Ramage's Prize

by Dudley Pope

  Stevens then turned to the mate: “Well, Fred, let’s see what jail bait the Admiral has sent us.”

  His tone was so vicious that Ramage turned to see Stevens watching him. Let’s hope we make a fast passage, Ramage thought; Stevens is going to be poor company. Ramage took only a few more minutes to realize that Stevens was unsure of himself; that his crude behaviour might be due to nervousness. But why? Was he always like this? Was he rattled because of his dozen missing men? Plenty of questions, but no answers yet.

  The Lady Arabella’s men were energetic but obviously poorly trained; so much so that the dozen former Tritons seemed out of place among them, moving faster although in a strange ship, anticipating the next order, working together—and keeping silent. At one point Ramage noticed Southwick beginning to fidget as some of the packetsmen began discussing Stevens’ order to let fall the maintopsail.

  By the time the mooring had been dropped and the brig was passing out of the harbour, Ramage had the impression that Stevens was too indulgent, treating the men as part of a large and wayward family of which he was a benevolent uncle. There was an easygoing atmosphere which should have made for a happy ship, albeit slack and badly handled, yet Ramage sensed undercurrents—glances between packetsmen, a wink here and a sly grin there, a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders and movement of eyebrows. There was nothing definite that he could point out to Yorke, but he was sure that Southwick had also noticed it.

  Perhaps he was comparing the packet with all the ships he had served in? Such slack discipline would be fatal in a man-o’-war, where orders had to be given and obeyed instantly even though, in a gale or in battle, men might be killed. If they were allowed to debate orders, there would be occasions when they might be reluctant or slow to obey. Ramage remembered the Triton brig, both in battle and in the hurricane which had swept her masts by the board, leaving her a helpless hulk. No man had ever hesitated—nor had it ever occurred to Ramage that one might … Was this, he wondered, why packets were being lost? Not because the packetsmen lacked courage, but simply because they lacked discipline—what one might call “fighting discipline?”

  That evening as Yorke, Southwick and Ramage walked the deck for some exercise before dinner, the sun was just dipping below the horizon astern, while to the north lengthening shadows were turning the mountains of Jamaica a soft blue-grey. The Lady Arabella was making good time against a falling Trade wind, stretching south-east with a long tack and then taking a short tack inshore.

  Southwick had been speculating if they would find an offshore wind at nightfall, or whether it would back north-east as they rounded Morant Point, the easternmost tip of Jamaica, and head them as they began the long haul up to the north-east to make the Windward Passage.

  The sea was already flattening; spray no longer flew up over the bow, and the wet, dark patches on the foot of the headsails were fading as the canvas dried. The brig’s earlier sharp pitching had settled into an easier ridge-and-furrow motion, like the flight of a woodpecker.

  Once round Morant Point, there would be no land until the brig began to pass through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola, the western end of which looked on the chart like the head of a grotesque, open-mouthed fish trying to bite the eastern end of Cuba. Cape Dame Marie formed the lower lip; Cape Nicolas Mole the upper.

  The three men walked in silence, turning inwards as they reached the taffrail and tramping forward until they were abreast the main shrouds, where once again they turned and headed aft.

  There were two men at the helm, and Much was on watch. Captain Stevens had stayed in his cabin once the brig was clear of the harbour, and the only other seamen on deck, apart from a lookout, were those Much called up from below when the time came to tack.

  Ramage sensed that Much was not popular with the men. Quietly spoken, small and grey-haired, the mate gave orders clearly, without any hectoring or bullying, and Ramage was puzzled by the men’s resentment—that seemed the only explanation of their attitude.

  With the sun now below the horizon, Ramage felt a slight chill in the air, and knew that in half an hour Much would be kept busy sail-trimming in a faltering breeze.

  “Ah, Mr Wilson!” Yorke said suddenly, gesturing to the Army officer as he came on deck. “Join us in our promenade.”

  “Delighted, delighted. A mile before dinner; that’s my rule. Stops me getting fat.”

  “Why not walk half a mile and eat half as much?” Ramage asked lightly.

