Free Ramage by Dudley Pope

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 men 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.
    In the darkness the sea, the boat and even Ramage’s own body, seemed remote. To seaward it was impossible to see where horizon ended and night sky began, despite the glittering stars and the light from the sharply etched moon, which had just risen over the mainland. The boat seemed to be gliding along like a gull, suspended between sea and sky.
    Ramage found it hard to believe the crazy attempt he was making with seven men in a small boat was reality. Was this gig supposed to be a suitable substitute for a frigate to rescue men of great political influence so that they could rally their people to carry on – start, in some cases – a war against Bonaparte?
    Was Ramage himself a suitable substitute for a post captain, welcoming them on board amid grandiose assurances for their future? Was he the man to inspire and overawe them with Britain’s sea power in the Mediterranean? The whole situation was either tragic or ludicrous.
    Jackson’s lean face, dancing with strange shadows as he lifted the canvas shade of the lantern to glance at the compass, brought Ramage’s thoughts back to the immediate present. He noticed Jackson was going bald: the sandy-coloured hair was receding…in the darkness the American’s head reminded him of the rounded low-lying rocks of the Formiche de Burano, which they had passed an hour ago.
    If his estimate of the current was correct, they were less than a mile from the beach and it was time to get rid of the Admiral’s orders and the secret signal book – in fact everything but the charts – since the chances of capture were increasing rapidly.
    He gave instructions to Jackson, then spoke to the seamen. Should he and Jackson be caught or killed it would be criminal to leave the seamen in ignorance of their position.
    ‘You all saw the Tower through the glass this morning,’ he told them. ‘There’s a small stream just south of it, and we may be able to hide the boat there. Jackson and I will try to find these people, and it may take the rest of the night. If we haven’t returned