Ramage's Prize (28 page)

“But … but you gave your word!”

“Exactly.” Ramage laughed. “I gave my word. You and I have to trust each other: we've no choice. You have to trust me to get the money, I have to trust you to free us when the money arrives. I could hand over the money and have you just cut our throats and sail …”

Kerguelen held out his hand and Ramage shook it.

When Yorke and Ramage went down below they found that Much had gone to the cabin he shared with Wilson and Southwick was back, playing chess with Bowen. Both men looked up expectantly as they came in.

“Did you have any success, sir?” Bowen asked.

Yorke stood by the open door, guarding against eavesdroppers, as Ramage described their meeting with Chamberlain, and when he told them about the new Act of Parliament, both men groaned. “So we have to call it off, sir?” Southwick asked.

“If the Admiralty won't allow it.”

“But you'll be able to pass the word to Their Lordships about—about the matter that Much told us?”

“I hope so; it depends—”

Yorke gestured from the door and a minute later Kerguelen came in, handing Ramage paper, pen and ink.

“A moment,” he said and put his hand in his pocket. He brought out a stick of wax. “When you want to seal the letter, one of my men will bring a lighted candle. It's not that I don't trust you,” he said hastily. “It is just that I have a great fear of fire. I was once in a ship that burned …”

The other four men murmured sympathetically: fire, not storms or reefs, was the greatest danger that a ship faced every day of the year, whether at sea or at anchor.

“Write a persuasive letter,” Kerguelen said with a grin, and left the cabin.

Ramage turned to Southwick and Bowen: “Since our parole gives us the run of the ship, why don't you two take a turn on deck and give Yorke and me room enough to compose an ode to the First Lord? Tell Wilson what's going on, and Much, too.”

When they had gone, Yorke said, “Supposing your report gets intercepted by the French? Stolen from Chamberlain's house, perhaps, or the Falmouth packet is caught and the mails opened? Is it safe to give Lord Spencer
all
the details?”

Ramage inspected the pen and smoothed the feather of the quill. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about: I was wondering the same thing.”

“Then you'd better just give the broad outline and tell him the details when you get to London.”

“But will he believe the story and persuade the Cabinet to pay the ‘ransom' without the details? Without names and facts and dates?”

Yorke shrugged his shoulders. “Write it down and see how it reads!”

An hour later Ramage put down his pen, gathered up seven sheets of paper that he had covered with his first draft, and sat on the bunk to read it. When he had finished he looked up at Yorke and shook his head. “He'll never believe it.”

“Why not?” Yorke demanded.

“It sounds bizarre; he'll never believe the ventures part.”

“Nonsense,” Yorke said brusquely.

He sat in the opposite bunk and scanned the draft, occasionally turning back a page and reading it again. Then he put it down on the table.

“You've met Lord Spencer. Is he shrewd?—I have an idea he is.”

“He's shrewd enough!”

“Then he won't find it bizarre. He'll send a copy to the Post Office and they'll pay up!”

“It'd need an Act of Parliament!”

“Small price to pay for finding out what's happening to the mails!”

“But will they
believe
it? I'm really asking them to pay up before they get all the details.”

“You are exasperating at times,” Yorke said patiently. “Can't you see they already have most of the facts in their possession this minute without realizing it—mostly Falmouth-bound packets lost, the men carrying ventures, and so on? It won't take long to check up on the insurance frauds. Your report shows how all the facts fit together into this—well, this conspiracy. You've just withheld the details of how you found out—and you've explained why you're doing that.”

“I suppose so,” Ramage muttered lamely. “But even if they believe me, I can't see them either putting up the money to pay Kerguelen, or allowing us to use our own. It's a new Act; to make an exception almost immediately …”

“You're a miserable fellow,” Yorke said. “If you don't have anything to worry about, you very soon manufacture something. Come now, we want a fair copy of the draft. Do you want me to sign as well?”

Ramage shook his head. “But I'll add a line saying you concur with my report, if you're agreeable.”

