Ramage's Prize (30 page)

“Your razors?” Ramage exclaimed.

“Haven't you seen them? How many do you have?”

“A set of two.”

“And you use them alternate days?”

“Of course,” Ramage said.

“But you don't get a good shave.”

“Oh yes I do!”

“By your standards! Try having seven razors, like me. Each has a day of the week engraved on the back.”

“But what's the point? Just more razors to strop!”

“Yes—but each has six days' rest. I don't know why, but good steel honed really sharp needs a regular rest to keep a fine cutting edge.”

“You're a good man lost to the Church,” Ramage said sourly. “Or maybe you should have been a barber.”

“Church or barber, eh?” Yorke said amiably. “You're the one with the sharp tongue!”

Suddenly he pointed westward, towards the broad entrance of the Tagus. Running in before a fresh westerly wind was a small brig similar to the
Lady Arabella.

“Not only the Lisbon packet safe and sound, but a day early!” he exclaimed. “Did she find good weather, or did they send her out a day early to bring the glad news?”

If Ramage was honest with himself, Yorke's matter-of-fact acceptance that the Post Office might have sailed the packet a day early because of his efforts was the first time he had thought of the possibility, yet it was an obvious one, given the Government's position.

Certainly he had listened when Sir Pilcher Skinner had described how despatches from admirals, generals and governors were being lost along with the Government's orders for new and secret operations. But with an almost frightening detachment he realized that it was not until this very moment, as he watched the distant packet coming in under all plain sail, that he fully appreciated how one continent was cut off from another by the packet losses.

Previously it was a fascinating problem in which he was closely involved. Now he seemed to be standing back aloof, looking at an invisible barrier, like a
cheval de frise,
running north and south down the centre of the Western Ocean and cutting it in half. A barrier with gaps here and there, since occasional packets got through, but still a massive barrier.

The Government in London was like an admiral on board a flagship unable to signal to his Fleet; a regimental sergeant major struck dumb on a parade ground. The Prime Minister in Downing Street, the War Minister at the Horse Guards, the First Lord at the Admiralty, the Foreign Secretary also in Downing Street—and not one of them certain he could pass even the most trifling order beyond the shores of Britain …

As the packet drew closer, the long days of waiting began to recede. Southwick, Bowen, Wilson and Much came up on deck and Kerguelen joined them. Soon the brig was near enough for them to see a crowd of people on her deck, but clearly her Captain was not going to get too close to the
Arabella.

“Carrying a lot of passengers,” Southwick commented.

Ramage stared moodily at the packet. Locked up in a drawer on board that ship was the letter which was going to tell him if he was a free man with a future or a discredited lieutenant doomed to spend the next few years in a French prison. The next couple of hours were going to be worse than the past month …

Almost exactly two hours after the packet had gone alongside the quay, a boat came out to the
Lady Arabella
and Kerguelen sent for Ramage. In the boat was a messenger from the Post Office Agent who, after making sure it was indeed Lieutenant Ramage to whom he was speaking, handed over a heavily sealed letter. He would wait for the reply, he said.

As Ramage turned to go down to his cabin he saw that every privateersman was on deck watching him. Kerguelen glanced away to avoid Ramage's eye. Every one of those men, Ramage realized, knew that the letter he was holding might represent a great deal of money; money to be handed over to Kerguelen and shared out among them.

Yorke was sprawled on one of the bunks, ostentatiously reading a book; Bowen was demonstrating some complicated chess defence to an obviously bewildered Southwick. All three were making a great effort to avoid showing any curiosity about the letter.

He broke the brittle green wax of the seals and found it contained not a letter from Lord Spencer but a note from the Agent. “My Lord,” Chamberlain had written, “I have this moment received an urgent communication from Lord Auckland concerning the
Lady Arabella
packet, and with it is a letter from the Admiralty addressed to you which I dare not risk having delivered to you on board the prize. I shall be at my house if you can leave the ship; otherwise would you be kind enough to give written and sealed instructions which the messenger will bring to me without delay.”

