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Authors: Dudley Pope
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him can be worth ten urgent letters from the Navy Board!”
“Hmm, you’d better check up and see whether the master shipwrights at Portsmouth and Plymouth have sons who want to ship as midshipmen, then you’ll be set up round the South Coast.”
“You’ll never believe me, but when young Martin joined the Calypso I had no idea who his father was.”
“More fool you. It’ll be thanks to him if you get down to Cadiz in time. By the way,” he said heavily. “Don’t forget that frigates are just an admiral’s scouts and means of signalling: they don’t stand in line of battle. That’s why,” he added sarcastically, “64-gun ships and larger are called ‘line-of-battle’ ships. And no admiral today likes to put even a 64 in the line; he wants 74s and larger.”
“Yes, father,” Ramage said dutifully and, bearing in mind that he had lost the Kathleen in a successful attempt to prevent a Spanish three-decker from escaping at Cape St Vincent, added with a grin: “I’ll remember: frigates stand at the back of the crowd and cheer.”
“You were lucky with the Kathleen ,” the earl said, reading his thoughts, “and Lord Nelson is now repaying that debt. But anyone who relies too much on luck is a fool and–” he said jocularly, but intending Ramage should take notice, “Sarah is too young to be a widow.”
He sighed and then grumbled, “I might just as well talk to myself.” He turned towards Sarah. “Tell me about Lady Hamilton’s daughter, my dear. Is she Lord Nelson’s child?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that, when you see them together, and for all the polite talk of ‘godfather’ he is just a normal doting father. And why not?” she said unexpectedly. “This war goes on year after year, and Nelson has nearly been killed so many times. Why shouldn’t he seize what happiness he can? Anyway, if he goes on as he has in the past, he’ll be lucky to be alive for Horatia’s fifth birthday…”
“Now, now,” the earl chided, “you fly to His Lordship’s defence at the mere mention of his name!”
“I should think so!” Sarah said crossly. “You didn’t have to listen to those wives at the Royal Exchange today! Why, they even made comments to me, thinking I would agree with them.”
“But you didn’t, so what answer did you make?” the earl asked, curious.
“I said that Lady Hamilton was a particular friend of mine,” Sarah said defiantly, “and because I’m my father’s daughter and my husband’s wife, the hypocritical wretches had the grace to blush.”
“Good for you,” murmured the earl. “I’ll follow your example with the husbands!”
Next morning Hanson, flustered at being interrupted while polishing the silver, bustled into the drawing room where Ramage was reading the Morning Post and reported that there was an Admiralty messenger at the door with a letter for Captain Lord Ramage which, Hanson added heavily, he would not hand over to anyone else.
“He’s got a receipt book that needs signing, too,” Hanson commented gloomily, as if this was proof that the man was not a messenger but a lurking thief after the silver.
Ramage went to the door, signed for the letter and carried it back to the drawing room, picking up a paper-knife on his way.
As he weighed the bulky packet in one hand, looking at the fouled anchor Admiralty seal, he savoured the moment. Yes – when he was a small boy up an apple tree and finally managed to reach the largest and ripest fruit…that moment with Raven when a rabbit shot out of its hole and landed with a thump in the net, to be followed by the beady-eyed ferret looking left and right as though the daylight dazzled him after the darkness of the warren…the moment when the masthead lookout hailed that he had sighted a sail which could only be French. And opening fresh Admiralty orders. All were preceded by excitement and anticipation – and a tincture of apprehension too, just enough to add spice.
He slid the
“Hmm, you’d better check up and see whether the master shipwrights at Portsmouth and Plymouth have sons who want to ship as midshipmen, then you’ll be set up round the South Coast.”
“You’ll never believe me, but when young Martin joined the Calypso I had no idea who his father was.”
“More fool you. It’ll be thanks to him if you get down to Cadiz in time. By the way,” he said heavily. “Don’t forget that frigates are just an admiral’s scouts and means of signalling: they don’t stand in line of battle. That’s why,” he added sarcastically, “64-gun ships and larger are called ‘line-of-battle’ ships. And no admiral today likes to put even a 64 in the line; he wants 74s and larger.”
“Yes, father,” Ramage said dutifully and, bearing in mind that he had lost the Kathleen in a successful attempt to prevent a Spanish three-decker from escaping at Cape St Vincent, added with a grin: “I’ll remember: frigates stand at the back of the crowd and cheer.”
“You were lucky with the Kathleen ,” the earl said, reading his thoughts, “and Lord Nelson is now repaying that debt. But anyone who relies too much on luck is a fool and–” he said jocularly, but intending Ramage should take notice, “Sarah is too young to be a widow.”
He sighed and then grumbled, “I might just as well talk to myself.” He turned towards Sarah. “Tell me about Lady Hamilton’s daughter, my dear. Is she Lord Nelson’s child?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that, when you see them together, and for all the polite talk of ‘godfather’ he is just a normal doting father. And why not?” she said unexpectedly. “This war goes on year after year, and Nelson has nearly been killed so many times. Why shouldn’t he seize what happiness he can? Anyway, if he goes on as he has in the past, he’ll be lucky to be alive for Horatia’s fifth birthday…”
“Now, now,” the earl chided, “you fly to His Lordship’s defence at the mere mention of his name!”
“I should think so!” Sarah said crossly. “You didn’t have to listen to those wives at the Royal Exchange today! Why, they even made comments to me, thinking I would agree with them.”
“But you didn’t, so what answer did you make?” the earl asked, curious.
“I said that Lady Hamilton was a particular friend of mine,” Sarah said defiantly, “and because I’m my father’s daughter and my husband’s wife, the hypocritical wretches had the grace to blush.”
“Good for you,” murmured the earl. “I’ll follow your example with the husbands!”
Next morning Hanson, flustered at being interrupted while polishing the silver, bustled into the drawing room where Ramage was reading the Morning Post and reported that there was an Admiralty messenger at the door with a letter for Captain Lord Ramage which, Hanson added heavily, he would not hand over to anyone else.
“He’s got a receipt book that needs signing, too,” Hanson commented gloomily, as if this was proof that the man was not a messenger but a lurking thief after the silver.
Ramage went to the door, signed for the letter and carried it back to the drawing room, picking up a paper-knife on his way.
As he weighed the bulky packet in one hand, looking at the fouled anchor Admiralty seal, he savoured the moment. Yes – when he was a small boy up an apple tree and finally managed to reach the largest and ripest fruit…that moment with Raven when a rabbit shot out of its hole and landed with a thump in the net, to be followed by the beady-eyed ferret looking left and right as though the daylight dazzled him after the darkness of the warren…the moment when the masthead lookout hailed that he had sighted a sail which could only be French. And opening fresh Admiralty orders. All were preceded by excitement and anticipation – and a tincture of apprehension too, just enough to add spice.
He slid the
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