"Ramage's Diamond" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pope Dudley)

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.

Then the cutter was alongside, lines were thrown, and there were the gangway steps dancing up and down as the boat rose and fell in the swell waves. He pulled the flaps of his boat cloak clear, jammed his hat firmly on his head, swung back his sword scabbard and, as the boat reached the top of a wave, grabbed a manrope in each hand and began climbing up the wooden battens which passed for steps. The manropes were greasy and dirty, instead of being scrubbed white.

Then he was standing on deck with a confused set of impressions. Two sideboys were standing to attention, others were running from forward, and a lieutenant was saluting but without a telescope under his arm. Long untidy tails of ropes were snaking over the deck as though the ship was a chandler's shop on a busy afternoon, and there were many spots of grease on the deck, which had not been scrubbed for days. Not a man on deck was properly dressed.

A tall, thin and pale-faced man lieutenant with bloodshot eyes stood in front of him at the salute. There was a moment of complete silence on board and he knew every man on deck was watching: in this instant they would form their initial impressions of the new Captain, impressions that often turned out to be lasting.

He eyed the lieutenant coldly but for the moment did not return the salute, so the man stood there, arm crooked. Then he slowly stared round the ship. First his eyes ran along the deck forward, across the fo'c'sle, noting that the ship's bell had not been polished for a week, then up the foremast where at least four topsail gaskets on the larboard side were too slack and two on the starboard side of the furled topgallant were almost undone,

Where was Southwick? Ramage returned the lieutenant's salute and nodded as the man repeated his name. He was the First Lieutenant. 'Muster the ship's company aft, if you please,' Ramage said, his voice deliberately neutral, 'and then report to me in the cabin. My trunk is in the boat...'

As he turned aft to go down to the Captain's cabin he saw he had made the impression he wanted: the men were looking apprehensive, like naughty boys caught raiding an orchard; the First Lieutenant looked crestfallen, and Ramage had guessed the fellow had followed Ramage's eyes and perhaps seen the ship's condition for the first time in many weeks. He was half drunk, Ramage was certain.

As he reached the companionway he saw Southwick hurrying up the ladder from the lower deck, his face shiny and freshly shaven. Southwick saluted, his round face showing his obvious pleasure, his flowing white mop of hair already beginning to escape from his hat as random eddies of wind tugged at it. 'Welcome on board, sir: I was shaving - the sentry...'

Ramage returned the salute and then shook the old Master's hand. A few seamen were watching curiously and Ramage gestured to Southwick to precede him down the companionway to the cabin. Unbuckling his cloak and throwing it on the settee, Ramage sat down and told Southwick to sit opposite. The low headroom made it uncomfortable to stand, and he suddenly felt tired after the journey from London and the hurrying round Portsmouth.

'Is it as bad as it looks?' he asked.

'Worse, if anything, sir. We'll never do anything with these lieutenants!'

'We don't have to try,' Ramage said grimly. They'll be off the ship first thing tomorrow. We're to have all new officers, although I know nothing about them. His Lordship kindly gave me the choice of First Lieutenant, but I traded it for you as Master.'

Now it was Southwick's turn to grin. He was a good sixty years of age but for all his red face, stout build and white hair - which once led someone to liken him to a martial bishop from a country diocese - he was a fine seaman, firm with the men but fair. ‘I’m grateful, sir, but I'm afraid we have more than our share of scalawags in this ship.'

Ramage went to the door and closed it, and when he sat down again he said: 'Everyone I've met keeps dropping hints. All I know is the Captain was dismissed the Service. The Port Admiral is suitably mysterious, and the ship looks more like a fairground.'

'Drink,' Southwick said cryptically. 'The Captain was a drunkard. He was tried for "conduct unbecoming ..." but in fact he used to lock himself up in his cabin with a bottle for days on end.'

Ramage remembered the First Lieutenant with the bloodshot eyes and slightly hesitant manner. 'The First Lieutenant drinks too: do you think he found the strain too much?'

Southwick shook his head vigorously. 'At least, sir, not in the way you mean: for him the only strain is keeping away from a bottle too.'

'And the other lieutenants?'

Southwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven't seen much of them, sir; but from the gossip I picked up in Portsmouth they are good men who had no backing from the First Lieutenant, so they gave up.'

'With the Captain and the First Lieutenant drinking, it's a mercy they didn't put the ship ashore.'

