Ramage's Prize (19 page)

Why north-by-east? Why not north? With the wind on the beam and the sails trimmed properly the
Arabella
would be romping along. But steering a point or more to the east of the sensible course, and with the yards braced up so the wind was spilling out of the sails—why, if Stevens had been waiting to meet a pilot cutter and wanted to waste an hour without heaving-to, he would do just what he was doing now.

“Excuse me, sir,” Southwick said, “they're steering more than a couple of points off course. Never a bit above nor'-nor'-east, and often down to nor'east-by-north …”

“Very well,” Ramage said, but Southwick did not return to the binnacle; instead he stood there, as if waiting for orders, and Ramage knew the old Master felt the time for action was fast approaching. It was, and Ramage knew it. But what action? And against whom? First, he had his orders from Sir Pilcher to find out how the packets were being captured. Carrying out those orders comes before anything else, he told himself yet again, and I've already decided that being on board a packet when it's actually captured might be the only way of getting the answer.

But the
Arabella—
unless I can do something about it—is going to be captured just because Stevens is a fool. Perhaps a knave as well. Being on board the
Arabella
when she's captured because her Captain hasn't the wit to keep her up to windward isn't going to give me any answers. If poor seamanship is the only reason why all the other packets were captured, then I have the answer now: all I need do is seize the
Arabella
—and with the dozen Tritons and surprise that would be easy—and drive her hard. Even if Stevens has lost us too much to leeward to let me … he dismissed the rest of the train of thought: he was confident he could avoid capture.

So by tonight, he told himself the
Arabella
could be safe, and I'd be able to start writing my report to the Admiralty. Just poor seamanship. “Judging by Captain Stevens' behaviour when the
Arabella
sighted a privateer, none of the packet commanders knows how to sail his ship with the wind on the beam, let alone close-hauled …” Their Lordships would give a derisive laugh, and because of their disbelief Lieutenant Ramage would spend the rest of his life on half pay. And no wonder. It did not sound a very plausible explanation.

So what could he do? Force Stevens to bear up? If he refused, Ramage would have to take over command of the ship. He did not give a damn about the furious complaints the Post Office would make to the Admiralty, but the problem was simple: if he did take over the
Arabella
it would not help him to carry out his orders. All he would know was that Stevens was not fit to command anything.

What a mess, he thought bitterly. Sir Pilcher was wiser than he knew when he kept his favourites out of range of this job.

“Well?” Yorke asked. “You've been staring at that privateer for three minutes. You've sighed five times and rubbed the scars on your brow twice. By now your plan must be ready, and Southwick and I await your orders.”

Ramage shook his head miserably. “No plan, no orders … I just wish to God I'd never lost the
Triton;
then I wouldn't be here.”

“Now, sir,” Southwick said soothingly, “why don't we just get to windward of Stevens and put a warning shot across his bow? Just close enough to give him a shock: might do him a world of good.”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “It's about all we
can
do. We're just outraged passengers making a formal complaint. Remember that. Passengers, nothing more.”

Even before he finished speaking, Yorke was striding aft to where Stevens still stood at the taffrail. Ramage noticed he was now wearing a cutlass. In fact several men now wore them. But Stevens had not sent the men to quarters yet … He remembered he had not yet retrieved his sword from Jackson and saw the American waiting near by. Taking the proffered sword he did up the clips and hurried aft to join Yorke and Southwick.

Stevens was now looking apprehensive, his face creased into the worried, almost sycophantic expression of a grocer seeing his three best customers coming to complain about the quality of some of his goods, but not yet sure exactly what the complaints would be.

Passengers, Ramage reminded himself, we're just passengers. As he reached Stevens he gestured towards the privateer (startled to see how close she now was) and said, “I thought we'd have shown her a clean pair of heels!”

“Not a hope,” Stevens said dolefully.

“We were six miles to windward when we sighted her. The
Arabella
looks a fast ship,” he said contemptuously, “but whoever designed her must have used a haystack for a model.”

“Aye, ‘tis true,” Stevens said, still in a doleful voice. “She's not as fast as she looks.”

Yorke suddenly appeared at the other side of Stevens and said crisply, “If I owned this ship I'd be ashamed!”

