by Dudley Pope
“But why did you sail from Kingston? She’s not safe. And why are you offering to buy a rotten ship?” asked Kerguelen.
“Our offer isn’t for the ship alone: we want our freedom as well,” Ramage said.
“There’s no precedent,” Kerguelen said, half to himself. “But it’s like a ransom.”
“Exactly like a ransom,” Ramage said, and wondered what argument he could use to tip the scales. “But when you get two beautiful women and two men who want to marry”—he gestured at Yorke and himself—”they get a little desperate …”
Kerguelen looked at Ramage, “You are going to get married?”
Ramage nodded. It was at worst only a white lie; he’d marry Gianna one day if she accepted him, and Kerguelen was not asking when.
“You poor fellows!” Kerguelen said bitterly. “My wife decided I was away too long at sea.” It was said with so much hatred there was no need to wonder whether she had found solace in another man’s arms.
“Our proposition?” Ramage prompted.
“I’ll do it for £3,000.”
Yorke said, “We don’t have it.” Ramage glanced up in alarm.
“Your families will raise it.”
“They certainly won’t! They can’t. Each of us has put up all he has—including the Surgeon here.”
Kerguelen looked at each man in turn. Each of them thought of the rotten wood in the transom, and they held his eyes.
“All right, I’ll do it for £2,500 and the agent will agree. I talked with him. He’s grateful to you, Mr Bowen, for your treatment,” Kerguelen said. “But I need the parole of each of you.”
“You shall have it. In writing.”
“How long will it take to arrange, once we get to Lisbon?”
“A month at the most. Time for a packet to reach England, and another to get to Lisbon with a reply and the money.”
“Supposing the money does not come?”
“It will, but even if it didn’t, you’ll have waited a month,” Ramage reminded him, “and by then the Channel Fleet will have returned to Plymouth …”
“Lost a month,” Kerguelen said.
“You’d wait a month to make sure the Channel Fleet’s in harbour again. But if the money didn’t come we’d lose—how long? A year? Three years? Five? Would you like to be a prisoner that long?”
Kerguelen reflected a minute or two. He saw that once the Arabella arrived safely in Lisbon he had nothing to lose and everything to gain, while the odds were against the Englishmen.
“Very well,” he said, and held out his hand to Ramage, who shook it, and was followed by the other three men. Kerguelen said, “If you give your parole that you won’t try and interfere with the running of the ship, three of you can be on deck at any one time.”
Ramage agreed at once: there was no chance of them retaking the ship—so far they had been exercised three at a time and covered by a dozen muskets—and nothing was to be gained by refusing. Also Kerguelen was probably trying them out; applying a little test to see if the British were acting in good faith.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE Lady Arabella made her landfall at Figueira da Foz, where the River Mondego flows into the sea just south of Cape Mondego and some eighty miles north of Lisbon. For an hour as they approached the coast Ramage listened to a spasmodic argument between Kerguelen and his second-in-command, who swore he recognized the Burling Islands, a group of small islets half a dozen miles from the next headland south.
Finally, he asked Kerguelen for the use of the telescope. There was no mistaking the Cape, although its rugged rocks gave the impression of separate islets because of the high mountains behind it. But southward towards Lisbon the land was flatter, the coast lined by sand dunes backed with pine forests and dozens of little white windmills, many with the canvas of their blades reefed against the strong west wind.
“Cabo Mondego,” he told Kerguelen as he gave back the telescope.
“You’re sure? All these damned headlands look alike along this coast!”
Ramage nodded. “They do, but I remember Mondego: coming down from the north it’s easy to mistake it for the Burling Islands.”
With that Kerguelen snapped out a stream of orders that brought the brig round to the south, steering parallel with the coast but out of sight from anyone but sharp-eyed lookouts on the headlands.
Soon after noon the packet was reaching down towards Os Farilhões, a group of islets ten miles north-west of Cabo Carvoeiro and which, because many of them were jutting triangles of rocks, looked as if a fleet of small vessels were sailing among them. Closer inshore was Burling Island, flat-topped and over three hundred feet high, its sides precipitous cliffs which shot spray high into the air as the Atlantic swell hit them.