Hmm … Mr Chamberlain's attitude has undergone a lot of modification, Ramage thought wryly, but there is no mention of the ransom money. What did “concerning the
Lady Arabella
packet” mean? Was Chamberlain being discreet, afraid the letter might fall into the wrong hands?

“From Chamberlain,” he told them. “He wants me to go and see him.”

“Kerguelen will agree,” Yorke said. “May I come?”

Ramage nodded, and Yorke swung himself from the bunk and reached for his hat and cloak.

Southwick still looked worried, and Ramage said, “I'm afraid I don't know what's been decided; the Agent doesn't give a hint.”

Yorke followed him up on deck, where Kerguelen was pacing up and down, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. The Frenchman walked over to Ramage and asked abruptly, “The money—it is arranged?”

“The Post Office Agent wants me to go to his house: he has despatches from London.” Ramage held out the letter for him to read, but Kerguelen waved it aside with a gesture showing he accepted Ramage's word. “You'd better use our boat—the messenger can dismiss his.” He shouted orders to a group of seamen.

“You think everything will be all right?” he asked, once he made sure the men were working quickly.

Ramage gave the best imitation of a Gallic shrug that he could muster, and waved the letter. “The Agent makes no mention of difficulties.”

Suddenly he wanted Kerguelen to come with him to see the Agent. The Frenchman had behaved honourably so far: he had agreed to the bargain, accepted their parole, and done his best to make their stay on board the
Lady Arabella
as comfortable as possible.

But, Ramage thought sourly, all of them had now passed well beyond the point where the word of honour of honest men necessarily influenced what would happen: they were now in the shadowy world of politics. What Lord Auckland—the Cabinet, rather, since it was obviously involved—decided might well be based on political expediency: ministers always had a wary eye fixed on Parliament and a highly sensitive ear cocked which could detect a rumble, let alone a howl, from the Opposition Front Bench. If Lieutenant Ramage's word of honour or freedom had to be sacrificed to quieten that rumble …

Yes, Ramage decided, Kerguelen deserved not only to know exactly what was happening, but to be present while it was happening. “I hope you will allow Mr Yorke to come with me.”

“Of course.”

“And yourself.”

“Me?
Pourquoi?
” Kerguelen did not try to hide his astonishment.

“I would prefer it,” Ramage said simply.

Kerguelen seemed to sense that whatever reason Ramage had was straightforward but not to be explained or debated. “Give me a minute to change,” he said.

When the three men arrived at Chamberlain's house they were met by a Portuguese manservant who, after taking their hats and cloaks, gestured towards chairs in the large hall. Ramage looked gloomily at Yorke and made a face. The Agent was playing the childish game, so beloved by petty officials and minor diplomats, of keeping visitors waiting as the only way of proving—to themselves, if no one else—their importance. So childish, Ramage reflected; so unnecessary, since it revealed the man's unimportance. And, perhaps the most unforgivable thing of all, so predictable and obvious: it had all the subtlety of a caulker's maul.

After twenty minutes, the manservant returned and indicated that they should follow him into the large cool room the Agent used as an office. Chamberlain, sitting at his desk, kept his head bent over some papers in front of him until Ramage was halfway across the room. Then he gave a carefully timed start, glanced up, arranged a thin smile on his face and came round the desk with his hand outstretched.

“Ah, Lieutenant, I'm glad to see you, and you, Mr Yorke …”

His voice tailed off as he saw Kerguelen.

Ramage took the Agent's arm and said in a deceptively quiet voice, “You must meet Captain Kerguelen, the prizemaster of the
Lady Arabella.
Captain—this is the Post Office Agent, Mr Chamberlain.”

The Frenchman bowed but the Agent looked dumbfounded. “Lieutenant! I can't allow—”

“Let's resume our talk out in the street then,” Ramage said, his voice ominously quiet. “Then we'll be on neutral ground.”

“But I …”

“I want you to tell us if you are ready to pay the money to Captain Kerguelen.”

“Indeed I am not!” Chamberlain exclaimed. “I will neither provide the money nor allow you and Mr Yorke to pay it.”

