Ramage's Prize (47 page)

Ramage lifted the canvas bag on to the table and, rather perversely, wished it had dried fish scales on it, or even white crusted salt from dried seawater: anything that would leave a temporary mark on this highly polished mahogany table to remind Their Lordships of the broad oceans and fighting ships, and take their minds from the stuffy, almost incestuous, atmosphere of the Houses of Parliament.

He unlaced the bag, removed his report and Much's, and put them both down on the table, then glanced over at the Langley Bradley clock in the corner by the door. A quarter past ten. That clock, he remembered Spencer telling him during a happier visit to the Board Room more than a year ago, had told Their Lordships the time for nearly three-quarters of a century, while the windvane had told Their Lordships if the wind would serve to let the French Fleet escape from Brest. The mirror on the front of the clock had reflected Board meetings that had sent Vernon to Cartagena, and Anson on his great voyage round the world. And given Byng a tiny squadron and sent him too late to save the Balearic Islands from the Duc de Richelieu and Admiral Galisonniere. Port Mahon had fallen, Byng had been blamed for what was the Government's slowness and stupidity and unpreparedness, and as their scapegoat he had been shot.

And out of that shameful episode had come a delight for gluttons—the new sauce the Duc de Richelieu's chef had created to celebrate the fall of Mahon and named
mahonnaise,
and which was becoming very popular these days …

Suddenly Ramage noticed that His Lordship had made no move to pick up the reports; in fact he had returned to reading and signing his letters. Was he indicating that the report was politically unacceptable? Was he telling Ramage not only that he had failed, but that he had earned everyone's contempt by trying to blame the poor defenceless packetsmen?

It was one or the other, and Ramage no longer cared which, even though the mutiny in the
Arabella
had been the final proof he needed. He wanted to be with Gianna again: he wanted to see his mother and father and wander through Blazey Hall, see the portraits of his forebears watching him from the walls. Perhaps they would approve of what he had done. He would walk through the gardens and the fields and forget the Navy, the Post Office and politicians. He wanted to walk through the fields holding Gianna's hand like some rustic with a milkmaid.

“This is my final report, sir: it contains all the proof you could want.”

Lord Spencer nodded without looking up. “I'll look at it when I have the time.”

“May I have leave, sir?”

“You have no ship,” Lord Spencer said, “so you're on half pay. Your time is your own …”

It was true, of course; but the voice was still as friendly as cold steel. It said, without uttering the actual words, you are on half pay now, and that is how you will end your days, because you were given a splendid chance and your first report went all the way up to the Cabinet, and all along the way it was disbelieved.

One grunt of disapproval from the Prime Minister over a lieutenant's activities, and the lieutenant might wish he had died nobly as an enemy shot knocked his head off. The alternative was rotting on the beach on half pay …

“Thank you, sir,” Ramage said and stood up. He moved the report so the bottoms of the two packets were parallel with the edge of the table.

Spencer nodded curtly, still without looking up or saying any more, and Ramage, his now empty canvas bag tucked under his arm, left the Board Room and made his way down to the entrance hall. Yorke and Much sprang from their chairs in the waiting-room as he entered, but Ramage shook his head, indicating that he wanted to say nothing within hearing of the messengers, and gestured towards Whitehall.

The two men followed him out of the waiting-room, across the entrance hall and out through the doors. They strode down the wide steps and across the cobbled courtyard. The two stone beasts over the top of the archway that Ramage had never been able to identify—they comprised the head, shoulders and wings of an eagle grafted to the tail of a sea serpent—seemed to ignore them, as usual, as they emerged into Whitehall.

Ramage looked up and down the street for a carriage. On the opposite side a tinker was busy hammering at the bottom of a pot, while next to him an upholsterer patiently mended the padding of a chair. There were the usual carts and wagons—one laden high with cords of firewood was passing a brewer's dray loaded with a pyramid of puncheons, more than enough weight for a pair of horses to haul.

“What happened?” Yorke finally asked.

