'Well, I do know,' the earl said, 'so I'll tell you. In James II's time a worthy fellow called Edward Lloyd opened a coffee house in Lombard Street, and there men of business connected with ships and the sea tended to congregate. They met in Lloyd's place to gossip and exchange information. Edward Lloyd always knew which ships had arrived, which ships were for sale, and so on. And if you own a ship or propose shipping a cargo somewhere, you need insurance, so it wasn't long before shipowners, shippers and insurance brokers were congregating there, arranging voyages.
'The original Edward Lloyd died but the coffee house remained the centre for shipping folk, and of course one of the most important things they wanted - whether they were owners, shippers or underwriters - was news: news of whether their ships and cargoes had arrived safely in the West Indies, sailed from Gravesend, or been wrecked off Dungeness. A shipowner was also interested in how much a rival sold a ship for, while shippers needed to know the latest price for carrying a hundred tons of molasses from Jamaica or a hundred pipes of port from the Peninsula. And the underwriters, of course, were involved in providing insurance cover for all of it.
'So in 1743 the coffee house started publishing a newspaper - little more than a broadsheet, really - which it called Lloyd's List, giving just the sort of news its customers wanted. Eventually - bearing in mind the need to guard against shipping fraud and the necessity of accurate news - a committee was formed to run the place, and a few years later the whole thing moved to the Royal Exchange, where it still is. The Committee chose the subscribers (whom it now called 'members', for reasons best known to itself) and when the war started it began cooperating with the Admiralty and shipowners in arranging convoys, and that sort of thing.
'When a ship's captain misbehaves in a convoy -' the earl looked at his son and smiled, '- not an unknown occurrence, as you know, my dear Sarah, the Board complains to the Committee of Lloyd's who, in theory, chide the owner of the ship, who disciplines his captain. The Board suspects, though, that the Committee tears up the letters.'
'Swords,' Sarah reminded him. 'Who pays for the swords?'
'Ah yes. A couple of years ago Lloyd's set up a Patriotic Fund intended to help the Navy's wounded and reward the brave. It was an immediate success, I remember: the East India Company and the Bank of England each gave £5,000, while the City of London came up with £2,500. Several of the theatres gave gala performances, with the night's takings going to the Fund.'
'I wonder where the hundred guineas came from that paid for Nicholas's sword?' Sarah said.
'The profits from shipping spices from the Indies or a spicy play at a theatre, eh?' Ramage said mischievously. 'Lieutenants and masters get the fifty guinea swords, and mates and midshipmen rate thirty guineas.'
The earl said: 'I saw you had a word with Southwick and your first lieutenant, Aitken. Your news made their day, I shouldn't wonder!'
'Yes, both of them were all for posting straight back to Chatham to get young Martin to chase his father!'
The earl looked puzzled and Ramage reminded him. 'You've forgotten that Martin's father is the Master Shipwright in the dockyard. A private word with him can be worth ten urgent letters from the Navy Board!'
'Hmm, you'd better check up and see whether the master shipwrights at Portsmouth and Plymouth have sons who want to ship as midshipmen, then you'll be set up round the South Coast.'
'You'll never believe me, but when young Martin joined the Calypso I had no idea who his father was.'
'More fool you. It'll be thanks to him if you get down to Cadiz in time. By the way,' he said heavily, 'don't forget that frigates are just an admiral's scouts and means of signalling: they don't stand in line of battle. That's why,' he added sarcastically, '64-gun ships and larger are called 'line-of-battle' ships. And no admiral today likes to put even a 64 in the line; he wants 74s and larger.'
'Yes, father,' Ramage said dutifully and, bearing in mind that he had lost the Kathleen in a successful attempt to prevent a Spanish three-decker from escaping at Cape St Vincent, added with a grin: 'I'll remember: frigates stand at the back of the crowd and cheer.'
'You were lucky with the Kathleen,'the earl said, reading his thoughts, 'and Lord Nelson is now repaying that debt. But anyone who relies too much on luck is a fool and -' he said jocularly, but intending Ramage should take notice, 'Sarah is too young to be a widow.'
He sighed and then grumbled, 'I might just as well talk to myself.' He turned towards Sarah. 'Tell me about Lady Hamilton's daughter, my dear. Is she Lord Nelson's child?'
'Oh, there's no doubt about that, when you see them together, and for all the polite talk of 'godfather' he is just a normal doting father. And why not?' she said unexpectedly. 'This war goes on year after year, and Nelson has nearly been killed so many times. Why shouldn't he seize what happiness he can? Anyway, if he goes on as he has in the past, he'll be lucky to be alive for Horatia's fifth birthday ...'
'Now, now,' the earl chided, 'you fly to His Lordship's defence at the mere mention of his name!'
'I should think so!' Sarah said crossly. 'You didn't have to listen to those wives at the Royal Exchange today! Why, they even made comments to me, thinking I would agree with them.'
'But you didn't, so what answer did you make?' the earl asked, curious.
'I said that Lady Hamilton was a particular friend of mine,' Sarah said defiantly, 'and because I'm my father's daughter and my husband's wife, the hypocritical wretches had the grace to blush.'
'Good for you,' murmured the earl. 'I'll follow your example with the husbands!'
