Ramage's Prize (36 page)

The packetsmen, standing sloppily (or was it insolently?) were watching him curiously, not knowing what was going to happen. The dozen Tritons were standing to attention; all but one of them had gone through this ritual with him twice before, and would have seen it many times in other ships. For any captain it was a memorable day, no matter how often it was repeated. Few captains—and Ramage knew he was not one of them—cared to hurry it. And today there was a particular reason for giving the ritual as much drama as possible.

Southwick marched up, head erect, left hand clasping the scabbard of his sword.

“Ship's company all present and correct, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Southwick!”

The Master marched back to rejoin the group of passengers.

Blast! The Colours! In all the flurry of Kerguelen leaving the ship, the Ensign had not been hoisted. Well, let us add it to the ritual—the packetsmen would not know any better.

“Have the Colours hoisted, if you please Mr Southwick.”

Just a slight stiffening—which Ramage knew only he had noticed—betrayed the Master's annoyance at not having noticed the omission.

Jackson suddenly took one pace forward, turned aft and marched to the halyard. Ramage saw he had a large bundle under his arm. That damned American, he thought to himself, he doesn't miss a thing! Jackson had also realized the need for ritual. He secured the upper toggle of the Ensign to the halyard, then the lower. Then he stood to attention, facing Southwick.

“Hoist away!” The Master bellowed.

The flag caught the breeze and Ramage wished there had been a drummer on board to strike up a ruffle or two. With the halyard secured Jackson marched back to his place.

To anyone unfamiliar with naval routine, it appeared the correct procedure. And, Ramage thought wryly, there is no routine laid down anyway since the circumstances are unusual. He took the Commission from his pocket, unfolded it and, after glancing at the two ranks of men, began reading in a loud and firm voice.

“By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom and Ireland … to Lieutenant the Lord Ramage … His Majesty's packet brig
Lady Arabella
… willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of Captain in her accordingly …”

Ramage paused for a full minute. The wording of the Commission was archaic and unfamiliar to the packetsmen and he wanted the full significance of it to sink in: that the ship was now under the command of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy; that the ship was now controlled by the Admiralty, instead of being under charter to the Post Office.

Although looking directly in front of him, Ramage could see out of the corner of his eye that the packetsmen were glancing at each other, and he wished he could also see the expressions on their faces—but he would know about that soon enough since Southwick, Yorke and Bowen would be watching like hawks.

He glanced down at the Commission again and continued reading:

“… strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said packet brig to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments, with all due respect to you, their said Captain …”

Again he paused long enough for the men to absorb the words, and he detected some shuffling of feet, as though uneasiness caused movement.

“… you will carry out the General Printed Instructions and any orders and instructions you may receive …”

Again he paused. The next phrase was the one he wanted to ram home. He looked slowly and deliberately from man to man along the file to his left, and then did the same on his right. He had their attention all right! He held up the Commission.

“… hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril …”

He finished reading the remaining sentences and then folded the Commission slowly and deliberately. The Regulations and Instructions had been obeyed; by reading aloud to the officers of the ship the Commission appointing him Captain, he had “read himself in.” Now he was lawfully established as the Captain of the ship, responsible for everything about her, from the behaviour of the crew in battle to the chafe on a sail in a gale of wind.

He had more power over the men, he mused in the silence that followed, than the King: he could order a seaman to be flogged—but the King could not. He could order them aloft in a storm, and punish any man that refused. He could order them into a battle from which none would return alive. And, if he was a good captain, he was also now the father of a large family. Although the Articles of War allowed him to have a wrongdoer flogged until he screamed for mercy, the obligations of leadership also meant a man could—and should—come to him for help and advice.

It was usual for a new captain to make a brief speech: apart from giving the men a chance to size him up, it allowed him to sound a keynote.