  Wilson shook his head and fell into step beside them. “Much obliged for the suggestion, but it don’t work.”

  Intrigued that a flippant remark should be treated so seriously, Ramage asked why not.

  “Food’s not the problem,” Wilson said. “Porter’s my trouble. Have a disgusting passion for it. Drink too much and get fat. Not drunk, you know; just fat.”

  “Do you, by jove,” Yorke said sympathetically. “Have you tried watering the porter?”

  “Tastes ghastly, my dear fellow, absolutely ghastly. Tried everything. Best walk a mile.”

  The four men lapsed into silence for a few minutes, regularly turning and retracing their steps each time they reached the taffrail or main shrouds.

  “Think we’ll meet the Frogs?” Wilson asked suddenly.

  Yorke glanced at Ramage, who said, “There’s always a chance.”

  “More than a chance from what I hear.”

  “What have you heard?” Ramage asked politely.

  “Post Office losing three packets out of four. Hardly any mail getting across the Atlantic. Chaos at the Horse Guards, so my colonel says: can’t send reports to London or receive orders. Dam’ funny, says I.”

  A whimsical thought struck Ramage. “I hope you’re prepared if we do meet the French,” he said lightly.

  “Oh yes—make ready, present, fire! Yes, by Jingo, I’m ready; even brought m’ own powder and shot.”

  Ramage had his answer, but the soldier’s manner stopped the conversation. He was one of those unfortunate people combining a limited brain with a forceful manner who unwittingly strangled almost any attempt at small-talk.

  Yorke’s silence showed he had reached the same conclusion, but he eventually devised an escape. After an inward turn that brought them facing forward again, he said, “Well, that’s our mile for today—we’re going to have to leave Captain Wilson to march on alone.”

  “Dam’ short mile,” Wilson commented cheerfully. “Mine’s longer. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Down in their cabin, Ramage said, “That was brilliant!”

  “What a bore the man is. But probably a good soldier, for all that.”

  “He might come in useful,” Ramage muttered. “I wonder whether we should tell him more.”

  “I shouldn’t bother,” Yorke said. “Just wait until something happens. He needs ten seconds notice, no more and no less. More would worry him and less would get him fussed.”

  As Ramage opened a drawer and took out a clean shirt, Yorke said, “Do you think Smith will say anything to Sir Pilcher about the Tritons?”

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll try not to stay awake tonight worrying about it.”

  “I should hope not, but what did you tell Sir Pilcher?” Yorke persisted.

  “Nothing. On the day he gave me my orders—and that was before the packet was sighted—I said I might need some men, and he agreed to me having a dozen former Tritons. Later he said I could use them in a packet if the Postmaster agreed.”

  “So …?”

  “So when a dozen of the packetsmen overstayed their leave, you heard me suggest to the Postmaster that a dozen seamen should take their place.”

  “But you told Smith you were going on shore to ask Sir Pilcher for them!”

  “No I didn’t,” Ramage said emphatically, “I was very careful about the words I used. I said to Smith, ‘Might I suggest Sir Pilcher Skinner … a dozen well-trained seamen from one of his ships … if it meant the packet could sail at once. Particularly in v
iew of all the circumstances.’”

  “You seem to have learned that by heart.”

  “I had! The point is that I was careful not to suggest that anyone asked Sir Pilcher. I’d already arranged for the dozen Tritons to be sent on shore from the Arrogant, and given them their orders. Sir Pilcher had given permission for me to use them on board the packet—if Smith agreed. Well, Smith agreed, so I’m completely covered as far as Sir Pilcher is concerned, and frankly I don’t give a damn about Smith. Anyway, he not only accepted the men but signed ‘em on himself!”

  “But the packetsmen—how could you be so sure they’d overstay their leave?”

  “Seamen get drunk,” Ramage said vaguely. “You know that perfectly well.”

  “Curious how Jackson and his men were waiting for you on the quay, though!”

  Ramage glanced up in alarm. “How did you know that? You couldn’t see from on board, could you?”

