Ramage's Prize (10 page)

“What is the pay of a commander?” he asked, almost thinking aloud.

“Nothing lavish—eight pounds a month.”

“Only eight pounds?” Ramage exclaimed. It was within a few shillings of his own pay, and lieutenants in a first-rate received seven pounds.

“Yes—but don't forget the Post Office is also paying him to charter his ship. I don't know the rate. And the passengers' passage money—that's paid to the commander.”

“So his wages are not much more than a token.”

“I suppose you could look at it like that. If he can't sail on a voyage because of illness he receives his pay—against a physician's certificate, of course.”

“Who would then command the ship?”

“The Master. No packet is allowed to sail with less than a master in command. A fairly recent ruling.”

“They had sailed with less—before the ruling?”

“Occasionally,” Smith admitted.

“Does a packet often sail with only the Master in command?”

“Not too often. One or two commanders suffer from ill health,” Smith said uncomfortably.

“But the Post Office knows about them.”

Smith nodded. “They take steps, where they can.”

“So such a commander gets his pay and can make his profit from the charter money without stepping out of his house?”

“Yes,” Smith admitted angrily, “but see here, Lieutenant, I don't reckon your inquiries into privateering give you a right to criticize the Post Office!”

“I'm not criticizing,” Ramage said coolly. “I was merely asking you to confirm something you've just said. If you choose to interpret your own statements as criticism, well …” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” Smith said quickly, “I'm a sight too touchy. Fact is, these losses are getting on my nerves. If only you realized what's at stake.”

Ramage's eyebrows lifted, and Smith said: “Communications. Without them London is—well, like a giant without arms and legs!”

Was that all he meant? Ramage wished he could be sure.

“I must see about the boat,” Smith said. “You're sure you won't come out with me?”

Ramage shook his head.

“When shall I—er, tell you what the commander has to report?” Smith asked.

“Why don't you dine with me at the Royal Albion?”

“I'm afraid I can't,” Smith said apologetically. “It's a custom of mine to dine the commander the night he arrives.”

“Ah yes, so you told me. The newspaper?”

“I'll arrange all that. Tomorrow's issue of the
Chronicle
will announce today's arrival and warn everyone that the mail closes at nine o'clock the following morning.”

“If you're dining the commander tonight why don't we meet tomorrow morning? Breakfast at my hotel? Say seven o'clock?”

S
IR Pilcher Skinner had been vastly relieved when his secretary brought in the news from Morant Point that the packet had been sighted. Relieved and surprised, since he had already presumed her lost. Still, it was a relief to know she had sailed before the
Hydra,
so there would be no unexpected or unwelcome official business in the mails; just private letters, and now he was a widower he found himself taking less and less interest in family or friends. It was unfortunate that his daughter had not found herself a husband but he had long since given up worrying about it.

He pulled out his watch. Eleven o'clock already and Henderson had put out a pile of reports for him to sign, so that they could be sealed and sent home in the packet. As he reached for his pen he reflected crossly that although the Admiralty had given him few enough ships for the station, from the paperwork one would guess he had ten times more than the Channel Fleet.

The Channel Fleet: he shivered at the very thought of it. Jamaica suited him well enough: a splendid climate—although it could be a bit too hot in the hurricane season—and the most comfortable quarters the Navy had to offer. And prize-money—by jingo, the prize agents here must be making enormous profits, judging by the fees they charged for their dabblings.

He glanced at the top report, scribbled a signature and put the page to one side. He glanced up. Now Henderson was back again. There was no peace for a commander-in-chief, although he shouldn't really complain since the fellow did a splendid job.

“Lieutenant Ramage, sir. Says it's important.”

“Important!” Sir Pilcher snorted. There wasn't a lieutenant in the Navy List who didn't think whatever he was doing was important. “Well, what's he want? He has his orders.”

“He wouldn't disclose the substance of it, sir.”

Disclose the substance of it! Only Henderson could use a phrase like that. Half the time he sounded like a superannuated judge.

