Nicholas was nervous; she saw he was rubbing the upper of the two scars over his right eyebrow. Each was the result of a wound; on two separate occasions he had been lucky not to have his skull split open by the enemy. For a moment, before she could crowd the picture from her imagination, she saw him lying in a pool of blood on the deck of a ship, dying from a third wound. She crossed herself: she had this terrible fear that if the picture kept appearing, then it would happen.
The Admiral took her arm and led her from the room. As they walked down the stairs he said gently: 'It is always worse for the people staying behind. Watching Nicholas beginning to pack makes me realize what my wife must have gone through so many times...
'But it is so unfair,' she burst out. 'They give him such fantastic orders. That last affair - fancy sending him to France! How he escaped the guillotine I shall never know, and it goes on and on and on. This war will never end!'
'Nicholas chose the Navy, my dear,' the Admiral said quietly as they reached the drawing-room and his wife stood up and came towards Gianna, her arms outstretched. 'Nicholas now has to leave first thing tomorrow,' he explained. 'Naturally Gianna is upset.'
The older woman led Gianna to a chair. 'For years I was always saying goodbye to my husband, and now it is to my son,' she said simply. 'I find it helps to think that the sooner I say goodbye, the sooner I welcome him back!'
'But every time it is a miracle he comes back,' Gianna sobbed. 'Every time he is a little changed, a little more pre-occupato!’
'That is not the Navy's fault,' the Admiral said crisply. 'Our experiences change us little by little. That's maturing.'
His wife glanced at him. 'I think you should go up and help Nicholas pack his trunk: he has not much time.'
Gianna jumped up, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. 'No, no, I will. I am sorry; it is just - well, the West Indies are so far away.'
The Admiral held her shoulders for a minute and said with deliberate harshness: 'Yes, nearly a quarter of the way round the world from London. But remember, the French coast is only twenty-one miles from Dover, yet that's where Bonaparte's men caught him and wanted to cut off his head ...’
CHAPTER TWO
Vauxhall turnpike, Putney Heath, Esher ... on to Godalming, Liphook, Petersfield and Horndean . . . Change horses here, change horses there, hurried meals, and then the Porstdown Hills, Cosham and finally, after more than seventy miles, Portsmouth. His new breeches were uncomfortably tight and his coat stiff; his shoes were hard and his feet throbbed. As a younker, posting to Portsmouth to join your ship had always been exciting; as a lieutenant it eventually became tedious; as a captain, Ramage found it seventy miles of unrelieved irritation. The 'chaise jogged and rattled too much for him to be able to write down the things he suddenly remembered, and each thought was crowded out by a succession of others before the 'chaise reached the next stop to change horses. An alteration to his Captain's Orders, something more to insert, an important note for the Surgeon, several items for the Master - all forgotten between changes of horses. His memory was like a bucket without a bottom.
He reported to the crusty old Port Admiral at his office in Portsmouth Dockyard, found that the Juno was anchored off the Spit Sand outside the harbour, and was told that the new Master had gone on board but that the new lieutenants had not yet reported. From the Port Admiral's attitude it was obvious that the Juno was not his favourite frigate, and his parting words were: 'We have so many court martials at the moment that captains don't have time to get their ships ready, so keep your troubles to yourself.'
It was a discouraging hint about the state of the discipline in the Juno, and an ambiguous warning that the Port Admiral would not welcome Ramage bringing any delinquent officer or man to trial. He was to get the ship ready 'and sail in execution of your orders'.
Early on Wednesday morning the little cutter carrying him from the Point steps out to the Juno at Spithead was close-reaching in a brisk south-westerly breeze, the boatman moving the tiller from time to time to ease her over the occasional large wave. Ramage's trunk was wrapped in a tarpaulin to keep off the spray, and he was thankful to be wearing his boat cloak.
The burly boatman and a lad who was probably his son had glanced at each other when he hired them and named the Juno. The shortcomings of her previous captain were obviously common knowledge. A spot of bother in one of the dozen of ships of war anchored at Spithead was always interesting gossip for the seafaring folk living at Portsmouth or Gosport.
'Took the new Master out last night, sir,' the boatman said conversationally, raising his voice against the wind and the slop of the waves.
Ramage nodded. 'There'll be more business for you today or tomorrow, if you keep a sharp lookout at the Steps; four lieutenants, some midshipmen, a surgeon, Marine officers . . .'
The boatman grinned his gratitude: knowledge that particular officers were expected helped with the tips: it flattered a young lieutenant to tell him that the captain had mentioned he was due. You could usually tell a lieutenant's seniority - the more junior the larger the tip.
He watched the young Captain out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he dare ask a question or two, but decided against it: those eyes looked as though they could give you a very cold stare. He contented himself with a grunt to the boy that he wanted the mainsheet easing as they bore away for the last few hundred yards to round another anchored ship before luffing up alongside the Juno.
Ramage had already begun his survey of the Juno. Her yards were not square and there were two boats lying alongside at the larboard gangway, instead of being streamed astern. The paintwork looked in fair condition though, which was fortunate since there was no time to do anything about it before sailing. The black hull and sweeping sheer were shown off nicely by the pale yellow strake just below the gun-ports. She was one of Sir John Willams's designs, and he had a reputation for building fast ships, though Ramage had heard some captains grumble that they were rather tender and apt to heel a lot in a strong breeze, making it hard work for the gunners.
As the cutter drew nearer he saw some marks on the black hull forward, which showed that the ship's company threw buckets of dirty water and rubbish over the side instead of going straight forward to the head and lowering the buckets well down before starting them. Within the hour he would have men over the side with scrubbing brushes,
The more he saw as the cutter closed the distance, the more furious he became; the ship was thoroughly neglected. Seamen were lounging about the deck as though they were on the Gosport Ferry, and he could see the hats of a group of officers gossiping on the quarterdeck. They are in for a shock in a minute, he thought grimly, as soon as the sentry challenges, in fact.
'What ship?' came a casual shout, and Ramage nodded to the boatman to make the time-honoured answer that would tell everyone on board the Juno frigate that her new Captain was in the boat. 'Juno!'the boatman bellowed, as he glanced at Ramage and risked a wink.
For years the old boatman had been taking officers out to every kind of ship of war, from tiny sloops to 98-gun ships of the line. Better than many junior officers he could glance at masts, yards, sails and hull and tell a great deal about a ship's officers. He had looked at the Juno and had seen her through Ramage's eyes. And he had seen the taut look on the Captain's face.
Heads were now appearing over the Juno's bulwarks and fifty men's faces from one end of the ship to the other were staring down at the little cutter. An officer appeared at the entry port, gesturing to someone behind him. A bos'n's call shrilled faintly, and then Ramage could not watch any more. The little cutter was coming alongside and he had to keep an eye open to make sure that the flapping mainsail did not scoop off his hat as it was lowered, or that a dollop of sea thrown up between the two hulls did not hit him in the face and make a farce of his arrival on board his new command.