ignoring Ramage's orders if he thought Ramage was being stupid. He wouldn't shy away from telling Ramage when he was wrong. He would do excellently.
“You drive a hard bargain,” Ramage sighed. “All right. One condition.”
“The same thing that I asked you before, sir, in the old Kathleen. My name is never mentioned in any of your despatches."
"Really?" Ramage stared at him. "Is that all?"
“That’s all, sir."
Jackson had been A Senior Rating in every despatch Ramage had written. Only a few people in the Admiralty knew that all the 'Senior Ratings' mentioned were really just the same man, over and over again.
“You know that you would be famous by now, if you had let me name you! Your name would be in that song!”
Someone had written a song about Ramage rescuing the Marchesa di Volterra from the Torre di Buranaccio. Ramage cringed whenever he heard it – and took pains to tell people that he never said the words the lyrics put into his mouth. Jackson did not need to bother. Nobody knew the name of sailor in the song.
“It’s not about the song, sir,” Jackson said, firmly. “I’ll be your clerk, or your secretary - as long as my name never leaves the ship.”
“Very well, I accept.”
“Then you have yourself a clerk, sir,” Jackson said.
“Secretary,” Ramage corrected.
“Secretary, then.” Jackson held out his hand, suddenly very American again.
Ramage took his hand. They shook hands firmly on the agreement.
“Come along. There’s a mountain of work to do.” He stood up.
“Sir? You want me to start now?”
“Yes - what did you think I meant by 'immediately?' The last of the papers need to be sent ashore at first light, or we'll miss the tide. You did tell Stafford to take over from you on deck, can't he?"
"I did, sir."
"Then let's get this show on the road?" Ramage walked to the day cabin, where the stack of papers and books was waiting on the table. Jackson followed him, and stopped dead, staring.
"Sir? All that, by first light?”
Ramage pulled out a chair with one hand, and pushed Jackson into it with the other hand on his shoulder. "As Nelson said, the Navy goes to war on seas of ink, in ships of paper, and firing broadsides of quills...”
“And here I thought the Army loved paperwork,” Jackson grumbled.
“Well, if a warship is equivalent to a regiment, I supposed you’ve joined the general staff.” Ramage took his own seat.
“God help the general staff!”
Ramage pulled the first pile of paperwork towards himself. “Here. Let's start. This is the Watch and Station Bill, Muster Book, General Order Book, Captain’s Journal, Seaman’s Vade Mecum. Any form you need is probably in this book. Lists, forms, tables, affidavits, musters, invoices, pay tickets, surveys, inventories. This pen was Luckhurst’s, but it’s yours now. I keep the sand here, and if you need more ink or paper, the purser has them… Now, shall we begin? ”
They worked together for a few hours, making headway into the heaps of paperwork. Jackson transcribed what he was told to transcribe, and copied out what he was told to copy, his quill scratching rapidly. He pulled scrambled information into the right forms, and Ramage signed and set aside each book into a neat square stack.
Ramage was surprised when he heard the ship’s bell ring out eight bells. “Time flies, when you’re having fun!” he said.
“This is what you call fun, sir?” Jackson tapped the sand from his latest paper. “Remind me never to accept an invitation to your house.”
"You'd rather be in the rain?"
"Hmm, no. I'm having the time of my life."
Ramage laughed.
There was a knock at the door, and the Marine sentry announced that the ship’s surgeon wanted to be admitted.
A moment later, Dr Bowen was standing at attention. “Good evening, sir,” Bowen said. He didn't look surprised to see Jackson sitting next to Ramage. Ramage wondered if he too knew about the round-robin.
“I was starting to think you would miss us!” Ramage said.
"I just caught the last duty-boat coming off, sir."
Ramage examined him closely. Bowen had aged, but he had not changed at all. He still carried himself with the neat precision of a skilled surgeon, which was exactly what he was.
