Ramage

 'Very well,' he said. 'Fall out the ship's company. Carry on, Mr Southwick!'

He walked aft a few feet to the companionway and went down the narrow steps to his box of a cabin. Even with his neck bent so much that he was forced to look down at the deck he could not stand upright. The small lantern in gimbals on the bulkhead showed the cabin was furnished with a cot, a tiny desk, cupboard and rickety chair.

 He opened the only drawer in the desk and found the Kathleen's muster book. Looking at the names he saw they were the usual mixed bag - the column headed 'Where born' revealed a couple of Portuguese, a Genoese, a Jamaican, a Frenchman and, last on the list, an American. He glanced across the page at the name and saw it was Jackson's - he'd already been entered as cox'n, just above his own name, 'Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage ... As per commission dated October 19th, 1796 ... Bastia.' The Master had made sure the paper work was up to date, Ramage noted with relief: the Kathleen's previous commanding officer had suddenly been taken to hospital several days before.

 Glancing through the captain's order and letter book, he saw they contained only routine matters. Later he'd have to sign receipts for them and signal books, inventories and a host of other papers; but for the moment there were more important tasks. He called to the sentry at the door, 'Pass the word for the Master and tell him to bring his charts.'

Southwick was with him in a moment, a roll of charts under his arm.

 'What's the condition of the sails and standing and running rigging, Mr Southwick?'

'Typical Mediterranean, sir,' Southwick said bitterly. 'Can't get a scrap of new stuff. All the running rigging's been turned end for end half a dozen times. Sails are as ripe as pears – and more patches than original cloths. The whole bloody outfit ought to have been condemned a year ago. Masts, spars and hull are sound though, thank God.'

'What about the ship's company?'

'First-class, sir, and I mean it. Being as we're so small, we've mostly been on our own and always at sea. None of the hanging around in harbour that rots the men.'

 'Fine,' said Ramage. 'Now let's have a look at the chart for this coast to the northward.'

Southwick spread it on the desk, putting the muster book on one end to prevent it rolling up.

 Briefly Ramage outlined their task while taking a pair of dividers from a rack over the desk and measuring off the distance to the headland on which the Tour Rouge stood, and comparing it with the latitude scale at the side of the chart. Fourteen minutes of latitude, so it was fourteen sea miles. The wind was now west and by dawn he could reckon on half a gale. Sails and rigging not too good; but the rescue was urgent. He needed daylight for the operation. A couple of hours from weighing anchor should see them off the Tower, allowing for a tack or two at the headland to size up the situation.

 'Right, Mr Southwick, we get under way two hours before dawn.'

 With the ship under-officered - he was short of a lieutenant and a second master - all the work would fall on Southwick, the young Master's Mate, Appleby, and himself.

'You'd better get some sleep,' he told Southwick.

 For the next ten minutes Ramage studied the chart, converting it into a mental picture of the contours of the coast and the sea bed. He was cursing the sparseness of the soundings when he heard someone coming down the companionway and a moment later, after knocking on the door, Jackson came in carrying a letter and two parcels.

'Boat’s just come out with these, sir, addressed to you. A shore boat, sir.'

‘Very well, put them on the bunk.'

 As soon as Jackson left, Ramage picked up the longer parcel, guessing its contents from the shape. He tore off the wrappings and indeed it was a sword. He unsheathed it and the blade was blue in the lantern light, except for its cutting edge, which glinted cold to the eye, the steel sharpened and then polished. The blade itself was extravagantly engraved - but solid and well balanced; the basket handle was finely carved, but strong. It was a magnificent fighting sword; not an expensive, lightweight piece of elegance for ceremonial use.

 In the other parcel he was surprised to find a brass-bound mahogany case of pistols. As soon as he opened it he recognized a pair of duelling pistols which he had last seen only that afternoon, on a rack in Sir Gilbert's study: they had  looked such a fine pair that he had commented on them. They were deadly accurate, although the hair-trigger meant they were not ideally suited to the rough-and-tumble of boarding an enemy ship; but they were as perfect an example of the gunmaker's art as anyone could wish for. The case was complete with a powder horn, extra flints, mould for casting shot, and cleaning brushes.

 Ramage then opened the letter. It said simply: 'Please accept these three stalwarts who will, I hope, prove as reliable to you in an emergency as you have to - yours truly, Gilbert Elliot.'

He called to the sentry, 'Pass the word for my cox'n.'

When Jackson came down, Ramage gave him the case.

 'Check these over, please: fine powder, good flints, and ready for me in the morning, loaded.'

'Phew!' Jackson exclaimed. 'They're a rare pair of barkers!'

 Ramage thought that now was as good a time as any to talk with the American.

 'Jackson - thank you for what you did over the triaclass="underline" you took a tremendous risk.'

The American looked embarrassed and said nothing.

'But tell me, what evidence did you think you had that wouldn't be given by the Bosun and Carpenter's Mate?'

'Only the part while we were in the boat, sir.'

'But that was all spoken in Italian.'

Jackson looked puzzled.

 'Well, sir, about going to the peasant's hut, and the Tower business, and how you carried the Marchesa, and how the other chap came to be killed - that sort of thing.'

Ramage glanced up quickly.

'How the other chap came to be killed?'

"Why yes, sir: you know, Count Pretty.'

'Pitti.'

'Count Pitti, then.'

'What do you know about that?'

'Only that he was shot in the head.'

"How do you know he was shot in the head?'

Jackson flushed, as if angry because he thought his word  was being doubted, but for the moment Ramage was too eager for the man's reply to explain the question.

 'Well, sir - you know when you carried the Marchesa and frightened the horsemen?'

'Yes.'

'Then a few minutes later you called me to come back to the boat?'

'Yes, yes - go on, man!'

'Well, as I ran along the top of the dunes, I dodged in and out of the bushes: there were still some Frenchmen dashing around, and I didn't want to bump into them.

 'I just came to an open patch between the two lots of bushes when I saw a man lying on the sand, face downwards. I turned him over and saw his face was blown off. I guessed it must have been Count Pretty.'

'Oh Christ,' Ramage groaned.

'Why, sir, have I said the wrong thing?'

 'No - no, on the contrary. It's just a pity Commodore Nelson didn't arrive a few minutes later - after you'd told that to the court.'

 'But what difference would it have made?' Jackson was completely puzzled.

'I mentioned I was being accused of cowardice, didn't I..’

'Yes, sir.'

 Well, the accusation was that I pushed off in the boat and deliberately left Count Pitti behind wounded. It was even said that as we rowed away someone heard him calling for help.'

'But didn't you come up and find him after putting the Marchesa in the boat, sir? I saw footprints in the sand from the boat to the body and back: I thought they were yours.'