  Yorke roared with laughter. “So you have a guilty conscience! No, that was just a guess. You fell for it, though.”

  Ramage began to untie his stock. “Don’t play tricks like that,” he said. “My nerves won’t stand it!”

  Yorke put a hand on his shoulder, his face now serious. “You take the most devilish risks at times. You’re lucky to have people like Jackson and Southwick.” He paused for a moment. “And Stafford and Rossi and Maxton … and Bowen … the whole damned lot, come to think of it. Do you realize those men would do anything for you, and damn the consequences?”

  Ramage looked sheepish. “I suppose they would—I’ve never thought about it.”

  “You should,” Yorke said, a harshness creeping into his voice. “You should, in case one day you ask too much.”

  “They’ve all risked their lives half a dozen times for me,” Ramage said defensively. “You can’t ask more than that.”

  Yorke shook his head. “You’re wrong. You’re asking more if you ask an honest man to lie on oath.”

  “We’ve 35 days or more to argue that point, so leave it for now,” Ramage said, pulling off his shirt. Neither man spoke again as they changed their clothes.

  When they went through to the saloon a few minutes after the gong had sounded for dinner and joined Bowen, Southwick and Wilson, they found only five places had been set. Mr Much was on watch, the steward said; Mr Farrell, the Surgeon, was ill in his bunk, and Captain Stevens always dined alone in his own cabin.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN the Lady Arabella finally reached the western end of Hispaniola and beat into Cape Nicolas Mole to make her one stop before stretching north into the Atlantic, there was only one frigate at anchor. While the mail was being brought out, Captain Stevens had himself rowed over to her, returning half an hour later to announce to no one in particular that she had been patrolling the Windward Passage and as far out as Great Inagua for the past two weeks without sighting any privateers. However, he said, there were the usual rowing galleys skulking in and out of the inlets round the coast, waiting to catch someone in a calm, so they had better keep whistling for a good wind.

  Within three hours of arriving the packet was under way again, heading north through the Windward Passage to pass the island of Great Inagua before reaching out into the Atlantic. Stevens chose the difficult Crooked Island Passage rather than tackle the Caicos Passage, which usually turned into a beat dead to windward in the teeth of the Trades.

  The route was a fitting one for a ship leaving the Caribbean, Ramage thought to himself, combining all the beauty of the Bahamas with most of its dangers. As the packet beat her way through, zigzagging against a brisk breeze blowing out of an almost garishly blue sky, the deep mauve of the ocean turned light blue near any of the many banks before changing to dark green over a rocky bottom or light green over sand. Brown patches warned of rocks with only a fathom or so over them; brown with yellowish tinges told of coral reefs.

  Flying fish came up as silver darts to skim a few inches above the sea, rising over crests and dropping into troughs with effortless grace and rhythm; occasionally a shoal of small fish glittered in the bright sun as they leapt out of the water for a few moments in a desperate attempt to escape from some darting predator. What seemed to be a line of dark bottles on top of a low sandy cay suddenly moved as pelicans, drying themselves in the sun, decided that the packet frightened them and hoisted themselves into the air at the end of a long, ungainly run.

  The islands themselves varied from Great Inagua, fringed with reefs, low and flat except for a few hills, and the home of pink flamingoes, to Crooked and Acklins Islands, forming a great bight with rolling hills and growing so many herbs that Columbus had referred to them as “the fragrant islands.”

  Everyone on board the Lady Arabella knew that once the last of the Bahama Islands dropped below the horizon there would be no more land to sight until the packet reached the chops of the Channel, more than 3,500 miles to the north-east.

  Up forward, the dozen Tritons were beginning to settle in. The packetsmen’s initial resentment that a dozen of their shipmates had been left behind in Kingston was beginning to wear off—or, rather, was being aimed at Captain Stevens and the mate.

  Just before supper on the fifth day out from Cape Nicolas Mole, Jackson, Stafford and Rossi were sitting on the foredeck with one of the packetsmen.

  Stafford said: “You was born in London.”

  The man grinned. “Islington. Me dad took me down to Falmouth when I were a nipper.”

