Ramage's Prize (14 page)

W
HEN the
Lady Arabella
finally reached the western end of Hispaniola and beat into Cape Nicolas Mole to make her one stop before stretching north into the Atlantic, there was only one frigate at anchor. While the mail was being brought out, Captain Stevens had himself rowed over to her, returning half an hour later to announce to no one in particular that she had been patrolling the Windward Passage and as far out as Great Inagua for the past two weeks without sighting any privateers. However, he said, there were the usual rowing galleys skulking in and out of the inlets round the coast, waiting to catch someone in a calm, so they had better keep whistling for a good wind.

Within three hours of arriving the packet was under way again, heading north through the Windward Passage to pass the island of Great Inagua before reaching out into the Atlantic. Stevens chose the difficult Crooked Island Passage rather than tackle the Caicos Passage, which usually turned into a beat dead to windward in the teeth of the Trades.

The route was a fitting one for a ship leaving the Caribbean, Ramage thought to himself, combining all the beauty of the Bahamas with most of its dangers. As the packet beat her way through, zigzagging against a brisk breeze blowing out of an almost garishly blue sky, the deep mauve of the ocean turned light blue near any of the many banks before changing to dark green over a rocky bottom or light green over sand. Brown patches warned of rocks with only a fathom or so over them; brown with yellowish tinges told of coral reefs.

Flying fish came up as silver darts to skim a few inches above the sea, rising over crests and dropping into troughs with effortless grace and rhythm; occasionally a shoal of small fish glittered in the bright sun as they leapt out of the water for a few moments in a desperate attempt to escape from some darting predator. What seemed to be a line of dark bottles on top of a low sandy cay suddenly moved as pelicans, drying themselves in the sun, decided that the packet frightened them and hoisted themselves into the air at the end of a long, ungainly run.

The islands themselves varied from Great Inagua, fringed with reefs, low and flat except for a few hills, and the home of pink flamingoes, to Crooked and Acklins Islands, forming a great bight with rolling hills and growing so many herbs that Columbus had referred to them as “the fragrant islands.”

Everyone on board the
Lady Arabella
knew that once the last of the Bahama Islands dropped below the horizon there would be no more land to sight until the packet reached the chops of the Channel, more than 3,500 miles to the north-east.

Up forward, the dozen Tritons were beginning to settle in. The packetsmen's initial resentment that a dozen of their shipmates had been left behind in Kingston was beginning to wear off—or, rather, was being aimed at Captain Stevens and the mate.

Just before supper on the fifth day out from Cape Nicolas Mole, Jackson, Stafford and Rossi were sitting on the foredeck with one of the packetsmen.

Stafford said: “You was born in London.”

The man grinned. “Islington. Me dad took me down to Falmouth when I were a nipper.”

“Thought so,” Stafford said. “See, Jacko, I recognized ‘is accent.”

“So did I,” Jackson said ironically. “How do you like Falmouth, Eames?”

“Well enough. Busy when a packet arrives or sails, and nice and quiet the rest of the time.”

“How long have you been in the
Arabella?
”

“Just this voyage. I change about.”

The idea of changing ships at will was so strange to a Royal Navy man that Stafford said, “Just think of that! Why change, though?”

Eames shrugged his shoulders. “I squeeze another voyage into the year.”

“How so?” Jackson asked.

“Well, the
Arabella
's hard put to make three round voyages in a year, counting docking time, repairs and so on. I like to make four.”

“Why? Don't you get paid just the same when she's docked?”

Eames avoided Jackson's eyes. “Oh yes, we get paid just the same. It's just that some of us like the hot weather.” He gave a little giggle. “And all the sunshine makes the money grow.”

Jackson looked puzzled. “Doesn't make mine grow,” he grumbled.

“Ah,” Eames said knowingly, “you've got to know what to plant—aye, and where to reap.”

“I'm a sailor, not a farmer!”

“Ah,” Eames said. “An' that's the difference!”

A call for all hands stopped Jackson asking him any more questions, and when Stafford grumbled later, Jackson said quietly, “We don't have to rush things; it'll be a month before we get back to England.”