“How so, Mr Yorke?” Stevens was not provoked. His voice was still sad, like a professional mourner's.

“I'd be ashamed at the way she's being sailed, and I intend telling Lord Auckland about it, too.”

“I can't set any more canvas, Mr Yorke; I haven't the hands to furl when the privateer gets to close quarters.”

“
When?
That's putting the cart before the horse,” Yorke said, his voice taking on a distinct edge. “If you'd spent a couple of minutes sail trimming and then kept a sharp eye on the helmsmen, that privateer wouldn't have got within five miles of us, and we'd lose her once it's dark. Why, it's not too late even now.”

“I wish ‘twas so,” Stevens said lugubriously, “I've no wish to be a prisoner again.”

“Then put better men at the wheel,” Yorke snapped. “Those two are steering a couple of points to leeward all the time.”

“Oh, you're mistaken, Mr Yorke, indeed you are; this ship won't hold up to windward like that fellow.” Stevens waved towards the privateer. “Designed for close-hauled work, those Frenchmen.”

“Bah!” Yorke exclaimed. “Captain Stevens, it's my duty to remind you of your duty towards your passengers. You're not taking the proper steps to safeguard us. Why, you haven't sent the men to quarters yet. Look, every gun is still secured!”

Well spoken, thought Ramage: Yorke's protest was just the sort a passenger would make. But at that moment he heard Captain Wilson's heavy footsteps clumping along the deck behind them.

“I say, Yorke my dear fellow,” Wilson said hotly, “that's demned insulting, don't you know? I've complete faith in Captain Stevens. We're ready to stand to our guns the moment the Captain gives the word. You'll see, we'll give our French friends a run for their money!”

“Nonsense!” Yorke said angrily. “You don't seem to realize that all this is like a despatch rider not putting spurs to his horse when he's chased by a squadron of enemy cavalry.”

“Oh, come!” Wilson exclaimed.

“Listen, you know as much about the sea as I do soldiering,” Yorke said abruptly. “I wouldn't presume to tell you how to lead your company into battle, but you can take my word for it that this ship is being sailed badly. Because of Captain Stevens, that privateer will be alongside us inside a couple of hours. We're just drifting, not sailing. Would you hobble a racehorse?
That's
what's going on, Captain Wilson, among other things, and if you doubt my word, ask Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick!”

Ramage realized that Yorke was deliberately provoking Wilson as a means of stirring up Stevens, but he didn't want Yorke to go too far: the way things were going the privateer might be trying to get alongside in less time than Yorke estimated, and Wilson's cheerful aggressiveness would be welcome. “Gentlemen,” he said, “instead of bickering we ought to be listening to Captain Stevens giving us our instructions …”

Yorke glanced at him admiringly: neatly done, the shipowner thought to himself, very neat indeed. And he noticed Ramage was again rubbing one of the scars on his right brow, a sure sign that he was concentrating hard.

Stevens coughed and straightened his back. “I—er, well, you can see we turned away a few minutes ago …”

His voice trailed off when he realized several pairs of eyes were watching him closely.

“My orders,” Stevens said lamely, a whining note in his voice, “they tell me to run from an enemy when I can, and when I can't run any longer, then to surrender—after sinking the mails.”

“Forgive me,” Ramage interrupted. “I probably misunderstood you. I thought the Post Office instructs its commanders first to run, then fight when they can run no longer, and sink the mails only when they can no longer fight.
Then
surrender.”

“Of course, Lieutenant, of course! That's what I meant,” Stevens said hurriedly.

“Very well,” Ramage said crisply, “but so far you haven't sent the men to quarters. Your guns are still secured, the magazine locked, not a musket or pistol issued, boarding nets not triced up and the mails aren't up on deck in case you have to sink them … What exactly have you done so far, Mr Stevens, apart from buckling on that cutlass?”

Stevens was both embarrassed and on the defensive now, as though Ramage was asking him if his wife had ever cuckolded him. “Now, now, Mr Ramage,” he said chidingly, “don't let us be impetuous. Coolness in action, Mr Ramage, I'm a firm believer in it; you'll learn in time how important it is.”