“W
HAT did Mr Ramage say?” Stafford demanded of Jackson as soon as the sentry had herded them below again after their morning exercise.

“Said he hoped to have some news for us when the packet arrived from England in about four weeks' time.”

Stafford sniffed. “‘Ave to be patient, don't we.”

“Perhaps you'd sooner wait in a French prison,” Jackson said unsympathetically. “For a year or two.”

“I'd sooner be on shore wiv the señoritas.”

“Italy,” Rossi said, “that would be better. In fact Genova: there the women understand.”

“Understand what?” Stafford asked innocently.

“Understand what to do with young and innocent sailors like you when they come on shore with much money in their pockets.”

“What do they do?”

“Oh, take them by the hand for a walk along the street and feed them sweet cakes!”

Jackson waved them to be quiet as he turned round to face the rest of the
Arabella
's crew.

“Listen, all of you: a message from Mr Ramage. No cheering or yelling after I've told you because we don't want to alarm the Frog guards. Now, Mr Ramage has made some sort of bargain with the French prizemaster to pay a ransom, so there's a chance we'll all be freed. And the
Arabella,
too. It'll be a month before he hears from London whether the Admiralty agree to paying.”

Suddenly Jackson realized that only eleven men—the former Tritons—were grinning; the packetsmen had long faces. Not only long faces: he thought they were suddenly suspicious and hostile. The Tritons had worked hard to restore good relations after the packetsmen had been killed as a result of Captain Stevens' order to cut the sheets and braces, but obviously that had all gone by the board.

The bosun pushed his way through the crowd of men and stood in front of Jackson.

“How does a Jonathan come to be in the Navy, eh?” he demanded aggressively.

Jackson laughed cheerfully. “Thought I'd give you chaps a hand!”

“That's a damned Yankee sort of answer,” the bosun sneered. “And what's this Mister Ramage mean to all you people anyway?”

Jackson thought for a moment. “We served with him once.”

“Where?”

“At sea,” Jackson said, “and what's it mean to
you?
” He thought quickly. These men would never be friendly: there was some gulf that he didn't understand. But the Tritons had to have the upper hand. His eyes narrowed. “You're the fellow that tried to kill Mr Ramage. We're the fellows that'd die for him. Just remember that—you
and
your shipmates.”

Suddenly the bosun, a swarthy and heavily built man, stepped forward and grabbed the front of Jackson's shirt with both hands.

“What's going on?” he bellowed, shaking Jackson. “What are you and that meddling Lieutenant planning with—”

He broke off with a yelp of pain, hurriedly pushing Jackson away, and the American saw Rossi's grinning face over the bosun's shoulder.

“Not to move, Bosun,” he said, “otherwise …”

“You damned dago, you'll cut open my back!”

A moment later Rossi's hand, holding a knife, came round the bosun to hold the point against the man's stomach. “And the front too, if you make the move.”

Jackson waited a full minute, watching the bosun's face beading with perspiration, the eyes flickering fearfully from side to side, trying to see Rossi but not daring to move.

“All right, Rosey,” Jackson said, waving the Italian away. “I think he understands now.”

The bosun stepped nimbly to one side, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Where the hell did you get that knife? The Frogs searched us!”

“
Si,
they make the search,” Rossi said calmly and, putting his left hand into his pocket, took out another knife which he handed to Jackson. The bosun watched fascinated as the Italian put his hand back into the pocket and took out two more knives, giving one to Stafford and the other to Maxton.

“Is magic,” Rossi said nonchalantly fetching out four watches, several gold rings and a small medallion. He gave the rings and watches to Jackson. “You can give them back to Mr Ramage when you see him.”

Jackson took them without a word. He had hidden them with the knives in the packet's belfry just before the privateersmen boarded, and had been trying to retrieve them ever since the ship anchored in the Tagus. Yet he had not noticed Rossi anywhere near the belfry when they were on deck exercising.

Their silence showed the packetsmen were impressed, but Jackson tried to guess why the mention of freedom had made them surly. He had expected cheers, but instead …

“What's bothering you all?” he asked the bosun. “You seem upset at the idea of getting freed!”