'The First Lieutenant nearly did, I gather, right here at Gilkicker Point. The other three managed to get her anchored, and the Port Admiral came out to see what was going on and found the Captain insensible here in the great cabin and the First Lieutenant standing with his back hard up against the capstan to avoid falling down.'

'I wonder why they didn't try the Captain for "negligently hazarding the ship"?' Ramage mused.

'Hard to prove, sir: you need the evidence of the First Lieutenant on a "negligently hazarding" charge, and here the two of them were at fault.'

There was a loud rapping on the door, and when Ramage answered the First Lieutenant came in, stood to attention as best he could with the low headroom, and reported the ship's company mustered aft.

He was drunk all right, and although he was not yet thirty years of age the muscles of his face were slack and the flesh puffy, the eyes shifty and his brow and cheeks covered with perspiration. He had been a heavy drinker for years.

‘Very well. I notice there is no sentry at the door of this cabin.'

'No, sir, I er ...’

'Is my trunk on board yet?'

'Well, yes, sir, but -'

'Come along, Southwick,' Ramage said, taking a small parchment scroll from a pocket in his cloak and picking up his hat.

On deck the sun was occasionally breaking through low cloud; there was enough breeze to knock up occasional white horses although the Juno was tide-rode. Ramage strode to the capstan and turned to face forward. The men were drawn up in a hollow square in front of him. To his left the Marines stood stiffly to attention, a diminutive drummer boy at the end of the file. In front of him and to his right were the seamen and behind him the officers.

The deck was even filthier than he had thought at first: cracked pitch in many seams showed they were long overdue for re-paying or running over with a hot iron. Many ropes' ends needed whippings, the wood of many blocks was bare and showing cracks for lack of oil. Even on deck the stink of the bilges was nauseating - when had they last been pumped? Curiously enough the 12-pounder guns were newly blacked, the carriages freshly painted and the tackles neatly coiled. Perhaps the gunner was the only conscientious man on board.

Ramage looked at the sea of faces. It would be days, if not weeks, before he could put names to them all. They were an untidy crowd but they were nervous; there was just enough movement of feet and hands to reveal that. Every one of those men knew what was about to happen: the Captain was going to 'read himself in' by reading aloud his commission. Until it was done he had no authority on board, but after that he could order them into battle so that not a man lived; he could order them flogged - which was more than the King could do - and he could have them arrested and charged with crimes which put their necks in hazard. He could be judge and jury, father and confessor ...

The drunken First Lieutenant shouted 'Caps off!' as Ramage removed his own hat and, tucking it under his left arm, unrolled the scroll, and began reading it aloud. He pitched his voice so that the furthest men had to strain their ears above the wind humming through the spars and rigging. From long experience he knew that was the best way of getting their attention.

'By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral ... to Captain the Lord Ramage ... his Majesty's frigate Juno . . . willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain . . . strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said frigate to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments . . .'

It was a long document and from time to time he paused deliberately. He wanted to be sure they all absorbed the full significance of the last line, however many times they had heard it before. He glanced round and saw he had the men's attention all right. 'You will carry out the General Printed Instructions and any orders and instructions you may receive . . . hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril...'

He put on his hat, rolled up the commission, tucked it in his pocket, and then stood with his hand clasped behind his back. A ship's company always expected a new captain to make a short speech after 'reading himself in', something that set the keynote and gave the men a chance to have a good look at the person who now had more direct power over their lives than their King. More than most ships' companies, this one needed some indication of what they could expect from their new Captain. They were going to be warned that from now on things would change, radically and abruptly. They all knew why their previous captain had left the ship and they had seen that Southwick was the new Master. They did not yet know that the rest of the officers were being replaced.

He took a deep breath. The men saw the swell of his chest, and they interpreted it as Ramage intended: as a sign of exasperation.

'The Juno is supposed to be a King's ship,' he said loudly, his voice a complete contrast from the even tone he had used when reading the commission, 'but just look at her. The first thing I see even before I get on board are badly-furled sails, and the yards aren't squared. The first thing I touch on boarding are greasy manropes. The first thing I see on deck are untidy men lounging round and tripping over uncoiled ropes. I get the impression that this frigate has just been recaptured from a couple of score of bumboat. women . . .'

He paused because he expected at best that the men would give nervous giggles, but instead he heard genuine if somewhat embarrassed laughter.