“Oh very well, send him in.”

Why can't the boy just go away and carry out his orders? Run into some damned silly little problem, no doubt; scared of taking any responsibility and determined to shove it on the Commander-in-Chief's shoulders. That seemed the ambition of every officer on the station—and every blasted quill-pusher in the Admiralty, too, including the First Lord!

Henderson announced Ramage.

“Ha! What now, my boy?”

“The packet, sir.”

“Yes? She'll be anchoring shortly. Surely you don't want my permission to board her?”

“Not board her, sir.”

Now what did he mean by that emphasis on “board?” He's a deep one, this lad. “Just because one packet's got through I hope you don't think …”

“Oh no, sir. I had a proposal—”

“You've got your orders; just carry ‘em out!” Wouldn't hurt to shake him up a bit, Sir Pilcher decided.

“Very well, sir: I just wanted to warn you of possible repercussions.”

“Repercussions? What the devil are you talking about?”

“I'm proposing to sail in her.”

“I should think so. You won't find out what's going on by lounging around Government House!”

“And take Southwick and Bowen—the former Master and Surgeon of the
Triton—
and a dozen men with me.”

“A dozen men?
Seamen?
”

“Yes, sir. You were kind enough to warn Captain Napier to keep some Tritons available.”

“My goodness! You're not expecting the Admiralty to pay their passage money, are you?” The lad's up to something, that's for sure, Sir Pilcher decided. Why on earth doesn't he just take a passage himself and—oh well!

“Mine, Southwick's, sir, and the Surgeon, Bowen; not the seamen.”

“Very well, I'll allow you three, just berth, bedding and victuals. No wines and spirits. But the seamen—are they to be guests of the Post Office?”

“In a way, sir. I want to exchange a dozen of them for a dozen of the packet's men.”

It was a good idea, but the Post Office would not like it—the protests would be endless. How to lodge the dozen Post Office men left in Kingston, and then crowding them all into the next packet, and no doubt the commander would demand a victualling allowance for them—oh no!

“I'm sorry, Ramage, it's out of the question.”

“It's our only chance, sir.”

“
Your
only chance,” Sir Pilcher corrected. “You have your orders.”

“Yes sir, but—with respect—I can't tackle a privateer by myself!”

“Your orders don't say that you should: you're supposed to inquire, not fight.”

“The First Lord mentioned ‘halting the losses,' sir.”

“See here, Ramage, you weren't supposed to see that letter: I exceeded my authority in showing it to you. Forget all about it. And don't plan to fight privateers, either.”

“But that's been the trouble, sir. I think we're going to find at least some of the packets have been taken by small privateers: ones from which they could have escaped if they had had the wish.”

“That's absurd! You've no grounds for saying that. These privateers carry scores of men.”

“Just so, sir. And they're not that fast. They're crammed with men and guns. They can dodge frigates most of the time because they're slippery to windward, but I can't see how they can catch so many of the packets, which are designed for speed.”

“Well, they do, and that's that.”

Ramage knew he had nearly lost. There was only one more chance. “But if I arrive at Falmouth, sir, I can't help feeling His Lordship will think I've just taken passage in the packet to get home.”

“I shouldn't worry about that; you stand a dam' good chance of ending up a prisoner in France.” Damn, he shouldn't have said that: it was just the opening the boy wanted.

“Exactly, sir: but with a dozen of my own men, we'd stand a good chance of escaping a privateer.”

“What the devil can a dozen men do?”

“They might—er, encourage the rest to do something.”

That was true enough; if the Post Office men were shy of the smell of powder, at least men picked by Ramage would stiffen ‘em up a bit.

“Very well, if you can get the Postmaster to agree to using a dozen of your men …”

“Thank you, sir.” Ramage tried to make sure he would remember the exact phrase Sir Pilcher had used.

If the Postmaster agrees, Sir Pilcher thought to himself, that's his affair. Whatever happens after that is the concern of the Joint Postmasters-General. It won't hurt those lofty fellows in Lombard Street to have their share of responsibility; they're a sight too free in trying to push it on to other people's shoulders.

