Horns Cross (curious, he remembered a village of the same name in Devon), then Northfleet and Gravesend, the brown muddy Thames running alongside. The driver had barely started the horses pulling out of Gravesend when he had to stop at the first of the turnpikes, at Chalk Street. Like a thousand coachmen before him, he swore as he fished in his pocket for the coins to pay the tollkeeper.
Not far, not far, Ramage thought thankfully; the next village of any note is called Halfway House, though Ramage was puzzled by the name. It was certainly not halfway between London and Rochester. Perhaps between Gravesend and the Medway at Rochester?
The bishop woke up, grunted and made another foray into his basket, cursing a fly which was anxious to spend a few minutes on a crumb clinging to the bishop's chin. "Ha, soon be at Gad's Hill," he said, raising his head momentarily from the basket.
"Damnably uncomfortable, these machines. I wonder they dare charge tenpence a mile. Ought to pay the travellers tenpence a mile to travel in 'em."
Ramage smiled politely at the only worthwhile comment the bishop had made so far. However, one does not have to attend his cathedraclass="underline" imagine that voice droning on, warning the congregation against the sin of gluttony . . .
The horses seemed to find a second wind: perhaps they could sniff the Medway and knew they now had a good clear run down a gentle slope to Rochester, where they would be taken out and replaced by fresh horses to take the carriage on to Sittingbourne before being changed again.
Soon Ramage could see the 110-foot-high ruined keep of Rochester Castle, which had been guarding this crossing of the Medway since the twelfth century: yes, and there was the cathedral, one of the oldest in the county, if not the country. Rochester was a fine old town with dignified buildings and, like all places built with a reason - to guard the crossing of the Medway - having its own purposeful air about it, even though it was now a distant memory.
Finally the 'chaise swung into the courtyard of the post inn at Chatham, and as soon as the boys had slammed down the steps, Ramage climbed down, every bone in his body aching, and the cobbles hard and unyielding underfoot. Make the most of it, he told himself; within the week you'll be tired of tramping the Calypso's deck. And there'll be no changing horses at Cadiz . . .
The livery coach clattered through the gate and rounded up alongside the Calypso as she sat four-square in the dock, seeming twice as big out of the water, her masts towering so high it seemed they ought to scratch lines in the low cloud.
The steps slammed down and Ramage climbed out of the coach, thankful that he had left the bishop when he had changed from the 'chaise in Chatham town. But there was something odd about the Calypso. The new copper sheathing below the waterline was bright (but measled green where rain had started corrosion). A moment later he realized why it was different. Normally her hull was entirely black, with just a white strake the width of the portlids (which, painted red inside, made a chequerboard effect when the portlids were raised and the guns run out). But now there was a broad yellow strake along the side of the Calypso instead of the white. This was the way that Lord Nelson always painted his ship - the Victory had three rows, or strakes, of yellow - and many of his captains copied the style with their own ships, to show they were serving (or had served) with His Lordship. And now someone - Aitken, Southwick? - had added the yellow strake to the Calypso in anticipation.
Not only had whoever it was braved the captain's wrath (although it would take only a few hours to restore the white), but he must have paid for the paint himself, because the dockyard issued only black or white paint. Anyone wanting something different could paint his ship whatever colour he chose (Ramage could see a plum-coloured 74 in the next dock), but the captain paid for it out of his own pocket. A ship of the line painted a light colour showed that her captain had either a good independent income or had been lucky with prize money.
And there were Aitken and Southwick, both looking remarkably worried, hurrying towards him as two seamen ran up to lift off his trunk.
Aitken, as first lieutenant, saluted gravely and then, after briefly welcoming Ramage back, gestured at the Calypso's hull. "We thought, sir, as we are joining Lord Nelson's fleet, that . . ."
Ramage deliberately looked grave. Southwick, saluting, said quickly: "We thought we'd anticipate your orders, sir."
Ramage looked him up and down. "What makes you think I'd want to fling pots of yellow paint at my ship, eh?"
Both men looked so crestfallen, like guilty schoolboys, that Ramage laughed. "It looks very good, but I'll pay for it: give me the dockyard vouchers and I'll settle 'em. And we'll need a few gallons more to keep it looking bright."
Aitken sighed with relief, but Southwick chuckled. "I told him you'd be pleased, but he was far from sure. In fact yesterday he wanted to paint it out, so we'd be back to a white strake."
"How soon can we get afloat?" Ramage demanded, aware that the two seamen preparing to lift his trunk were deliberately dawdling so that they could hear what was being said.
"On the next tide, as long as the master attendant agrees," Aitken assured him.
"Very well, arrange that: Lord Nelson and the Victory - with yellow strakes - are waiting for us at St Helens, and the French and the Dons are waiting for both of us in Cadiz!"
Southwick grinned and said: "We'll get afloat even if we have to open the dock gates ourselves: the men will be happy enough to knock away the shores - they're fed up with life in drydock!"
"Very well, get word to the master attendant and report to my cabin in fifteen minutes." With that he walked out along the gangplank and went on board. He stood on the quarterdeck before going down the companion way to his cabin. Yes, it was all here: the reek of paint, so strong that the smell ought to be visible as thick smoke, and somewhere there was the rapid metallic thud of hammers - the last of the sheathing nails being driven home? Probably. The noise echoed dully through the ship, as though the banging was on the outside of the hull.
His cabin smelled like a paint store, even though the skylights were wide open and the portlids for the 12-pounders were hoisted up, wide open on each side of the great cabin and in the bed place and coach. In half an hour he would have a splitting headache. But all three cabins sparkled: there was fresh white paint on the bulkheads and deckhead, reflecting the light, and the canvas on the soles of all three cabins had been repainted, the black and white squares freshened up so that it seemed he had new carpets. His bed swung from the heavy metal eyes bolted into the beams and there were no spots of paint on it - someone had, thank goodness, stowed it out of the way before the paint brushes were put to work. And Sarah had sewn new covers for him, and made sure they were packed in his trunk.
The letter from Sarah, given him by Raven as he boarded the 'chaise, nestled in the inside pocket of his frock-coat, and after pitching his hat on to the settee he sat at the desk (the top freshly polished and still smelling of the bosun's special beeswax-and-turpentine mixture that the men had used) and took a paperknife from the top drawer.
Pride, awe, delight... it was difficult to sort out the emotions, but the letter was addressed to him in Sarah's handwriting, and there was the griffin seal. A letter from Lady Ramage. The first he had ever received but, God willing, the first of many.
He was reluctant to break the seal for reasons he could not explain. Her handwriting and the Ramage seal seemed an entity: to open the letter would somehow spoil it. But leaving it sealed defeated the whole purpose . . .