'Tomorrow everything changes. Tomorrow any sentry or lookout who has not reported a boat heading for the ship the moment he sights it will spend the next five hours at the masthead. Any man in dirty clothes - unless he is doing a dirty job - will find himself scrubbing the messdeck for a week. If any man thinks he will get away with that in future -' Ramage half turned and gestured up to the badly-furled sails on the yards, 'he is an optimist. By noon tomorrow I don't expect to find a speck of dirt or grease on any deck or in any locker, nor any piece of brasswork without a shine ...'

He had their attention all right but he was damned if he was going to end up on a conciliatory note: the former Captain had been at fault and the First Lieutenant had taken advantage of it. The remaining lieutenants might have done their best, but the previous Master had obviously let everything slide, regarding it as a holiday in disguise, and the petty officers had slacked off. Every commission, warrant and petty officer in the ship had taken advantage of the situation. They might just as well have spent the last six months on shore. So they were being warned, and from tomorrow morning onwards no man would have an excuse. He looked at the men again. They had stiffened themselves up already; here and there a man tugged his shirt straight.

'There is plenty of work for the bos'n's mates, but I warn each and every one of you: there is not so much that they will be too busy to sew a few red baize bags if they are needed.'

He looked slowly at the men and glanced round at the First Lieutenant and nodded, then turned and strode below.

As he made his way to his cabin he knew that the last sentence had struck home. It was useless talking to a ship's company and using abstract terms like discipline, loyalty, responsibility - they treated them as mere words. What had really made every man straighten his shoulders had been the new Captain's last remark: a red baize bag was something that every man recognized and feared.

Some of the old traditions were useful, and this was one of them. The sight of a bos'n's mate sitting on deck methodically making a cat-o'-nine-tails, carefully splicing the nine thin tails into the thick rope handle, and probably covering the splice with a Turk's head, had a fascination for the men, who always knew the man who was to be flogged. The sewing of the red baize round the handle was part of a ritual which was rounded off by the bos'n's mate stitching a small bag from the red baize just large enough to hold the coiled cat-o'-nine-tails. With his work completed the cat was put in the bag and the whole thing handed over to the master-at-arms. The expression 'letting the cat out of the bag' had a grimmer origin than landsmen realized.

Since a new cat-o'-nine-tails was used for each flogging, if the captain was a harsh one then indeed the bos'n's mates were kept busy. As Ramage reached his cabin and walked through the door - that damned fool of a First Lieutenant still had done nothing about a Marine sentry - he found he did not want to think any more about flogging.

It was frequent enough in many ships; setting up a grating vertically at the gangway and lashing a man spreadeagled to it, or putting a bar in the capstan and securing a man to it by roping his outspread arms ... He was certain that it rarely served its purpose as a punishment. Captain Collingwood had once said that it spoiled a good man and made a bad man worse, and Ramage agreed. He had ordered only three floggings in his career so far, all three officially for drunkenness, though in fact two were for mutiny. The men should have been court-martialled, and if a court had found them guilty, as it certainly would have done, they would have been hanged, so they were grateful for the floggings. Ironically, Ramage reflected, by ordering the floggings and logging them for drunkenness instead of requesting a court martial for mutiny, he had laid himself open to be court-martialled . . .

There seemed to be irony all round. Ironic that the first time he entered the Captain's accommodation on the Juno he had been so furious at finding the First Lieutenant the worse for drink that he had had no time to enjoy its spaciousness. Ironic, too, that as he approached in the cutter, instead of proudly surveying the ship, largest he had yet commanded, and as a frigate one of the most coveted commands, he had been eyeing her critically, noting badly-furled sails, lounging men, dirty topsides, gossiping officers ...

For all that, his accommodation was excellent. The great cabin right aft, the full width of the ship, was bright and airy, lit by the stern lights, with a settee, a large table athwartships and half a dozen chairs. A mahogany sideboard had been built in to the bulkhead on the forward side with a lead-lined wine cooler to one side covered in matching mahogany. The cabin sole was covered with canvas which had been painted in black and white squares, a chessboard pattern, yet the whole cabin was long overdue for more work with a paintbrush. But by the standards of the ships Ramage had previously commanded, it was a spacious great cabin. Of course it was all comparative; calling it the 'great cabin' would strike most landsmen as sarcasm, but the name referred to its function rather than its size, and even when in it no one could forget that the Juno was a ship of war. There was a 12-pounder gun on each side, the barrel and breach gleaming black and the carriage and trucks painted deep red. The train tackles of each gun were neatly coiled; both were secured for sea. Out of curiosity Ramage went over and ran a hand over the breeching and tackles, and then glanced down at the painted canvas beneath the wide trucks. Obviously the gun had not been run out, in practice or in action, for many months; the wide trucks had not been rolled over that paintwork . . . He glanced across at the gun on the other side. That too had its ropes neatly coiled, but had not been moved for months.

