Ramage

 'Heaving to: stopping the ship without taking in all the 'sails.'

'But how?'

 'You see the foretopsail - that sail on the first mast? Well, that's been hauled round so that it is backed: the wind is blowing on to the wrong side of it - trying to push the ship backwards. But the maintopsail and the mizentopsail - the equivalent sails on the second and third masts - haven't been touched, so they are still trying to push the ship forward. The forward push of those two is roughly equal to the backward push of the other one, so the ship stops.'

'But why do they do it?'

'It's a way of avoiding anchoring. Useful, too, if you want to stop only for a few minutes. I expect they've gone in close to send someone on shore in a boat - you can see they're hoisting out a boat.'

'Yes.'

 'Probably Commodore Nelson is in a hurry to send a message to the Viceroy.'

'Does that mean he is not staying?' she asked anxiously.

'I don't know.'

 A few moments later the boat was in the water and pulling for the harbour entrance. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity on board the Diadem: all three topsail yards were hauled round and lowered as topmen raced aloft to furl the sails, and the ship began to drift to leeward. An anchor splashed into the sea, and her sails were neatly furled by the time she came head to wind and settled back on the scope of her anchor cable, like a dog on a leash.

 Already Croucher's barge had left the Trumpeter, carrying all the captains.

Gianna asked: 'Are you—'

He turned to look at her: she seemed embarrassed.

'Are you free?'

'Yes-why?'

'Can we go on land now?1

 He thought for a moment and noticed that a boat had put off from the Lively —Probus had recovered from his illness quickly enough with the Commodore's arrival. Well, no one would want him for an hour or two.

Chapter 19

RAMAGE STOOD on the slimy steps at the quay and turned round to help Gianna out of the boat. She paused because the shoulder wound prevented her using her right hand and she needed the left to lift her skirt slightly.

 'Wait a moment,' he said and, bracing himself, picked her up by the waist and swung her out of the boat and on to the step. She was so light that he wanted to carry her up the steps in his arms, but the Lively's boat was waiting. He said to the midshipman in the sternsheets, 'Thank you: return to the ship.'

 At the top of the steps she said: 'It's a long walk to the Viceroy's house.'

'Are you sure you are feeling strong enough?’

 'Yes, of course,' she said quickly, and he realized - or was it that he hoped? - she wanted to be alone with him.

 As they walked along the Quai de la Santẻ Ramage glanced across the narrow harbour at the great Citadel, its sharply angled walls merging into sheer rock, and noted that like most harbour defences it was useless: completely vulnerable to attack from the landward side.

The hills and houses shielded the quays from the Libeccio and the heat rose up from the stone blocks, solid and invisible. Fishermen wearing leather aprons and canvas smocks were pulling nets and lines up on to the quay from their gaudily painted boats. Here and there, sitting on the cobbles, backs against the wall, were their wives, nets across their legs, and each with a bare foot protruding from her skirts, using a big toe to hold the mesh taut as her hands looped and dived with the flat wooden needle, repairing holes. The women had fixed  expressions on their faces which, despite the cowl-like hoods over their heads, were tanned deep brown by the sun and heavily wrinkled. None looked up; for each one there was no horizon, no existence beyond the torn nets.

 Ramage and Gianna reached the end of the quay and turned right into the narrow street leading to the Viceroy's residence. The houses on each side were so high that it was like entering a chasm and the street was packed with groups of people gathered, gossiping vociferously: no one listened - each waited impatiently for the other to pause in order to take over the conversation.

 Most of the men here were obviously shepherds: they wore thick woollen stocking caps or broad-brimmed, round-topped hats that shaded their faces. Some argued, bartered or quarrelled while still astride their tiny donkeys, feet almost touching the ground on each side, and sitting on angular wooden saddles shaped like the sawing horse used in England for cutting up firewood, and which chafed bare patches on the animals' backs. Ramage noticed that every man - fisherman, shepherd or idler - had a musket and cartouche box slung over his shoulder, and a pistol or knife in his belt.

 There were several old women in the groups, some sitting side-saddle on donkeys, their long hair black from the smoke of fires in their huts and covered with a black scarf. Black, black, black - everyone seemed to be in perpetual mourning. Black hair, black hats and headscarves, black breeches on the men, black skirts and blouses on the women....

 Everywhere there was an all-pervading stench: a nauseating blend of brocciu, the harsh goat's milk cheese hanging in every house, of stagnant sewage, excrement and urine, garlic-laden breath, the sweat of people unused to washing, and rotting vegetables. Ramage, thinking of the island's beauty from seaward, and then looking up the street, recalled a remark of Lady Elliot's - 'All that Nature has done for the island is lovely, and all that man has added filthy.'

 Unlike the fishermen's wives on the quay, who were completely engrossed in their work, the women and men stared at the two of them as they walked up the street, stepping round  large piles of refuse, across small ones. They stared as they approached and Ramage could feel their stares even after they had passed. As always in a Latin country it was impossible to guess whether the glittering eyes showed curiosity or hatred.

 Occasionally they passed a few British soldiers, smart but perspiring in red coats and pipeclayed cross-belts, gravely saluting Ramage while careful not to step into one of the heaps of rotting rubbish.

Once clear of the houses the street became wider and treelined.

'How did you know about the trial?' he asked suddenly.

 'Boh!' she said with a grimace: the Italian way of saying 'Who knows?'

'But someone must have told you?'

'Of course they did!'

'But who? Who have you been speaking to?'

'Speaking to no one!'

'Then someone wrote to you.'

'Yes, but I promised never to say who it was.'

 'You don't have to,' he said, suddenly remembering Lord Probus's remark the previous evening, 'I've another letter to write.'

'But this person,' he continued, 'told you your cousin would be giving evidence at the trial?'

'Yes.'

And, he thought to himself, better leave it at that: she was content, almost matter-of-fact, about what she had done. God knows, even for an impulsive girl of her age it was a brave thing to do; on the other hand, few girls were the head of such a powerful family. Yet there was something else he had to know.

'Gianna—'

'Nee-cho-lass,' she mimicked.

She was smiling, but it was not a smiling question.

 '—Did you do this - I mean, why did ...' Cursing himself, he tried to phrase the question carefully. She gave him no help: they just walked on, side by side, towards the Residency, neither looking at the other.

'You know what I am trying to ask?'

'Yes, but why ask it?'

'Because I want to know, of course!'

 'Nicholas, it is strange how you know so much - and yet so little: so much about ships and guns and battles and how to lead people ...' She seemed to be thinking aloud rather than talking to him.'... And yet so little about the people you lead.'

He was so taken aback that he said nothing.