Next morning Hanson, flustered at being interrupted while polishing the silver, bustled into the drawing room where Ramage was reading the Morning Post and reported that there was an Admiralty messenger at the door with a letter for Captain Lord Ramage which, Hanson added heavily, he would not hand over to anyone else.
'He's got a receipt book that needs signing, too,' Hanson commented gloomily, as if this was proof that the man was not a messenger but a lurking thief after the silver.
Ramage went to the door, signed for the letter and carried it back to the drawing room, picking up a paperknife on his way.
As he weighed the bulky packet in one hand, looking at the fouled anchor Admiralty seal, he savoured the moment. Yes - when he was a small boy up an apple tree and finally managed to reach the largest and ripest fruit . . . that moment with Raven when a rabbit shot out of its hole and landed with a thump in the net, to be followed by the beady-eyed ferret looking left and right as though the daylight dazzled him after the darkness of the warren . . . the moment when the masthead lookout hailed that he had sighted a sail which could only be French. And opening fresh Admiralty orders. All were preceded by excitement and anticipation - and a tincture of apprehension too, just enough to add spice.
He slid the paperknife under the seal and unfolded the single page of thick paper. There was the usual address and introduction, and then William Marsden, who had recently succeeded Evan Nepean as Secretary to the Board, had written:
Whereas my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty are given to understand that His Majesty's frigate Calypso now at Chatham will soon be ready for sea, you are hereby directed and required to put to sea in His Majesty's frigate under your command as soon as maybe and use your best endeavours to join the fleet under the command of Vice Admiral the Lord Nelson, agreeable to the enclosed rendezvous, placing yourself under His Lordship's command for your further proceedings.
And that was that: a few lines of copperplate, neatly written by the Chief Clerk or one of the 'Senior Clerks on the Establishment', and then signed by Marsden before being sent round to Palace Street by (if Ramage's memory served him) the Admiralty's only messenger, John Fetter, who for £40 a year delivered Their Lordships' letters and orders within five miles of Whitehall.
'As soon as maybe', according to Aitken and Southwick yesterday, would be about five days: most of the sheets of new sheathing had been nailed like fish scales round the Calypso's bow, and the tarred paper was already in place ready for the last of it, so rain would not cause delays. The new guns were already swayed on board and all the ropework spliced and, where necessary, rove through blocks.
Then the drydock in which the frigate was sitting would be flooded at high water and the Calypso floated out. After the usual dockyard receipts and vouchers had been signed and Ramage formally resumed responsibility for the ship, taking over from the master attendant of the dockyard, the Calypso would run down the mud- lined Medway (unless the wind decided to be capricious and blow from the east). Then into the Thames (almost certainly in a foul wind and tide) for the beat up to Black Stakes, to lie alongside the powder hoys and load the Calypso's magazine and powder room. It was a dangerous nuisance having to unload powder into the hoys before going into the dockyard and take it on board again afterwards, the risk of stray grains keeping the pumps sluicing the decks, but nothing compared with the danger of a ship in the dockyard catching fire with her magazine full and exploding to destroy half of Chatham.
Ramage often wondered about the men on the hoys who lived their lives on top of enough powder to blow them all to eternity and with only the mud flats along the Thames to look at. Low water, high water and the stink of mud governed their days. Did they sneak a smoke knowing that they lived within inches of a few hundred tons of gunpowder? Who commanded them? Probably some benighted lieutenant, leg shot off in distant action or disgraced by something that did not quite merit a court-martial?
Sarah came into the room and saw the letter he was holding. 'Your orders?'
He nodded. 'I'll have to leave for Chatham in a day or two.'
'I was hoping we'd have another couple of weeks together at Aldington,' she said, obviously making an effort to keep her voice even.
'Will you go down there when I've left?'
'Yes. Once I knew you -' she paused, managing to swallow to be sure her voice would not falter, '- once I knew you would be sailing soon, I asked mother and father to come down for a few weeks. They'd like to see the house and father will enjoy the riding. Oh Nicholas!'
He stood up and held her tightly as she burst into tears. This was the first time he had seen her break down and he felt particularly helpless. Somehow she seemed to grow remote in her grief. But he knew it was because he felt guilty at leaving her.
'I shan't be away long,' he murmured. 'Just off Cadiz. It's not as if I'm going to the West Indies, or the East Indies. Or to the Isla Trinidade,' he added, hoping to make her smile.
She stopped weeping and tried to laugh. 'Look what happened to you when you went there!'
'Just a pleasant cruise, or so I thought. Little did I know that a scheming woman was waiting for me in an East India Company ship . . .'
'But now you've married her, you're deserting her!'
Sarah was getting control of herself but he was deserting her, in a way, and the dreadful thing was that he was excited at the prospect of getting to sea again in the Calypso. That pleasure was all mixed up with his feeling of guilt at leaving her, and now he knew what many married officers went through. Now Lord St Vincent's stern comment that 'an officer who marries is lost to the Service' seemed more reasonable, though harsh.
There was no reason why serving in the Navy should condemn a man to a monkish existence, yet how else could the Navy be run? More generous leave, perhaps - but every ship that could swim was needed at sea, which meant she spent as little time in port as possible, just long enough for provisioning and any necessary
