Ramage's Prize

by Dudley Pope

  “I … I daren’t, sir, an’ that’s the honest truth.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’d do for me!”

  Ramage was certain that the man was both terrified and telling the truth. But terrified of whom? Certainly not the ship’s officers, since with them he felt safe enough to ask for a tot. Ramage made a quick guess. “Harris is in irons.”

  “He’ll find a way, though,” the bosun muttered. “I know he will.”

  Ramage nodded significantly to Yorke: they had a definite answer to one question.

  “What did Harris intend to do once he had the Marchesa and me as hostages?”

  The bosun just watched the swinging lamp. Perspiration was pouring down his face and he blinked rapidly as some of it ran into his eyes.

  Ramage touched him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget you’re not a packetsman now: you are in the Navy. You’re subject to the Articles of War. They lay down the death penalty for threatening a superior officer. They lay down the death penalty for mutiny. They lay down the death penalty for murder. Just think, Bosun: murder, mutiny, attacking a superior officer. You’re guilty of all three, Bosun.”

  He paused for several moments, fighting back the driving sense of urgency as he thought of Gianna in the mutineers’ hands. Then, speaking slowly and quietly he went on, “You’ll hang, Bosun; you’ll be run up at the foreyardarm of one of the King’s ships. As far as the Articles of War are concerned, Bosun, you’re already a dead man. There’s only one thing that might possibly keep your neck out of the noose, Bosun, and that’s if the court let you turn King’s evidence. That means you tell the court all you know. Do you understand?”

  The man said nothing.

  “I think you do,” Ramage said. “But you don’t understand me. The rest of your mutineers have kidnapped the Marchesa. She’s your hostage. Let me tell you something about her. You see Jackson, Rossi and Stafford here? They were with me when we rescued the Marchesa from French cavalry in Italy. All my men on board—except Maxton, who joined me later—have sailed with the Marchesa in the Mediterranean. I don’t think I’m exaggerating Bosun, when I say that every one of them—and that includes Mr Southwick and me—would give his life for her.”

  The three seamen growled their agreement, and Ramage’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper when he said, “So as a mutineer, you’re already dead as far as the Navy’s concerned. If you don’t tell me what the mutineers intended to do, you’ll be dead as far as you are concerned, and within the next couple of minutes …”

  “You’d never kill a wounded man,” the bosun muttered.

  “Accidente!” Rossi hissed, leaping forward with a knife in his hand. “If the Marchesa is hurt, I killing you even if it make me a mutineer!”

  Ramage’s startled reaction and hurried, “Steady, Rossi!” was not lost on the bosun, whose eyes were fixed on the knife blade.

  “Let me have him, sir,” Rossi pleaded. “Two minutes and he say everything!”

  The bosun’s mouth was slack and trembling; the flesh of his face sagged as though every muscle had let go. A faint smell of urine told them the man had almost completely lost control of himself.

  Ramage pressed his foot against Rossi’s. “I think I will, Rossi: tell me, how will you start?”

  “Testicles!” Rossi said eagerly. “First one, then the other. I show him them, sir. Then I cut the ligaments, so he can’t move the legs or the arms. Then—”

  “I’ll tell you, sir,” the bosun said hoarsely, “only just keep that madman away from me!”

  “He’s not mad,” Ramage said viciously, “he’s just unimaginative. What I planned would have had you screaming for an hour. Now, talk!”

  “‘Twas Harris’s idea, sir. Seize you an’ the Marchesa and get you both forward before Southwick realized what was happening. Then we’d hold you both and force Southwick to sail the ship to a Spanish port. Coruña or Ferrol. Just before we got there he was going to shoot the lot of you.”

  The man paused for breath. “That’s about all, sir, so help me.”

  “What will the mutineers do now, with Harris in irons and holding the Marchesa as their only hostage?”

  “Dunno, sir. Probably carry on with the plan. Don’t make no difference that I’m wounded and Harris in irons,” he said. “They’ve still got the Marchesa. And don’t make any mistake, sir,” he added, his voice becoming ingratiating, as if the idea of turning King’s evidence had at last sunk in, “they’re desperate men. They’ll kill her if you don’t do what they say.”

