Ramage's Prize (25 page)

Yorke, who had been listening as best he could while carrying out a conversation with Bowen, turned to Ramage and said quietly, “Believe me, Nicholas, as a businessman I can assure you that even if he takes two years to build the new ship he'll make a far greater profit than if he'd been at sea. In effect, he's gained—well, I'd guess a third or half of his original investment.”

“I can see the temptation is enormous. But the risk of discovery …”

“It's been going on for four or five years, much longer than over-insuring ventures,” Much said, “and the Post Office suspects nothing. They think it's because there are swarms of French privateers at sea.”

“And we know there aren't,” Yorke commented. “No wonder the Admiralty are puzzled: I'll bet their frigates don't sight that many!”

Ramage decided to keep his own orders secret: Much seemed quite satisfied at opening his heart—or was it purging his soul?—to a King's officer.

“Did they think they could always keep this a secret—the ventures frauds and the new ships?”

“The new ships, yes: the commanders keep their mouths shut, and who could actually prove anything anyway? There's no secret about carrying ventures—it's been going on for years, and when the Post Office tried to stop it last year the men went on strike: you probably remember it. Lombard Street kept quiet about the reason, but it was ventures. The over-insuring—well, that's something else! That's a secret all right—why, if the underwriters got so much as a hint …”

“But why hasn't the Post Office suspected something?” Ramage persisted. “Surely they question the commanders when they're exchanged? Don't the commanders face a court of inquiry when they lose a ship, like we do? I've gone through three so far!”

“Oh yes; it's a routine business. As soon as he gets back to Falmouth from France, the commander goes to a notary and swears a ‘protest' like any other shipmaster, and delivers that to the Post Office Agent. Then a committee—made up of other packet commanders—sit to question him, and that's that. Obviously his brother commanders aren't going to stir up any mud! Sometimes the Inspector of Packets comes down from London, but”—Much shrugged his shoulders—”he's a man who neither sees nor hears evil.”

“So that's it,” Ramage said. “But you haven't explained why Stevens broke his promise.”

“It's Farrell,” Much said angrily. “I could see that damnable Surgeon was persuading—or threatening, for he's a wicked man—long before we reached Kingston. It's my belief the Surgeon's carrying very high insurance on his ventures.”

“But how can the Surgeon threaten him?”

“On behalf of the ship's company. When they get back to Falmouth, moorings could get cut in the night and the ship drift … she could catch fire … spring a leak … Bear in mind, sir, the Post Office only pays out if she's lost due to enemy action.”

“Don't forget Stevens wanted a new ship anyway,” Yorke muttered. “It'd be enough to persuade an owner. Probably wouldn't seem like treachery or treason: simply safeguarding his interests by submitting to blackmail by the officers and crew. And getting a new ship into the bargain.”

Ramage rubbed the scars over his right eyebrow. “I can see that. Wouldn't make any difference in court, of course; it's still treason and Stevens would be hanged.”

“Hanged!” exclaimed Much. “Oh my God, what have I done?” Ramage said nothing and Yorke and Bowen turned back to the chessboard.

“Hanged …” Much whispered. “I told him it was sinful; I warned him before we left Falmouth …”

After a few minutes, Much said to Ramage, “I'm still glad I've told you, sir; I didn't want to meet my Maker without telling someone what's happening to the mails. It seems so dangerous for the country … I could go back to the other cabin now and let Mr Southwick come back here again.”

“No, you'd better stay here for a day or so. We might think of more questions,” Ramage added vaguely.

“I'll tell you something, Mr Much,” Yorke said bluntly. “That fellow Stevens deserves to swing. More blameworthy than the Surgeon.”

“Oh, sir!” Much said, deeply shocked. “Farrell is a real rascal.”

“Make no mistake,” Yorke said, “Stevens is more blameworthy because he's the Captain. The Surgeon's simply a dirty little rogue. Picking pockets, poaching, treason—it's all the same to him. But not to Stevens; he knows the difference. That's why the Post Office pays him to command. You must understand that. Leaders get paid not for the work they do but for the responsibility they bear. Whatever happened on board the
Arabella
was Stevens' responsibility.”

