Ramage's Devil

'Of course, dearest,' she said with a smile. 'And having closely inspected my breasts, taken my virginity, counted the ships and returned to London at the end of your honeymoon, what do you report to whom - and why? Surely the Admiralty must know what is going on in the French ports?'

'If not what happens on nearby clifftops. No, the Admiralty as such is not the problem. The man who seems to be completely hoodwinked by Bonaparte is the First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord St Vincent. He's laying up ships of the line and frigates. That in itself doesn't matter so much because they could be commissioned again in a few weeks, but he's letting go all the prime seamen: they are being turned loose and are just disappearing like chaff in the wind, looking for work. You can commission all the ships again in a month and get them to sea - providing you have the seamen.'

'But, dearest, surely an admiral like Lord St Vincent realizes all that?'

'Of course he realizes he needs trained seamen to commission ships and get them to sea. His mistake is he doesn't believe we need the ships. He doesn't think we'll be at war again with Bonaparte for another five years.'

'Five years? Why not seven, or nine - or three?'

'He's attempting a complete overhaul of all the dockyards - to get rid of the theft, corruption and inefficiency which ranges from commissioners at the top to workmen at the bottom. It will take at least five years.'

'So, my dear, do you think your honeymoon in Brittany will result in Lord St Vincent changing his mind and not paying off any more ships?'

The whimsical note in her voice took the sting out of the question, and he frowned as he answered. It was a fair question and hard to answer satisfactorily. 'It's almost too late to stop him paying off ships: most are already laid up. No sooner had we arrived home in the Calypso than (as you well know) I had orders to go on round to Chatham and lay her up. That means all those men I've been collecting together for years, from the time of my first command, the Kathleen in the Mediterranean, will be turned out of the Navy the moment the Calypso is laid up.'

'And the commission and warrant officers - Southwick, Aitken and the others, yes and young Paolo - what happens to them?'

'Well, they'll join another ship if they can find a berth, but hundreds of lieutenants and masters will be after a few dozen jobs. Paolo should find another ship because my father has enough influence to arrange a midshipman's berth. There's virtually no limit on the number a ship can carry: it depends on the captain.'

She sat upright to avoid the sun dazzling her and wondered if it could possibly tan her bosom a little. Her nipples were so large and brown. Did Nicholas prefer small pink ones, she wondered again. He seemed more than satisfied with them as they were, although she realized new husbands were unlikely to be critical.

'So you lose everyone once the ship is laid up again,' she commented. 'Supposing a month later - a month after you are back in London - the Admiralty commissions the Calypso again and gives you command?'

'I can ask for the officers, and for Southwick, and if they're not employed I'd probably get them. But the men - not one, unless they heard about it and volunteered, because they'd be scattered across the country, or perhaps serving in merchant ships.'

'And if the war started again?'

'I still wouldn't get them back. They'd volunteer or be pressed and be sent to whichever ship needed men most urgently. I'd have to start all over again. My name is well enough known that volunteers would join, hoping for prize money. But - well, you saw that I knew just about everything concerning every man in the Calypso.'

'Yes, you seemed to be father confessor to men twice your age. Anyway, at least we're not at war,' she said and touched his arm. 'At least you're not away at sea and I'm not sick with worry in case you have been wounded. Killed even.'

'That's a cheerful thought for a summer's afternoon!' he protested.

'Every time I hold you in bed, I feel a scar,' she retorted. 'Like knots in a log. You've been lucky so far, the shot or sword cuts have not damaged anything vital. Why, you've done more than enough already to be able to resign your commission and just run the St Kew estate.'

'My mother has been talking to you!'

'Not really. She would like you to, and so would your father.'

'He has no faith in the Admiralty or politicians.'

'That's hardly surprising, considering what they did to him. If they hadn't made him the scapegoat so many years ago, he would probably have been First Lord now, not St Vincent.'

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. 'Perhaps - but I wouldn't have done so well.'

'Why on earth not?'

'He would have been so determined that no one should accuse him of favouring his son that I'd probably still be a lieutenant commanding a cutter, probably on the fishery patrol off Newfoundland.'

'So although you might complain about Lord St Vincent's policies, you've done well enough, thanks to him.' Sarah was unsure why she was sticking up for St Vincent, who had always seemed taciturn, almost boorish, when she had met him.

'Thanks to his predecessor, Lord Spencer. He gave me my first chances in the early days - the chance to win my spurs, as it were.'

'So you have a honeymoon task - to get enough information to persuade the First Lord and the Cabinet to change the country's policy towards Bonaparte!'

'Not quite,' he said wryly. 'Just to convince the First Lord to keep enough ships in commission. I - we, rather - don't want war; we just want to be ready because we think it is coming.'

She buttoned up her dress. 'Come on, let's get on our way. War may be coming, but it's certain we have only a few weeks of our honeymoon left and Jean-Jacques expects us for an early supper.'

Sarah riding side-saddle brought a stop to the daily life in each village: women stood at the doors of their houses or shops, or came down the paths to the gates in response to cries from their children.

'We're probably the first foreigners they've seen since before the Revolution,' Ramage commented, keeping a tight rein on his horse, which was nervous at the shrill cries and cheers of the darting children.

'They wonder what nationality we are,' Sarah said. 'There'd be fewer smiles if they knew we were English.'

'Yes, they won't like the rosbifs here. Still, we could be Spanish, or even French: here in Brittany anyone from another province is a foreigner!'

'But we are obviously aristos,' Sarah said quietly. 'They probably think we escaped the guillotine at the Revolution and with the peace have returned from exile...'

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. 'I am not very worried about that! It's more significant that Fort du Toulbroch, Fort de Mengam and the Lion Battery are still fully manned, as though the war was still on and a British squadron might sail up the Gullet any moment.'

'I can see another fort ahead of us. There, just to the right of that church.'

'Yes, the church is at St Pierre and the fort is de Delec, less than a mile short of Brest. This side of it, anyway.'

'How many sides are there?'

He laughed and explained: 'The port is built on both sides of the entrance of the Penfeld river, just where it runs out into the Gullet. From what I remember of the charts and from what Jean-Jacques said last night, the arsenal is this side, by the entrance to the river. Then as you go upstream there's the repair jetty, and a couple of dry docks and another arsenal. Then on the other side, to the east, there's the Château with high walls: an enormous fortress complete with gate and towers. There are barracks further inland. The commander-in-chief's house is in the centre of town, the Hôtel du Commandant de la Marine, in the Rue de Siam, although why I should remember that I don't know! There's a naval college nearby. All along this side of the river are more quays, for another arsenal which is probably used for storing guns and carriages. On the road to Paris at the main gate, the Porte de Landerneau on the north side of the town, there's the hospital. I remember the map of the town in the Hydrographic Office at the Admiralty, drawn ten or fifteen years ago, noted that the pile of garbage from the hospital was polluting the water. And the cartographer was called St Nicolin. Strange how one's memory dredges up these odd items!'