by Dudley Pope
Tewtin had many questions to ask but managed to restrict himself to nodding approvingly. A nod was safe, he realized.
“By chance my own frigate, the Calypso, was in the Fleet and I was put in command again.” Ramage saw no reason to elaborate on how that came about. “Anyway, as soon as Admiral Clinton heard that a French frigate was already on its way to Devil’s Island with the Count and many other Royalists, I was sent in pursuit, my wife returning to England in the Murex brig.”
Tewtin, thinking that was the end of Ramage’s story, nodded and said: “But you picked up a couple of prizes, anyway. I’m sure the Count will survive, although he’s in a very horrible place at this moment.”
“Oh, he’ll survive, sir,” Ramage said reassuringly, a tight smile on his face. “Just a touch of fever.”
“What is?” asked a puzzled Tewtin. “Fever?”
“The Count, sir. He is on board the Calypso but developed a bout of fever a couple of days ago.”
Tewtin jumped to his feet. “Good God, man! Bring him over to the flagship! He must be my guest. Here–” he waved at Lieutenant Newick, “have this cabin prepared for him. Warn Captain Woods that I shall be moving into his quarters–”
“Sir,” Ramage said quietly, “I don’t think the Count will move from the Calypso. Apart from anything else, his main concern is to get to England as quickly as possible.”
“I don’t want any argument from you about this,” Tewtin said firmly. “He will be my guest, and that’s that. Have him sent over in a boat – no, I’ll send over my barge. That will be more comfortable for a sick man.”
“Sir, please leave the Count where he is: he anticipated your kindness,” Ramage said tactfully, “and was most emphatic that he should stay in the Calypso.” Suddenly Ramage thought of another excuse. “He prefers to talk French: in fact, he is so weakened by the fever that he has great difficulty in speaking English. Do you have a fluent French speaker…?”
“Well, as long as you have faith in your surgeon,” Tewtin said grudgingly. “But I would be most distressed if the Prince of Wales…most distressed,” he repeated, without elaborating.
Ramage thought of his men on board the prizes and then decided not to mention them. Southwick would be retrieving the men as soon as the prizes had been cleared by the quarantine authorities. It would be better to leave Rear-Admiral Tewtin to sleep on the thought that he had two extra frigates if he wanted them, and to reflect on why he should not delay a friend of the Prince of Wales.
“I have a number of other Royalists on board, sir,” Ramage said and, noting the gleam in Tewtin’s eye, hurriedly added: “They are very frightened that Bonaparte will take reprisals against their families in France, so they are very anxious that their names be kept secret. You will appreciate that they do not want to be invited to any receptions. In fact, I rather fear the Count will expect to hear our sailing date when I return on board.”
“But you have to water and provision, surely?” Tewtin said. “And the prizes – buying them in: I have to have them surveyed and valued…it all takes time.”
“Indeed, sir,” Ramage said soothingly, knowing that having Tewtin on board to meet the Count in a day or so would work wonders: it would give the admiral something to tell his wife about in his next letter home.
Tewtin suddenly snapped his fingers and shook his head, as though irritated with himself. “There’s a letter for you from the Admiralty – from Lord St Vincent, I believe.” He waved a hand at Newick. “Fetch it – you should have reminded me.”
Again Ramage felt the strange chill. It was not a change in orders, telling him to take the Calypso or the Count to, say, Jamaica instead of England, because Their Lordships had no idea that Jean-Jacques had been rescued. There were (he finally forced himself to face the fact) no letters waiting for him from Sarah when he had expected a couple of dozen at least: she would have written every day, even if only writing letters like a diary, but she would have posted several. Lord St Vincent would certainly have sent a message telling her that a Post Office packet left for Barbados on regular dates and would carry any letters she had ready.
“Sir,” Newick said, and Ramage realized he had been repeating the word several times as he held out a packet with the familiar Admiralty seal.
“Thank you,” Ramage said automatically and picked up the canvas pouch. He dropped the packet into the pouch and took out his report of proceedings, handing it to Tewtin.
The rear-admiral saw it was a lengthy document and realized it was bound to take several pages to reduce to writing the story which Ramage had paraphrased.
