by Dudley Pope
Ramage gave the best imitation of a Gallic shrug that he could muster, and waved the letter. “The Agent makes no mention of difficulties.”
Suddenly he wanted Kerguelen to come with him to see the Agent. The Frenchman had behaved honourably so far: he had agreed to the bargain, accepted their parole, and done his best to make their stay on board the Lady Arabella as comfortable as possible.
But, Ramage thought sourly, all of them had now passed well beyond the point where the word of honour of honest men necessarily influenced what would happen: they were now in the shadowy world of politics. What Lord Auckland—the Cabinet, rather, since it was obviously involved—decided might well be based on political expediency: ministers always had a wary eye fixed on Parliament and a highly sensitive ear cocked which could detect a rumble, let alone a howl, from the Opposition Front Bench. If Lieutenant Ramage’s word of honour or freedom had to be sacrificed to quieten that rumble …
Yes, Ramage decided, Kerguelen deserved not only to know exactly what was happening, but to be present while it was happening. “I hope you will allow Mr Yorke to come with me.”
“Of course.”
“And yourself.”
“Me? Pourquoi?” Kerguelen did not try to hide his astonishment.
“I would prefer it,” Ramage said simply.
Kerguelen seemed to sense that whatever reason Ramage had was straightforward but not to be explained or debated. “Give me a minute to change,” he said.
When the three men arrived at Chamberlain’s house they were met by a Portuguese manservant who, after taking their hats and cloaks, gestured towards chairs in the large hall. Ramage looked gloomily at Yorke and made a face. The Agent was playing the childish game, so beloved by petty officials and minor diplomats, of keeping visitors waiting as the only way of proving—to themselves, if no one else—their importance. So childish, Ramage reflected; so unnecessary, since it revealed the man’s unimportance. And, perhaps the most unforgivable thing of all, so predictable and obvious: it had all the subtlety of a caulker’s maul.
After twenty minutes, the manservant returned and indicated that they should follow him into the large cool room the Agent used as an office. Chamberlain, sitting at his desk, kept his head bent over some papers in front of him until Ramage was halfway across the room. Then he gave a carefully timed start, glanced up, arranged a thin smile on his face and came round the desk with his hand outstretched.
“Ah, Lieutenant, I’m glad to see you, and you, Mr Yorke …”
His voice tailed off as he saw Kerguelen.
Ramage took the Agent’s arm and said in a deceptively quiet voice, “You must meet Captain Kerguelen, the prizemaster of the Lady Arabella. Captain—this is the Post Office Agent, Mr Chamberlain.”
The Frenchman bowed but the Agent looked dumbfounded. “Lieutenant! I can’t allow—”
“Let’s resume our talk out in the street then,” Ramage said, his voice ominously quiet. “Then we’ll be on neutral ground.”
“But I …”
“I want you to tell us if you are ready to pay the money to Captain Kerguelen.”
“Indeed I am not!” Chamberlain exclaimed. “I will neither provide the money nor allow you and Mr Yorke to pay it.”
Ramage looked at Kerguelen. The Frenchman’s face was impassive. It was impossible to guess his thoughts.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell the Captain why,” Ramage said.
“I most certainly will not!” Chamberlain said angrily, sitting down in his chair with a thump. “I don’t have to explain my decisions to enemy privateersmen—to pirates!”
Ramage turned to look down at Chamberlain and said, his voice little more than a whisper, “You weren’t being asked to explain your decisions; you don’t have the power to make any that matter a damn. You were being asked to explain the recent Act of Parliament. However, before I withdraw my parole I’ll explain.”
With that Ramage described to Kerguelen the Act, explaining that it was newly passed, and the first he knew of it was when the Agent told him. As Ramage spoke, Kerguelen occasionally nodded his head and, at the end of it, after Ramage described his application to the Admiralty for an exception to be made, he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“So,” Ramage concluded, “I withdraw my parole.”
“Me, too,” Yorke said. “We are your prisoners again.”
Chamberlain gasped. “Lieutenant! You can’t do that!”
Ramage just stared at him but Yorke said contemptuously, “You count your mailbags! Leave a matter of honour to people who understand it!”