The two remaining cabins were half the size of the great cabin, although each held another 12-pounder. A section of the ship the width of the great cabin and forward of it had been bulkheaded off and then divided in half along the centre-line, making the bed place, or sleeping cabin, to starboard and the coach - some captains referred to it as their state room - to larboard.

He walked through to the bed place to inspeot the cot, and was thankful that it was well scrubbed; simply a long, shallow wooden box suspended from the deckhead by ropes at each end so that it could swing as the ship rolled. A mattress spread in the box and some sheets and blankets completed the bed . . . he felt sleepy at the thought of it.

He could hear men padding about overhead, for the quarterdeck was above, while one deck below and forward of him was the ward room, with cabins on each side for the four lieutenants, Master, Surgeon and perhaps the Marine officer. Forward of that but outside the ward room were the even smaller cabins, boxes, really, with bulkheads made of canvas stretched over frames made of battens, of the purser, gunner, carpenter, bos'n, and captain's clerk. And, larger, the midshipmen's berth.

Forward of that the Marines were berthed, and even farther forward the ship's company lived. They ate their meals at tables slung from the deckhead, each table belonging to six or eight men and called a mess, with a number. The mess system often provided a thoughtful captain with an indication as to whether or not he had a happy ship's company. Once a month a seaman could make an official request to change his mess, which was usually a signal that he had quarrelled with his shipmates. Half a dozen requests a month were acceptable; more than that should warn a captain that there was too much quarrelling and bickering on the mess deck.

At night the tables and forms were stowed and hammocks were slung: hammocks which spent the day stowed in nettings along the top of the bulwarks and covered with long strips of canvas, out of the way and, in action, providing some protection against musketry fire.

Only the captain lived in solitary glory on the main deck, along with twenty-six of the Juno's 12-pounder guns and a Marine sentry. Ramage wondered if it was the loneliness that had driven the previous captain to drink. Loneliness and responsibility, two things faced with confidence by a competent captain but which became corrosive acids to destroy an uncertain man.

A competent captain: for a moment Ramage mulled over the phrase and then felt a spasm, if not of fear, of something deuced close. Alone in the great cabin wondering what had destroyed his predecessor suddenly brought home to him that he now commanded a frigate. Not that captain walking down the Admiralty steps, nor the one hailing a passing boat, but Nicholas Ramage, who had never previously commanded anything larger than a brig.

He had dreamed of it for years and now he had achieved it, but thanks to a drunken predecessor the excitement was not there. The Juno, a 32-gun frigate, carrying twenty-six 12-pounders on the main deck, four 6-pounders on the quarterdeck, two more on the fo'c'sle. A typical frigate, in fact. She was 126 feet long on the gun deck and had a beam of thirty-five feet.

Ramage recalled some other details he had looked up hurriedly before leaving London: when fully provisioned her draught was sixteen feet seven inches. She had a complement of 215 men, and her hull had cost about #163;13,000, her masts and yard more than #163;800. By the time she had been rigged, sails put on board and boats hoisted, the total had risen to #163;14,250. The Progress Book at the Admiralty had ended up with a total that included a halfpenny.

He sat back in the chair and stared out through the stern lights. Prices, weights, lengths ... They were a ship on paper, yet the Juno frigate was so much more. You began with six hundred tons of timber, carefully selected and shaped; you needed some forty tons of iron fittings, bolts and nuts, and a dozen tons of copper bolts. Her bottom was sheathed with more than two thousand sheets of copper, to keep out teredo and deter the barnacles and weeds. Eighteen thousand treenails locked futtocks and planks, beams and breasthooks, stem and stern-post . . . Four tons of oakum had been driven into hull and deck seams by skilled and patient caulkers, and there were twenty barrels of pitch and twice that number of tar used in her construction. Two hundred and fifty gallons of linseed oil - much of that rubbed into masts and yards. Three coats of paint for the whole ship weighed two and a half tons, yet that was nothing when you realized that masts, yards and bowsprit weighed more than forty tons, Fifteen tons for the standing rigging, twelve for the running; six tons of blocks and nine of spare yards and booms. Six tons of sails (the main course alone needed 620 yards of canvas), thirty-five of anchor cables. Weight, weight, weight - and water, provisions, men and their chests, stores for the gunner, carpenter and bos'n, let alone guns, powder, shot... She's all yours now, he told himself, until the Admiralty say otherwise, or you put her on a reef or sink her in a storm of wind. Like all ships, the Juno would be a demanding mistress but an exciting one.