While Jackson and Stafford talked with the packetsman, Ramage was making his first visit to Captain Stevens' cabin. Although they had met on deck several times and chatted briefly about the weather or the day's run, Stevens had ignored the passengers until, five days out from the Mole, he invited Ramage to his cabin for a drink before dinner.

“My apologies for not asking you sooner,” he said, gesturing to a small settee built athwartships against a bulkhead. “Here, let's push that box out of the way so there's more room for your feet.”

The box was one of two small wooden crates crudely made of unpainted wood, the heads of the nails already rusting, and from the ease with which Stevens moved it, its contents were light. As if guessing his thoughts, Stevens explained: “Tobacco—some really choice Jamaica leaf. I usually bring a few pounds back for a friend that appreciates it. Have to be careful where I stow it because it absorbs the smell of things like spice—or bilgewater!”

“Now,” he said, opening a locker to reveal a row of bottles sitting snugly in a fitted rack, “What's your pleasure? Whisky, rum or gin—and I still have some fresh limes left.”

With the drinks poured, Stevens sat back comfortably in his chair. The cabin was fitted out in the same dark red used throughout the rest of the accommodation, but Ramage noted that the joinery had been done with great skill and the mahogany carefully selected to make the best use of the grain pattern.

“I was ‘pologizing for not asking you along sooner,” Stevens said conversationally. “Fact is, I always find getting clear o' the Windward Passage a great worry these days. Always was a worry, with those currents setting right across the banks, but nowadays, with the privateers …” He shrugged his shoulders expressively.

“We were lucky,” Ramage said noncommittally, puzzled by Stevens' curious mixture of deference and apology.

“We were, too; I don't remember when I last came through without sighting a sail and having to make a bolt for it.”

“Always French privateers?”

“Ah, I wouldn't be knowing,” Stevens said smoothly, “I never wait to find out!”

“I hear Falmouth has been unlucky lately.”

“Aye, it's been a disastrous twelve month,” Stevens said, the “a” broadening with his Cornish burr.

“But you've been lucky so far.”

“Depends what you call lucky. I've been taken twice in three years, if you call that luck.”

“But—” Ramage stopped, waving his hand round the cabin to indicate the ship.

Stevens smiled patiently. “The first time, the Frenchies exchanged me and m'crew, and the agent in Falmouth—I suppose it was really the gennelmen in Lombard Street—chartered another ship for me while a new one was a'building. Got taken a second time—towards the end of the third voyage in the chartered ship—and exchanged again. After that I stood by at the yard until the new ship was ready—and this is the lady.”

“Nice ship,” Ramage said politely.

“Nice enough,” Stevens said cautiously. “Me and the builders are having a falling out, though—a little matter of some bad wood they slipped in while I was a prisoner.” He finished the rum in his glass and glanced up at Ramage. “No need to mention that to anyone, mind you, else the Inspector at Falmouth will want me to start rebuilding the ship.”

“Nothing serious, then,” Ramage said casually.

“No, just a bit o' soft wood here and there in the counter,” Stevens said equally casually but putting down his glass in a way that showed that was all he had to say on the subject.

“You've managed to keep the same ship's company through all this?”

“Almost. Fred Much is still the mate, and Farrell's the Surgeon. Same Master, but he stayed behind sick for this voyage, and the same bosun. A few of the seamen shift about.”

“You're lucky to be exchanged all together,” Ramage commented. “And so quickly.”

“Aye. Reckon the Frenchies know we b'aint fighting men; not like you Navy fellows.”

“You were homeward-bound both times?”

Stevens nodded. “‘Bout four hundred miles out.”

“How do they treat prisoners?”

“Mustn't grumble. Never got beyond Verdun—that's the big prison depot. Let out on parole. Lodged with the same family both times.”

“Most of the packetsmen get sent to Verdun?” Ramage asked.

Stevens nodded. With a curious mixture of pride and apology he said, “Fact is, packetsmen get special treatment. Verdun's got plenty of prisoners from merchant ships who've been there three or four years. Plenty of packetsmen, too; I met five other commanders, the last time. We were all exchanged together.”

“Do you have to pay the French a ransom?”