  “If they do, they’ll all hang.”

  “If you won’t take the ship to a Spanish port, they’re dead men anyway,” the bosun muttered, “so they’ve nothing to lose by killing the Marchesa.”

  “Nothing to gain, either,” Ramage pointed out.

  “Revenge, sir. They’ll have settled their score with you. They hate you: you’ve ruined their lives.”

  Ramage looked across at Bowen. “You’d better be ready for more casualties. Don’t waste too much time on this one.”

  Gesturing to Yorke and the seamen he strode out of the saloon and went to his own cabin. “You three go and join Captain Wilson,” he told Jackson. “You’ll be hearing from the mutineers soon: they don’t know whether I’m alive or dead, and don’t tell ‘em. Pretend you have to report to Mr Yorke, but pass the word to me. Warn Captain Wilson about that.”

  “Supposing they try to rush me, sir?”

  “I’m certain they won’t, but if they do, don’t open fire. Use belaying pins or handspikes. We’ve got to safeguard the Marchesa. The sound of shots might panic any of them left below …”

  As Jackson left, Ramage sank into a chair. The large bloodstain on the deck was black in the lantern light, as though a caulker had spilled hot tar.

  “Want a drink?” Yorke asked.

  Ramage shook his head. “I’ve got to think clearly, and spirits won’t help.”

  Yorke sat down. “This is where we were when it all started,” he said miserably.

  Ramage grunted. “I should have made her take the next regular packet.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. No one could have made her do that,” Yorke said severely. “Stop blaming yourself: keep your mind clear to work on how to free her.”

  “Any ideas?” Ramage asked bitterly.

  “Why not go and shout down the hatch—she may answer. That’ll set your mind at rest that she’s not been harmed.”

  “Why the devil do you think I’m sitting here?” Ramage demanded angrily. “I’m here just to make damned sure I don’t shout to her. Those bloody mutineers would probably knock her out to stop her answering.”

  Yorke nodded, slowly realizing that Ramage was right and knowing the strain had sharpened his tongue. “We just wait,” he said. “The next move is up to the mutineers.”

  “I know damned well what they’ll do: the bosun confirmed that. They’ll demand we go to Coruña, and if we don’t—” He broke off, as if unwilling to put the rest into words. “It’s getting her out …” He paused and jumped to his feet as he heard Jackson calling as he came down the companion-way.

  “They’re asking for the Captain, sir,” Jackson reported grimly. “Mr Wilson told ‘em he’ll pass the word. They didn’t ask for you by name.”

  Yorke turned to Ramage and said slowly, as though thinking aloud, “Let me talk to them. Better they think you’re dead—or wounded, maybe, so the Marchesa isn’t upset and doesn’t do anything rash. I can tell ‘em I’m in command. They won’t think about Southwick.”

  Ramage thought for a moment. “That’s a good idea. But even if she thinks I’m only wounded, Gianna might …”

  “She will sir,” Jackson said anxiously. “Perhaps Rossi …”

  “Right, belay the talk and listen,” Ramage said crisply, and quickly gave Yorke and Jackson their instructions. The three men then hurried up the companion-way, Yorke and Jackson going forward while Ramage went aft to tell Southwick what was happening. The Mast
er was sceptical at first but admitted, after a few moments’ thought, that there was little choice.

  Ramage hurried forward, where he could see the hatchway lit up by a lantern. Yorke was standing a yard or so to one side, the thick coaming shielding him in case a shot was fired from below. Wilson had placed his men forward of the hatch, so that any mutineers coming up the ladder would have to step into the ring of light from the lantern and be a perfect target. Jackson was whispering to Rossi, who was nodding vigorously.

  After glancing round the deck for a place to hide out of sight but within earshot, Ramage finally ducked down on the afterside of the forward four-pounder gun on the lee side.

  Rossi went over to join Yorke while Jackson walked to the breech of the gun and whispered, “Everything’s ready, sir. Do you think you’ll be able to hear what’s said?”

  “I think so, but you can repeat it if necessary.”

  Then he heard Yorke call, “Send up your spokesman. One man, unarmed.”

  There was a pause as the mutineer replied.

  Jackson whispered, “Didn’t hear that, sir.”

