So that was what brought them down here ... Ramage turned over the page and continued reading.
'You will then under the cover of night send a party on shore to the fortified tower situated between Lake Burano and the shore and commonly known as "Torre Buranaccio", and take off the party of refugees, believed to be six in number, and who are named in the margin.
'From the information I have received, the Tower is not in use by the Neapolitan troops, nor occupied by the French (who are known to have passed through the area); and the refugees have arranged that a charcoal burner, whose name they have omitted to communicate to me but whose hut is one half a mile southward along the beach from the tower and five hundred yards inland, shall be kept informed of their whereabouts.
'Since negotiations will have to be carried on in the native language, the landing party should be under the command of Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage in virtue of his knowledge of the Italian language.
'Great importance is attached to the safety and well-being of these refugees in view of the influence they can command on the Italian mainland; and as soon as they and any others with them are safely embarked in His Majesty's frigate under your command, you are to make the best of your way to Rendezvous Number Seven, where you will find one of His Majesty's ships whose commanding officer will give you further orders for your subsequent proceedings.'
Hmm, thought Ramage, considering the length of the letter and details, 'Old Jarvie' really means what he says about the importance of these people: he was notorious for the brevity of his orders.
Ramage folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. As orders for the Sibella's late captain, they were simple enough; but for his successor they presented difficulties undreamed of when dictated by Sir John, who was the strictest disciplinarian on the flag list. Ramage realized he did not even know where Rendezvous Number Seven was...
A sudden kick on the shin stopped his reverie.
'Sorry, sir,' said Jackson, 'I'm getting cramp in my leg.'
Ramage knew the men were waiting expectantly. Well, let them wait.
What must he do? What would the Admiral expect him to do? What would the Sibella's late captain, cremated a few moments ago, have done if he were sitting here in the launch's stern sheets?
He could ask the opinions of the senior men, showing them the order: hold a council of war, in fact. But his pride prevented that and anyway his father had once said - 'Nicholas, my boy: if you ever want to achieve anything in the Service, never call a council of war.' Yet when the old boy had acted on his own advice, Ramage thought bitterly, look what had happened...
Then in his imagination he saw, for a fleeting second, a group of thoroughly frightened civilians staring seaward through the narrow window of a peasant's hut, plagued by mosquitoes, too frightened to light a lamp at night, and waiting for a ship of the Royal Navy to rescue them from - from France's guillotines or possibly the unspeakable horrors of the Grand Duke of Tuscany's dungeons, since the Grand Duke's attempts to remain neutral had been feeble, and he had even entertained Napoleon to dinner, from all accounts.
Who were they, anyway? He'd forgotten to look at the names in the margin.
'Lantern, Jackson.'
He unfolded the letter once more and read the names of five men and a woman listed one below the other in the margin: the Duke of Venturino, the Marquis of Sassofortino, Count Chiusi, Count Pisano, Count Pitti and the Marchioness of Volterra.
It took him a moment or two to register the shock of reading the anglicized version of the Marchesa di Volterra's name: he had a sudden picture in his mind of a tall, white-haired woman with a patrician face whom he had known, for much of his childhood, as 'Aunt Lucia'. She was no relation, but as one of his mother's closest friends she was a frequent visitor when his parents lived in Siena; and they in turn had often stayed at the Marchesa's palace at Volterra. So now the little boy she used to bully because he could not (would not, too) quote yards of Dante, was back — almost back, anyway — in Italy, to haul her off the beach....
Sir John Jervis's determination that they should be rescued made sense now: the Marchesa, and the Duke of Venturino, were two of the most influential and powerful figures in Tuscany: it had been said for years that if they could agree with each other for long enough, they could probably overthrow the Grand Duke and rid Tuscany for ever of the dreary Hapsburgs.
Ramage was glad he'd decided to attempt the rescue before reading the names. If he'd previously decided against it, he would have changed his mind later. There was some satisfaction in attempting what he hoped was the right thing for the right reason.
Yet when it came to rescuing refugees, it shouldn't matter who they are: when a head rolls into the wicker basket from the guillotine blade, a peasant's head is a human head as much as the duke's; which was what Shakespeare meant when he made Shylock say 'Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands?'
Ramage could imagine the president of the court trying him for the loss of the Sibella asking, 'Why did you decide to attempt to execute with an open boat the Admiral's orders, which were intended to be carried out by a frigate?'
'Well, sir, I was thinking about Shylock...'
He could imagine the sneers; could hear, almost, the whispered 'Yes, he's his father's son all right.' And that's the crux of it: he was his father's son and so much more vulnerable than other lieutenants because he had many more potential enemies waiting to strike at him to wound his father. A Service vendetta was a long-drawn-out affair and when admirals were involved everyone was forced to take sides because promotion and patronage were involved. To become the protege' of a particular admiral was a good thing, as long as the admiral was in favour, because he would push opportunities your way. But if the admiral supported a political party, as several of them did, then the moment his party lost power, the fact you were one of his proteges was a millstone round your neck.
Poor Father: a braver man never lived, and many still considered him the most brilliant strategist and tactician the Navy ever had. Which was, of course, the reason for his downfall. When you give the command of a fleet to a born leader with a keen brain, and provide him with a textbook containing a limited set of regulations telling him how to fight a battle, you're asking for trouble.
Ramage was seven when his father was brought to trial; but later, when he was old enough to understand, he had read the minutes of the trial of John Uglow Ramage, tenth Earl of Blazey and Admiral of the White many times. It was easy to see how the court had found Father guilty; indeed, since he had refused to be tied down by the Fighting Instructions and had used his own tactics instead, they had no alternative. But the King's refusal to quash the verdict - which only he had the power to do - was naked politics: Father had an independent mind and had refused to pay court to either Whigs or Tories, so he expected help from no one.
Ramage realized that since he had only four open boats to carry out orders intended for a frigate his own position was, in a microcosm, similar to the one facing his father fifteen years earlier. Then, the Government, ignoring all warnings about the size of the French forces, sent a small fleet to the West Indies under the Earl of Blazey. And when the Earl arrived to find himself attacked by a French Fleet which was twice as powerful and in circumstances not covered in the Fighting Instructions - which dealt only with a few eventualities — he had used brilliant and original tactics to extricate himself, losing only one line-of-battle ship.