Once Bowen had been one of the most highly-paid surgeons in London. Had been – before the drink took over his life. He drank his way out of his practice, out of his reputation, and almost out of his marriage, until only the Navy would hire him. In 1797 he washed up in the Triton, where Ramage refused to trust his men’s health to a drunkard. He and Southwick set out to dry Bowen by force. Ramage could still vividly recall those days when Bowen shrieked in his withdrawal. But the Articles of War did what no amount of human willpower could do. Bowen never touched liquor, and claimed never to want any. He could have returned to his practice in London, but instead he devoted his expertise to the 625 men (and four women, Ramage reminded himself) of HMS Dido.
“Did you manage to get everything you needed?” Ramage asked.
Bowen shook his head. “Frankly, sir, no, I did not. The Transport Board sent half of what I requested.”
Ramage sighed. “Another price we have to pay to weigh anchor on time.”
“The good news is that I managed to get an extra supply out of my pocket.”
“Damn,” Ramage said. “I’ll refund you the cost of that. Out of my pocket.”
“I knew you would, sir, so I had them write me a receipt.”
“Ah, Jackson, that’s for you. You know which file to put that in?”
“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. The receipt was whisked away.
“On a lighter note, sir,” Bowen asked, “how is Lady Sarah? And the Marchesa?”
“They’re both well, and send their best wishes. They would have visited the ship, if there had been more time.”
Time… time… the one thing Ramage had not had enough of. He needed time ashore, he needed time with his wife. The worry that had been lying in the back of his mind leaped up, but he pressed it down again.
“If that’s all, doctor, thank you. You may carry on.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Bowen said. He left the cabin.
Ramage looked at at Jackson.
“That’s a lot of bandages. Do we really go through so many?” He was holding up Bowen’s receipt, and frowning at it.
“Jackson,” Ramage said.
“Sir?” Jackson raised his grey eyes from the receipt. One eyebrow lifted as he took in Ramage's expression.
“I know that the ship’s people look to you as a sort of ... envoy to me.”
"Or, the court jester." Jackson put down the receipt carefully. “They think I’m in your confidence. And that you know all my secrets.”
Ramage couldn't imagine what kind of secrets Jackson would have. He was a seaman.
"Be that as it may," he said. "There are things said between officers that the men don't need to hear, things that would injure discipline if they got out. There's always a screen between officers and men, there always has to be a division there. Before now, you've been on that side of the screen. You've been one of the men, but now you're on this side among the officers and there may be things you're going to hear. If you and I become a bit more familiar on this side, that has to stay on this side. Because, you know, Rossi might be able to keep a secret, but Stafford - not a hope."
"You have my word, sir. Nothing in confidence in this cabin will leave this cabin."
“Confidential secretary,” Ramage reminded him.
“Confidential, secretary,” Jackson agreed. "You'll find I'm remarkably good at keeping my mouth shut."
The ship's bell rang out the hours, and Ramage looked up at the deckhead.
"Come on, let's crack on again."
Hours later, Jackson climbed the ladder to the fo’c’sle. Grey light was soaking the deck, slugging and wet.
Jackson rubbed his face, feeling his stubble. His eyes were tired from squinting at his own nib by candlelight. They had been interrupted every few minutes by this officer or that officer, reporting that this store had been taken on board, or that this task was finished. Finally, around two o'clock, the sounds of hard labour had died down, and Mr Kenton reported that the Dido was ready for sea.
He had not pored over papers late into the night since the end of the Revolution, and he did not have the stamina that he used to. If he was going to be the captain's secretary, he was damn well going to put a stop to the captain's procrastination, and not have that happen again. Who did all their paperwork on one night? Who? Ramage, that was who! Well, not any more!
He found Stafford and Rossi perching on the slide of one of the fo’c’sle’s carronades. They were keeping themselves warm, and waiting out the last few minutes of their watch. They were well wrapped up in oilskins, but Jackson tracked them by the sound of Stafford's voice.
“It mazed me ‘ead, all that noise!" Stafford was saying to Rossi. "An’ they makes nuffink but blocks with it. That’s all it does! Blocks, all day! 'Oondreds of blocks!"
Stafford was very proud of being born in the greatest city in the world. Sometimes, Jackson suspected him of hamming up his Cockney accent on purpose.
“Does not sound the interesting,” Rossi said.
