Ramage's Prize

by Dudley Pope

  “Although I was the intended victim each time in the two attempted murder charges against the bosun, and the Marchesa di Volterra the actual victim of kidnapping,” Ramage said bluntly, deliberately ignoring the First Lord’s warning glance, “the French have been well aware of the defects in the Packet Service for a year or more, sir.”

  “Quite so,” Lord Auckland said smoothly, “I was using the phrase ‘the French’ in a metaphorical sense. But one has to take the broader view.”

  “Quite surprising how broad the muzzle of a pistol seems when someone’s threatening to shoot you,” Yorke said conversationally, “or how sharp a cutlass blade when a man tries to cleave your skull with it …”

  “I can imagine,” Lord Auckland said, “and I realize how Ramage must feel over the death of one of his men. The murderer will be brought to trial, but the others …”

  “Their Protections, sir,” Ramage said. “Supposing the Admiralty cancels them entirely.”

  Spencer slapped the table top. “That’s it, William! Let ‘em spend a few years in the naval service!”

  The Postmaster-General nodded at Ramage. “An excellent suggestion.” He turned to Lord Spencer. “I shall be writing to you officially to thank you for Mr Ramage’s efforts. I will make myself responsible for Mr Much’s future. As for you, Mr Yorke”—he stood up and held out his hand—”it is lucky for the Post Office that Mr Ramage has such friends.”

  Next morning at the family house in Palace Street, Ramage was having a late breakfast with Yorke and Much when the ancient servant who looked after the house while the family was in Cornwall came to the table.

  “A man called, my Lord,” he said lugubriously.

  “When, Hanson?”

  “A minute or two ago, my Lord; he left this packet.” Ramage took it and then saw the superscription. He gestured across the table. “It’s for Mr Yorke.”

  “I’m sorry sir, I must clean my spectacles.”

  “Clean them? You haven’t got them on!”

  “Oh dear,” the old man said petulantly, “I wonder where I left them?”

  Yorke opened the packet and took out several sheets of paper.

  “This is what we were waiting for,” he said, clearing plates and cutlery away to make a space in front of him, then spreading out the papers.

  “Stevens. Looks as though this last voyage was the first time he ever carried ventures. Eight hundred pounds worth of insurance for the round trip.

  “Now for that Surgeon, Farrell. He’s taken out policies on seven occasions—seven separate round trip voyages. The underwriters have paid out several thousand pounds on four occasions for cargoes lost owing to enemy action. Add that to the profit normally made on freights and you’ll find that Mr Farrell is one of the wealthiest men in Falmouth.

  “Now for the bosun’s mate. Insured on nine round trips and he’s claimed on three.” He glanced through the other papers. “Same story for the rest of them. I notice the amounts they insured for have increased fifty per cent each voyage. They were getting more and more confident …”

  He picked up and handed the papers across the table to Ramage. “You’ll want to pass them on to the Admiralty …”

  An hour later Ramage was sitting in the same chair in the Board Room of the Admiralty and surprised to find that the First Lord and Lord Auckland were again discussing the packet problem. There was a third man present who was introduced as Mr Francis Freeling, and Ramage thought he remembered seeing the name in the Royal Kalendar as being the Secretary of the General Post Office. Freeling was a man of about forty, energetic, greying hair and yet oddly precise.

  The two ministers read quickly through the lists from the underwriters.

  “So the commander was a comparative new boy to this business,” Lord Spencer commented.

  “But the stern of his ship was rotten,” Lord Auckland said bitterly.

  “He could not have been absolutely sure he’d get the opportunity of surrendering to a privateer this voyage, my Lord,” Freeling said.

  “But from what Much and Mr Ramage say, he was determined to surrender at the first opportunity.”

  Freeling nodded, but repeated his point. “He could only surrender if he found a captor, my Lord.”

  “Quite so,” Auckland said testily, “there’s no need to state the obvious. Tell me, Ramage, you felt things were reaching a climax even before the privateer showed up. Why?”