  “This is Mr Yorke: I’m in command of the Arabella now, thanks to the bosun and Harris.”

  Again Jackson could not hear the mutineers’ reply.

  Yorke called down the hatch, “You’ve no guarantee we won’t seize your spokesman, but you’re holding the Marchesa: she’s enough security … Very well, one man, and he stops at the top of the ladder.”

  A minute later Yorke said, “Right, stand there. Now, why did you want to see the Captain?”

  “To give our orders!” said the mutineer.

  “Go on, then,” Yorke said mildly.

  “You alter course immediately for Coruña. That’s the first order.”

  “We are already on course for Coruña. The course for Falmouth and Coruña is the same until we get to Cabo Finisterra. Then we turn east to Coruña.”

  “Very well, see you do that.”

  “I didn’t say we would,” Yorke said sharply.

  “We’ll see about that in a minute,” the mutineer sneered. “The second order is that you don’t try to interfere with us.”

  “Go on.”

  “The third is you release Harris and the bosun.”

  For a moment Ramage cursed himself: he hadn’t anticipated that demand. What would Yorke do?

  “You can have the bosun this minute,” Yorke said quietly.

  “Right, send him here.”

  “He’ll have to be carried. He’ll be dead before you get him to the bottom of the ladder, though.”

  “How so?” the mutineer demanded.

  “The Surgeon’s working hard this very moment to save his life.”

  “Wait,” the mutineer said, and Jackson whispered to Ramage that he’d gone down the ladder. For a moment Ramage wondered whether to risk having Jackson pass a message to Yorke about Harris, then decided against it: Yorke was capable of dealing with that.

  “Mutineer’s back,” Jackson whispered.

  “Well, Mr Yorke, your orders from the mutineers are that the bosun’s life must be saved.”

  “I’m no surgeon and I can’t perform miracles. Mr Bowen’s doing his best, so don’t be absurd.”

  “What about Harris, then?”

  “Harris!” Yorke said with a sniff. “No surgeon can do anything for him!”

  “Oh Gawd,” the mutineer exclaimed. “We heard only one shot …”

  “It only needs one,” Yorke said crisply. “Now, you mutineers are trapped down on the messdeck; why the devil do you think I’m going to take any notice of so-called orders from you?”

  “Because if you don’t, we’ll cut the Marchesa’s throat.”

  “Whose idea is it to threaten to murder a helpless woman?”

  “‘Twas Harris’s, God rest his soul; he was the one what planned to get us our liberty.”

  “Very well, what guarantee can you give that if I sail the ship to Coruña you’ll free the Marchesa unharmed when we get there?”

  The mutineer was silent for several moments, then went below again to consult with his shipmates.

  “That was smart of Mr Yorke,” Jackson whispered. “Everything he said was true but the fellow believes Harris is dead. Pity he isn’t.”

  Two minutes passed before they heard Yorke ask, “Well? What have you got to offer.”

  “You’ve got our word of honour.”

  Yorke roared with laughter. “Do you think anyone in the world would accept the word of men who are guilty of murder, mutiny, kidnapping and blackmail? Are you drunk?” he asked suspiciously.

  “But … but we didn’t do no murdering!”

  “Oh yes you did! Eleven of you—I’ll ignore the two boys—planned mutiny and kidnapping. If people get murdered in the process you’re all equally guilty. Ask any judge.”

  Once again the mutineer was silent, and Yorke said, “You’ve got the Marchesa as a hostage. Very well, if I sail this ship to Coruña I want hostages from you. You hand over the Marchesa to me unharmed in Coruña, and I’ll hand over my hostages unharmed.”

  “I’ll have to ask my mates.”

  “Two hostages,” Yorke said as the man went below.

  Ramage knew the next two or three minutes were critical. If the six mutineers agreed, it would leave only four of them and the two cabin boys down on the messdeck: four men and the boys to guard both the hatch and Gianna. They might insist on one, and Yorke would have to agree, but it still left them weaker—and even one mutineer as a hostage for Gianna’s safety was better than nothing. Would they insist on the release of the three packetsmen he had in irons?

  Then Yorke was speaking to the mutineer again.