Sir Pilcher relaxed as Ramage left the room. The Postmaster would never agree to the lad's crazy plan, but if he did … He shrugged his shoulders. Really, when the Cabinet decided to pass the responsibility to the Admiralty, they had absolutely no idea what it meant in practice.

Once outside Admiralty House, Ramage paused in the blazing sun and scribbled down Sir Pilcher's phrase, “Very well, if you can get the Postmaster to agree to using a dozen of your men.” He folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket.

The Deputy Postmaster arrived punctually at the Royal Albion next morning, and even before he sat down at the breakfast table Ramage thought he detected a change in the man. Was it nervousness? Apprehension? His movements seemed jerky; the fingers of his big hands opened and closed, as if he was unsure of himself.

After the usual greetings both men remained silent until the waiters had served them and moved back to stand by the kitchen door, as though on guard. As Smith began eating, Ramage asked: “What news, Mr Smith?”

“About as bad as it could be. Seems that Lord Auckland delayed the
Lady Arabella
's departure so she did leave after the
Hydra.
His Lordship tells me that news came in that two Lisbon packets have been lost, and the packet due from here didn't arrive in Falmouth, either.”

“And news of the war?”

“Nothing fresh. The French hold out in Malta, though Sir Horatio Nelson has a squadron at Naples and is blockading them. The Czar of Russia is showing more signs of friendship with this man Bonaparte. But no great battles—you knew about Luneville, of course?”

Ramage nodded: the Austrian defeat meant the end of Britain's last ally; from now on she was alone in the war against France and Spain. “The Lisbon packets,” he said, helping himself to more fried bacon. “Any pattern? Where were they lost?”

“No pattern,” Smith said. “At least, Lord Auckland did not mention any, except that they were homeward-bound. One was taken within sight of Porto, so she'd barely cleared Lisbon. The other was only fifty miles from the Scillies.”

“The weather?”

Smith wrinkled his brow, obviously casting his mind back over Lord Auckland's letter.

“The first one—light winds. The second—yes, it was blowing more than half a gale from the east, because one of the privateer's boats capsized.”

More than half a gale from the east. Ramage could picture the packet beating up to the chops of the Channel when she sighted the privateer. Yet she should have been able to turn and run …

“What were the casualties in the packets?”

“None in the first,” Smith said miserably, as though he knew only too well that it belied any serious attempt to avoid capture, “and one wounded in the second, according to the French newspapers.”

“But they managed to sink the mails before hauling down their flags?”

“Oh yes—there's not been a single mail taken by the enemy yet.”

“Not one that's been reported, anyway,” Ramage said sourly, buttering some toast.

“I resent that Mr Ramage: quite uncalled for.” Yet Smith's voice carried no conviction.

“We need to be realistic,” Ramage said sharply. “A captain in the Royal Navy surrendering his ship in half a gale with only one man wounded would face some very unpleasant questions at the court of inquiry.”

“How can you say that? You've no experience of surrendering a ship.”

“I have,” Ramage said, passing the toast rack to Smith.

“With more than one wounded, I presume.”

“Yes, two-thirds of the ship's company dead or wounded, and the ship sinking,” Ramage said coldly. “More tea?”

“I'm sorry,” Smith said contritely. “Was that your first command?”

“I started off the battle as the Fifth Lieutenant. The Captain and the rest of the officers were killed before it ended. I took command because I was the senior officer left alive.”

Ramage could have said much more, but decided against it. How could he explain to a Postmaster that he was contemptuous of the French and Spanish habit of firing a single broadside
pour l'honneur du pavillon
before surrendering? It was a charade, a fraud, a polite gesture. Any captain who gave a damn whether he had fired a single broadside (taking care to cause no casualties, for obvious reasons) or surrendered without firing a shot was only slightly less a fraud than the men who accepted such a code of behaviour.