“But there’s a letter for you,” Chamberlain wailed helplessly to Ramage. “From the First Lord of the Admiralty. And there’s the letter from the Postmaster-General—from Lord Auckland himself.”
Kerguelen was quicker than Ramage to grasp what the Agent had done and said: “Revoke your parole when we get back to the ship. I’ll wait in the hall until you are ready.” With that he left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.
Ramage turned to Chamberlain and, still speaking quietly and rubbing the scars over his brow, said, “Give me Lord Spencer’s letter.”
Chamberlain was about to speak, but Yorke saw that Ramage’s face had gone white and he knew what the unconscious rubbing of the scars meant. He also knew that Ramage was one of the few men whose voice became quieter as he grew more angry. Ramage at this moment was a spring under enormous tension: at a certain point it needed only a fraction more strain to release it. Chamberlain had been so objectionable that Yorke knew it was a miracle that Ramage had kept his temper up to now. But the Agent was far too stupid to be warned by the drawn face, the narrowed eyes and the hard line of the lips.
“Mr Chamberlain,” Yorke said hurriedly, “you’re in much deeper water than you realize. Stop playing silly games with Mr Ramage because there’s nothing to discuss. You have two letters to deliver, and that’s your only function. You are the Post Office Agent; merely a clerk in this affair. Mr Ramage and I gave our word of honour to Captain Kerguelen—you forget that long before we reached Lisbon we agreed to buy back the ship and our freedom for £2,500, and we gave our parole until the money came from England.
“Then you told us of the new Act and Mr Ramage wrote to the First Lord,” Yorke continued, as though explaining to a child. “From what you say, apparently the Government will not honour our agreement, but that doesn’t mean to say we don’t honour our parole. So from the moment that you told us the Government had disavowed us,” Yorke continued, speaking very distinctly, “we reverted to being prisoners of war, and the Lady Arabella remains a French prize.”
“But you can’t do that! You must stop him!” Chamberlain gabbled excitedly. “You can’t go back on board and let that pirate escape with the Lady Arabella!”
“Can’t we?” Ramage interrupted coldly. “Write to Lord Auckland and explain how you tried to prevent two British gentlemen from keeping their parole! Now, give me that letter from the Admiralty!”
Chastened, Chamberlain unlocked a drawer in his desk and handed Ramage a packet on the back of which was the familiar anchor seal of the Admiralty. Ramage took it and put it in his pocket.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” the Agent asked incredulously.
“Yes, but not now.”
“But supposing it contains orders?”
“You’ve told me the money is not here, and Mr Yorke and myself are not allowed to pay it privately. That’s all that matters for the moment.”
“But Lord Auckland …” Chamberlain broke off nervously, as though at a loss what to do next, and Ramage saw he was fingering another letter, the seal of which was broken.
“What about Lord Auckland?”
“Well, he says that although …”
Again he broke off. Instinctively both Yorke and Ramage moved closer to him: obviously the Agent was holding something back.
“Why don’t you read your orders from Lord Spencer, Lieutenant?”
“We are dealing with Post Office business, Mr Chamberlain. You, as the Post Office Agent, have already told us—and I include Captain Kerguelen—officially that the Government will neither provide nor allow us to provide the money. The moment you told us that, we were Captain Kerguelen’s prisoners again. He’s freed of any undertaking he gave us.”
Yorke was watching Chamberlain closely as Ramage spoke, and the Agent’s manner had become nervous and jerky, almost like a trapped animal. When they had first come into the room, Chamberlain had been pompous, almost bombastic, though his attempted snubbing of Kerguelen had fizzled out like a damp fuse. Although he had obviously not understood the parole business, he had condescendingly accepted it as being something that eccentric men involved themselves in, to the detriment of the Post Office.
Yorke began to wonder exactly what were Lord Auckland’s instructions to the Agent. He had more than a suspicion that something underhand was going on. A quick glance told Yorke that Ramage thought so too and would probably offer the wretched Agent a way out.
Ramage said quietly, “I think you had better give us some idea of what Lord Auckland says.”