The mate nodded numbly. Ramage saw that for all Much's concern and soul-searching he was only now realizing the full extent of the damage done to the Post Office by the greed of short-sighted men. There was just one important question left—after he had the answer to that, Ramage knew he'd carried out his orders, and his remaining duty was to stay alive long enough to report to the Admiralty. “Tell me, Mr Much,” he asked, “are you sure the packetsmen—both seamen and commanders—aren't deliberately seeking out privateers and surrendering?”

“No, definitely not. All it boils down to, Mr Ramage, is that they've covered themselves in case they do meet one.”

Ramage said quietly, “Yes, but they make much
more
profit if they're captured, Mr Much. Treason pays them a far higher dividend than doing an honest job.”

Much held up his hands helplessly. “But they've enough sense not to kill the goose that lays the golden egg.”

“Supposing the Royal Navy took over delivery of the mails?” Ramage asked out of curiosity.

“That's what I mean,” Much said. “The packetsmen won't risk that. Anyway,” he added, “the one time a Navy cutter took the New York mails she was captured on the way back.”

W
HEN Ramage first thought of the idea the
Arabella
was running fast in the darkness, the sea sluicing past the hull planking only a few inches from his head and sounding like a cataract. It was not the proverbial flash of inspiration; rather that as he was lying sleepless in his bunk Ramage found the idea had arrived in his mind like a cat coming unobtrusively into a room and waiting to be stroked.

Since he was no stranger to weird ideas thought up during pre-dawn bouts of sleeplessness, he turned over on to his back to consider it again. Ten minutes later he knew there was nothing wild about it, nor did it leave anything to chance, and there was only one real “if.” He eased himself out of the bunk and shook Much, who was sleeping deeply and snoring gently. He was awake in moments, whispering, “Whassermarrer?” at someone he could not recognize in the darkness.

“It's Ramage. Tell me, how much does the Post Office pay out to the owner when a packet is lost? What's the cost of building?”

“Phew”—Much sat up, rubbing his head—”give me a moment to wake up properly, sir. Now, let me think—the
Halifax, West-moreland, Adelphi
… Yes, about £3000.”

“Thanks,” Ramage grunted, and as he turned back to his bunk Yorke spoke from the chair he had drawn in the chairs-cabin sole-bunk lottery with Ramage and Bowen. “Why the sudden interest at this time o' night, Nicholas? Going to make Kerguelen an offer for the
Arabella?
”

“Yes,” Ramage said shortly. “Like to take a half share?”

Ramage heard the chair creaking as Yorke sat upright and said, “Yes.”

“Make it a third, sir,” Bowen said sleepily, “and I'll take a third.”

“Congratulations—not many men can raise £3000 in twenty seconds before dawn out in the Atlantic,” Yorke said banteringly. “Now you can tell us how you propose buying the ship.”

“Don't misunderstand me,” Ramage said. “Three thousand pounds is the Post Office figure. She may be worth six to the French.”

“So you are likely to dun Bowen and me for another thousand each, eh?”

Ramage asked the Surgeon, “Can you stand two—”

“Three, if need be,” Bowen interrupted, “but no more than three, though.”

“Wish I could put up something,” Much said miserably. “I've got seven hundred pounds in the Funds, an' that's all, but you're welcome to it.”

Ramage leaned over and patted the man's shoulder in the darkness. “Don't start fretting: if all this works, Mr Yorke will buy us out and may offer you a job as well!”

“I certainly will,” Yorke said cheerfully. “I can use a good mate in one of my ships.”

“Oh dear me!” Much exclaimed, completely overwhelmed. The inadequacy of the words brought home to Ramage the extent of Much's self-control: few men would have been able to resist some blasphemous expression of surprise and pleasure.

“Don't let's declare any dividends yet,” Ramage reminded them. “First we have to persuade Kerguelen to sell; then we have to agree on a price.”

“If nothing else, he'll drive a hard bargain,” Bowen said. “We aren't in a particularly strong position,” he added ruefully.

