scrubbing the Lieutenant’s jacket to remove some of the bloodstains, carefully smoothing the cloth with his hand as he laid it out to dry. The silk stock looked far from ironed; but flattening it out on a smooth rock while still wet had given it a new lease of life. At least, thought Jackson, Mr Ramage will look smart enough in the dark when he meets these dukes and people. Pity he had lost his hat.
Looking down at the sleeping lieutenant, Jackson saw that occasionally the muscles of his face twitched. Curious, the habit he had of blinking, particularly when thinking hard, or if he was tired or excited. It seemed deliberate, as though squeezing the eyelids together helped him concentrate.
The Bosun had said Mr Ramage looked just like his father, the Earl of Blazey – old ‘Blaze-Away’, as the Navy called him. Jackson felt a twinge of embarrassment as he remembered when, a few months ago, he said he hoped old ‘Blaze-Away’s’ son had more guts than his father, and the Bosun had brought him up all standing by getting into a fury. Seemed the trial was all political… Well, the Bosun served in the old boy’s flagship at the battle, so he ought to know. Anyway, whether or not the father had been a coward, the son seemed man enough.
The lad had a good face, Jackson thought to himself; there had never been an opportunity to study it before. On the thin side, though, with the nose straight and cheekbones high. But with Mr Ramage it was always his eyes that attracted you. Deep set and brown, they were slung under a pair of bushy eyebrows, and when he was really angry they seemed to bore right through you. What was it one of the men in Mr Ramage’s division had said when hauled before the captain for some crime or other, and asked if he was guilty? Something to the effect it was no use pleading not guilty as Mr Ramage knew different; and when the Captain had said Mr Ramage had not been on deck at that particular moment, the sailor replied, ‘That don’t signify because Mr Ramage can see through oak planks.’
Yet, mused Jackson, he had never come across an officer quite like him: none of the sarcasm and hoity-toity of so many junior lieutenants. But everyone respected him – perhaps because the hands knew he could beat any of them up to the maintop. He could knot and splice like a rigger, and handle a boat as though he’d been born under a thwart. And, more important, he was approachable. Somehow he seemed to know instinctively how the men felt: when it was necessary to encourage them with a quiet joke, and when to threaten them with a ‘starting’ – not that Jackson ever remembered actually seeing him allow a bosun’s mate to hit the men with a rope’s end. Nor had he ever had to take a man before the captain.
It was curious how, when he was angry or excited, he had trouble pronouncing the letter ‘r’. You could see him tensing himself to say it correctly. But Jackson remembered a topman – that fellow there with a cut forehead – making a pun once, ‘When you see his bloody young Lordship blinking his eyes and wobbling his “r’s”, it’s time to go about on the other tack!’ Why was it he never used his title on board? After all, he was a real Lord. Something to do with his father, maybe.
Christ, he thought, that lad’s lying there like a worn-out hawser. Ramage was curled up on the stern sheets, arms above his head and using his hands as a pillow. Although he was obviously in a deep sleep, Jackson guessed he was not relaxed: the corners of the rather full lips were turned down slightly; his forehead was wrinkled, as if he was concentrating, and his eyebrows were lowered. If he had his eyes open, Jackson thought, you’d imagine he was trying to sight something on the horizon. And where did he collect that scar above the right eyebrow? He always rubbed it when he was tired or under a strain. Looked like a sword cut.
By now the east side of the island, which had been mauve as the sun set, was
Looking down at the sleeping lieutenant, Jackson saw that occasionally the muscles of his face twitched. Curious, the habit he had of blinking, particularly when thinking hard, or if he was tired or excited. It seemed deliberate, as though squeezing the eyelids together helped him concentrate.
The Bosun had said Mr Ramage looked just like his father, the Earl of Blazey – old ‘Blaze-Away’, as the Navy called him. Jackson felt a twinge of embarrassment as he remembered when, a few months ago, he said he hoped old ‘Blaze-Away’s’ son had more guts than his father, and the Bosun had brought him up all standing by getting into a fury. Seemed the trial was all political… Well, the Bosun served in the old boy’s flagship at the battle, so he ought to know. Anyway, whether or not the father had been a coward, the son seemed man enough.
The lad had a good face, Jackson thought to himself; there had never been an opportunity to study it before. On the thin side, though, with the nose straight and cheekbones high. But with Mr Ramage it was always his eyes that attracted you. Deep set and brown, they were slung under a pair of bushy eyebrows, and when he was really angry they seemed to bore right through you. What was it one of the men in Mr Ramage’s division had said when hauled before the captain for some crime or other, and asked if he was guilty? Something to the effect it was no use pleading not guilty as Mr Ramage knew different; and when the Captain had said Mr Ramage had not been on deck at that particular moment, the sailor replied, ‘That don’t signify because Mr Ramage can see through oak planks.’
Yet, mused Jackson, he had never come across an officer quite like him: none of the sarcasm and hoity-toity of so many junior lieutenants. But everyone respected him – perhaps because the hands knew he could beat any of them up to the maintop. He could knot and splice like a rigger, and handle a boat as though he’d been born under a thwart. And, more important, he was approachable. Somehow he seemed to know instinctively how the men felt: when it was necessary to encourage them with a quiet joke, and when to threaten them with a ‘starting’ – not that Jackson ever remembered actually seeing him allow a bosun’s mate to hit the men with a rope’s end. Nor had he ever had to take a man before the captain.
It was curious how, when he was angry or excited, he had trouble pronouncing the letter ‘r’. You could see him tensing himself to say it correctly. But Jackson remembered a topman – that fellow there with a cut forehead – making a pun once, ‘When you see his bloody young Lordship blinking his eyes and wobbling his “r’s”, it’s time to go about on the other tack!’ Why was it he never used his title on board? After all, he was a real Lord. Something to do with his father, maybe.
Christ, he thought, that lad’s lying there like a worn-out hawser. Ramage was curled up on the stern sheets, arms above his head and using his hands as a pillow. Although he was obviously in a deep sleep, Jackson guessed he was not relaxed: the corners of the rather full lips were turned down slightly; his forehead was wrinkled, as if he was concentrating, and his eyebrows were lowered. If he had his eyes open, Jackson thought, you’d imagine he was trying to sight something on the horizon. And where did he collect that scar above the right eyebrow? He always rubbed it when he was tired or under a strain. Looked like a sword cut.
By now the east side of the island, which had been mauve as the sun set, was
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