She was a great deal bigger than his first command, the cutter Kathleen, which he had lost at the Battle of Cape St Vincent; she was a lot bigger than the Triton brig, his next command lost after a hurricane in the West Indies. Yet the most important thing - what he found daunting at the moment - was that the complement was 215 men, which was twice that of the Triton and four times as many as the Kathleen.

Captain the Lord Ramage was now, by virtue of the commission still in his pocket, the commanding officer of the Juno frigate.

The responsibility for the ship and her men was his from now on, to wear like an extra skin. All he had to show for it so far was an epaulet on his right shoulder, but the printer of the Navy List would eventually lift the type and move his name from the list of lieutenants and put it at the bottom of the list of captains ...

As he stood up to put his commission away in a drawer he heard a noise outside the door and found that the First Lieutenant had at last provided him with a Marine sentry. Ramage told him to pass the word for the Master and Southwick arrived so promptly that Ramage guessed the old man had been standing by the capstan, waiting for the call.

The Master sat down in a chair at Ramage's invitation, his hat on his knees, and when he saw Ramage's eyebrows raised questioningly he nodded: 'Your talk worked, sir; I can see a difference in the men already. I think it was the red baize bag: I saw a lot of 'em straighten themselves up when you mentioned that!'

'They've probably noted me down as a wild man with a cat-o'-nine-tails,' Ramage said ruefully. 'Damnation, you can remember the only times I've had men flogged.'

'Don't you fret, sir; one man came up to me not five minutes ago - one of the Kathleens who served with us in the Mediterranean. He was all excited that you'd joined the ship and by now is probably talking up a gale o' wind on the messdeck!'

Ramage nodded, and then waved at the sideboard. 'There's nothing to drink yet. My trunk is on board - I hope - and some purchases I made in Portsmouth should be out later in the day. In the meantime I shall have to eat by courtesy of the ward room. Now, to bring you up to date.'

Quickly Ramage explained that the Juno was under orders for the West Indies and was to sail as soon as possible. All four lieutenants on board would be leaving the ship in the morning - their orders from the Admiralty were on the sideboard - and four new ones would be arriving during the day. Southwick's old chess opponent, Bowen, was due on board during the day, and so was a Marine officer.

By the time Ramage finished the Master had a contented grin on his face: he had looked glum at the prospect of four new lieutenants - all strangers to each other as well as the ship, he grumbled - but brightened at the mention of Bowen's name. The Surgeon was a fine chess player and had spent many hours teaching the Master. And between the two men there was a bond that included their Captain: Ramage and Southwick had spent most of their time in the Triton brig during a voyage from England to the West Indies - Bowen's first in one of the King's ships - curing the Surgeon's alcoholism. They had nursed him through the horrors of delirium tremens, and kept his mind occupied in the critical weeks after that, which was when Southwick had been under Ramage's orders to cultivate an interest in chess.

'Midshipmen,' Southwick said suddenly. 'The four on board with the previous captain have all transferred. I hope we aren't sailing without any ...'

'You might end up wishing we were,' Ramage said. 'We'll have at least two. The Marchesa -'

'Excuse me, sir,' Southwick interrupted hurriedly, 'how is she?'

‘Very well, and she wishes to be remembered to you. She has a young nephew who arrived in London recently. Apparently he was in Sicily when we rescued the Marchesa, and stayed there until he could get to Malta. He came back in a frigate and, according to the Marchesa, learned a little on the way and now talks of nothing but ships and the sea. We shall be having him with us. He's fourteen years old and speaks good English. A lively lad. I had no others, so when Lord St Vincent heard there were vacancies ...'

Southwick nodded understandingly. 'I hope his choices are good but -'

'I think he is only providing one, but don't complain,' Ramage said with mock earnestness. 'His Lordship intended to nominate a chaplain.'

Southwick's face fell. 'I hope that -'

'I bargained very gently.' I did not ask for a particular first lieutenant - but I mentioned you for Master. His Lordship was delighted. I did not ask for a particular second lieutenant - but I said I would like a particular surgeon. His Lordship was still delighted. When His Lordship said he had a chaplain who wanted a berth, I mentioned casually that I was not asking for particular third of fourth lieutenants either - nor a Marine officer.'