“Stronger than you might think,” Ramage said. “Depends on how much of a gambler Kerguelen is.”

“Gambler, sir?” Bowen exclaimed, making no attempt to disguise his surprise.

“Yes. He knows he has only a fifty-fifty chance of getting back to St Malo from Lisbon without being captured. Eight or nine hundred miles. Don't forget the Channel is an enormous funnel: the closer you get in, the narrower it is, and the Navy is always watching. Ships are converging on it from all over the world, and apart from patrolling frigates, warships are returning. And plenty of British privateers are out looking for ships such as this—French prizes trying to get back to the Channel ports.

“But he could increase the odds in his favour by sneaking into Brest,” said Yorke gloomily. “Save himself a hundred miles. Or Bordeaux.”

“No,” Ramage said, “from Lisbon he'll head for St Malo—once the Channel Fleet's back in Plymouth. Apart from pride, he'll make for his home port because he'll have rope and canvas in the hold. In St Malo he knows all the officials, and he and his brother probably have a proper base there for fitting out prizes.”

“All the more reason why he won't agree to sell,” Yorke said. “This packet's fast; she's just the right size for a privateer: easily handled, well-equipped—”

“And her whole stern so rotten we'll be lucky to make Lisbon, let alone St Malo,” Much said lugubriously.

There was complete silence in the cabin for a full minute.

“The
whole
stern?” Ramage repeated incredulously.

“The whole stern,” Much said. “You can punch your fist through the archboard; the last dozen feet of the stringers and shelf are soggy like a bad potato. Don't even dare think about the deadwood; the rudder's hanging on by faith.”

“How long have you known all this? The extent of the rot, I mean.”

Much waited a minute or two before answering and Ramage wished he could see the man's face.

“I've known we had some rot for six months—I mentioned that was why Stevens wanted a new ship. But it's spreading very quickly, as I found out in Barbados, where I made a complete above-water examination and reported to the Captain. That was the first time I found out how bad it was.”

Ramage guessed that by a bitter irony it was probably Much's report that made Stevens decide to break his promise to the mate: knowledge of how fast the rot was spreading meant it would need only slight pressure from Farrell to make Stevens surrender the ship at the first opportunity.

“Supposing he hadn't known the stern was rotten,” Ramage mused. “I wonder what he'd have done about the
Rossignol.
”

“I'd only be guessing,” Much admitted, “but I think he might have run. Farrell
might
have been able to persuade him not to fight if he couldn't get away, but I think he'd have made a more effective attempt to escape.” The mate thought for a few moments and then added wearily, “I'm not sure, though. I begin to wonder.”

“Of course,” Yorke said casually, “one mustn't forget Stevens does own the ship; up to a point, he can decide what he does.”

“I'm not disputing that,” Ramage said grimly, guessing Yorke was leading up to something else. “He could own a bank or an abbey as well, but he doesn't own the bags of mail, and treason is still treason.”

“Don't pick on him alone,” Yorke advised. “Don't forget the other commanders. They surrendered simply because of insurance on the ventures, not because their ships had rotten sterns. Incidentally, Much my dear fellow, bearing in mind we'd all like to stay afloat, were you exaggerating a few minutes ago about the extent of the rot?”

“No, I wasn't. I told Captain Stevens we ought to get some precautionary work done before we left Kingston: doubling some frames for example, and making sure the gudgeons and pintles were held in good wood, in case we lost the rudder. But there wasn't time: the Agent wanted us to sail almost at once, and naturally the Captain didn't want to tell him about it. He wants to get full value for a sound ship.”

“So our chances of reaching anywhere safely would make a professional gambler go pale?”

“Faint clean away,” Much said, in the most cheerful tone of voice Ramage had yet heard him use.

“The rot,” Ramage said. “Presumably it's very obvious?”

“Some of it—if you start looking. I had some lining ripped out. But from on deck, no; that was all painted over again a'fore we reached Kingston, in case we shipped some nosy passengers.”

“Like Mr Yorke and me.”

“Exactly, sir.”

Bowen said: “When will you tackle Kerguelen, sir?”

“After breakfast.”