“Several of you men,” he said, “have never heard a Commission read before. So that there'll be no misunderstanding, I'll explain that the Post Office and the Admiralty have jointly decided that I take command of the packet and take her back to England. You are all under naval discipline. All Protections have been withdrawn, and you are subject to the Articles of War. Those of you who don't know what that means can find out from those who do.

“Since this ship left Jamaica, we have all shared some strange adventures. The First Lord of the Admiralty and the Postmaster-General have read my report about it—and indeed it was a very
full
report.” He decided exaggeration was pardonable; it should convince the packetsmen—particularly that villainous bosun—that it was too late to silence him. But he must be careful not to scare them too much: he daren't risk them refusing to sail the ship back for fear of being arrested. A little bit of reassurance, then.

“They have approved my negotiations to secure the release of the ship. The result is that instead of ending up in a French prison, we'll all be back with our families in England in a few days.

“While I am in command of the ship, Mr Southwick will be the Master. The Surgeon is Mr Bowen. Mr Much will have a well-earned rest, but will stand watch if needed, as will Mr Yorke.”

He looked round again. He had every packetsman's attention, that much was sure. Whether he had their loyalty was a different matter.

Ventures! He suddenly realized that was what the packetsmen wanted to hear about. Hellfire, ventures were forbidden by the Post Office, so he could hardly mention them as such. But there was an easy way out of it.

“If any of you men had any of your property taken and kept by the privateersmen, give me a written list before we arrive in England. Apart from that, keep your possessions stowed away tidily, just as you would on a normal voyage.”

“We are sailing within an hour. There'll be a guinea for the first man to sight the English coast.”

He turned and with a curt “Carry on, Mr Southwick!” strode to his cabin, where Yorke joined him, after politely knocking on the door in a tacit acknowledgement that, now Ramage commanded the ship, their official relationship had changed.

“I wouldn't bet on it,” he said, “but I think you've got ‘em!”

“I thought I heard some shuffling of feet and sucking of teeth,” Ramage said doubtfully.

“There was at the beginning, but the
‘at your peril'
stopped that: I saw at least two men glance up at the foreyardarm, as though they already saw a noose hanging there …”

Ramage laughed grimly. “Well, the sooner we get ‘em to sea the better: a month at anchor rots any but the best of men.”

He unbuckled his sword and put it in the rack, then took his Commission and locked it in a drawer. He was—from force of habit—just going to call to the Marine sentry to pass the word for Southwick when he realized that he was commanding little more than a cosmopolitan bumboat: no Marine, no steward … Well, until he knew more about the mood of the packetsmen, there would have to be an armed Triton at his own cabin door and also Southwick's. A thought struck him and he said to Yorke, “Would you mind continuing to share a cabin with Southwick?”

“No, of course not. Hadn't occurred to me I wouldn't, though now I think of it we do have plenty of accommodation.”

“Sentries,” Ramage explained tersely. “The same man can guard you and Southwick in one cabin, and Bowen and Wilson in the next, and the Marchesa too.”

“Don't forget Much: doubt if he's very popular among the packetsmen …”

“I had forgotten him,” Ramage admitted. “But yes, the same sentry could see that fourth cabin—Much had better move in there.”

“Nasty feeling, isn't it, when you aren't sure of all the men.”

Ramage nodded. “We have the Tritons,” he said simply.

He walked to the door and called for Southwick and Much, and when they arrived he quickly gave them their instructions concerning accommodation and sentries. Then he added, “You should all sleep with a brace of loaded pistols close at hand—warn Wilson and Bowen, too. And only packetsmen at the wheel.”

The mate looked puzzled.

“Men at the wheel are helpless, Mr Much, and it's easy to keep an eye on them!”

Much grinned, “Yes, indeed, sir, the Devil makes work for idle hands!”

Ramage looked at Southwick. “Very well, we'll get under way as soon as you've finished the watch bill. I don't want to lose the ebb.”