“Very well, my boy, I will read this and we’ll have the prizes surveyed and valued as soon as possible. You’ll soon be on your way,” he added jovially. “You to return to your new wife; the Count to call on the Prince of Wales. Although I haven’t read your report yet, it does seem to me you have done an outstanding job. Off you go, then, and do assure the Count he would be very welcome and I will get passages for the other French Royalists in the next convoy for England.”
The Queen’s boat taking Ramage back to the Calypso seemed to go so slowly that to him the seamen might have been ancients rowing through molasses. He climbed on board, nodded to Aitken who, as first lieutenant, was waiting at the entryport to greet him, and went straight down to his cabin. The canvas pouch seemed to be weighing a hundredweight by now; Lord St Vincent’s letter appeared in his imagination as a harbinger of some nameless evil he could not imagine.
He tossed the pouch on his desk and sat down at the chair. Steady, he told himself, it’s only a packet. Probably just a private letter from St Vincent with a message for the Count from the Prince of Wales, or perhaps some advice on how to deal with it all (the Earl would have to assume that Ramage had been successful). And judging from the thickness of the packet, there were fresh orders, too. Nor would that be unusual. He had been sent across the Atlantic on the orders of Admiral Clinton, commanding the Channel Fleet, but it had all been a highly irregular proceeding because of the emergency. With the Prince of Wales now involved, it would be quite normal for the Admiralty to take control again. Which is what the letter must be about. And, he asked himself, what was he getting so depressed about? Just break the seal and read the stylized wording, hallowed by tradition…He reached for the paper-knife and slid it under the seal. Slowly he unfolded the cover. Inside was one sealed letter marked “Personal and Private”, and another which was clearly orders.
“My dear Ramage,” [the letter began (a glance at the signature showed it was from the First Lord),] “regard this letter as relaying a rumour, not necessarily fact, but I feel it my duty to keep you informed about such a delicate matter. As you know, Admiral Clinton sent back to England the Murex brig which you so skilfully cut out of Brest, and she was bringing home Lady Ramage and the former captain of the Calypso.”
And that, Ramage noted, was a very discreet way of describing that drunken scoundrel, and he could imagine the Earl then wondering how to describe Sarah. The First Lord knew Ramage did not use his title in the service, but Sarah was titled both as the daughter of the Marquis and as the wife of an earl’s son who bore one of his father’s titles.
Ramage suddenly jerked himself out of the reverie: Earl St Vincent, a man who could make sword steel look like putty, was not a man who ordinarily relayed rumours.
“The Murex brig was due in Spithead two weeks ago. She has not yet arrived. The weather has been good with a brisk southwester blowing – and a messenger was sent to Plymouth with orders that I should be notified the moment she arrives. All the other southern ports have been similarly instructed.
“Thus it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that at the time the messenger leaves for Falmouth with this letter in tonight’s pouch, we have no news. I have talked with your father and with the Marquis, and while both agree with me that there are many possible reasons why the Murex should not have arrived, ranging from dismasting to taking a prize and having to shepherd her in, we all f
elt that you should be informed, which I have now done, and remain your obedient servant, St Vincent.”
Sarah was, at best, a prisoner of the French. At worst she had been killed or drowned when the brig was captured or sunk by bad weather or a French ship of war or privateer. A brief honeymoon and, because of some mutinous scoundrels and a drunken young post-captain, she was dead. Killed because she had been witless enough to fall in love with Nicholas Ramage.
The cabin darkened and shrank round him: his body tightened as an uncontrollable spasm drove out every thought except the one that he had dreaded – Sarah was dead. He was alone, and had lost the love he had begun to despair of ever finding. Yes, he had earlier loved Gianna, but that had eventually only served as a yardstick by which he could measure the depth of his love for Sarah. He began to curse the injustice of it: many couples had twenty, thirty and even more years of marriage before one or other of them went over the standing part of the foresheet. But he and Sarah had been together, as man and wife, for how long – a month? They had known each other for a few months. The stark, blinding unfairness of it all. Why Sarah? Why hadn’t a roundshot cut him in half instead? This thought calmed him down. Lord St Vincent was not saying that she was dead: only that she was dead or a prisoner, and given the usual ratio of casualties in an action, the odds were ninety-eight to one that she had been taken prisoner.