Stevens shook his head, then said, “Leastways, the commanders don't. Maybe the Post Office does, though I never heard tell of it.”

Ramage felt cramp beginning in one leg but the second box prevented him from straightening out. Stevens jumped up immediately. “Here, let me shift it out of your road.”

As he rubbed the knotted muscles, Ramage noticed that the second box was heavier than the first, and Stevens grunted as he pushed and tugged at it.

“A few presents for the folk at home,” he explained as they both sat down. “And something for the troachers, too.”

“Troachers?”

“You a Cornishman and you don't know troachers?” Stevens was laughing but as if to avoid more questioning he picked up Ramage's half-empty glass. “This is looking a bit stretched; I'll freshen the nip.” From then on, Stevens talked only of the Caribbean, and Ramage knew the evening would yield little else of interest.

In the saloon, Bowen had finally persuaded the
Arabella
's Surgeon, Farrell, to play chess. Yorke and Southwick sat round the table watching as the two men placed the pieces on the board. After five moves it was obvious that Bowen had at last found an opponent worthy of him.

“You play often?” Bowen asked.

Farrell shook his head. “Last time was in prison.”

“Prison?” exclaimed Southwick before he could stop himself.

“Oh—a French one!” Farrell said. “As a prisoner of war. I was out on parole, really.”

“What's it like?” Yorke asked sympathetically. “Being a prisoner, I mean.”

Farrell moved a pawn before answering.

“Depends which depot they take you to. Some are worse than others. I've been lucky.”

“How long before you were exchanged?”

“Six weeks the first time, nine the next.”

“Oh—you've been taken twice?”

“Yes—with Captain Stevens both times.”

“Were the casualties heavy when the privateers attacked?” Bowen said with apparently clinical interest.

Farrell shook his head. “It's your move,” he said pointedly. “We've got weeks to talk and weeks to play chess. Let's not be doing both at once.”

Late that night, sitting on their bunks in the darkness, Ramage and Yorke compared notes. When Ramage said that Stevens had been captured twice, Yorke commented, “The Surgeon was with him. I don't think there were many casualties either time. Farrell dodged the question when Bowen asked him.”

“I'm beginning to think the story is the same for all the packets—capture, exchange, new ship … Lucky that the French exchange the whole ship's company, instead of a few men at a time.”

“Is that usual?” Yorke asked.

“It seems so for packetsmen. For the Navy it's certainly different—a single British lieutenant against a French one, and so on.”

Yorke rubbed his chin miserably. “The fact is, we don't know much more than the day we left Kingston.”

“I didn't expect we should,” Ramage said. “We shan't find out anything important until a privateer's masts lift over the horizon!”

“That reminds me, I haven't the faintest idea what the French do about exchanging passengers,” Yorke said ruefully. “I'm beginning to regret my enthusiasm: I should have sailed in the next convoy.”

“Nine weeks to wait.”

“Better wait in Kingston than a French prison.”

“Cheer up,” Ramage said. “You needn't worry about privateers for another two or three weeks.”

“Oh!” Yorke exclaimed. “Well, you might have told me sooner: ever since we dropped the Bahamas astern I've been lying awake in my bunk just fretting …”

“Sorry—I've only just worked it out for certain.”

“Worked out what?”

“That most of the homeward-bound packets must be taken towards the end of the voyage.”

“Why so certain now? I know we suspected it, even though Lord Auckland forgot to mention it, but …”

“Both times Stevens was captured on the way back and taken to the depot at Verdun and paroled. The last time he met five other packet commanders. They all seem to end up at Verdun. If they'd been taken near the Caribbean they'd have ended up in Guadeloupe.”

Both men stretched out on their bunks, and as Ramage pulled the sheet over himself he began to feel depressed. He knew that, despite what he had told Yorke, he had been hoping to hear or see something on board the
Arabella
that would transform all the disconnected facts dancing around in his mind into a regular pattern, like cementing chips of coloured marble into a mosaic. Stevens' reference to Verdun only confirmed what he had already guessed. Yet there was something odd about the way Stevens referred to being captured. Was there a hint of evasiveness? Was Stevens secretly ashamed of something and afraid that if he said too much he would reveal a guilty secret?