Chamberlain was struggling to recover some of his poise. “It’s confidential,” he said, looking significantly at Yorke. “I’m prepared to impart it to you, Lieutenant, as a King’s officer, but …”
“Then keep it to yourself,” Ramage said abruptly. “Mr Yorke was as much a party to the agreement as I was and has every right to know. Moreover he knows a great deal more about all this than you do. However, we are taking up your time. You can mention in your next report that since the money is not forthcoming we have withdrawn our parole. Now, if you’ll excuse us …”
As Ramage abruptly turned away, Yorke saw the desperate look in Chamberlain’s eyes: the paralysed stare of a frightened rabbit. The Agent’s hands were clenched, perspiration suddenly beaded his forehead and the tip of his tongue wetted his lips.
Yorke put his hands on the desk and leaned slightly towards the Agent. “You are quite sure there’s nothing more we should know, Mr Chamberlain?”
“I … well, His Lordship has … I have certain powers delegated to me … in certain circumstances … I—”
Ramage swung round and said savagely, “Give me Lord Auckland’s letter!”
In a complete reflex action, Chamberlain handed it over.
Yorke knew that the moment Ramage read the letter and discovered whatever complex game it was that Chamberlain had been trying to play, he might lose control of himself and possibly strike the Agent.
“Mr Chamberlain,” he said quietly, “if you had some other business to attend to for five minutes, so that Lieutenant Ramage and I could …”
“Oh, certainly, certainly!” the Agent said thankfully and fled the room.
Ramage read the letter standing and then slumped in a chair. He held it out to Yorke. “It’s just as well you got that scoundrel out of the room. Did you guess?”
Yorke did not reply and began reading quickly. “… absolutely essential that Lieutenant Ramage’s freedom be arranged … Act forbids the Government to permit payment … However if you can arrange his release by any means …”
At that point Yorke nearly stopped reading but, realizing Ramage had read to the end, he carried on. The second page began, “In view of the importance of obtaining Lieutenant Ramage’s freedom, and in case you are unable to arrange this, the Government are drafting a special Act to allow the payment to the French prizemaster in this particular instance, and it is confidently expected that this will be passed by both Houses of Parliament within a matter of days. The next packet, I anticipate, will bring you authority to carry out the terms of the agreement, should you have failed to obtain his prior release in some other manner. Lord Spencer is writing to Lieutenant Ramage by the same mail giving him fresh instructions and you will use your best endeavours to ensure that Lieutenant Ramage receives Lord Spencer’s letter …”
“What on earth was Chamberlain trying to do?” Yorke asked incredulously.
“I’m damned if I know,” Ramage said wearily. “That phrase ‘by any means’ at the beginning of the letter: perhaps he thought we’d agree to cheat Kerguelen and it’d be a feather in his cap. A letter of congratulation from Lord Auckland for saving them money …”
Yorke nodded. “It’d seem so simple to anyone with a mind like Chamberlain’s: neutral port, British ships of war near by … we’re safely on shore in his office so Kerguelen couldn’t take us prisoner again … Leave Kerguelen to get out of the Tagus as best as he could, and arrange for a frigate to be waiting for him.”
“Exactly what I’d guessed,” Ramage said. “Yet there’s nothing in Lord Auckland’s letter even suggesting anything underhand.”
“Oh come,” Yorke said chidingly, opening the letter again and reading aloud: “‘release by any means … should you have failed to have obtained his release in some other manner …’ That’s the way a politician words it—and you’ve seen how a clerk interprets it!”
“I begin to wonder if Chamberlain doesn’t fit into the disappearing packets business …”
“No, I’m sure he doesn’t,” Yorke said firmly. “He’s not dishonest. The phrase that frightened him was Lord Auckland’s ‘should you have failed …’ He’s scared stiff of what His Lordship would do if he fails—and dreaming of glory if he succeeds. Just imagine the way he’d report that he’d freed you and got the packet back without paying any money. And it’s certainly the first—and probably only—time in his life he’s been concerned in matters involving the Cabinet.”
“It’s the first time for me, too,” Ramage said ruefully.
