Ramage

'Someone has called to see you,' the Viceroy explained.

 Ramage felt guilty: Probus was probably angry because he'd left the ship for a few hours, although Jack Dawlish said he'd explain they could not let the Marchesa return to the Residency unescorted....

 The steward led out a young midshipman who paused by the glass doors and looked round in bewilderment: the transition from the midshipmen's berth in the Diadem to such a terrace clearly bewildered him.

Ramage beckoned.

'I am Lieutenant Ramage.'

 'Casey, sir, from the Diadem. I've to' - he hauled a letter out of his pocket - 'to deliver this to you, sir. There'll be no answer, they said, so if you'll excuse me.'

 Ramage thanked him and put the envelope in his lap, politely affecting unconcern, but desperately anxious to read it. Was the court martial to reconvene? Was he to return to the ship and remain under close arrest?

 The Elliots had seen too many official documents delivered to regard the midshipman's arrival as anything unusual, and Sir Gilbert, noticing Gianna's worried glance at the oblong packet, said: 'Carry on, Nicholas.'

 Ramage broke the seal, and read the letter - orders, in fact -twice. The first time he was unable to believe his eyes; the second he read in amazement. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He searched across the anchorage, looking for a small cutter: yes, there she was. She looked trim enough -about 190 tons, cost about £4,500 to build, a crew of about sixty men, carried ten carronades, and had a snug sail plan -about 1,700 square feet in the mainsail, about a thousand in the topsail, another thousand in the jib, and half that in the foresail. Draught — not that it mattered in these waters - about eight feet forward and fourteen aft. She'd be about seventy-five feet long from taffrail to stemhead with another forty  feet for the bowsprit. With a good breeze she'd make nine knots, providing her bottom was clean — which would be unlikely: it'd be encrusted with barnacles and weed.

 Glancing up, he saw Gianna looking at him with barely concealed anxiety and he realized she was afraid the letter meant he would be leaving her. He smiled but could not explain: the orders were headed 'Secret’.

 Leaving her ... the idea flickered lightly across his mind, then jerked back violently as the two words took on a harsh reality. He felt the smile fade from his face; now he could understand why she was looking at him like that: her eyes were speaking, her lips silently pleading; it seemed her whole body was trying to cling to him; yet the Elliots noticed nothing.

 To an idle onlooker the Marchesa di Volterra was sitting elegantly in a cane chair, beneath a silken parasol, a glass of lemonade on a small table beside her, a fan folded in her lap. Ramage realized the same cold fear now sinking into his stomach must have been gripping her for the past five minutes: the fear of parting with a loved one in wartime. The first parting could be the last - yet it could also be the prelude to many happy reunions.

 She was sitting six feet away yet she seemed a part of his body: a part of his very existence was contained in her. He knew that wherever he went, wherever superior orders sent him - to the East Indies or the West, to the North Sea, to blockade duty off Brest - he would never be complete again; a part of him would always be with her, wherever she was, whether she was alive or dead.

Would a landscape ever be beautiful again if she was not there to share it? Would life have any colour, taste or interest when he was alone? Or any purpose - except to get back to her?

 Would he ever again willingly risk his life on some mad enterprise, knowing what he now had to lose? Would he fret for her when he should be thinking of the Service? Old Sir John Jervis was notorious for his views on married officers: he reckoned anyone who married was lost to the Service and never hesitated to tell them so, either.

 Ramage could now understand why: a few days ago he did not care over-much about risking his life - certainly he was frightened of being killed, but he did not think too much about it since no one depended on him for money or security. But now - well, he'd certainly 'given a hostage unto fortune'.

He was just going to say something to reassure her when Sir Gilbert rose.

 'Well, if you'll excuse me, I have some papers to prepare for the Commodore. By the way, my dear,' he said to Lady Elliot, 'the Commodore will be dining with us tonight.'

'Oh, what a pleasant surprise,' said her Ladyship. 'The Marchesa is longing to meet him.'

 Ramage also stood up. 'Will you excuse me, too? I must go to my ship.'

My ship, he thought and touched his pocket to reassure himself the packet was still there; that he had not been dreaming.

 Lady Elliot said, 'We shall be seeing you again soon, Nicholas? Tomorrow, perhaps?'

 'I am afraid not, Madam: I have orders to sail almost at once.'

 He avoided looking at Gianna, who reached out for his hand.

'You will return here?' She spoke in a whisper.

'I hope so, but –qui lo sa?’'

 Lady Elliot, quick to sense the tension, said, ‘You can leave her in our care, my dear. And I'll write to your parents to say we've seen you.'

 Ramage found Jack Dawlish waiting for him on board the Lively. 'Salaams,' Dawlish said mockingly, 'I trust you've had a pleasant dalliance on shore?'

 Ramage grinned and bowed: 'Yes, thank you, my good man: be good enough to unsaddle my horse and give it a good rub down.'

 'Talking of saddles, his Lordship's sitting on his high horse waiting for you.'

"Upset?'

'No, not really: came back from seeing the Commodore  expecting to see you on board, and took a round turn on my throat when he found you weren't - until I explained you were on escort duty.'

'Sorry.'

 ‘That's all right. By the way,' Dawlish added, 'I've got my sword back!'

Ramage's face felclass="underline" when the court broke up he'd forgotten to retrieve it from Blenkinsop, the erstwhile Provost Marshal.

Probus was sitting at his desk when Ramage went in.

'Sorry I wasn't on board, sir.'

 'I gather you had urgent business on shore,' Probus said dryly. 'You've presumably received orders from the Commodore?'

'Yes, sir: bit of a surprise.'

 'You don't sound very pleased: getting command of a cutter - even tho' temporarily - used to be a young lieutenant's dream when I was your age.'

'I didn't mean that, sir: I just wondered why.'

 'Oh Christ,' exclaimed Probus, obviously exasperated, 'this isn't an appointment by Rear-Admiral Goddard. Do your best and say your prayers like the rest of us. Now listen carefully - here,' he said, pushing pen, ink and a block of paper towards him, 'sit down, and make any notes you want.'

 With that he stood up and began walking up and down the cabin, head and shoulders bent to avoid banging his head.

 'The Commodore told me to explain this to you. First, the French have landed troops about twenty miles up the coast, between Cape Corse and Macinaggio, just south of the Cape.'

'Yes, I know.'

'Oh?'

'The Viceroy...'

 'Hmm. Well, they are advancing towards Bastia. Second, the frigate Belette was on her way round here from San Fiorenzo Bay with news of the landings when she came up with two privateer schooners just off Cape Corse. They were full of soldiers which the Belette's captain guessed they intended landing somewhere round there.'

'When was this, sir?'

‘Yesterday, in the forenoon. Anyway, the Belette chased 'em southward - remember that, always get between the enemy and his objective - and they made a bolt for a little port farther down the coast.'

'Macinaggio?'

'Yes, it's very small and hardly any depth of water. The leading schooner managed to get in but the Belette was inshore of the second one and forced her to carry on southward. The Belette then bore away to get offshore of her, trapping her between the Belette and the coast. A good move, eh?'