As he walked the deck with Yorke, Southwick and Wilson, Ramage saw several ships making their way north and south inshore of Burling Island, but they were coasting vessels, probably carrying local cargoes between Lisbon and the places to the north, like Porto, at the mouth of the Douro.
Southwick gestured towards Os Farilhões and Burling Island, the scattering of rocks between them now showing clearly. “They’re no trouble in this sort of weather, but beating up here with a north-west gale and heavy rain …” He shuddered at the memory of the times he had done it. “I don’t like to think of how many ships have hit one of them in a blinding squall with only a moment’s warning.”
As night fell, with no British ship of war having been sighted, Kerguelen had the Arabella jogging along under reefed topsail, ensuring they did not arrive off Cabo da Roca, just north of the wide entrance of the River Tagus, until after dawn. It was half an hour after sunrise when Ramage came up on deck to find the packet three miles off the great cape, the westernmost point of the continent of Europe. More than five hundred feet high, the cape was a series of almost precipitous layers of rock, and inland it merged into the Serra de Sintra, a range of spiky mountains. For the time being the peaks were hidden by thin layers of cloud which clung to them as though each wore a white wig. Ramage remembered the palace built on the summit of one of them, Castelo da Pena, and shivered at the thought of how cold it would be: he was still used to the Tropics …
An hour later the Arabella rounded Cabo Raso—which, with Cabo Espichel 21 miles south, were guardians of the great bay into which the Tagus flowed—and was soon passing the Santa Marta Fort perched on the headland sheltering the fishing villages of Cascais and Estoril.
“You know the entrance to Lisbon, then?” Kerguelen asked suddenly. When Ramage nodded, the Frenchman said, “I’ve not been here before, and we have no charts …”
“I know it well enough,” Ramage said, and pointed. “You can see Forte de São Julião on the north side, and that’s Bico da Calha on the southern side. It’s three miles across, but the channel is only a mile wide and goes close to the Fort.”
He moved to the starboard side to get a clearer view. “Now, you see that long yellow bank of sand in the middle there, with breakers on it?” Quickly he described the entrance channel, pointed out several forts lining the entrance of the estuary, and ended up with a warning: “The tidal stream reaches four knots out there—more if there’s been much rain in the mountains, because the Tagus starts five hundred miles inland—and sets right across the shoals. So if you lose the wind in the channel you’ll have to anchor in a hurry.”
With a steady west wind the Arabella crossed the bar, ran in past Forte de São Julião and, as she hugged the north shore, Ramage saw the curious Torre de Belém guarding the approach to Lisbon itself and pointed it out to Kerguelen.
The Frenchman sniffed. “Looks as if a Portuguese designed the main part and let an Indian add the ornamentation.”
Half an hour later Ramage was hustled below as the packet, flying the Tricolour, anchored off Trafaria, on the south side of the river and close to the quarantine station. After Kerguelen had dealt with the Customs and port authorities, the brig got under way again and Ramage was allowed on deck to pi
lot the ship for the last four miles up to the city itself, finally recommending an anchorage in front of the main square, almost in the shadow of São Jorge Castle.
Yorke, who had seen it before, commented, “One of the finest capitals that’s also a port. Venice gets the prize, then Copenhagen. Lisbon comes third.”
Southwick grunted, “Stockholm?” When Yorke admitted he had not been there, Southwick said, “In summer it’s pretty enough. No tide, of course; not like here.”
The three men went to the bulwarks, where they were joined by Wilson. The muddy water of the Tagus was swirling past at a good four knots. Then they watched several fregatas working their way out of the various docks.
“Loveliest working vessels I’ve ever seen,” Yorke said. “Just look at the fancy paintwork on the bow of that one!”