'His Lordship did well out of it,' Southwick commented. 'In giving you your Master and Surgeon, he has four lieutenants, three midshipmen and a Marine officer for himself.'

'I forgot to mention that he allowed me a dozen men for you ...'

'For me, sir?'

'Yes - Jackson, Stafford, Rossi, Maxwell and a whole lot more former Tritons.'

'By Jove, sir,' Southwick exclaimed delightedly, 'how did you manage to trace where they were?'

'Well, of course, Jackson, Rossi and Stafford were with me in France, so I could trace them, and Maxwell and the rest were all in the Victory here at Portsmouth, and one of them wrote to me on behalf of the rest a month ago, asking if I was ever given a ship ...'

'They're lucky fellows,' Southwick said. 'Anyway, I must admit I'm glad to be getting them. From the look of some of the men we have at the moment, we'll be able to promote some of the lads. By the way, sir, the ship's already provisioned for four months; that's the only pleasant surprise I had when I came on board!'

For the next half-hour the two men discussed how they would get the Juno into a condition where she could join the squadron of the most eagle-eyed of admirals, a discussion which ended when Ramage remembered that his trunk had not been brought below, and was sufficiently angry to send for the First Lieutenant, telling Southwick to wait in the coach.

The man stood just inside the door of the great cabin, swaying slightly and with a befuddled grin on his face. He was drunk not from a few incautious tots earlier, but because he had long ago reached the stage where he needed a tot an hour to get through the day, just as a ship could only get to windward by tacking. Apart from Bowen, he was the first officer ever to be drunk on duty in any ship Ramage commanded, and his eyes had the cunning look of a ferret. He was making no attempt to hide his condition and Ramage suddenly guessed the reason. An officer found drunk on duty would normally be sent to his cabin, if not put under an arrest. This wretched fellow, finding that the new Captain had done nothing about it, had concluded that Ramage was nervous and unsure of himself and, like the previous Captain, would let him stay happily drunk.

He did not know that Ramage had orders from the Admiralty to send the man off the ship and that it was unlikely he would ever be employed again. The letter transferring him out of the Juno was there on the sideboard and for a moment Ramage considered giving it to him. Then he decided to wait until next morning: the man ought to be punished, however lightly and briefly, for his part in reducing the Juno to its sorry state.

'My trunk?' Ramage asked quietly. 'Why has it not been sent below?'

'You told me to have it hoisted on board – sir.’

‘Iforgot to order you to have it sent below?’

'Yes.' The man was grinning.

'Very well. I hardly expect the First Lieutenant of a ship I command to need orders for such a routine matter. However, you are drunk; you were drunk when I came on board and now you are under arrest. Go to your cabin and stay there. If you have any liquor in your cabin you will leave it outside the door. If you touch a drop more I'll have you put in irons -'

'But you can't put me in irons!' the man exclaimed. 'I'm -'

By now Ramage was standing in front of him, his face expressionless. The First Lieutenant looked up and saw the narrowed eyes but he was too drunk to notice anything except that the Captain was not shouting: he was not the first man who failed to realize that the quieter Ramage's voice became, the more angry he was.

'Can't I?' Ramage asked, almost conversationally. 'If I thought it would sober you up I'd have you put in irons and stand you under the wash-deck pump for an hour.’

The man, suddenly alarmed, tried to stand to attention but banged his head on the beam overhead.

'Go to your cabin,' Ramage said. 'Report to me at seven tomorrow morning with your trunk packed. In the meantime you are relieved of all duties and are under close arrest'

The man lurched from the cabin and Southwick came back, shaking his head. 'There's no saving a man like that, sir; he's drunk because he is bad, not bad because he's drunk. I'll rouse out the master-at-arms and arrange for a sentry. I'll have your trunk sent down in five minutes.'

Ramage nodded. 'Well, we've made a start, but it's going to be a long job...’

Next morning Southwick grumbled to Ramage that the Juno was more like Vauxhall Turnpike when the Portsmouth stage came in than a ship of war. The former Tritons were arriving with sea bags, the officers leaving the frigate were cursing and swearing as sea chests were accidentally dropped, and each of the new lieutenants was wandering round the ship with the lost look of a Johnny-Come-Lately. Ramage gave up long before the sun had any warmth in it. He met the dozen former Tritons and welcomed them on board with bantering warnings that their recent holiday on board the Victory was over; he watched stony-faced as the former First Lieutenant left the ship, sober for the first time in many months and perhaps even ashamed of himself.