“Did you mean the Frogs take money and give us back the ship?”

“Yes. We'll be able to sail her back to Falmouth.”

“So the insurance won't pay out?”

“For the ship?”

“For everything.”

“Damned if I know,” Jackson admitted, “but I can't see anyone paying out for the ship if she hasn't been lost.”

“Our ventures,” the bosun said. “What about them?”

“Have the Frogs taken ‘em?”

“Yes, but they're still on board.”

“Then you haven't lost them, have you?”

“So the insurance won't pay out?”

Jackson stared at the man. Was he being deliberately stupid? “I don't know what you're driving at, but you know dam' well that insurers don't pay unless something's lost.”

The packetsmen began muttering among themselves and Rossi had moved closer to hear what they were saying. Stafford looked at Jackson questioningly and Maxton moved so he stood with his back against the bulkhead.

As the tension in the cabin increased, Jackson realized that the packetsmen were becoming the enemy; that he and the eleven Tritons—and Mr Ramage of course—were slowly being pushed over on to the side of the French privateersmen. A glance at Rossi, Stafford, Maxton and several of the more perceptive Tritons showed that they too were conscious of strange currents. And almost at once Jackson sniffed danger. Should they make a show of strength right now, in the hope of deterring the packetsmen from trying anything silly?

The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that for some strange reason the packetsmen had expected the insurance underwriters to pay out for a total loss. Now they knew that Mr Ramage had arranged something that could free both ship and crew, they were angry. And, Jackson thought, that means they will probably try to do something to wreck Mr Ramage's negotiations; something that would force the French prizemaster to take the ship to a French port …

By now the packetsmen were grouped round the bosun at the far end of the cabin, and Jackson waved to the Tritons. “Here, lads!”

They grouped round him, all muttering the same question: “What are they up to, Jacko?”

“What are they up to?” Jackson repeated loudly. “I don't know for sure, lads, but it smells to me like treachery!”

The bosun turned to listen and the packetsmen stopped talking.

“Their Captain didn't want to escape from the privateer—you all saw that,” Jackson continued. “You saw the two men at the wheel dropping the ship off to leeward. And you saw the bosun try to kill Mr Ramage. Well, lads, in London they'd call that treason, and they'd march ‘em off to Tyburn and string ‘em up. At first I thought it was just those four—and maybe the Surgeon as well—but perhaps the rest of them can be bought for a guinea as well.

“But,” he said, speaking very clearly, “they don't stand a chance, whatever they're up to. The French prizemaster wants to sell the ship to Mr Ramage, instead of risking being recaptured on the way back to France. So he won't take too kindly to anyone trying to interfere. Nor will the privateersmen, since they'll share the ransom money. And none of us wants to end up in a French prison. So that leaves these packetsmen on their own.”

“What are you going to do about it?” one of the packetsmen jeered.

Jackson turned to face them. “Do?” he asked quietly. “Why, everyone knows what to do about treason and treachery, don't they? And apart from that, although the French exchange packetsmen in a few weeks, there are plenty of Navy seamen captured at the beginning of the war who are still in French prison camps. Five years, some of them. Five years,” Jackson repeated, “not five weeks, like a packetsman, but five years. And maybe another five years before they're freed. Ten years. A baby is grown up in ten years. A woman's forgotten she had a husband in ten years. I'm not going into a French prison for ten years because of treachery …”

The bosun banged his hand against the bulkhead and bellowed: “You listen to—”

He broke off, his head jerking to one side and his eyes wide open with fear. Rossi had barely moved, but a knife was now vibrating in the bulkhead only a couple of inches from where the bosun's hand was pressed against the woodwork.

In the complete silence that followed, Rossi sauntered over and pulled out the knife. He put out his left hand, the index finger extended, and tickled the bosun's stomach. The whitefaced bosun stood stock-still, pressed against the bulkhead, afraid that even the slightest movement might be dangerous. Rossi, still smiling, once again tickled his stomach before turning to rejoin Jackson.