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 darkening in the twilight, and Jackson looked towards the mainland. Over to his left was the great hump of Argentario, and he could see one of the two semicircular causeways which joined it to the mainland. In front, he could just see a small, flat reef of rocks, the Formiche de Burano, a black spot in the sea in line with Mount Capalbio. Just to the right of Mount Capalbio was Mount Maggiore, and on the coast in line with its peak was the little square tower, which Mr Ramage said they had to visit. It was too dark against the eastern sky to see it now, and anyway half of it was below the horizon.
The chart showed there was a big oblong-shaped lake behind the tower, running parallel with the beach and less than half a mile inland. From the middle of the nearest side a little river left the lake, running towards the sea past the north side of the tower, making a dog-leg turn to flow along the west wall - so the tower had a moat on two sides - and then straight for another couple of hundred yards, parallel with the shore, before curving round to flow into the sea.
Oh well, Jackson thought to himself, it will be nice to be on shore again, even if only for an hour or two. He looked at the watch. Another five minutes before he was due to rouse Mr Ramage.
Some of the seamen had already woken. One had persuaded another to retie his pigtail, while a third leaned over the side of the boat and began to hone his knife against the rock until Jackson told him to be quiet.
The American glanced round the gig and began checking off various items. The tiller was ready to be shipped; the oars were safely stowed; the two precious breakers of water were lashed under the thwarts, as were the bags of bread; the lantern was trimmed and ready for lighting; the bag of charts and papers was at his feet.
The seaman with the cut on his forehead rolled up a trouser leg and swore viciously, pointing at the mosquito bites on his ankle. He fished a rough canvas shirt from under a thwart and pulled it over his head.
'Can't we have a drink, Jacko?' asked another sailor.
‘You heard what Mr Ramage said.'
‘You're just a damned mean Jonathan.'
'Ask Mr Ramage when he wakes.'
‘You like pushing us Limeys around.'
'All right, you're a Limey and I'm a Jonathan,' retorted Jackson, 'but that don't make me any less thirsty than you.'
'Anyway that thirsty bastard ain't a Limey, he's a Patlander,' a man lying on the bottom boards said to Jackson. 'He's so Irish he salutes when we ship a green sea.'
'Listen, the lot of you,' growled Jackson. 'Mr Ramage has two minutes' more sleep and he deserves 'em; so put a couple of reefs in your tongues.'
'Is he doing the right thing, Jacko?' one of the men whispered. 'After all, this gig ain't a bleedin' frigate.'
'Scared? Anyway, we'd have had to do this last bit in a boat even if the Sibella was still swimming.'
'Yus, but we wouldn't have to row all the way there and back like a lot of bumboatmen.'
'Well,' Jackson said crisply, 'make up your mind whether you're scared or lazy. If you're scared then you've no need to be, with him on board' - he jerked a thumb in Ramage's direction - 'and if you're lazy you'd better watch out with this one on board—' he jabbed a thumb to his own chest.
'All right, all right, Jacko; I'd sooner 'ave 'im than you any day, so put me down as just being scared.'
Jackson glanced once again at the watch, and then climbed over a thwart to rouse Ramage.
The skin of Ramage's face felt taut and stiff, scorched by the sun despite the tan; and a band across the top of his forehead, normally protected by his hat, was hot and sore. He opened his eyes and they felt full of sand. Realizing someone was gently shaking him and calling his name, he sat up, conscious of a momentary feeling of fear as he remembered the last time he had woken.
Almost nightfall; yet he would have sworn he'd been asleep only five minutes.
'Everything all right, Jackson?'
‘Yes, sir.'
With that Ramage stripped off his clothes and climbed over the transom into the water. It was warm, but chilly enough to be refreshing. As he climbed back on board again Jackson handed him a piece of cloth.
'Do as a towel, sir.'
‘What is it?'
'His shirt, sir,' he said, pointing to one of the man and adding, 'he offered it!'
Ramage nodded his thanks, rubbed himself down and pulled on his stockings, breeches and shirt. He glanced up in surprise as Jackson said, 'We've tidied up your stock, weskit and coat, sir. If you don't want 'em yet I'll stow 'em so they don't get creased.'
'Oh - yes, do that please.'
Trust Jackson, thought Ramage: he realizes I look like a pirate. If only I had a razor, he thought, feeling his chin, which crackled as he ran his hand over it
Jackson handed him his boots and, as soon as he had pulled them on, gave him the throwing knife, which he slid into the top and did up the button which held the sheath in place.
It would be safer to wait a few more minutes, until it was completely dark: anyone on Giannutri who saw them leaving could swiftly light the pile of firewood he had seen on the platform of the signal tower at the north side of the island.
He was surprised by the number of signal towers on Argentario: from its nearest point to Giannutri there was one on every headland along the coast northwards, presumably round as far as Santo Stefano, the little port on the north-east side, and also round the south coast, probably to link with Port’ Ercole. Some of the towers looked Spanish; others Arab: tall warnings of the threats of Barbary pirates, who were still busy in the Mediterranean.
Finally it was dark enough to get under way, but as he gave the order Ramage felt nervousness sweeping over him, like a chill from a sudden cold breeze.