Lisbon’s equivalent of the Thames barge was a graceful vessel with a heavily raked mast, a plump, apple-cheeked bow and a sweeping sheer. Almost the entire bow was covered in a gaily painted design, belying the sacks of grain with which she was laden. Two British frigates were anchored upstream of the Arabella, while a Post Office packet and a dozen more merchant ships, mostly British, were alongside the docks lining the city side of the river. Ramage was pointing out various landmarks in the city, which is built over the slopes of several hills, when Kerguelen came up to him.
“If you’re ready to go on shore, I’ll have the boat lowered. You and Yorke?”
Ramage nodded and grinned, “You have enough hostages to make sure we come back.”
Kerguelen, not realizing Ramage was joking, said simply, “I have your parole; that’s enough for me.”
Half an hour later, during which time the eight privateersmen at the oars of the Lady Arabella’s boat had had a hard struggle to reach the shore against the current, Ramage and Yorke were walking carefully up the slippery, weed-coated steps of one of the quays. At the top both of them stopped to get their bearings. As they turned away from the river, a green-painted carriage which was clattering over the cobblestones towards them suddenly stopped and a man, poking his head out of the window, called, “Are you gentlemen English, by any chance?”
“Yes,” Ramage said warily.
“From that Post Office packet?”
“From that former packet: she’s prize to a French privateer.”
The man’s attitude changed immediately. “What are you doing?” he demanded brusquely.
“What business is it of yours, pray?” Ramage asked icily.
“I am the Post Office Agent here,” the man announced pompously.
“Indeed? We’ve just come on shore to find you,” Ramage said, his voice deliberately neutral.
With that the man flung open the door, kicked down the steps and scrambled down, introducing himself as Henry Chamberlain, adding, “I couldn’t believe it when word came from the signal station that they’d sighted a Post Office packet coming in with a Tricolour flying. I’ve been waiting here hours,” he complained pettishly.
Ramage looked up at the coachman, an unshaven and gaunt individual in a faded green livery who was leaning over as far as he dare, trying not to miss a word that was spoken. “Can we go to your office?”
Chamberlain gestured to the carriage door. “My house. It’s not far.”
As the carriage rattled away, Ramage introduced himself and Yorke and tried to remember the details he had read in the Royal Kalendar. Four or five packets had been listed for Lisbon, but all he could recall was that Chamberlain was paid £150 a year. After heading towards Belém along quiet streets the carriage finally stopped outside a small house set back from the road within a walled garden. The coachman jumped down, opened the gate and walked the horse through.
Chamberlain led them into the house, and after introducing them to his wife—a woman with a shrewish face and wearing a dress that would have been unfashionable even a decade earlier, and who treated them with what she probably thought was suitable condescension—took them to his study.
Once he had ushered them to comfortable chairs and sat down behind his desk, Chamberlain became the man of affairs. Although he looked unprepossessing, with small eyes set far apart and a receding chin, his manner was brisk. He picked up a pen and dipped it in an inkwell, and was clearly going to take notes of their conversation until Ramage motioned to him to put the pen down, remembering the eavesdropping coachman, and asked, “First, Mr Chamberlain, when does the next packet sail for England?”
“Why do you want to know? The exact time is secret, of course.”
His tone was that of the squire questioning a couple of poachers, and Yorke looked at Ramage, who said, “I have to write an urgent despatch which must go to the First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr Chamberlain. As soon as I’ve written it I intend placing it in your custody, and it will then be your responsibility to have it delivered safely.”
“Oh by jingo, no!” Chamberlain exclaimed, putting his hands flat on the desk in front of him and pressing down, as though pushing away any responsibility. “Anything like that you’d better put on board a ship of war; I’m not responsible for the Navy’s business.”
Ramage was beginning to dislike the man: he was revealing all the brisk bumptiousness of a jack-in-office; the kind of man who could spend two hours talking a string of clichés, quoting whole paragraphs of regulations, and taking enormous delight in thwarting other people without once taking any responsibility.