An hour later the anchor had been weighed and catted, and the
Lady Arabella
was reaching down the Tagus towards the open sea, Southwick giving occasional orders to the men at the wheel to avoid fregatas beating up against the ebb. The clouds were clearing and as they approached the bar the wind veered slightly.

Gianna had come up on deck as soon as the ship was under way, walking aft and standing at the taffrail, out of the way of the bustling seamen yet in a position to see everything that was going on. She caught Ramage's eye and he knew she was happy, content to be left on her own until he had time to be with her. She had his big boat-cloak over her shoulders, the hem nearly touching the deck; a silk scarf of blue and gold—Ramage recalled they were the national colours of Volterra—held her hair against the tug of the wind and the downdraught of the sails.

Yorke walked up to him and said quietly, “I don't think I've ever seen such a beautiful picture.”

And Ramage did not have to turn to look: Gianna was standing against a background of the pale blue sky and the city of Lisbon spread over rounded hills, the hard vertical lines of its monastery and church towers softened and tinted oyster pink by the early sun. He was taking her back again—to his home, not hers. A home she had left without hesitation because she thought she might be able to help him in Lisbon. It was a humbling thought that a woman such as this would cold-bloodedly risk her life for him.

Yorke, as if reading his thoughts, said softly, “She took a fearful risk coming out here.” When Ramage nodded he added, “What would the French do if they got their hands on her?”

“Murder her, I imagine. While she's alive she's a threat to them. She could rouse three-quarters of Tuscany if the people knew she was in the hills waiting to lead them.”

“It'd be a massacre, though,” Yorke said. “Peasants with pitchforks against Bonaparte's Army of Italy.”

“A massacre now,” Ramage said. “But maybe not in a few years' time. The French fighting troops being used elsewhere, and the garrison troops grown soft and slack by inactivity … Curious place, Italy: it rots the weak and inspires the strong.”

The familiar thumping footsteps warned them Wilson was approaching. “Morning, Captain,” he said almost shyly, as though unsure how he should treat Ramage in his new role. “Just going to take my exercise. Wondered if the Marchesa might care to join me. Permission to ask her, as it were?”

Ramage stared at him blankly for a moment, and then grinned. “Of course. She probably heard you,” he said with gentle irony, since the soldier's confidential whisper was probably audible on the foredeck.

Gianna gathered up the folds of the boat-cloak. “How thoughtful of you, Captain Wilson: I was feeling cold and the exercise will do us good.”

“A mile before dinner, Ma'am,” Wilson said as he fell in step beside her. “Have to you know; it's the porter. Drink too much of it and it makes …”

Yorke winked at Ramage. “Seems half a lifetime ago we first heard him say that. I say,” he said suddenly, “how long is it really?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Seven or eight weeks, I suppose, but it isn't the sort of time you can measure with a calendar.”

“I wonder what's happened to Stevens and Farrell?”

“I was thinking about them last night. Probably in a French prison by now. I expect the
Rossignol
put them on board her next prize.”

Yorke gave a bitter laugh. “While we were prisoners in Lisbon, the French may have exchanged that pair by now …”

“I've thought of that too,” Ramage said firmly, “and in case your imagination is sluggish this morning, I've thought of them making an official protest against me to the Inspector of Packets, and I've tried to guess what Lord Auckland says to the First Lord of the Admiralty when he reads their version.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Yorke commented. “But the
Rossignol
may have been caught by one of our frigates, and a British roundshot may have knocked both their heads off.”

Southwick came up. “With your permission, sir, I'd like to get on with that survey of the stern. If I could have Much to help me, too.”

“Carry on,” Ramage said. “Make it detailed!”

The
Arabella
was making good time: the village of Estoril had dropped out of sight behind Punta de Salmodo, and the Citadel at Cascais, with Fort Santa Marta on the point, would soon be hidden by Cabo Raso as he headed the packet north for the long slog almost the length of the Peninsula. For once the wind was being helpful, veering as the
Arabella
rounded each headland so that it stayed just abaft the beam.