Ramage looked at Kerguelen. The Frenchman's face was impassive. It was impossible to guess his thoughts.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell the Captain why,” Ramage said.

“I most certainly will not!” Chamberlain said angrily, sitting down in his chair with a thump. “I don't have to explain my decisions to enemy privateersmen—to pirates!”

Ramage turned to look down at Chamberlain and said, his voice little more than a whisper, “You weren't being asked to explain
your
decisions; you don't have the power to make any that matter a damn. You were being asked to explain the recent Act of Parliament. However, before I withdraw my parole I'll explain.”

With that Ramage described to Kerguelen the Act, explaining that it was newly passed, and the first he knew of it was when the Agent told him. As Ramage spoke, Kerguelen occasionally nodded his head and, at the end of it, after Ramage described his application to the Admiralty for an exception to be made, he shrugged his shoulders expressively.

“So,” Ramage concluded, “I withdraw my parole.”

“Me, too,” Yorke said. “We are your prisoners again.”

Chamberlain gasped. “Lieutenant! You can't do that!”

Ramage just stared at him but Yorke said contemptuously, “You count your mailbags! Leave a matter of honour to people who understand it!”

“But there's a letter for you,” Chamberlain wailed helplessly to Ramage. “From the First Lord of the Admiralty. And there's the letter from the Postmaster-General—from Lord Auckland himself.”

Kerguelen was quicker than Ramage to grasp what the Agent had done and said: “Revoke your parole when we get back to the ship. I'll wait in the hall until you are ready.” With that he left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

Ramage turned to Chamberlain and, still speaking quietly and rubbing the scars over his brow, said, “Give me Lord Spencer's letter.”

Chamberlain was about to speak, but Yorke saw that Ramage's face had gone white and he knew what the unconscious rubbing of the scars meant. He also knew that Ramage was one of the few men whose voice became quieter as he grew more angry. Ramage at this moment was a spring under enormous tension: at a certain point it needed only a fraction more strain to release it. Chamberlain had been so objectionable that Yorke knew it was a miracle that Ramage had kept his temper up to now. But the Agent was far too stupid to be warned by the drawn face, the narrowed eyes and the hard line of the lips.

“Mr Chamberlain,” Yorke said hurriedly, “you're in much deeper water than you realize. Stop playing silly games with Mr Ramage because there's nothing to discuss. You have two letters to deliver, and that's your only function. You are the Post Office Agent; merely a clerk in this affair. Mr Ramage and I gave our word of honour to Captain Kerguelen—you forget that long before we reached Lisbon we agreed to buy back the ship and our freedom for £2,500, and we gave our parole until the money came from England.

“Then you told us of the new Act and Mr Ramage wrote to the First Lord,” Yorke continued, as though explaining to a child. “From what you say, apparently the Government will not honour our agreement, but that doesn't mean to say we don't honour our parole. So from the moment that you told us the Government had disavowed us,” Yorke continued, speaking very distinctly, “we reverted to being prisoners of war, and the
Lady Arabella
remains a French prize.”

“But you can't do that! You must stop him!” Chamberlain gabbled excitedly. “You can't go back on board and let that pirate escape with the
Lady Arabella!
”

“Can't we?” Ramage interrupted coldly. “Write to Lord Auckland and explain how you tried to prevent two British gentlemen from keeping their parole! Now, give me that letter from the Admiralty!”

Chastened, Chamberlain unlocked a drawer in his desk and handed Ramage a packet on the back of which was the familiar anchor seal of the Admiralty. Ramage took it and put it in his pocket.

“Aren't you going to read it?” the Agent asked incredulously.

“Yes, but not now.”

“But supposing it contains orders?”

“You've told me the money is not here, and Mr Yorke and myself are not allowed to pay it privately. That's all that matters for the moment.”

“But Lord Auckland …” Chamberlain broke off nervously, as though at a loss what to do next, and Ramage saw he was fingering another letter, the seal of which was broken.

“What about Lord Auckland?”

“Well, he says that although …”

Again he broke off. Instinctively both Yorke and Ramage moved closer to him: obviously the Agent was holding something back.