Ramage's Prize (4 page)

The portrait was good: as he looked at the subject again Ramage realized that he had underrated the artist, who had been as subtle as he dare while still being sure of getting his fee. The Admiral rose from behind his desk in a movement halfway between the majestic and the ponderous, and pointed to rattan armchairs grouped round another small table, a replica of the arrangement in the waiting-room.

“Ah, my boy, let's sit here and be comfortable,” he said affably.

He motioned Ramage to one side of the table and sat down opposite in a chair which groaned loudly in protest.

“I've been giving Captain Jeffries of the
Hydra
frigate his orders: he sails for Antigua in a couple of days, lucky fellow.”

“Indeed, sir?” Ramage said politely. The Admiral's voice was curiously squeaky considering the bulk from which it emerged.

“Taking Admiralty orders and all the routine paperwork. Absurd not being able to entrust anything to the Post Office. There's talk of the Admiralty having to use the King's ships instead … and I'm so short of frigates. Damnably short.”

Ramage nodded, guessing that most of Sir Pilcher's frigates were out cruising, combining the hunt for privateers with the hunt for prizes, to bring a double profit to Sir Pilcher: a tactical profit of fewer enemy ships, and a cash profit since he received an eighth of all prize-money. Jamaica was the biggest money prize the Admiralty had to offer: two years in command of the station in wartime made an admiral as rich as a nabob who had spent a lifetime in India.

“Mr Dundas,” Sir Pilcher said, as though thinking aloud. “An impetuous man.”

But a powerful one, a startled Ramage thought to himself. As His Majesty's Secretary of State for the War Department and one of Mr Pitt's closest friends, Henry Dundas can afford to be impetuous since his drinking partner is the Prime Minister.

“Yes, an impetuous man. He has just ordered all his general officers out here to send duplicate and triplicate—
triplicate—
copies of despatches and routine reports by merchantmen sailing home in different convoys. He passed a duplicate of this order to the Prime Minister, who sent copies to both Lord Auckland and Lord Gower. Never could understand why they have Joint Postmasters-General,” he sniffed. “
And
a copy to the First Lord of the Admiralty. Most uncalled for, in my opinion.”

But most effective, Ramage noted, guessing that Sir Pilcher's soliloquy was an oblique way of leading up to the letter. After staring at the empty chair next to Ramage for a minute or two without speaking, Sir Pilcher focused his shifty eyes on him.

“Well,” he asked, “you've read my letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ramage realized that he still had not finally made up his mind how to answer the inevitable question: now he was facing the Admiral the decision that he thought he had reached with Yorke at breakfast seemed wrong.

“Think you stand a good chance of finding out what's happening?”

“No, sir,” Ramage said lamely.

Sir Pilcher's jaw dropped into the folds of his many chins. “No?”

Obviously it was not the answer Sir Pilcher had expected, and he groped in his pocket as he recovered from his surprise. Eventually he extricated a blue-enamelled snuffbox and snapped open the lid.

“Why not?” the Admiral demanded, glowering at the brown powder in the box, a podgy finger and thumb poised ready to take a pinch.

“There's not enough information to go on, sir: the packets are disappearing somewhere in scores of thousands of square miles of ocean.”

“They can't just
vanish.
”

“So many privateers, sir,” Ramage said vaguely, deliberately trying to avoid being put on the defensive and making specific objections which the Admiral could pin down and dismiss with an airy wave of the hand.

Sir Pilcher shook his head violently, the flesh of his face swinging from side to side as if about to break loose from the bone. “There might be more to it than privateers,” he said mysteriously.

Ramage remained silent, realizing his refusal had fallen flat.

“Much more,” the Admiral said, his voice dropping conspiratorially.

“I had no idea, sir; you didn't mention it in your letter.”

“Secrecy, my dear boy: you realize what all this means, don't you?”

Unsure if the question was rhetorical and wary of the querulous note in Sir Pilcher's voice, Ramage said nothing.