Ramage flushed with anger at the crudeness of Stevens' remark, and decided it was time to regain the initiative. “I agree, Captain,” he said coolly. “Although I doubt if you've ever fired a shot in action, despite surrendering twice, I can assure you from experience that your theory is correct.”

Ramage jumped in surprise as someone standing behind him gave a sudden bellow of bitter laughter. He turned to find Much who, looking directly at Stevens, said contemptuously, “Impetuous!”

Stevens now gave Ramage the impression of a man not only under great strain, but who had a lot to conceal, like a clerk in a counting house just before his books were checked. But to be fair, Ramage told himself, a clerk might be worrying that some arithmetical error could cost him his job, not scared that a fraud he had perpetrated would be discovered. Whether the clerk was honest or fraudulent, the symptoms could be the same.

“Yes, Mr Mate, impetuous!” Stevens said, as if trying to reassert his authority.

“We don't have too much time,” Ramage said, gesturing at the privateer. He then pointed at the boat hanging across the packet's stern. “Isn't it time we cut this adrift? It's going to interfere with the guns.”

“I'm the master of this ship, Mr Ramage.”

“Yes, you mentioned that earlier,” Ramage said pointedly, “but since you've let the ship sag off to leeward, we'll have to fight, and repelling an attack eventually gets down to aiming and firing guns. And I assure you”—Ramage pointed over the beam—“that she'll soon be within range, thanks to the course you've been steering.”

“Get the mails on deck, Mr Much!” Stevens ordered, ignoring Ramage. “And look lively about it.”

Ramage turned away, noting that Farrell had joined them but not said a word so far. As he walked to the mainmast he saw that the men at the wheel were still letting the ship sag off to leeward, and Stevens had given them no fresh orders, nor sent men to the sheets and braces. Yet perhaps he was pressing Stevens too much—or causing the pressure, anyway. The man was getting even more nervous, but left in peace for a few minutes he might possibly start making the right decisions. He might yet decide to fight.

Jackson and Stafford, as if anticipating the approaching climax, were standing where they could see any gesture Ramage made—even a raised eyebrow. Yorke and Southwick, moving a few feet away from Stevens, were watching the seamen hauling bags of mail on deck and placing them just abaft the aftermost gun on the lee side. From there it would be easy to pitch the bags out through the port.

Three men came up with several pigs of iron, and Much took the neck of the nearest bag, cut off the lead seal and untied the knot of the line holding the bag closed. He put in two of the iron weights and retied the line, then took the next bag. There were 23 bags, Ramage noticed, and painted on the canvas were the large numbers that Smith had so carefully checked in Kingston. Finally all the bags were weighted with iron bars and, after ordering a seaman to guard them, Much walked over to Stevens and said loudly, “Your mails are ready to go!”

Stevens ignored the emphasis on “Your” and said quietly, “Thank you, Mr Much, and I see you've put a sentry over them. Excellent!”

Yorke caught Ramage's eye and joined him by the mainmast. “What's he going to do? Fight or surrender?”

“Who knows?” Ramage said. “It's like trying to shovel smoke. I wish we knew more about the mate.”

“A very religious man, obviously,” Yorke said. “Probably one of Mr Wesley's followers—they're pretty numerous in Falmouth. He might regard Stevens as a sinful man.”

“Or a villain,” Ramage said.

“And all the time he might be just a fool. But”—Yorke looked round, and lowered his voice—”I think he's mightily influenced by that crafty Surgeon.”

“Yes, it's a pity Bowen hasn't been able to get much out of the fellow.”

“Chess isn't a talkative game.”

Ramage pointed over the starboard quarter. The privateer, well heeled under a press of canvas, was now almost bows-on, her hull gently seesawing as she drove up and over the swell waves in a graceful but powerful movement. With sheets eased and a flowing white moustache of bubbling water at her bow, she must be near her maximum speed.

Half an hour ago the
Arabella
and the black-hulled privateer had been well separated, although steering courses that slowly converged. But now the privateer, racing along under a skilled captain, had seen the
Arabella
gradually sagging down to leeward so she would soon be in the privateer's path and perhaps a mile ahead. After that, Ramage noted grimly, unless Stevens can be forced to act, it will be only a matter of minutes before she ranges up alongside to windward with the
Arabella
at her mercy.