“‘Ow many blocks do you fink that steam engine can make in a day? Go on, guess!”
Stafford was still banging on about his latest obsession. He’d gone ashore for a week’s leave, but he only got as far as the Portsmouth Dockyard's spanking new steam engine. He might never have come out at all, if someone from the Dido had not tracked him down and dragged him away from his new infatuation. It seemed steam engines were more interesting than even safecracking.
“Boh! I don’t care!" Rossi said. "Here is Jacko! Buongiorno!”
“Is it buongiorno yet, Rosey?” Jackson asked, stopping and crossing his arms against the cold. “Or still buona notte?”
“Where’ve you been, Jacko?” Stafford asked. "You went off to the Cabin and di'n come back."
“Mr Ramage kept me busy all night. I have news for you. There’s been a change in the Watch and Station Bill.”
“Oh, really?” Stafford said. He got up off the carronade slide, and gave a sideways glance at Rossi. “Oh, yuss. We knew that was comin’, din’t we, Rosey?”
“You knew?” Jackson asked.
“Ah-hahh,” Stafford said, and tapped the side of his nose. “You know it. Me and Rosey maybe ain’t as educated as you, Jacko, but we know which way the wind’s blowin’ don't we?”
“Then you know I’ve been promoted to captain's clerk?” Jackson said.
There was a brief silence.
“Clerk?” Stafford sucked in a breath, as if he’d been punched. “What, Luckhurst's berth?
"Yes, as of last night."
"But that weren’t what we meant! We din’t mean – oof!”
Stafford grunted as Rossi hit him on the shoulder with rather a lot of force.
"Shut up, Staff!" Rossi said. “Be happy for our friend! This is good news! Clerk – that is more pay, si?"
“It means more pay, yes,” Jackson said. "Staff, you’ll move up to captain’s coxswain in my place, so more pay for you too. Captain's already written it up in the Watch and Station Book."
“But…” Stafford said. Rossi punched him on the shoulder again.
Jackson looked at them both oddly. There was something here that he didn’t understand. Stafford had many virtues, but he had all the cunning of a grape. Rossi was trying to shut him up before he said something wrong.
"That means you'll be on the quarterdeck, si?" Rossi asked.
“It means I'm on the quarterdeck, and off the larboard watch. No more night watches for me! I'll be an idler."
“Not just an idler,” Rossi said. “You'll be a senior petty officer.”
“I’ll have a cabin next to the captain. So, officially, from this morning …”
“This is ciao,” Rossi said.
“It's probably temporary, anyway. The Captain just doesn't have time to look for a proper educated man before we sail. I'll likely come back to the lower deck soon."
“I am hoping it is not tempranilly!" Rossi said. "We are both happy for you, are we, Staff? Say yes, Staff, idiota.” He gave his friend a poke in the shoulder.
“Yus,” Stafford said. “We’re happy for you. Mr Ramage’s gain is our loss, is all. You deserves it.”
"Old Man's on deck!" someone called quietly from the ship's belfry.
Jackson turned. Through the rain he saw Ramage climbing the ladder up to the poop deck. Even wrapped up in oilskins his stride was unmistakeable.
"I'll better be off. Talk later, lads."
Ramage went to the quarterdeck early. His appearance caused a stir, as the men realized that their captain was up and about, and whispered the warning. There was a general shuffle as his men cleared his path. Dawn was coming, and they were sailing today.
He was tired and cold. He and Jackson had both worked until the small hours of the morning. Jackson had just sent the last bundle of papers off in the last boat ashore before sunrise. The Dido would sail this morning with a clean slate, and nobody ashore would be any the wiser. Nobody else would know the mad scramble to compress six months refit into a week's work. Ramage would steal some time to catnap in his cabin later, once they were clear of Portsmouth.
So could Jackson, for that matter. Like the captain's steward, the captain's clerk had a cabin on the quarterdeck, right within his reach at an instant's notice. He’d already moved his hammock in where Luckhurst used to be, this morning. Ramage had heard him earlier, moving around in the small cabin and talking to Silkin.