“He didn't believe the first report from Lisbon, and the Cabinet agreed with him. They all criticize me for putting the blame on the Post Office men. I gather it doesn't fit in with Government policy as laid down in Downing Street.”

“But what about the last report—the one you've just delivered?” Yorke asked incredulously.

“I was told to leave it,” Ramage said flatly.

“He didn't read it?”

“No.”

“But you told him—”

“I told him it contained all the proof he needed.”

“So he doesn't know anything about the mutiny and the kidnapping of the Marchesa, then?”

“I assume not; but it won't make any difference. It's Government policy: that's obvious, even if it means they go on losing packets.”

“Perhaps it'll be different when Lord Spencer reads the report,” Much commented hopefully.

Ramage snorted, then said, “Anyway, here's a carriage.”

“Well, I'd better say goodbye, sir,” Much said.

“Aren't you coming with us?” Ramage asked in surprise.

“Where are you going, sir?”

“My family have a house in Palace Street, about half a mile past the Houses of Parliament. You're coming, aren't you Yorke?”

The young shipowner nodded. “Many thanks; I don't keep a town house and don't want to take another carriage down to Bexley for the time being; I've had enough of travelling …”

By then the carriage had stopped. The coachman, leaping down to unfold the steps, was standing with the door open.

Ramage motioned Much in, taking his acceptance of the invitation for granted, and followed Yorke. “Palace Street,” he told the coachman. “Blazey House.”

The coach smelled dusty and gave the impression there was heavy mildew under the cushions, but the springs had been greased and the coachman controlled the horses without the usual noisy flourishes that they seemed to think necessary to increase the size of the tip.

The three men sat in silence as they passed the Houses of Parliament: Ramage felt that Yorke was not going to try to get Much interested in them again.

“The Abbey,” Yorke said suddenly. “That's Westminster Abbey.”

Much nodded, but was not impressed, and Yorke sat back in his seat.

Suddenly there was the clatter of a horse's hooves right beside them and a hand was banging on the window. Much jumped up with a warning yell of “Highwaymen, by God!” and, banging his head on the roof, sank back to his seat glassy-eyed and almost stupefied.

Yorke, sitting in the forward seat and looking back, said to Ramage quickly, “It's one of those messengers from the Admiralty!”

The carriage stopped before they could call out to the coachman, and, as he opened the door, Ramage heard the urgent call, “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

Ramage stared at the messenger on horseback. As far as he was concerned he had made his last visit to the Admiralty; in the brief carriage drive he had decided to resign his commission and ask Gianna to marry him …

“What do you want?”

“Lieutenant Ramage, sir! Will you return to the Admiralty at once, sir? First Lord's orders, sir, at once sir, it's urgent sir, no delay His Lordship said, it's urgent—”

“Belay it,” Ramage snapped, although the last “urgent” would have been the final one for a few moments since the man was now taking a painful gasp of breath.

Yorke muttered, “He's just read your report!”

“Yes, you'd both better come back with me.”

He called to the coachman to return to the Admiralty, and a small group of passers-by, peddlars and hucksters who had stopped to watch, moved out of the way as the coachman reined the horses round with a flourish.

Fifteen minutes later Ramage was sitting in the same chair in the Board Room.

“Are you trying to make a fool of me?” Lord Spencer asked furiously.

“No, sir! Why?” Ramage exclaimed.

“Your report! Why the devil didn't you mention the mutiny, the attempt to murder you and the kidnapping of the Marchesa di Volterra—though God knows what she was doing on board?”

Ramage decided that, for all the anger, nothing had really changed. “I referred to it in my report, sir.”

“I know that! But why the devil didn't you mention it when you were sitting there?”

“I said the report contained all the proof you needed, sir—although I didn't think it would make much difference …”

“Difference to what?”

“Difference to the Government's decision.”

“
What
Government decision?” Lord Spencer asked angrily.

“That the packetsmen aren't to be blamed for anything, sir.”

