No, the two of them could never have married, since she was a Catholic, and always, noblesse oblige, there was the pull of Volterra. So he had failed her in the end: as soon as the Treaty of Amiens had brought peace between Britain and France, she had decided to return to Volterra and her people, even though Ramage and his father had tried to persuade her that the peace would be brief; that it was another of Bonaparte's tricks, and as the ruler of Volterra returning from exile she would be seized or assassinated by the Corsican's men the moment war started again.
Nevertheless, in the company of the British government of the day, she decided that Bonaparte genuinely wanted peace (it was as though she dare not think otherwise) and set out for Volterra while the Admiralty sent Ramage and the Calypso thousands of miles away across the Equator on a voyage of exploration.
Yet, as if to compound misery with happiness, Ramage had then met, fallen in love with and married Sarah, the daughter of the Marquis of Rockley, and the two of them had been on their honeymoon in France when the war began again. After a narrow escape they had reached the Channel Fleet as it arrived to resume the blockade off Brest. Was it so fortunate, though? The admiral had sent Ramage across the Atlantic and Sarah back to England in a small brig which had vanished: no one knew to this day whether Sarah and the brig's men had perished in a gale, been killed in a French attack, or captured so that now they were prisoners.
As for Gianna - she had reached Paris. Beyond that, there was no news. Had she reached Volterra and been assassinated? Or imprisoned in France by Bonaparte's hirelings? He sensed that she was no longer alive.
Two women, and both dead or prisoners. But for knowing him, both might still be alive. Gianna would probably be a prisoner in Tuscany, but Sarah would be living with her father and mother, or perhaps married to some young sprig who rode well to hounds, dressed elegantly, drank and gambled in moderation, and never put anyone's life at risk - least of all, Ramage added bitterly, his own.
And there, showing as dawn crept up from the east, was the low black line on the southern horizon which would very soon reveal itself as the Atlas mountains: the northern shoulder of Africa and the southern shore of the Strait. Over there to the west, thrusting itself westward into the Atlantic, was Cape Espartel, still hidden in the darkness.
Southwick broke the night-induced gloom. "Looks as if this wind'll veer to the north-west as we turn east into The Gut, sir."
"Yes, it'll probably follow the mountains round and funnel past Gibraltar. Anything so long as we don't have to fight a levanter!"
The strong easterly wind that often blew out of the Mediterranean and into the Atlantic kicked up vicious seas in the Strait with violent squalls, so that beating against it with a strong current (usually flowing eastward) could make the last few miles through The Gut very unpleasant.
It was soon light enough "to see a grey goose at a mile" and then the men stood down from general quarters with the lookouts going aloft. A few men then waited on deck, looking across at the mountains of Spain, less than three miles off, and speculating about the Admiralty orders for the Calypso.
"Blackstrapped again - who'd have guessed that a couple o' weeks ago?" one of them commented. "Still, a drop o' red wine, as long as it ain't Spanish, 'll make a nice change from rum and small beer."
"Ah Stafford, you start to learn about the wine, eh?" said a plump, black-haired man whose accent revealed he was Italian. Alberto Rossi was (as he proudly told anyone who cared to listen) from Genova: the birthplace of Cristoforo Colombo, the man the English obstinately persisted in calling Christopher Columbus and the Spanish unforgivably Cristóbal Colon - "As though," Rossi protested, "he was a Spaniard! Accidente! He never went to Spain until he had thirty years."
"Still, the Spanish paid his fare to America," Jackson said.
The only American on board, he was the captain's coxswain, having served with Ramage for several years. He owned a properlyexecutedProtection, recognized by the American government and issued and attested by an American Customs collector, which certified that Jackson was an American citizen and born in Charleston, South Carolina. This meant he could not be impressed into the Royal Navy (or, if he was, an appeal to an American consul would get his release).
However, Jackson was happy enough serving - was it George III or Captain Lord Ramage? People like Southwick often wondered; men like Stafford were certain: Jackson served the captain even if the King paid his wages. Not that Jackson needed the money. Stafford knew only too well that like all the men who had been serving with Mr Ramage for a few years, he had done well from prize money. They could all look forward to a comfortable old age - if they lived long enough! Death or prize money - they were the choice if you served under Mr Ramage, Stafford knew, and if you lived long enough you would end up a rich man . . .
"Whatcher reckon, Jacko?" Stafford asked.
"Well, we won't be joining a fleet, that's for certain, because there ain't one out here. I reckon Mr Ramage doesn't know himself, yet. Probably got sealed orders. Something special, anyway."
"Why special?" Rossi asked.
"Obvious, ain't it. There are only a few (if any) of our frigates in the Mediterranean, and the Admiralty's very short of them at home. Why not send a cutter with orders for anyone out here? Why send a frigate specially?"
"Is sense," Rossi said grudgingly. "The Admiralty knows Mr Ramage understands Italian and Spanish, and knows the Mediterranean well. Hasn't brought him the happiness, though."
Stafford glanced up at Rossi. "How so?"
"The Marchesa. He rescue her, he love her, she go back to Volterra - though by now this Bonaparte probably has her locked up in a jail. Or in a grave."
"But Mr Ramage is now married to Lady Sarah," Jackson reminded him. "Happily too, and she's a fine lady."
"I know, I know," Rossi said impatiently waving a dismissive hand. "But you know for a long time it was always the Marchesa, and we all thought he would marry her . . ."
"You did, but I always said no: she's a Catholic, and that matters in a Protestant country. Anyway, Lady Sarah is much more suitable as a wife, even if -" he hesitated, unwilling to say it aloud. "Even if the ship she was in is missing."
"Accidente! Don't say anything against the Marchesa!"
"Don't be so damned Italian," Jackson said. "You forget Mr Ramage and I rescued her. Who carried her wounded down the beach and got her into the boat, eh? That was Mr Ramage and me, and you were still skulking in Genoa at the time, slitting a throat here and there if anyone paid you the right price."
Rossi grinned contentedly: he liked the reputation of having been a dangerous man in Genova, although glad enough to exchange it all for service in the Royal Navy after escaping from the Genovesi authorities, who had a narrow-minded outlook about life, sudden death and the ownership of property.
"Yer know," Stafford said sadly, "seems a shame, dunnit, that a man like Mr Ramage, him been wounded a dozen times and the best frigate captain in the Navy, can't marry the first woman he falls in love with 'cos of a lot o' religious nonsense, and then loses the second one at the end of 'is 'oneymoon.
"I wonder what did 'appen to Lady Sarah. A real lady, she was. I'm not saying nothing against the Marcheezer, Rosey, but you must admit she was a bit of an 'andful at times. Very Italian, when she got angry." He looked round warily at Rossi. "Nothing wrong with that, o' course - after all, she was used to being the ruler of Volterra, with a palace an' all. 'Ad to laugh when she used to come the empress with the captain!"