Now, however, was a time when courtesy (custom, anyway) demanded that he go down to his cabin and put on the sword. When dealing with one's own people, clothes rarely counted (except when paying official calls on officers like Admiral Foxe-Foote, who was the sort of man who never paid his own tailor but was very fussy what his officers wore); but foreign dignitaries set great store by braid, buttons and buckles, and the lack of a few inches of gold braid could easily give the wrong impression of the rank or worth of the wearer.
As he acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute, the door of his cabin opened and his steward stood there, a cheerful expression on his face.
'I have fresh stock and stockings and your uniform ready, sir.'
'What on earth for, Silkin?'
'Why, to meet the deputation, sir!'
'Deputation? It's probably the mayor's brother who owns a bumboat business and wants to sell us limes, or some worn - out goats. Or, from the look of the island, wanting to know if we'll sell them some water.'
By now Ramage had reached his sleeping cabin and Silkin, like an Arab carpet vendor displaying his wares, was holding up clean breeches, and nodding towards stockings, shirt and stock. They looked cool. The stock he was wearing was tied a little too tightly and, damp with perspiration, chafing the skin and rasping, particularly on a patch by his Adam's apple which he had not shaved very well. He looked down at his stockings. There were black marks on the inside of the left ankle where he had accidentally caught it with his right shoe.
The boat had a long way to row, even though the wind and sea were on its quarter, and Ramage knew that it needed no effort to change, either, with the ship hove - to; the roll was almost imperceptible and she was not pitching. In fact it was an invitingly refreshing prospect: the cabin was cool because a breeze had been sweeping through it while the ship was under way. Changing his clothes also delayed him having to go back to the heat and glare on deck . . .
He sat down on a chair and kicked off his shoes, getting immediate relief because his feet were swollen. The size of shoe that fitted in the early morning and evening was much too small when the midday heat made feet swell and throb. Feet and head: the glare of the sun made your eyes want to pop, and the heat, even coming through a hat, seemed to fry your brain.
He stripped off his clothes and pulled on the fresh garments. For a brief couple of minutes the stockings were cool; then he pulled on the breeches. The tailor had sworn it was a light weight cloth, but no tailor in London could visualize the oven - like tropical heat - that was the regular lament of naval and army officers posted abroad.
Shirt, stock, swordbelt, jacket. . . even the sword and scabbard seemed cool. Silkin had fresh shoes and Ramage slid his feet into them (if an admiral had been approaching, they would have been high boots). Now Silkin held out his hat after giving it a ritual brushing with his sleeve to make the nap lie in the same direction. Ramage nodded and left the cabin, irritated that Silkin had in fact manoeuvred him into changing, yet feeling all the fresher for it.
On deck, blinking in the glare, he saw Aitken by the binnacle looking at him anxiously.
'There are three men in the sternsheets of the boat, sir. Two are wearing uniforms I don't recognize. Could be the Dutch army, I suppose. But the one not wearing uniform is much older than the others who, as far as I can make out at this distance, are both wearing aiguillettes, as though they're his aides.'
Ramage grunted, more because he was still irritated by Silkin than the fact that a trio of foreign officials were coming out to the ship. 'Perhaps Britain has signed a peace treaty with the Dutch,' Ramage said. 'They might have just received the news and realized we couldn't know . . .'
One of the most potentially dangerous situations facing the captain of one of the King's ships patrolling in waters distant from commanders - in - chief or the Admiralty was that war would break out - or a peace treaty be signed - with another country whose colonies heard about it first. Britain could have been at peace with the Netherlands when a ship left Jamaica for a routine patrol of three months which included a visit to Curacao. But a Dutch frigate might arrive at the island to report that war now existed (and a British ship get to Jamaica with the same news). So that the only person completely in ignorance that his erstwhile friends were now his enemies would be the British captain on his long patrol. He might be lucky in accidentally meeting a merchant ship and hearing the news, but merchant ships were usually the last to know, and in consequence were often captured. He might also make the discovery after anchoring in Amsterdam and finding his ship seized. Equally a war existing when he sailed might now be over.
All this would explain that boat, which was now only three or four hundred yards away, and it was the only explanation that made any sense. The Dutch did not have scores of British prisoners for whom they would want to arrange an exchange. And - he was pleased with himself for the deduction - it would explain the ten privateers anchored and looking abandoned: if the Netherlands had just signed a peace treaty with Britain, she would now be neutral or an ally. In either case these French privateers would not be able to use Amsterdam as a base. They would have been seized or interned. It was so obvious that he was almost angry with himself for not having thought of it the first time the Calypso passed Amsterdam. Yet the first time - only yesterday, he realized - there had been no flags of truce. Nor was there a ship in the port now - not that he could see, anyway - that could have brought the news while the Calypso had been up at the western end of the island dealing with La Perle. He turned to Aitken: 'Side ropes are rigged? Sideboys ready?'
'Yes, sir,' Aitken said patiently, making a note, like hundreds of first lieutenants before him, that when he became a captain he would not interfere in routine affairs. Of course the visitors, as they climbed the battens forming a ladder up the ship's side, would be able to grip a rope in each hand for support. Boys would be stationed at various points down the battens, holding the ropes out and away from the ship's side, making it easier for a climber to hold on.
Ramage watched the boat and considered the position. Supposing it was in fact peace with the Netherlands - the Batavian Republic, as it was now called. The Calypso would be the - first ship to arrive after it, and no doubt Ramage and his officers would be entertained by the Governor to celebrate. In return, the Calypso - Ramage, rather - would have to give a dinner. Or, better still, a small ball. Dancing on the quarterdeck with awning rigged and lanterns in the rigging - women loved it. The true romance of the sea, one of them had once said at a ball he had attended in a flagship. Soft lights from lanthorns (which, if you inspected them closely, contained sooty and smelly candles), the atmosphere of a ship of war (comprising mostly an unpleasant odour from the bilges, but sometimes mis could be drowned by a shrewd captain who, a few hours before the ball began, had the rigging near the quarterdeck liberally soaked with Stockholm tar, which was the smell roost landlubbers associated with ships), and the sight of the shiny black guns and the roundshot in racks nearby (producing girlish shrieks, though none of the visitors ever stopped to think that the roundshot represented death and destruction) - all this provided an atmosphere of seduction far more potent than the most carefully prepared boudoir.