  “That rotten stern, sir; it was a bit frightening. I think Stevens meant to do everything he could to make sure he was captured, even if we hadn’t sighted that privateer.”

  “How could he do that?” asked Freeling. “You appreciate I am a layman, of course.”

  “Simply by making for the areas where privateers are known to be thickest, and sailing at a reduced speed—as he was doing. Obviously the longer you take to sail through a danger area, the longer you are in danger …”

  “What would you do to eradicate the whole problem—put a stop to all this surrendering?” Auckland asked Ramage abruptly—so abruptly that both Lord Spencer and Freeling glanced up in surprise.

  Ramage’s mind went back to the conversations he had had with Yorke and Much. “Three things would cover it, sir—in my opinion,” he added politely. “Put a fresh prohibition on anyone carrying ventures and enforce it strictly: you now have a perfect reason and opportunity for banning it once and for all, and giving no option but jail for any wrongdoers. The second thing would be to make every commander face a strict court of inquiry after the loss of his ship—a court of inquiry held here in London, not among his friends in Falmouth. One of the Elder Brethren of Trinity House, someone representing the underwriters, a naval officer, perhaps a representative of the West India merchants … a court formed of such men. The third thing would be to sack every Post Office official in Falmouth, and the Inspector of Packets in London …”

  As Ramage mentioned his third proposal he watched the three men. Lord Auckland gave a curiously mild snort that was lost halfway in his nostrils, the First Lord glanced up at the Postmaster-General, but Freeling simply nodded. Nodded three times, to be exact; three firm nods, as though it was part of a ritual. Lord Auckland had noticed this and said, “Tell us, Mr Secretary, what do you think of Mr Ramage’s Draconian measures?”

  “Excellent, my Lord. He is quite right in saying it gives us a perfect opportunity to get rid of ventures. The stricter court of inquiry—you will recall that I’ve been suggesting that for two years. As for sacking the men at Falmouth … some might be retired with advantage, others might be given the opportunity to transfer to some other station …”

  “Better not antagonize too many people, you mean?” Auckland said.

  Freeling nodded. “If we keep Falmouth as the packet port, we have to work with the local people there, my Lord, and they’re all related to each other.”

  “Quite—we don’t want to use Plymouth!” The minister coloured slightly and added hurriedly, “Bad holding ground for ships, they tell me, George; nothing against your people.”

  Lord Spencer nodded and said ironically: “You can also get into Falmouth in any weather, William; that’s something you can’t do at Plymouth. It’s your strongest argument for continuing to use Falmouth …”

  “Quite so, quite so,” Lord Auckland said. “Well, no doubt Mr Ramage wants to make up for his long absence from the London social scene, and Freeling and I had better knock some sort of shape into the report to the Cabinet …”

  He stood up and held his hand out to Ramage. “Thank you,” he said simply, “much obliged to you and your men.”

  It was a sunny though chilly morning, and Ramage decided to walk back to Palace Street, trying to summon up the energy to face the journey down to St Kew. Much had gone off shopping before catching the coach back to Falmouth that night. He was impatient to be back with his family. Yorke was spending the rest of the day in Leadenhall Street at his office—seeing, as he told Ramage before leaving, “how many ships the hurricanes and the
French have left me.”

  As he swung round into Palace Street and idly glanced along the short road, Ramage saw there was a large carriage outside his house. The carriage was blue and gold, and the coat of arms on the open door was familiar. Hanson was bent almost double over some luggage.

  He found himself walking faster. Windows upstairs were being flung open, as if to air the house and someone was looking out of one of them; a young woman with black hair and a small, heart-shaped face. She was waving wildly to him and calling in a language the passers-by could not understand, and now at last free of mutineers and politicians and bureaucrats, he was holding his sword in his left hand and his hat in his right, and his heart was beating hard as if he’d run all the way from the Admiralty. He almost knocked Hanson over as he ran into the house, only vaguely hearing the old man’s hasty, “The family, sir, and the Marchesa—they’ve just arrived!”