Bowen arrived just before noon and, with, three leather bags of surgical instruments, looked more like the prosperous surgeon from Wimpole Street that he had once been than a surgeon of a frigate. He greeted Southwick with obvious pleasure and, waving at the sea chest being hoisted on board, told him he had brought him a present of a set of chessmen. This announcement provoked a loud groan from the Master, who protested that he had vowed to play only on the even-numbered days of the month.

The new First Lieutenant, John Aitken, arrived an hour after the Surgeon. He was a fresh-faced and diffident young Scot from Perthshire who, half an hour after climbing the gangway steps, had changed into his second-best uniform and set the men to work cleaning up the ship. Head pumps were soon squirting streams of water across the decks as seamen sprinkled sand and scrubbed with holystones; aloft topmen were refurling sails, tying and retying gaskets until the quiet Scots voice coming through the speaking trumpet announced that the First Lieutenant was satisfied.

The other three lieutenants had arrived together and Ramage, with memories of joining ships in similar circumstances, saw from the way they behaved towards each other that they had already compared the dates of their commissions. The vital dates established their seniority and sorted them into the Second, Third and Fourth Lieutenants, without the need for a decision by Captain Ramage, the Port Admiral or the Admiralty.

To Ramage, now in his late twenties, the three junior lieutenants looked very young. Each must be more than twenty, because that was the youngest age allowed; but he was himself getting older, and this was the first time for a couple of years that he had seen a group of young lieutenants. They seemed cheerful and competent fellows: Wagstaffe, the Second Lieutenant, was a Londoner, Baker, the Third, was a burly youngster from Bungay, in Suffolk, and Lacey, the new Fourth Lieutenant, spoke in the easy relaxed burr of Somerset, having been born at Nether Stowey.

As he walked round the ship, watching but not interfering, storing items in his memory, noting the way certain men were working and others were hanging back, Ramage kept an eye open for the midshipmen. Gianna's nephew was due today - Ramage had emphasized that if he did not get on board today he would be left behind. To be fair to the boy he was having to make his way from somewhere in Buckinghamshire to London, buy his kit, and then get down to Portsmouth. Ramage stopped walking for a moment, appalled at the prospect of Aunt Gianna taking the boy shopping; he would probably arrive with a large trunk full of expensive nonsense, instead of a small sea chest tightly packed with the items on the list that Ramage had left behind.

He was thankful that the shop in Portsmouth had sent out his own purchases: two chests of tea, cases of spirits and wine, boxes of freshly-baked biscuits they swore would last two months without going hard, and after that could be freshened by soaking in water for a couple of minutes and putting in a hot oven. He had a good selection of preserves: cucumber put down in vinegar, quince jam, mint sauce in bottles, and there were a small string of garlic and several large ones of onions, stone jars of lime juice, a box of apples packed in hay ...

Promotion to the command of a frigate brought other changes, apart from the number of men and the size of the ship. The Captain of a frigate, with four lieutenants, Marine officer, midshipmen, Master and Surgeon, was expected to entertain; from time to time he would have to invite three or four of them to dinner, and spend an amiable hour being pleasant. It was up to the Captain to provide a palatable meal and make sure plenty was available: young midshipmen and junior lieutenants came to dinner with the Captain with awe and a hearty appetite.

By late afternoon Ramage was heartily sick of the ship. Every time he wanted to walk the deck to ease his tension he had to dodge groups of busy seamen. The ship stank of pitch because Aitken had the carpenter's mates and caulkers hardening down some of the deck seams with hot irons; there was brick dust blowing around as seamen tried to work up a polish on brasswork that had been left to corrode for weeks. New coils of rope were being unrolled as Southwick and the bos'n replaced running rigging that had aged and stretched to the point of being dangerous. Cursing seamen struggled with fids as they spliced in new thimbles, and the gunner and his mates were systematically picking up shot from the racks and passing them through gauges, metal rings of an exact diameter which would show if too much paint or hidden flakes of rust on a shot would make it jam in the bore of a gun. Only Aitken was entirely happy: Ramage seemed to hear his soft Scots voice coming from a dozen places at once as he encouraged, cajoled and bullied the men to get the work done.

Gianna's nephew arrived at four o'clock with the midshipman sent by Lord St Vincent. Each boy had two sea chests and Ramage watched Southwick glaring as they were hoisted on board. He decided not to say anything unless more midshipmen arrived: with these two and the master's mate, the berth would not be too crowded because the chests made up for the lack of chairs.