Ramage walked to the rail. The wind blew like ice through his coat, and the whole deck was soaking wet. The land was a dark hump in the gloom; too early to see details. Even if there had been a pair of gentlewomen on the headland, it was too dark and hazy to see them. He turned his back firmly on the land.
He chose the right time to turn around, because Kenton was just climbing up the ladder from the quarterdeck.
“Mr Kenton."
Kenton put his hand to his hat. “Captain,” he said. “I have the honour to report that HMS Dido is ready for sea in all respects.”
Ramage returned the salute. “Well done, Mr Kenton,” he said. “Take us to sea, if you please. The conn is yours this morning.”
“Aye aye, sir. I have the conn!” Kenton grinned, visibly pleased by the opportunity to take the ship to sea. The first lieutenant did not stand a watch, so the conn was not often his. He turned away, and his voice lifted into a shrill scream.
“All ha-a-ands! Stand by to weigh anchor! Away aloft! Stand by, the deck watches!”
Kenton's orders snapped the Dido awake. From the lieutenants down to the seamen, every man had a role to play in response. Seamen ran this way and that in a complex dance, tailing onto ropes, throwing themselves at the capstan, racing up the masts. On the fo'c'sle, Mr Southwick was standing by, ready to signal as soon as the anchor was off the sea bed, so that the loosening of the sails could be timed precisely. A crowd of seamen would be standing around the capstan by now, ready to wind in the ship’s anchor by muscle-power. The ship’s fiddler struck up a tune to encourage their efforts. The sound of the fiddle penetrated all the way aft.
Instead of a more traditional tune Ramage recognised the opening bars of the Torre di Buranaccio. He couldn’t help letting out an annoyed grunt.
“It’s your song, Sir!” Orsini said cheerfully.
Ramage shifted to Italian. “I hope you know I never said to your aunt half the things I say in that stupid song!”
“Shall I tell them to stop, sir?”
Ramage shook his head. “No - if I let on that it’s embarrassing, I’ll never hear the end of it!"
The new fourth lieutenant, Jonathan Loach, were giving directions on the upper deck.
Ramage took the opportunity to examine Loach covertly. Loach was older than the other lieutenants. He had started on the lower deck and worked his way up, which made him something of a rarity in the Navy. Ramage had never had an officer under him who had ‘come up the hawser’ before, but the Port Admiral had assured him that Loach was an excellent officer. It was just rather unfortunate about those scars…
“A swivel exploded in my face ,” Loach explained without being asked on their first meeting, and Ramage realised a second too late that he had let his feelings show on his face.
On the right side, his face had been shredded from his chin to his right temple. Worse, patches of black beard were still doggedly growing in the crevices of his scars, so that his cheek was filled with black craters. He looked as if his face was being eaten away by some ghastly disease. No wonder he'd struggled to find a lieutenant’s berth! Getting a commission would have been hard enough for any officer 'coming up the hawser,' even without looking like that.
“Anchor’s aweigh!” Ramage heard Southwick’s hail from the fo’c’sle. He had been so engaged with staring at Loach, he had not been paying attention.
Dido’s anchor had been hauled in by brute force by the men at the capstan, and it was hanging below the hull, no longer clutching at the sea bed. The ship was floating free.
The headsails were brought up their stays like shark’s teeth. Now the ship was turning, following her head around toward the open sea. Now the courses dropped free from the yards, the wet canvas rumbling loudly. The sail handlers ran with to the sheets and braces, taut backs hauling the yards around, trimming the sails. Dido gathered speed slowly. They were under way.
Ramage could see the new landsmen on deck. To them, the whole performance must seem a riot of screaming and running. They were trying to follow their orders, but without a clue as to what they were supposed to achieve. What were braces? What did ‘avast’ mean? Ramage saw a boatswain’s mate grab a man by the shoulder, and tow him to the rope he was supposed to be hauling. In many ships, that boatswain’s mate would be swinging a rope's-end, beating that man's first lesson into him, but never in Ramage’s commands. The new men were blundering around like concussed sheep now, but they would learn. Ramage strongly believed that hitting men did not make them learn a single thing any faster.