“It means, my dear Ramage, that because so many packets are being captured, London is cut off from the rest of the western hemisphere.
Completely cut off!
Can you imagine it? In the middle of a war, Whitehall can't send a single order to any admiral or general overseas—let alone to governors and those sort of people—and be sure it'll be received unless it's sent in a ship of war. The War Office is cut off from the Army out here, the Admiralty isn't receiving my despatches and I'm not getting their orders; and not a single merchant in England or the West Indies can send or receive an order or a remittance. Both war and trade are at a standstill—and have been for months …”

“I see, sir,” Ramage said, feeling some comment was necessary.

“Just think of the Admiralty and War Office not receiving regular despatches from their commanders-in-chief for weeks and months. Imagine the confusion when they finally get one and find it refers to matters raised in three preceding despatches they've never received. And the dreadful position commanders-in-chief are in when they suddenly get instructions referring to previous orders, and plans which never reached them. The
Hydra
brought out triplicate copies—
triplicate,
” he repeated pettishly, “of all Admiralty and War Office orders going back five months. It doesn't do to think of what's happening at the Navy Board and all the other offices: it'll take months to find out which reports and requests of mine they've received and which have been lost …”

Sir Pilcher broke off and shuddered, apparently overcome by the enormity of scores of clerks being deprived of the hundreds of reports and forms which might have been sunk in the Atlantic in weighted mailbags to avoid them falling into enemy hands.

Ramage conjured up a picture of London as the head of a body deprived of most of its limbs: an order from the head in London was incapable of provoking even a twitch of a muscle in the limbs of Jamaica or Martinique, Barbados or Antigua … if the losses spread, what of Canada and Gibraltar, the Peninsular and the Mediterranean? Every frigate and smaller vessel in the Navy would have to be clapped into service just delivering and collecting official mail, let alone dealing with the correspondence of merchants all over the world. Cargoes not shipped until they were paid for; urgently needed provisions, cordage, sails, powder and shot for the King's ships not sent because the Navy Board, Ordnance Board and the dozen other offices never received requests and reports … He felt something approaching sympathy for the portly Admiral sitting opposite him and staring fixedly at a snuffbox. The French had (perhaps accidentally) suddenly discovered a way of paralysing Britain. True, the opportunity had always been there, but surely the French didn't have enough ships to comb the oceans picking out Post Office packets?

As if reading Ramage's thoughts, Sir Pilcher tapped his nose knowingly. “You know the only thing that's going to stop the losses?”

When Ramage shook his head the Admiral said, with the air of a man revealing a great secret, “We've got to use our brains: we have to out-think those French rascals!”

“Surely having some frigates would help,” Ramage said lamely.

“Not at this stage. Later, perhaps, when we know what's going on. No, my boy, we—I mean the Admiralty, the Post Office and myself—can't act until we get the answer to one particular question.” He paused, and Ramage was reminded of an actor savouring the climax of his best role.

“Do you know what that question is?” Sir Pilcher asked, and his face fell when Ramage nodded.

“I think so, sir.”

“Oh, you do, eh? Out with it then; out with it!”

“Well, sir, I understand there are fewer French privateers at sea now than last year, and they're capturing fewer merchantmen. So why are fewer privateers capturing more packets? If that is what is happening.”

The look of admiration on Sir Pilcher's face was quickly replaced by one of irritation. “Exactly. That's the question, and what's the answer, eh?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders; the tone of the Admiral's voice told him that no one else had found it, either. “Any officer investigating the losses is going to need a great deal of information before he'd even dare to make a guess, sir. He'd almost need to be able to see into the mind of the enemy.”

Sir Pilcher gave a deep sigh, as if relieved to find someone who agreed with him. “Between you and me, Ramage, that's just what I've hinted in my despatches to the First Lord. Still, can't say it aloud, can we!” His fingers were still poised over the snuffbox but his earlier agitation had vanished. “Well, Ramage, what about it?”

“Information about losses so far, the way the packets operate … ?”

“All taken care of,” Sir Pilcher said airily. “The Deputy Postmaster-General here in Kingston has all those sort of details.”