Ramage gave both boys half an hour to settle in and then sent for them. Paolo Luigi Orsini was a typical young Italian: olive-skinned with black hair, large and warm brown eyes, and an open friendly manner. At the moment he was very nervous, overwhelmed at being in uniform and serving in one of the King's ships. Ramage suspected too that warnings from Gianna were still ringing in his ears about what would happen to him if he did anything to incur the Captain's displeasure. The high-spirited boy who had romped through the house in Palace Street, teasing Zia Gianna had vanished; in his place was a lad who gave the impression that he feared that at the slightest lapse he would vanish in a puff of smoke.

The second midshipman, Ramage was relieved to find, had been to sea before: Edward Benson, son of a cousin of Lord St Vincent's wife, had spent a year in a 74-gun ship of the line and was two years older than Paolo. Red-haired and freckle-faced, he was obviously high-spirited and Ramage recalled the First Lord's remark. Ramage had already met Edwards, the young master's mate who would be the senior in the midshipmen's berth, and he seemed more than capable of keeping an eye on both boys.

At five in the afternoon Aitken reported that the Juno's cutter had returned from the Dockyard after taking all the mail on shore, and Ramage guessed that the canvas bag had contained a bizarre collection of papers. He had written to Gianna and his parents, Bowen had written to his wife, the newly-joined lieutenants had scribbled letters to relatives and the seamen had sent four or five score letters telling wives and sweethearts that they were about to sail on a long voyage. Ramage had spent much of the previous evening and most of this morning working with his clerk, trying to get all the lists, affidavits, musters, invoices, pay tickets, surveys and inventories checked and signed where necessary. Together they accounted to the Admiralty, Navy Board, Sick and Hurt Board and the Port Admiral for just about everything on board the Juno, from her men to spare sail canvas, powder and shot to stationery, spare beer cask staves to caulkers' mauls. Fortunately the clerk had had everything ready up to the time the previous Captain went off to face the court martial, but there was no chance of Ramage checking whether all the items he was signing as having been received since then were actually on board. He would have to make up any shortages later out of his own pocket but for the time being he had to sail as quickly as possible, and he could not leave until the paperwork was done.

The gunner, bos'n, carpenter and various others had prepared their inventories, but it would take another three days to go through the paperwork item by item - as he had every right to do - and by that time the voice of the Port Admiral would be shrill and signals from the Admiralty would be arriving on board like broadsides. That was one of the disadvantages of the new semaphore telegraph set up between Portsmouth and the Admiralty building in London. In an emergency signals could be passed in a matter of minutes, but it also meant that the First Lord could sit in his office in London and ask questions and get answers back within half an hour...

The sentry announced the First Lieutenant again. Aitken reported that all the ship's boats had now returned and had been hoisted in and secured. The ship was trimmed correctly, and the replacement stun-sail booms had arrived from the dockyard. The guns were secured - Aitken paused a moment, thought and went on - the tiller had been checked and was moving freely, sails were ready for loosing.

It was always a good thing for the Captain to be able to remember something that the First Lieutenant had forgotten: it kept him on his toes. Ramage searched his memory: 'The sheet anchor?'

'Stowed, sir; I forgot to mention it'

Ramage nodded. 'We are ready to man the capstan?’

'Aye, aye, sir.'

It wanted an hour to high water and by some miracle the ship was ready a day early, Ramage picked up his hat and led the way on deck. Apart from some clouds sitting over the hills to the north, the sky was clear; the wind was from the north-west. When the Juno left Spithead - which she would do within the next fifteen minutes - she would leave behind the brief memory of a captain court-martialled for drunkenness, and another story to add to those told about Lord St Vincent's ruthlessness: that he had cleared all the commission officers out of the Juno frigate because the captain liked to tipple. Like most such stories it would be only partly true but it might serve as a warning.

Ramage stared for a moment at the rest of the ships at anchor nearby, and gave a shiver. The story of the Juno's drunken captain could in fact be the story of the captain of any ship: everything depended on him. Every failure on the part of a captain showed immediately in the ship. His lack of seamanship was revealed in the way the ship was handled; his lack of leadership in the way the officers and ship's company behaved. His courage or lack of it would be shown the moment the ship went into action. The captain was not the tip of a pyramid, as most people thought; in fact it was just the reverse: he was the spindle on which everything else balanced.

He looked up at the waiting Aitken. 'Is the fiddler on the quarterdeck? Ah, I see him. Very well, man the capstan!'