The first shot of the salute cracked.
“Flagship’s signalling, sir!” Orsini called. “Our number – telegraphic – “Bon voyage,” sir!”
“Acknowledge it, Mr Orsini!" Ramage said.
The ship gathered speed. Dido was standing out to sea. The arms of the land receded from around them, as if the ship was walking out from a hug. Ramage saw the first dash of spray struck from the bows. A moment later Dido’s jib lifted into the air, as her forefoot bit into the first swell. She hoisted herself up meet the sea as it passed under her.
Ramage took a deep satisfied breath, enjoying the sensation of his ship coming to life. It was a glorious movement, as if thousands of tons of oak and steel were breathing under his feet. He turned to look over the taffrail. England was only a grey blur in the haze behind them. Gullkicker Point was hidden completely. If Sarah was still on the Point, all she could see of the Dido was a grey blob. She was already gone...
A few cables away, a small lugger was following in the Dido’s wake.
That was odd, Ramage thought. Where could that boat be going? And why had they set so much sail in this breeze? With that rig on that tack, surely they were taking a risk of a capsize?
Ramage extended his telescope onto the little boat, and the little boat leaped into focus. He could see men below the lug sail. They were leaping up and down, waving their arms wildly. They must be trying to catch up with the great battleship.
“I do believe we are being pursued, Mr Orsini!” Ramage said.
Orsini heard him. He brought the big signals telescope up, parallel to Ramage’s own.
“That looks like Maxton," Orsini said.
“That is Maxton,” Ramage said. He slid the telescope closed, the rings clicking into the tubes. “Mr Kenton!” he shouted.
“Sir?”
“Heave us to, if you please!”
He saw the startled expression on Kenton’s face. “Sir? I mean, aye aye, sir!”
Kenton looked at Martin, but the third lieutenant also looked mystified. Kenton raised the speaking trumpet and started shouting orders that would take the speed off the ship.
As the ship turned, the hail came down from the masthead. “Deck there! Boat astern is trying to catch our attention! Waving arms, like!”
“At last!” Ramage said. “Is that lookout asleep up there? Take his name, Mr Kenton, that's not good enough."
"Aye aye, sir," Kenton said, crossing to the rail and looking back at the little boat. "For a second there you had me worried, sir."
A few minutes later, the Dido was hove to. With her sails balanced against each other, the ship could travel neither forward nor backward, but drifted passively downwind like an enormous log. By that time, the boat had hooked on alongside. Ramage saw five men scramble quickly from the lugger to the Dido.
“Get those men aboard, Mr Kenton,” Ramage said. "Get us under way again, and take us to sea. For real, this time."
“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said.
Ramage left Kenton to it. The boatmen hauled up the boat’s yard, and the tiny sail snapped out full like a paper bag. The boat cantered away from the Dido’s side.
A minute later, he heard a voice. “Captain, sir?”
He turned, and found himself facing a small boy in a midshipman’s uniform, standing at attention as only a little boy knew how. Behind the boy, in a line, stood Ramage’s four missing sailors. They were standing at attention, their faces full of misgivings.
“And who might you be?” Ramage demanded.
“Sir – Mr Midshipman Henry Dawlish, sir. Reporting for duty, sir!” The boy saluted.
This was Jack Dawlish's son? Ye gods! The last time Ramage had seen this boy, he’d been a muddy little brat playing with ducks! Today here he was, a naval officer in the larval stage!
It seemed like just yesterday that Ramage, Dawlish, and Hornblower were all midshipmen together. Now all three of them were post-captains, and Ramage had taken Dawlish’s son under his wing, as one day Dawlish or Hornblower would take his under theirs.
If he had any sons... he pushed the thought down.
Ramage glared at the boy, and tried not to laugh. “You almost missed your first ship, Mr Dawlish,” Ramage said. “Not really a great start to your naval career.”
“No, sir!”
“Did you hire that lugger to chase us down?”
“Yes, sir!” the youth said.
It must have been a wild chase, Ramage thought, getting the boatmen to catch up with the massive warship. Dawlish’s boy seemed to have initiative, and enough character to get four grown seamen to go along with him.