  “Thought so,” Stafford said. “See, Jacko, I recognized ‘is accent.”

  “So did I,” Jackson said ironically. “How do you like Falmouth, Eames?”

  “Well enough. Busy when a packet arrives or sails, and nice and quiet the rest of the time.”

  “How long have you been in the Arabella?”

  “Just this voyage. I change about.”

  The idea of changing ships at will was so strange to a Royal Navy man that Stafford said, “Just think of that! Why change, though?”

  Eames shrugged his shoulders. “I squeeze another voyage into the year.”

  “How so?” Jackson asked.

  “Well, the Arabella’s hard put to make three round voyages in a year, counting docking time, repairs and so on. I like to make four.”

  “Why? Don’t you get paid just the same when she’s docked?”

  Eames avoided Jackson’s eyes. “Oh yes, we get paid just the same. It’s just that some of us like the hot weather.” He gave a little giggle. “And all the sunshine makes the money grow.”

  Jackson looked puzzled. “Doesn’t make mine grow,” he grumbled.

  “Ah,” Eames said knowingly, “you’ve got to know what to plant—aye, and where to reap.”

  “I’m a sailor, not a farmer!”

  “Ah,” Eames said. “An’ that’s the difference!”

  A call for all hands stopped Jackson asking him any more questions, and when Stafford grumbled later, Jackson said quietly, “We don’t have to rush things; it’ll be a month before we get back to England.”

  While Jackson and Stafford talked with the packetsman, Ramage was making his first visit to Captain Stevens’ cabin. Although they had met on deck several times and chatted briefly about the weather or the day’s run, Stevens had ignored the passengers until, five days out from the Mole, he invited Ramage to his cabin for a drink before dinner.

  “My apologies for not asking you sooner,” he said, gesturing to a small settee built athwartships against a bulkhead. “Here, let’s push that box out of the way so there’s more room for your feet.”

  The box was one of two small wooden crates crudely made of unpainted wood, the heads of the nails already rusting, and from the ease with which Stevens moved it, its contents were light. As if guessing his thoughts, Stevens explained: “Tobacco—some really choice Jamaica leaf. I usually bring a few pounds back for a friend that appreciates it. Have to be careful where I stow it because it absorbs the smell of things like spice—or bilgewater!”

  “Now,
” he said, opening a locker to reveal a row of bottles sitting snugly in a fitted rack, “What’s your pleasure? Whisky, rum or gin—and I still have some fresh limes left.”

  With the drinks poured, Stevens sat back comfortably in his chair. The cabin was fitted out in the same dark red used throughout the rest of the accommodation, but Ramage noted that the joinery had been done with great skill and the mahogany carefully selected to make the best use of the grain pattern.

  “I was ‘pologizing for not asking you along sooner,” Stevens said conversationally. “Fact is, I always find getting clear o’ the Windward Passage a great worry these days. Always was a worry, with those currents setting right across the banks, but nowadays, with the privateers …” He shrugged his shoulders expressively.

  “We were lucky,” Ramage said noncommittally, puzzled by Stevens’ curious mixture of deference and apology.

  “We were, too; I don’t remember when I last came through without sighting a sail and having to make a bolt for it.”

  “Always French privateers?”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t be knowing,” Stevens said smoothly, “I never wait to find out!”

  “I hear Falmouth has been unlucky lately.”

  “Aye, it’s been a disastrous twelve month,” Stevens said, the “a” broadening with his Cornish burr.

  “But you’ve been lucky so far.”

  “Depends what you call lucky. I’ve been taken twice in three years, if you call that luck.”

  “But—” Ramage stopped, waving his hand round the cabin to indicate the ship.

  Stevens smiled patiently. “The first time, the Frenchies exchanged me and m’crew, and the agent in Falmouth—I suppose it was really the gennelmen in Lombard Street—chartered another ship for me while a new one was a’building. Got taken a second time—towards the end of the third voyage in the chartered ship—and exchanged again. After that I stood by at the yard until the new ship was ready—and this is the lady.”

  “Nice ship,” Ramage said politely.