Fado, Ramage thought to himself; the Portuguese were a far from sad people, but those sad, sad songs ... always about the broken-hearted woman left at home while her loved one departed, whether for some distant shore or the gates of Heaven. If one judged the country by the song, the nation comprised only women who'd been spurned, jilted, widowed or whose lover had disappeared over the horizon, and every dam' one of them wailing about it to the accompaniment of musical instruments obviously invented by gloomy men for use at funerals.
Was Gianna singing fado as she walked or drove around St Kew? Ramage almost laughed at the idea. She might slash at nettles with a stick, she might get angry with her horse, she might lose her temper with her maid, and all because her Nicholas was away at sea (was he being conceited? He thought not), but wailing fado in any language: no, Gianna was pure Tuscan in that respect!
Here at anchor in the Tagus, with the hills rolling beyond the city of Lisbon, it was easy to think of Tuscany: of Gianna's Tuscany, and her little hilltop kingdom of Volterra, now overrun by the French. Would she ever be able to go back there to resume her rule? Would this war ever end? He found it hard to remember peacetime. Had he been fifteen or sixteen when the war began? It didn't matter; he could only remember war. Naval service in peacetime must be very boring: going into foreign ports to fire salutes to governors and leave visiting cards, instead of sending in armed boats to cut out prizes from under the nose of the batteries.
Yorke broke into his thoughts. "You look wistful, my friend: your mind was over the hills and far away!"
Ramage nodded. "In Tuscany!"
"Ah - the fair Gianna; I look forward to meeting her."
"You will," Ramage said. "If we ever get to London I'll give an enormous ball and you'll be allowed one dance with her."
"You're not very generous."
"She's very beautiful!"
Southwick slapped his knee. "She is that, Mr Yorke, and I know Mr Ramage won't mind me saying she's a little wild, too. Headstrong, really."
"Uses a pistol instead of a bell to summon a servant, eh?" Yorke said banteringly.
Southwick and Ramage looked at each other and burst out laughing. Yorke said, "Come on, what have I said?"
"Nothing," Ramage said. "It's just that the first time I met her, she was aiming a pistol at me. It was like staring into the muzzle of a 32-pounder!"
"She wouldn't be flattered at the comparison," Yorke said, deliberately misunderstanding Ramage. "I know you can be irritating, but what drove her to such extremes? I mean, a pistol at your first meeting!"
"I was supposed to be rescuing her. She and her family bolted from Volterra as the French troops arrived. I was picking them up at dead of night from a small lookout tower along the coast. It was all very mysterious - or romantic, or obvious, depending on how much romance you have in your soul - and she feared a trap because the French were close. So she suddenly arrived in a black cloak that hid her face and kept her pistol aimed at my stomach until she was sure I wasn't a Frenchman."
"Mysterious perhaps," Yorke said, "but hardly romantic as far as I'm concerned."
Bowen, sitting at the table with a chess problem set out in front of him, began clearing the pieces from the board. "What do you propose doing if the Government won't allow us to pay Kerguelen the money, sir?" he asked.
Ramage had been expecting one of them to ask the question eventually. "There's not much choice: withdraw our parole and brush up our French. If the packetsmen come to their senses, we'd stand a chance of retaking the ship. Or we might meet a British frigate..."
"Those two frigates anchored here," Yorke said. "They've done nothing..."
"Nor will they," Ramage said. "The French Government is probably just waiting for a chance to invade Portugal. The British seizing a French ship - for that's what the Arabella is now as far as the French are concerned - right in front of Lisbon might be just the excuse they need."
Yorke shrugged his shoulders. "Surely you'd have expected some word from them, though?"
"No. Chamberlain might have told one of the captains that we're prisoners, but he hasn't told them what I'm doing because he doesn't know himself. You can't expect a frigate captain to get excited over some lieutenant held prisoner on board an enemy ship in a neutral port."
"I can," Yorke said, "but it wouldn't be justified! Let's hope the Government pays up!"
From the time his report to the First Lord had been taken on shore to the Agent, Ramage had tried - without much success - to shut his mind to the question. It was easy enough during the day, but at night it always sneaked in, nagging and probing and swirling like spasms of toothache. He would deliberately contrive erotic thoughts of Gianna, but they would be jostled out...
To pay or not to pay ... The answers he gave himself never varied. Having just passed an Act of Parliament, the Government certainly would not allow the bargain to be carried out ... Yet, knowing what was at stake the First Lord and the Joint Postmasters-General would persuade the Cabinet... No, because the First Lord will not be persuaded that Lieutenant Ramage has really discovered what happens to the packets ... Yes, because the First Lord will guess from the bizarre situation outlined in his report that Lieutenant Ramage has been forced to take unusual steps ... No, because the First Lord is away in Dorset, confined to bed with gout and a high fever, and another one of their Lordships dealt with his report (a dam' dull dog) - and refused the request without bothering to refer to either of the Postmasters-General.
Perhaps the Lisbon packet had been captured before it reached Falmouth and sank the bags of mail. Or failed to sink them, so that the French, having slowly read their way through the captured mail, had found his secret report and knew that the meddling Lieutenant Ramage was prisoner on board a French prize in Lisbon ... Word would soon reach the French Consul, or the French agents in Lisbon - the city must be teeming with them - that a throat needed cutting. Perhaps even Kerguelen's as well, if he had a royalist background...
Yorke was repeating the question: "Do you think they will?"
And Southwick and Bowen were staring at him as if he was a stranger. Why? What had happened? Were they...
"You need a rest, sir," Bowen said, getting up and walking over to him. Ramage suddenly felt unutterably weary; a weariness no sleep could ever satisfy. Weary and full of a sense of futility, that even if something was worth doing - which was so unlikely - he hadn't the energy to do it anyway. Neither the energy nor the wish. The three men seemed to be floating ... Bowen's face was enormous and peering down at him.
Chapter Fifteen
The days passed slowly. Much usually stayed in his cabin, reading his Bible, while Wilson sat with him studying military manuals. Bowen and Southwick played chess steadily with quiet desperation and Ramage and Yorke, who spent hours pacing the deck, were now so familiar with Lisbon's skyline that they rarely looked at it. They had invented various games - betting against each other how many tacks one of the gaudily painted and heavily laden fregatas would take to reach them; how many times gulls would dive into the water between the Arabella and the shore in the next ten minutes. They bet on how many butts there were in the Arabella's deck planking, and halfway through counting them found a startled Kerguelen watching them. He was so intrigued that they persuaded him to join a lottery on how many knots there were in the king plank. When he won, he was quick to think of more objects about which they could bet.
Finally it was the day before the packet was due and Yorke, walking on deck with Ramage, said, "Shall we ask Kerguelen if we can go and see that Agent fellow, Chamberlain?"