How a crowd of French privateersmen would treat a woman prisoner sent another muscle-tightening spasm of rage through his body, but to have her alive…Then he felt himself calming slightly: it was impossible to imagine Sarah dead. Yet surely all lovers must feel their partners were immortal: bereavement was what happened to other couples.
He suddenly realized that for two or three minutes there had been a steady knocking at his door, and the Marine sentry’s call was now being reinforced by the agitated calls of Aitken and Southwick.
“Come in!” he called and the door flung open, Aitken almost sprawling as he rushed through, crouched so that his head did not hit the beams. He stared at Ramage sitting at the desk but jerked as Southwick, head down, bumped into him.
Aitken was quick to recover. “Sorry, sir, but you didn’t answer.”
“I was thinking,” Ramage said lamely, “but come in and shut the door.” He saw both men were pale under their tans, and although Aitken might be satisfied with the explanation, Southwick certainly was not: the old master had served with him so long that his role had slowly changed to – well, what? A benevolent grandfather dependent on his grandson’s largesse? Anyway, the old man was now standing over him, a puzzled look creasing his face. “Are you sure everything is all right, sir?”
Ramage thought for a moment. If he did not tell them now, he would have to keep the news to himself all the way to England, like a man nursing a guilty secret, so now was the time. He held up the First Lord’s letter. “If you can’t read the signature, it’s from Lord St Vincent.”
Southwick sighed, as though he knew from long experience that letters from such heights never carried welcome news, and sat down, giving the page a shake to straighten it out. As he read, Aitken said quietly, by way of explanation: “When you came back from the Queen, sir, your face was white as a sheet. You seemed to be trembling. We thought you’d been struck by one of these sudden fluxes.”
Ramage shook his head and nodded towards the letter that Southwick had just finished reading. The old man’s features were frozen as he handed the letter back to Ramage without a word. Ramage gave it to Aitken, who took the precaution of sitting on the settee first: he had seen the effect on Southwick. He read it through twice, folded it and gave it back to Ramage without comment, but the skin now seemed too tight on his face.
Then Ramage remembered Jean-Jacques. The Count had been entranced by Sarah. And the four Frenchmen, Gilbert, Louis, Auguste and Albert, who had come to serve in the Calypso after helping to capture the Murex brig: they regarded Sarah as a woman among women for the part she had played.
He was bewildered; he pulled himself together enough to realize that. But the news of Sarah had torn a piece of himself away: the part that had feelings, that told him what to do…
He then remembered the second enclosure in the packet which was still lying on top of his desk. He opened the seal, more to take his mind off St Vincent’s news than because of any curiosity about new orders. For that was what they were.
They were signed, as usual, by Evan Nepean, the Secretary to the Board of Admiralty, and began in one of the time-honoured fashions, “I am directed by My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to acquaint you…” which told Ramage at once that whatever the orders were, they would not be radical: new orders usually began: “You are hereby requested and required to…”
Ramage glanced quickly through the copperplate writing and, having assured himself there was no petard smouldering among the sentences, waiting to hoist him into more trouble, read through again, more slowly.
For a bizarre moment he pictured Their Lordships sitting solemnly round the long polished table in the Boardroom with a box in front of them full of slips of paper on which was written the word “whereas”. While dictating their instructions to Nepean they would, every minute or so, skim another “whereas” slip across to him, to insert in the letter he was drafting.
Anyway, whereas Captain Ramage had been on Admiralty approved leave in France when hostilities had again broken out, and whereas he had managed to escape in the Murex brig and join Admiral Clinton upon the commander-in-chief’s arrival off Brest with the blockading force, “and whereas Admiral Clinton had given Captain Ramage command of his former frigate the Calypso” (and there Ramage recognized the gentle rap over the knuckles: although he had applied to the Admiralty for leave to go abroad, as laid down in the Instructions, and been granted it, the fact was when the war suddenly broke out again he was not with his ship. The Admiralty never sought or listened to excuses – officers went on leave by their own choice – and generally had a bovine disregard for fairness or logic).