“I'll decide tomorrow if I'll toss you back again. Mr Bennett!” Ramage hailed the nearest midshipman.
“Sir,” Bennett said, crisply.
“Take Mr Dawlish down to the midshipman’s berth. Get him settled and back up here again.”
“Aye aye sir!”
Bennett led the boy away. The four sailors followed.
"Mr Kenton, tell Mr Southwick he has four 'Runs' to cross out in the muster book," Ramage said.
"Aye, aye, sir," Kenton said. His face broke out in a wide grin. “I have the honour to report that HMS Dido is ready for sea, in all respects! Counted them all out, counted them all back.”
Paolo Orsini clattered down the ladder to the warm darkness of the orlop deck. His hair and uniform were soaked. Accidenti, he did not like English weather! The sooner they reached Lisbon the better.
At least it was warm down here. He was below the waterline, where the sun never penetrated. There was almost always someone working down here in the darkness. There was light glowing dully from the surgeon’s store-room, and another light further forward from the midshipmen’s berth on the port side. Dim glows found its way around ladders and stancheons, every beam casting its own deep shadow.
Truth be told, this was the real Dido, he thought. Up there on the quarterdeck, shipboard life was too public, too formalised, too bound by military pomp. The gundecks, where hundreds of men lived crammed on two decks, were too crowded and uncomfortable.
But down here, in the dark spaces of the deep hull, this was the real Dido. Down here were all the secret corners that those who lived in this ship knew as home – the cabins of carpenter, bosun, sailmaker. That wall right there was the hull, pressing against the ocean outside, keeping them all safe inside her big wooden heart. This was a private space, one visitors never saw – the heart and stomach of a warship.
As he turned around the bottom of the ladder he found himself facing Jackson, who was making his way toward the ladder.
“Mr Orsini, sir,” Jackson said, coming to a stop. He raised his hand in a nominal salute, just in case anyone was watching. The lantern cast a waxy glow over the hard angles of his face.
“Jackson!” Orsini said. “Welcome to the quarterdeck!”
"You've heard about my promotion too?"
“Good news travels fast!”
"Seems like the whole ship knows and it only happened last night!"
Orsini looked at him closely, but there was no secret knowledge in Jackson's face. Jackson did not know about the Round Robin - not yet. So far, it looked as if six hundred men were keeping a secret! Orsini hoped that Mr Ramage had tossed the Round Robin into the sea, or burned it.
“Are you messing with us, too?” Orsini pointed toward the midshipmen’s berth.
“No, sir, I'm messing in the gun-room, with the carpenter and the bosun."
“Oh.”
“Sorry to disappoint you! I’ve just paid up my mess subscription,” Jackson said.
Strange to be disappointed not to dine with a common seaman, but then again, Jackson had always been a very un-common seaman. He was a very mysterious man. And Jackson would have a small cabin next to Uncle Nicholas, which was good because Jackson and Uncle Nicholas were born under the same star and belonged together. Englishmen, and by extension Americans, did not seem to believe in such things, but Orsini was sure of it. Their good omens bounced off each other.
“Well, I’m glad you are on the quarterdeck," Orsini said. "The midshipmen are children, and …” he shifted to Italian, “and the other master’s mates are not exactly sparkling company, if you know what I mean. I’m not the same as them, and they know it. I am a different species.”
Jackson paused, making the mental switch to Italian. His Italian was improving fast, but he still needed to stop and think before switching from English.
“That is what happens when you fail your examination. Do not take it personally. Many officers do a spell as a master’s mate without harm.” Jackson used the English name for the rank, because neither of them knew the Italian word. Orsini had never sailed in an Italian-speaking ship. “But you will get it right next time. Then you will be a lieutenant.”
“Yes,” Orsini said. “Maybe.”
He didn’t want to discuss that too deeply, because he might betray his feelings. Failing that examination had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. He knew he could have passed it, his seamanship was good enough. It stung to have failed, and so publically.
"You will," Jackson said. "You'll make a fine lieutenant, and eventually a fine captain."
