"I know, sir," Aitken said contritely. "I was hoping that. . ."
"You're like a child with a new toy," Ramage said amiably, going to the ship's side and gesturing to Aitken to climb down into the waiting cutter so that they could return to the Calypso. One of the few advantages of being the senior officer was that you were the last to enter and the first to leave a boat, and as he had always been impatient, he welcomed promotion.
Back in his cabin and sprawled in the one comfortable chair, his sword and hat tossed on the settee, Ramage quietly and amiably cursed Aitken. The Scot was a fine seaman, extremely brave, with a whimsical sense of humour and an extraordinary devotion to Ramage which had recently led him to decline the command of a frigate (and thus promotion to the post list) so that he could stay as the first lieutenant of the Calypso. But this product of Perth - of Dunkeld, anyway, which was just to the north, alongside the Tay - had unintentionally jabbed a finger on a tender spot.
Since he had ordered the Marine sentry to drag Renouf away after he had fainted, Ramage had been trying to make up his mind about the two bomb ketches. Having read the French orders, he now knew what they were supposed to be doing, and all the Frenchmen were on board the Calypso, guarded by Marines. Even the Brutus'scommanding officer had eventually been sobered up with the help of several buckets of sea water hurled by a couple of gleeful British seamen.
The French plans could be wrecked by burning or scuttling the ketches, but for the moment young Paolo was temporarily in command of the Fructidor, striding up and down the tiny quarterdeck in his second-best uniform, dirk hanging at his waist, telescope tucked under his arm, and trying to keep his prize crew of half a dozen men busy coiling ropes and swabbing the decks. Aitken had forbidden him to start the men scrubbing and holystoning, though the planking was as stained as the floor of a bankrupt wine shop.
The Calypso's new fourth lieutenant, William Martin, was temporarily prizemaster of the Brutus, and he too had been dissuaded from setting his men to work to remove a year or two's grease and wine stains. Ramage thought that Martin was settling in well - apart from his confounded flute. It was hardly surprising that his nickname was "Blower"; he must have lungs like a blacksmith's bellows.
"Blower" Martin had joined the ship at Gibraltar, replacing a bag o' wind called Benn who had taken only the voyage from Jamaica to the Rock to decide that the Calypso was not for him. It was not really the poor fellow's fault... Benn, something of a sea lawyer, had been one of the admiral's favourites in Jamaica, and being promoted from a midshipman in the flagship to fourth lieutenant (and no one's favourite) in a frigate had been a shock.
Ramage still missed Baker. When they had captured the island of Curaçao he had a good set of officers: William Aitken was first lieutenant, Baker second, Wagstaffe third and young Kenton fourth, with Renwick commanding the Marine detachment. Considering that the Calypso herself had not been engaged, but only a boarding party, the casualties had been heavy - himself bowled over with a musket ball in the left forearm and a scalp wound, Renwick with a ball in the right shoulder, and Baker killed outright. So Aitken had remained first lieutenant, he had made Wagstaffe second, Kenton third, and this elegant young nincompoop Benn had been sent across from the Queen by the commander-in-chief as the new fourth. He was, he made it quite clear to all and sundry, one of Admiral Foxe-Foote's favourites.
Ramage was not sure what had gone on in the gunroom during the Calypso's Atlantic crossing, but Benn had been quick to ask for permission to leave the ship on arriving in Gibraltar, and Aitken, when asked by Ramage about what was a very unusual request, merely smiled and said he supported it. So Admiral Foxe-Foote's favourite had left the ship and thrown himself on the mercy of the port admiral at Gibraltar in what Ramage soon discovered was, for Benn, a very unwise move.
When Ramage had reported to the port admiral next day and asked for a replacement, the admiral had bellowed (he rarely spoke in anything less): "Count yourself lucky to have got rid of that lapdog of Admiral Foote's. Wonder you accepted him. Still, your fellows made his life a misery - and now I'm landed with him. There's no commanding officer I dislike enough to inflict with him, so he goes back to England as a passenger by the next ship and Their Lordships can find him a berth - if they confirm his promotion. Now you want a replacement, eh?"
Ramage had agreed politely that the Calypso stood in need of a fourth lieutenant.
"What happened to your original one?" the admiral demanded.
"Promoted to third, sir."
"What happened to the third, then?"
"Promoted to second."
"And the second ?"
"Killed in action, sir."
"Hmm. So you can't be as bad as your late fourth lieutenant implied. He told me you were always changing officers. I'm asking because you are going to be landed with one of my. favourites. He's a good lad, passed for lieutenant five months ago, plays a flute -"
"Aflute, sir?"
"Yes, you know, a hollow stick with holes drilled in it. You blow into it with your mouth like this." The admiral gave a passable imitation of an old dowager sucking a bitter lemon. "Very tuneful."
"Er - I'm just wondering, sir," Ramage said warily, "if this young man really is suited to a frigate: after all, it -"
The admiral roared with laughter and slapped the table in front of him with a hand the size of a leg of mutton. "Damme, Ramage, if you don't have the sheepish look of someone trying to jilt the parson's daughter! Don't fret - this lad's a favourite o' mine because he's good and because his father is the master shipwright at the Chatham yard. He built his own skiff when he was eight and rowed all the way to Sheerness on its maiden voyage." The admiral looked directly at Ramage. "I have fresh orders for you from Their Lordships, and I know what they are. I want you to take this lad because he can learn a lot from you - if he lives long enough."
"Those sort of orders, sir?"
"What? Oh no, I'm thinking of the lad. He's too keen, if anything. You've learned already there are two kinds of keen officers - those who get killed in a blaze of glory, and those who survive in a blaze of glory. I see new hair growing over a pink patch on your scalp, there are a couple of scars over your right eyebrow, and you're holding your left arm stiffly, so you've been wounded a few times - unless you were careless when getting out of some trollop's bed. I'd say you haven't made up your mind yet - or fate hasn't, rather - exactly which of the two you are. If you survive, and young 'Blower' Martin does, too, I hope he'll go a long way with you."
"Blower" Martin had since proved to be a very capable and popular young officer: his nickname was intended to tease because he could make a flute do almost everything except actually talk, and many an evening as the Calypso struggled eastward along the Spanish coast against light head winds young Martin had started playing with perhaps a couple of people listening, and ended up with nearly every off-watch seaman in the ship squatting nearby, perched on guns or just lying back on the deck planking. Sometimes they danced, applauding themselves between tunes.
Thin-faced with wavy brown hair, slightly built and nervous and jerky in manner, Martin seemed out of place in uniform - until you watched him on deck. His eyes were never still. They would run along the horizon, up to the luffs of the topsails, along sheets and braces, to the compass card . . . The restless eyes of a true seaman, someone unlikely ever to be caught by a white squall, a badly trimmed sail, a stuck compass card, or an enemy ship sneaking over the horizon. Now, after not more than a few days, he had his own command for a day or so.