  “One hostage, you say? One of you murderers as security for the life of the Marchesa? Don’t be absurd,” he said contemptuously.

  “But what about the three of our mates who were on watch?” the mutineer asked lamely.

  “In irons and lucky to be alive.”

  “Well, sir, you’ve got four hostages, then …”

  “Four? Those three are prisoners, not hostages!”

  “Well, if anything happens to them,” the mutineer said stubbornly, “it’ll be too bad for the Marchesa. My shipmates say one more is enough.”

  “Very well, send him up.”

  “I’m the one.”

  “Step out on deck, then, and let’s have a look at you,” Yorke said, moving clear of the hatch and at the same time clearing the field of fire for Wilson.

  As soon as the man emerged from the hatch Yorke said sharply, “Now, I want proof that the Marchesa is safe.”

  “You can’t go down there,” the mutineer said doggedly.

  “If you’ve harmed her—”

  “No, no, she’s safe,” the man said hurriedly. “One of the Tritons can call down to her.”

  Ramage just managed to stop himself giving an audible sigh of relief.

  Yorke signalled to Rossi, who promptly shouted a stream of Italian down the hatch. Before the startled mutineer could intervene, Ramage heard Gianna replying. He could not distinguish what she said, but her tone of voice told him she was not only alive but in good spirits.

  Rossi shouted back and as the mutineer stepped forward, protesting that he’d not given permission for a long conversation, Yorke was laughing. “My dear fellow, you know Italians; they would not be capable of saying anything briefly even if they’d tried. Rossi is merely asking the Marchesa if she wants her toilet things and clothes. Even you, surely, would not expect her to stay in her nightdress all the way to Coruña!”

  “Well, no,” the mutineer said uncomfortably as he heard Gianna answering again, “but—”

  “Hairbrush, comb, shoes. You really don’t expect the Marchesa to wear a sailor’s shirt and tie her hair in a queue?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well then, just be patient and give Rossi time to find out what she wants.”

  “But that’s the third—”

  “Are you married?
Have you ever met a woman who could decide in a minute what she needs when she goes away for a week?”

  “Well—”

  “Have you?” Yorke insisted, hoping Rossi would hurry. “Come on, yes or no!”

  “But—”

  “Goes away for a week, I said. But the Marchesa has just been kidnapped, so obviously she needs more time. Anyway, your mates down there can stop the conversation whenever they want.”

  “Yes, but they’ll think I’ve given permission for—”

  “And so you have,” Yorke said heartily, noting the man had revealed his role among them, “and very civil of you, too. I’m sure the Marchesa appreciates it—” He broke off, seeing Rossi turning away from the hatch. “Is she all right?” he asked the Italian.

  “Yes, sir; is bruised in the arms by these banditi, but …”

  “Very well,” Yorke turned and waved to Jackson. “This man is our hostage. Take him away and secure him.”

  “But you’re not going to put me in irons—”

  “What do you expect? You’ve got the Marchesa locked up below—”

  “In irons, sir,” Rossi interjected.

  “In irons? Well, I’m damned if I’m going to dress you up as Father Neptune and let you strut around the ship,” he told the mutineer.

  Jackson and Stafford led the man away, and as Yorke walked aft Ramage joined him.

  “How was that?” Yorke muttered.

  “Masterly! I liked the touch about Harris. But let’s get hold of Rossi; I couldn’t hear what Gianna said.”

  Yorke called the Italian seaman and followed Ramage down to the captain’s cabin. Rossi reported that apart from bruises the Marchesa was all right. She had a leg-iron round one ankle, with the other part secured to an eye-bolt, but her hands were untied.

  The mutineers were nervous of her tongue, Rossi said proudly, and all of them were very frightened of what Harris had done. When they presumed from what Mr Yorke said that Harris was dead, one of them wanted to surrender and would have persuaded the others had the man who was now the hostage not come down and argued against it. Yes, he said in reply to the question from Ramage, he had passed both sets of instructions to the Marchesa, and by now she should be weeping and wailing and accusing the mutineers of killing the Arabella’s Captain. “She said to tell you, sir,” Rossi added with a grin, “that you make the trouble for her every time she goes to sea.”