“No, I won’t.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Jackson said, looking surprised by the flat tone in Orsini’s voice.
“You don’t understand,” Orsini shook his head. “It’s not that I will fail. It’s that I cannot allow myself to succeed.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Jackson asked.
Orsini looked up at the deckhead, listening for voices. English voices were arguing about caulking in the carpenter’s walk. There was no privacy on the deck of a ship carrying over six hundred seamen, so Orsini spoke in Italian.
“The Catholic emancipation bill was defeated in Parliament this year,” Orsini said softly. “The King refused to even hear it, and that killed it dead.”
“But what has that to do with your examination?”
“The Test Act Oath. If I want a commission, I would have three months, legally, in which to find a magistrate and swear that I believe in the Church of England. A Catholic cannot hold the King's commission.”
“It’s just a formality these days.”
“It is a formality for you maybe,” Orsini explained. “But I am also the heir to the Alabaster Throne. My situation is unique.”
“I thought you’d… just…” Jackson waved a hand.
“Lie? Good idea. Which oath should I break – my oath to the King, or the one to the Pope?”
“Not lie! I meant convert. At least on paper.”
“Then I would forfeit my inheritance. A Protestant cannot inherit. And I am the only clear legitimate heir. If the succession is not clear, there will be fighting among the nobles in the cadet lines.”
Jackson had some idea of how vicious fighting between Tuscan noble houses could get – even now, in this day and age.
“Can’t you ask the Crown for an exemption from the Test Act?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, King George,” Orsini said, flatly, lowering his voice a note.
Jackson knew something of the relationship between the Marchesa di Volterra and the King. ‘Farmer George’ took a dim view of the Marchesa’s very scandalous sexual affair with Captain Lord Ramage. He took a very dim view of the Ramage family in general.
Jackson subsided with a sigh. “Damn.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I have not decided yet,” Orsini admitted. “Except that I can’t pass my examination.”
Jackson ran his hand over his hair. “Wasn’t there one fellow who stayed a midshipman until he was an old man?”
“Billy Culmer,” Orsini agreed. “He was ... well, your age. His officers talked him into going for his examination in the end. He tried to fail by getting too drunk to answer questions, but they passed him anyway against his will!”
“It might be interesting to see how many different ways a man can fail his exam.”
“I’ll think of something,” Orsini said. “I won’t give up the sea. But right now, I am not an officer, not a seaman, but something in between. I am neither fowl nor fish,” Orsini said, reverting to English.
“You’re a selkie,” Jackson suggested.
“What is that, please?”
“Ah, it’s an old myth about people who are part human, and part seal. They can put on a special sealskin and go to sea and live with seals. And they can peel off their sealskin and walk around on land with people. But they never really fit in with either.”
Orsini grinned, delighted. “Then yes, I shall be a selkie!”
There was a sudden shriek of laughter from the direction of the midshipmen’s berth. Mischief, Orsini guessed. He and Jackson both glanced in that direction, ready to put a stop to it, but the shriek didn’t come again.
“There, you see?” he said. He reverted to Italian, and gestured toward the midshipman’s berth. “Infants!”
Jackson grinned at him. “Do you not remember when you were an infant in the old Calypso?”
“I do!” Orsini said, indignantly, “But there was only one of me, remember?”
“One of you gave Mr Southwick enough grey hairs for ten of them.”
Orsini pouted. “Si, and then he told the Captain, and the Captain told my aunt, and then I got into real trouble. And the Captain is strict, but Zia Gianna, she is terrible!”
Jackson just laughed at him. "The Captain didn't tell her."
"What?"
"I did." Jackson grinned. "I've been writing to her regularly since HMS Triton."
"Ma, no! Serio?"
"Si, serio." Jackson laughed. “Anyway, I promise you didn’t get into half as much trouble as he did!”
"Ma, no!"
“I hope that doesn’t change your mind about the Italian lessons?”
“Not at all! The next time you meet her, you will greet her in her own language. She will like that."
"We can meet at the usual time, but on the quarterdeck this time.”
“I’ll be there,” Orsini said.