“I won’t flatter you by pointing out the differences in personality,” Yorke said. “But what are we going to do about Kerguelen? I wouldn’t blame him if he calls the whole thing off, thanks to Chamberlain’s play-acting.”
“I think he’s been damned decent up to now. It was a mistake to bring him though.”
“Oh no,” Yorke said emphatically. “Going back on board and telling him he has to wait another couple of weeks would make him suspect some trickery. Why not just haul Chamberlain back, and make him explain it to Kerguelen? Make him sign a letter to Kerguelen, if necessary.”
“Chamberlain would refuse; he’d end up insulting Kerguelen again.”
“Threaten him,” Yorke said flatly. “Tell him you’ll report to Lord Spencer exactly what has happened.”
“We can’t prove it.”
“We certainly can! Your word and mine—on oath, if need be—against Chamberlain’s.”
“All right. I’ll try it,” Ramage said reluctantly. “But I’m so damned angry it’s as much as I can do to keep my hands off him!”
“I guessed that,” Yorke grinned. “But don’t worry—pride is his weak point, and you’ve just about blunted that!”
Yorke went to the door and shouted peremptorily for the Agent, who came into the room looking as frightened as a schoolboy reporting to the headmaster for a well-deserved and long-anticipated beating.
“Sit down,” Ramage said brusquely. “Now, pick up that letter—Lord Auckland’s. Adjust your spectacles and read it aloud slowly, from beginning to end.”
Sheepishly the Agent did so, rushing the final paragraph. Ramage waved a hand. “Too fast; let’s have that last paragraph again.”
The Agent took out a handkerchief and mopped his face, and then read it once more.
He glanced up to find Ramage and Yorke staring at him. He looked down and folded the letter, and then arranged the inkwell squarely in front of him. Still neither man spoke, and Chamberlain wriggled in his chair and shut the drawer beside him. He put the letter under a paperweight and rearranged the position of the inkwell. Then he looked up again and found both men still watching him. He tried to smile, but the muscles of his face were frozen.
Then Ramage said, in little more than a whisper, “What were you trying to do, Mr Chamberlain?”
“I thought … i
t seemed to be best that …”
His voice trailed off and he stared at the heavy inkwell.
Damn the man, Ramage thought; but since he’ll never be punished officially for this day’s work it’ll be worth frightening him. “Curious, Mr Chamberlain, how Lord Auckland seems so concerned about my freedom, isn’t it? A mere lieutenant …”
“I haven’t thought about it, I must admit.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
“Well, I suppose … your father … The Earl of Blazey. A friend of Lord Auckland, perhaps?”
“Of no significance. For months the Prime Minister’s nephew was a prisoner in French hands,” Ramage said evenly. “There was no special act of Parliament for him … just a routine exchange.”
“I don’t know, then,” the Agent said helplessly.
“Think, then!” Ramage snapped.
Suddenly Chamberlain looked alarmed. “You aren’t really concerned with secret Post Office business, are you?”
Ramage just held the man’s eyes without speaking, and saw the look of horror spreading over his face. Chamberlain looked away, to find Yorke watching him. He swallowed convulsively as though a hard crust was stuck in his throat.
“How … how was I to know?”
“Because I told you the very first time I came here, but you were so puffed up with your own importance you took no notice. Anyway, there’s no excuse for juggling with your orders. Were you expecting me to break my parole, so you could put the money in your own pocket when it arrived and claim the French bolted with it?”
Ramage knew he was being cruel, but the man’s meddling might even now result in Kerguelen being too suspicious to wait, so that instead of Ramage reporting to Lord Spencer by word of mouth he’d end up silent in a French prison.
“How dare you!” Chamberlain spluttered. “What a terrible thing to say!”
“But it’s a question Lord Auckland might well ask you,” Ramage said relentlessly and, realizing he had frightened the man enough, decided Kerguelen was the next problem. “Well, Mr Chamberlain, you’ve probably wrecked everything by now: I can’t blame Captain Kerguelen if he’s decided—thanks to your behaviour—that he’s dealing with tricksters and insists we go back on board so that he can sail for France at once.”