“–and whereas Admiral Clinton gave certain orders concerning the capture of the French frigate L’Espoir and the release of French Royalists, among them the Count of Rennes, and whereas Their Lordships have now assumed that these orders have been successfully executed” (an indication, as if one was needed, Ramage thought to himself, that there was no excuse for failure), “Their Lordships direct that having called at Barbados with the prize and the Royalists, the refugees, the Count of Rennes among them, are to be given passages in suitable merchant ships and sent back to England with the first convoy.
“Their Lordships further direct that you are to remain in command of the Calypso frigate, which should also return to England and is now again under Admiralty orders.” Which meant, Ramage noted, that Rear-Admiral Tewtin could not interfere.
Any prizes taken in the course of the original operation, Nepean continued, should be handed over to the commander-in-chief, the Windward Island Station, who would buy them in for service or otherwise dispose of them. And Nepean had the honour to be, etc.
So there it was. Their Lordships (which probably meant in fact a quorum of three members of the Board) blithely assumed one could do the impossible, and afterwards punctiliously sent out fresh orders to keep one gainfully occupied, just as one leaned back to rest a moment and take a deep breath. Still, it was better than facing a court of inquiry (or even a court-martial) because of failure.
But now there was all the irritating detail, although arranging passages for the refugees should not be difficult – there were a couple of score of merchant ships already anchored in the Bay, and obviously a convoy was being assembled.
Admiral Tewtin would no doubt present a few problems (no local flag officer liked a ship in his waters receiving direct Admiralty orders) but Ramage could use the actual orders as a talisman: they were as binding on Tewtin as on Ramage himself. The two prize frigates – well, whatever price Tewtin decided on had eventually to be approved by the Admiralty and Navy Board who
, to be fair, were just as likely to raise a low one as reduce another that was too high. So within the week the Calypso should be on her way across the Atlantic to England, with the Royalists following in the convoy.
The Calypso, he remembered with a shock like a gun going off beside him, would be going to an England where Sarah would not be waiting to greet them. And now he must go to tell Jean-Jacques.
Chapter Three
Admiral Tewtin read through the Admiralty’s orders once again and then looked up at Ramage, who was sitting opposite him across the big desk in the Queen’s great cabin, the sun reflecting harshly through the sternlights and almost blinding Ramage when each wave threw up a flash of sunlight, as if deliberately trying to dazzle him. “Yes,” Tewtin said, folding the page, “it all fits together very well: I’ll buy in the prizes because I need frigates to escort this next convoy: we’ll arrange passages in the merchant ships for the refugees – for the Royalists,” he corrected himself, “and then you can command the convoy when it sails for England.”
“But…but that’s not my understanding of the orders, sir,” Ramage protested.
“It’s my understanding,” Tewtin said shortly, “and that’s what matters.”
And Tewtin was right: it would be six months or more before the Admiralty could reprimand him for delaying the Calypso, and only a fool would think that the Admiralty valued the frigate’s speedy arrival in England more than the safe arrival of a large trade convoy.
The Count was safe, which was what mattered as far as the Prince of Wales was concerned, and would be coming home in the convoy. In addition, Ramage reflected, from Tewtin’s point of view there was a good chance of the convoy arriving unscathed if Ramage commanded it: all too often convoys were commanded by frigate captains who were fit for nothing else or had fallen out of favour with the admiral. It was not too difficult to fall out of favour with some admirals – when sent to “cruise”, a euphemism for hunting for prizes, it was no good coming back too often with stories of bad luck. The admiral’s share in a prize was an eighth of its value; a couple of years on a good station usually meant he could buy a large country estate and put enough in the Funds to run it, apart from buying a knighthood or baronetcy and, with luck, having a seat in Parliament, being in effect issued one of those like Rochester which, with several others, the Admiralty regarded as its own property…Admiral Sir Hyde Parker was thought to have made £200,000 in prize money during his recent four years as commander-in-chief at Jamaica, generally reckoned the most lucrative station of all. So no doubt Tewtin had high hopes, and those hopes rested almost entirely on his frigate captains. That in turn depended on having frigates. No commander-in-chief ever had enough of them, so Tewtin was very lucky to have three arrive unexpectedly out of the south, a bonus he could use for the convoy without losing any of his own yet two of which he could fill with his own people. Each of the two prizes now needed a captain and three lieutenants, apart from warrant and petty officers. The commander-in-chief of the station made all such promotions, although they had to be approved afterwards by the Admiralty.
