Ramage

'Yes, thank you, sir.'

 "Well, while we're waiting for my men to give the signal — I'm going in to pick 'em up and tow out any worthwhile prizes - you'd better give me a short verbal report.'

With that Probus led the way aft to the taffrail, out of earshot of the men.

 Briefly Ramage explained how the Barras had caught the Sibella, listed the British casualties, and described how, after finding himself in command, he was forced to quit the ship, leaving the wounded to surrender her. Finally, after he had outlined the story from then until the gig arrived alongside the Lively — omitting only Pisano's allegations against him -Probus said, 'You've had a busy time. Let me have a written report in the forenoon.'

 'Ah!' he exclaimed as several flashes lit up Santo Stefano, 'Dawlish has woken 'em up! My God, he took long enough to get there. Cox'n! My night glass.'

 In a few moments, telescope to his eye, he was trying to get a glimpse of boats in the gun flashes. He said to Ramage, 'You'd better turn in and get some sleep. I've told the junior lieutenant to shift into the midshipmen's berth and give you his cabin. By the way, who is this fellow Pisano?'

'The Marchesa's cousin, sir.'

'I know that! What's he like?'

‘Hard to say, sir. A bit excitable.'

 There was more firing from the direction of the port and Probus said, 'Hmm ... all right, we'll discusss it further in the morning.'

'Aye aye, sir; good night.'

' 'Night.'

Discuss what further? Ramage wondered; but he was too tired to let it bother him.

Chapter 13

Next morning Ramage thought sleepily that he was beginning to be nervous about waking. The cot swung gently as the ship rolled, suspended at each end by ropes from eye-bolts in the deckhead above, and the creaking of the ship's timbers showed the Lively was under way with a fair breeze. Had they any prizes in company?

 The ship stank: he'd been too tired to notice it last night, but the past few days spent out in the fresh air emphasized the extent and variety of unpleasant smells in a ship of war. From the bilges came the village pond stench of stagnant water, the last few inches in the bottom of the well that the pumps never sucked out, and which was a reservoir for all sorts of muck, from the mess made by the cows and pigs in the mangers forward to seepage from salt meat and beer casks. The gunroom itself reeked of damp woodwork and mildewed clothing, and was overfull of the thick atmosphere resulting from many men sleeping in a confined space which neither daylight nor fresh air penetrated.

A wash, shave, and something to eat and drink.

 'Steward!' he called. 'Sentry! Pass the word for the gunroom steward.'

 A moment later the steward knocked on the door. Since the cabin was one of a row of boxes formed by stretching painted canvas over wooden frames, and was five feet four inches high, six feet long and five feet wide, the knock was simply a courtesy.

'Sir?'

'Is the galley fire alight?'

'Yes, sir.'

 'Right, hot water, soap and towel for washing; and please borrow a razor from one of the other officers. And some hot tea, if there is any. None of your baked breadcrumbs coffee.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

 A few minutes later he was sitting at the gunroom table freshly washed and shaved, with half a pint of weak but almost scalding tea inside him. He was about to dress in his old clothes when the gunroom steward went to a cabin. After rummaging around he came out with a pair of white breeches, a shirt, waistcoat, jacket and various other oddments of clothing over his arm.

 'Mr Dawlish told me to give you these, sir, so I can have a chance of cleaning up your clothes. And the Captain passed the word 'e wants to see you when you're ready, sir, but says it's not urgent.'

'Right. Thank Mr Dawlish and put the clothes in my cabin, please. Take my boots and give them a good blacking.'

 The steward left and Ramage sat at the table for a minute or two, reading the names of the ship's officers over the cabin doors opening off each side of the gunroom. Apart from that of Jack Dawlish, he did not recognize any of them. The Marchesa was lying in a cot only a few feet away, one deck higher ... for a moment he felt guilty because he had given her hardly a thought since waking.

 Lord Probus was in an amiable mood, standing on the windward side of the quarter-deck and surveying his little wooden kingdom. The bright sun was blinding after the half darkness of the gunroom, and Ramage could see that towing astern of the Lively was the small brig he'd last seen at anchor in Santo Stefano.

'Did you sleep well?' asked Probus.

'Very well, sir, and too long, by the look of it.'

 'You probably needed it. Now,' he said lowering his voice and glancing round to make sure no one else was within hearing, 'tell me more about this fellow Pisano.'

 'Pisano, sir? There's nothing more to telclass="underline" you know he's the Marchesa's cousin--'

'Blast it, Ramage, don't back and fill like a bumboatman! Last night he made an official verbal complaint about you to me. He went on for hours, I might say. Now he's presented me with it in writing. And you haven't even mentioned the episode.'

'There's not much to mention, sir. A question of his word against mine.'

'Well?' Probus asked, 'what's that got to do with it?'

'I believe Admiral Goddard is at Bastia...'

'Goddard? What's that got - oh, I see: for the court martial.'

‘Yes, sir.'

 Probus tapped a foot on the deck. ‘Yes, he'll almost certainly be there. But you were carrying out Sir John Jervis's orders, so your report will go to him. Anyway,' he said abruptly, as though he had just decided something, 'don't write anything until you've seen Pisano's complaint. I shan't show it to you, and you must word your report as if the complaint didn't exist. Only make sure you cover all the allegations he makes.'

'But how can I—'

 'Come on,' interrupted Probus, pointing to the companionway, 'your protegee wants to see you.'

 'How is she, sir? I'm afraid I dozed off last night before the Surgeon came down.'

 'Judge for yourself,' Probus replied, knocking on the door.

 She looked even smaller, even more frail in the cot: a delicately made and raven-haired doll in a shallow box. Fortunately Probus was a man of taste, and the sides of the cot and the quilt were covered in embroidered silk instead of scrubbed canvas. She was wearing a silk shirt as a nightdress and had made a brave attempt with one hand to tidy her hair - he was pleased she had kept to the style he had made for her on the beach, combing it to one side. A comb and ivory-backed brush were at the foot of the cot.

She held up her left hand, and Ramage raised it to his lips.  Keep it formal, he warned himself, conscious that the worldly Probus was obviously curious about their relationship.

‘How are you, Madam?'

She looked happy enough.

'Much better, thank you, Lieutenant. The doctor is most encouraging: he tells Lord Probus that I shall have a small scar but no disability permanente.'

'Is that so, sir?'

 He'd reacted too quickly and Probus would be quick to spot it....

 'Yes, Ramage: our Sawbones, old Jessup, is a hard drinker and I expect his flow of blasphemy while treating her must have shocked the Marchesa; but he's a good surgeon for all that, and he says she'll be up and about in a couple of days.'

'I'm very glad, sir.'

'I'm sure you are,' Probus said dryly, adding hurriedly, 'we all are. But although we wish her a speedy recovery, we want an excuse to keep such a charming young lady on board for as long as possible—'

 'Lord Probus is molto gentile,' Gianna said. 'I have given the Lieutenant much trouble, too.'