“Mr Chamberlain, this is Post Office business,” Ramage said quietly and patiently. “Before you decide what you will and won’t do, wouldn’t it be wiser to inquire why a naval officer and a shipowner land on the quay here from a French prize?”
“Very well,” Chamberlain said grudgingly, “tell me.”
He said nothing as Ramage briefly described the capture of the Lady Arabella and the offer he had made to Kerguelen. Ramage made no mention of Stevens’ behaviour, nor of the information given him by Much. Originally he had intended to make a complete report to the Agent, but having met him he was less sure; his manner, the way he sat at his desk, the expression on his face implied automatic disbelief.
As he finished his account he suddenly noticed that Chamberlain’s eyes were gleaming. The man was perhaps fifty years old and his thin face was a Gilray cartoon of someone who, bullied and nagged by his wife, in turn bullied and nagged any staff he might have.
Chamberlain smirked as he asked: “Well, Mr Ramage, how do you propose paying your—ah, debt—to this French scoundrel?”
“I hope the Post Office will provide the money.”
“And if not?”
“We shall have to raise it privately, although I hope it won’t come to that.”
“Why not, pray?”
“Because for something like half what they would have to pay out to the commander for the loss, the Postmasters-General can get back a packet.” He suddenly remembered the rot in the transom. Caveat Emptor!
“Do you and Mr Yorke fancy being hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn?” Chamberlain asked with a sneer.
“Not much.”
“Well, if you give that French scoundrel so much as a penny, you’ll be guilty of high treason.”
Chamberlain had dealt his ace; his thin lips were pressed together in a chilly smile of triumph. Yorke glanced quickly at Ramage, who was rubbing the scar on his brow. There was no doubt Chamberlain was right, he could probably quote the regulation verbatim.
“Explain yourself, please,” Ramage said with a calm he did not feel.
Chamberlain stood up and sauntered over to a row of shelves which lined one side of the room. He shuffled through some folders, took out several pages and brought them back to the desk, sorted through them until he had the one he wanted at the top, then looked up at Ramage as a judge might glare at a murderer before he pronounced the death sentence. “I won’t bother to give you all the references, but this is a copy of a recent Act of Parliament. The part that concerns you declares it to be treason for any British subject to remit money to anyo
ne owing obedience to the French Government.”
He tapped the paper for emphasis as he added, “The phrase ‘owing obedience’ does not mean just being a French citizen. It includes paying money to someone here, for example, who is acting as agent for the French, even though he might be a Portuguese.”
Ramage looked at Yorke, who said tactfully, “Perhaps Mr Chamberlain has some suggestion to make.”
The Agent shook his head. “I can have nothing to do with it: as a servant of the King I can have no cognizance of treason,” he said pompously, savouring every word.
Ramage flushed. “I suggest you choose your words more carefully.”
“Don’t threaten me,” Chamberlain said loftily. “And I’d like to hear from the packet commander how much assistance he received from his passengers in trying to defend his ship against the privateer.”
Yorke, seeing Ramage had gone white and was once again rubbing the scar over his brow, said quickly, “Mr Chamberlain, it would be unwise of you to assume that your attitude towards us—particularly towards Lieutenant Ramage—might not eventually be construed as something close to treason. We knew nothing of this new Act and you know nothing of how the packet was captured. In the meantime, it is only fair to warn you that as Agent for the Post Office you, of all people, should be careful with the word ‘treason.’”
“He means,” Ramage said heavily, “that I have by no means told you the whole story.”
“Why not? Why not, I say? I have every right to know!”
“Because I don’t trust you,” Ramage snapped. “My report is secret and for the First Lord’s eyes only. He will pass on to Lord Auckland and the Cabinet what he sees fit. In the meantime I have told you all you need to know. Now, I must go and write my report. When does the next packet sail?”
“Tomorrow. It came in last night,” Chamberlain said truculently. “What are you going to say?”
Ramage stared unbelievingly at the man. “I’ve just said my report is secret. Are you an Agent of the Post Office or the French Government?” he asked, making little effort to hide the contempt in his voice.
