Aitken paused and looked round him. To an untrained eye there was chaos, with seamen running here and there like ants when their anthill was disturbed, but a seaman could distinguish order. Apart from young Orsini - clearly he had been standing daydreaming - the seventh 12-pounder was already hoisted out and slung over the side, the men under Jackson lowering it into the hoy.
But devil take it, how was he to have the ship ready for tomorrow's visitors? The captain would understand and, from what everyone said, the Marchesa would too. But Admiral the Earl of Blazey was the fifth most senior admiral in the Navy (he knew that because the moment he received the captain's letter, he had looked up the father in the latest edition of Steele's List of the Navy). Still, even a senior admiral would make allowances for the necessary activity. So that left the Admiral's wife. Well; all admirals' wives brought only misery and harassment to first lieutenants, whether of frigates or 100-gun flagships, and the Countess of Blazey was unlikely to be an exception.
Orsini had finally bestirred himself: no doubt asking the bosun where the chair was stowed. He was a remarkable young lad, and Aitken looked forward to meeting the aunt. It was curious how at first, when he joined the captain, he had assumed that Paolo's aunt, the Marchesa, was a wrinkled old Italian dragon, full of unpredictable whims and with enough influence to break a post captain with a pointing index finger and a mere lieutenant with a flick of a little finger. He had been quickly corrected by those who knew her - old Southwick, for instance, who doted on her - and told that she was five feet tall, about twenty-three years old, and the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. She had striking blue-black hair, large brown eyes - and, when she felt like it, was imperious.
Still, that was not surprising, because she had once ruled the kingdom of Volterra; her family had done so for centuries, until Bonaparte's invading army forced her to flee to the coast, to be rescued by the captain - then a junior lieutenant. And they had fallen in love. Hardened sinners like Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, who were in the ship's boat that rowed her to safety (even though one of Bonaparte's cavalrymen had put a bullet in her shoulder), fell in love with her too.
He admitted he had not at first been too pleased when the captain told him that the Marchesa's nephew would be joining the ship as a midshipman: he had visions of a spoiled Italian brat expecting privileges and constantly running to the captain. Instead the Marchesa's nephew (who would inherit the kingdom of Volterra if she had no children) was quite as tough as a young Scot of the same age would have been. He had proved something of a contradiction. He was hopeless at mathematics (and he and Southwick had to be careful about that, because the captain's own mathematics were said to be sufficient and no more) and tended to daydream, and he was famous throughout the ship for his forgetfulness. But in action, with roundshot and musket-balls whistling about his ears, cutlasses flashing and clanging, and the odds against him at about ten to one, then he had the quickness of a snake, the cunning and ingenuity of a highwayman, the clear thinking of a gambler, and the bravery of - well, someone like the captain, or Southwick.
Aitken knew little of Italian character, but from what he had heard and seen (people like the seaman Rossi) Paolo Orsini was a happy mixture of the best of the British and Italian characters. As important as his behaviour in action was his attitude towards the day-to-day running of the ship: he was a leader. Aitken doubted if he was yet sixteen years old, but as a midshipman he had to give orders to seamen who had been at sea for twice as many years as he had lived. With many young midshipmen this led to trouble - and with old ones, too: failing their lieutenants' examination, or passing but not getting a ship, resulted in midshipmen of forty who were almost invariably bitter drunkards. Orsini had such a cheerful manner, and he had learned so fast and was so anxious to go on learning, that he was the ship's favourite. He had heard seamen exchanging stories of Orsini's exploits in action, and they were related with pride, as one man might boast about his village's prize fighting cock.
He spotted a white mop of hair up on the fo'c'sle, showing Southwick busy with some men. He had to discuss with the master the programme for tomorrow's visitors because the old man knew them all. Then, Aitken decided, he would inform the lieutenants and then, before the midday meal, muster the men and tell them: they would want to get their queues retied and start the day with clean shirts. It was a Thursday, so they had to shave, but they would have done so anyway.
'The Frenchies made it fancy enough,' the bosun said as he held up the legless chair for Paolo's inspection. 'The lady sits on the seat, then this bar drops across the front from arm to arm and locks to hold her in. She sits back and up and away she goes.'
'Yes,' Paolo said doubtfully. 'As soon as someone's rove the whip I'll try it out. Then we'll change some of this red baize. It looks as though the rat did not like it.'
'Not surprised, sir; it's the same baize that's used for covering the handle o' a cat-o'-nine-tails and the bag to put it in. Not that we need it with this captain.'
'No, I've never seen a flogging,' Paolo said, with all the curiosity of the young. 'Is it really bad?'
'You probably won't ever see one if you serve with Mr Ramage 'cos he don't believe in flogging; but yes, it's 'orrible. Most frigates like us'd have at least three or four a week. Not because the captains are cruel but a few bad men keep getting drunk or regularly make mischief. Mr Ramage managed long ago to get rid of the few bad apples and keep the good ones.'
Paolo looked up at the starboard main yardarm. One man was passing a rope through a block while a second paid out more from a coil slung over his shoulder. Paolo picked up the chair and walked over to one of the guns, followed by a puzzled bosun. Holding it by the arm he lifted it and then banged the seat across the breech of the gun. Dust particles lifted in a cloud.
'Just making sure there's no dry rot or woodworm at work under that baize,' he said. 'Seems strong enough.' He looked up again and saw that one end of the rope had almost reached the deck. 'Come on, hoist me up to the yardarm; I weigh a good deal more than my aunt or the Countess.'
At ten o'clock next morning Ramage, once again wearing the heavy blue coat of a post captain, with its gold-braided lapels and the single heavy epaulet on his right shoulder indicating that he had less than three years' seniority, stood on the Commissioner's jetty and looked across the muddy Medway at the Calypso.
He had expected to find her heeled to starboard or larboard because the French guns had been hoisted out on one side or the other and lowered into the hoys. Instead she was floating on an even keel; all the yards were square.
'She looks very smart, Nicholas,' his mother said.
'Very French, that sheer,' the Admiral commented. 'A handsome ship. Not surprised they bought her into the Service after you captured her. A nice pile of prize money for your men.'
'With that and the money from the convoy we captured, most of them would be rated wealthy by their neighbours,' Ramage said. 'They deserved it!'
'The yawl, my Lord,' Wedge said, gesturing to the white-painted boat at the end of the jetty. The dockyard commissioner looked to Ramage like a Gillray cartoon of a corrupt public officiaclass="underline" rolls of fat began at his chin like canvas hose and circled to below his hips. His eyes were never still, jerking from face to face as if frightened of missing a proffered bribe or a warning glance.