“Well—that wasn't exactly a decision,” the First Lord said, obviously taken aback.

“You said that my first report was not believed, sir—by the Postmaster-General or the Prime Minister.”

“Well, yes; but that was before this mutiny, which is just the proof we needed.”

“I had all the proof
I
needed long before we reached Lisbon. Still, I suppose the fact that they tried to murder me and kidnapped the Marchesa does prove I'm not a liar!”

The bitter comment was spoken before Ramage realized he had even thought it, and he waited, red-faced and angry, for the First Lord's wrath.

Instead Lord Spencer said calmly, “It proves you're not a politician.”

Ramage sat staring in front of him, determined to guard his tongue.

“Lord Auckland will be here in a few minutes,” Spencer said. “Fortunately he hasn't gone down to his place in Bromley.”

“The underwriters,” Ramage said. “There are three men from the
Lady Arabella
for instance: the Commander, the Surgeon and the bosun's mate. We need to know how many times they have collected insurance on total loss claims. And how many times they've been captured and exchanged, too. Sir,” he added as an afterthought.

The First Lord picked up a small silver bell and rang it violently. Almost immediately a secretary hurried into the room. “Ah, Jeffries,” the First Lord said. “Take a list of packetsmen that Lieutenant Ramage will give you. Check with the Navy Board to see who deals with the exchange of Post Office prisoners, and then find out how often these men have been captured and exchanged. And at the same time—at the
same
time, mind you, because we're in a hurry—ask the Committee of Lloyds to find out what policies these same Post Office packetsmen have taken out since the beginning of the war, and what claims they've made—all on personal freight between Falmouth and the West Indies.”

Ramage wrote the names on a sheet of paper and gave it to Jeffries, who was obviously the First Lord's secretary.

As soon as they were alone again, the First Lord said, “Well, what answers shall I get?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “All of them have been captured at least twice. The Surgeon has probably been making nearly £4,000 a year from private cargoes and insurance claims, and many of the seamen £500 or more. The claims are quite legal, sir—or, rather, claims the underwriters never questioned since they were for goods in a packet captured by the French.”

“Why didn't the underwriters ever query the claims?”

“Because the Post Office was authenticating every loss by paying out the full value to the owner of the packet. If the Government is satisfied and pays out, sir, how can underwriters avoid following suit?”

“I follow what you mean. But see here, Ramage, when Lord Auckland arrives, you watch your tongue. I'll do the talking: it's very delicate when one department has to tell another that some of its people have committed treason …”

“And murder, attempted murder, mutiny and kidnapping,” Ramage said, picturing the sentry's body sprawled on the deck, and Gianna held prisoner.

“Yes, quite. I appreciate that you, as an intended victim, have a proprietary interest in the attempt, but nevertheless … By the way, you shot the boatswain in the leg. You could have killed him. Why didn't you?”

“There was no point in killing for the sake of it, sir, and anyway I needed live evidence.”

“There'll be no court case, Ramage; I'd better warn you of that now. And don't start—”

His Lordship broke off when he saw that far from getting angry, Ramage was gently laughing. “What is so funny, Ramage?”

“I'm not quite sure, sir; it's got very mixed up. I never thought for a minute there'd be a trial—”

“Why?” Spencer snapped.

Ramage managed to stop the blunt answer he was about to make, and rephrased it. “I assumed that the exigencies of the Government's political situation would have made it inadvisable,” he said in a bored monotone.

“Excellent. If you go on like that, Ramage, you'll be offered a safe Parliamentary seat somewhere. Yes, you're quite right, although I still don't see what there is to laugh at.”

“I'm not really laughing, sir. I had—er, anticipated the problems relating to a trial …” He paused for a moment, reflecting on his words: yes, he could see himself standing with his hands clasping his lapels, his head slightly inclined forward, and an utterly false smile on his face, and facing the Opposition Benches. “I took the liberty of administering a little punishment to one or two of the men.”

Spencer nodded understandingly. “That might be thought by some to have been a wise precaution.”