His tone implied that they were trivial but that—well, Ramage wondered, that what? He was probably being stubborn (Sir Pilcher would call it mulish), but he felt he was being led along blindfolded. And why had
he
been chosen? If the situation was as desperate as Sir Pilcher said (and he was certain the Admiral was not exaggerating), surely it was a job for a senior captain on the Jamaica station: someone like Captain Napier of the 74-gun
Arrogant,
who could ask for three or four frigates if he found he needed a small squadron to root out privateers.

Yet Sir Pilcher had made great play of that “one particular question,” as though the real job of destroying the privateers, whatever it was, could not be done until someone had served up the answer on a plate. It made sense—providing the losses conformed to some special plan. Find out what the plan was, and then move quickly to wreck it. Supposing the losses were pure chance; privateers encountering the packets at random? Then no answer existed, and a lot of time would be wasted looking for it.

Ramage was deliberately avoiding looking squarely at his own particular question, but it was nagging at him like toothache. All right, he thought grimly, take a good look at it this time: Why has Sir Pilcher chosen me? He dislikes me—no one makes a secret of that. He has a couple of dozen favourite lieutenants he wants to get promoted and given their own commands, yet none of them was given the job. He has at least a dozen young frigate commanders, low on the list of post captains but high on his patronage list, any one of whom he would like to single out for special praise in a despatch to the First Lord.

The Cabinet has told the Admiralty to halt the losses, the First Lord passed the word to Sir Pilcher, and Sir Pilcher has picked Lieutenant Ramage. It was a damned odd sequence, because if Ramage succeeded, the process reversed itself: Sir Pilcher would have to give him the credit in a despatch to the First Lord, and the First Lord would probably mention his name to the Cabinet. All of which, he thought cynically, would be most gratifying to an admiral, let alone a mere lieutenant, since it would probably result in the lieutenant getting instant promotion.

He looked across at Sir Pilcher, who was still staring fixedly at the enamel snuffbox. You're up to something; there's not the slightest doubt about it. Why haven't you chosen your favourite lieutenant to reap this golden harvest? Or your favourite young frigate captain? Is it because you know there'll be no harvest to reap? That all you will be able to report to the First Lord, and the First Lord to the Cabinet, is abysmal failure? Ramage watched Sir Pilcher's hands for a few moments, saw their slight trembling, and was sure that the Admiral believed the mission was impossible.

Still, it was worth fishing around a bit more to try to be sure why Sir Pilcher had chosen him before he finally refused the job. Ramage decided to bait a hook and lower it gently over the side into what were palpably deep waters.

“The
Hydra
frigate, sir,” Ramage said tentatively, “she brought out the latest news from London about the packet losses?”

“Of course—Lord Spencer sent her because that's the only secure way of passing orders these days.”

“Did the First Lord make any suggestions, sir?” Ramage congratulated himself: the diffident note in his voice was perfectly pitched.

“Suggestions? My dear boy, the First Lord doesn't
suggest
things; he gives
orders
.”

Gently does it, Ramage told himself, the hook is baited and the fish is swimming close to it. Just a little twitch should be enough.

“I hope I'm not being impertinent, sir, but did the First Lord specify a particular officer for this—ah, this task?”

“A particular person? I have
my
orders from him, naturally,” Sir Pilcher said, his eyes never moving from the snuffbox, into which he was peering with all the absorption of a fortune-teller gazing at a crystal ball. Was he being evasive?

“But no particular officer was named … ?”

“His orders to me cover the point.”

As soon as he saw Sir Pilcher was not taking the bait, Ramage found himself losing both patience and interest. Sir Pilcher's reasons for choosing him were still far from clear and Ramage was damned if he was going to get mixed up in the old man's chicanery. Now's the time to withdraw gracefully, he told himself.

“Well, sir, since you've been kind enough to give me the option of—well, travelling home as a private individual instead of … ah, receiving fresh orders …” He patted the letter in his pocket as if overcome with nervousness.