Ramage and the Freebooters

by Dudley Pope

  ‘Good morning!’

  Ramage spun round to find Lord Spencer had come through a door at the far end of the room which had been indistinguishable against the panelling.

  ‘Good morning, my Lord.’

  Ramage shook the proffered hand.

  ‘Your first visit to the Board Room?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I guessed as much, though your father knew it well enough. Were you admiring the clock or bemoaning the unpunctuality of the King’s ministers?’ Spencer asked banteringly.

  Ramage grinned. ‘Admiring, and trying to remember what my father told me about it. And admiring the whole room.’

  ‘I love it,’ Spencer said frankly. ‘I use it instead of my own office. I’ll be your guide before we sit down to settle your business.’

  The words were spoken lightly, but for Ramage they had an ominous meaning. Certainly the First Lord was being affable enough, but the family had suffered enough at the hands of politicians for him to be wary.

  ‘Let’s start with the clock. Made by Langley Bradley, the man who made the one for St Paul’s Cathedral. It’s been telling the time and date for nearly a hundred years, so the mirror’ – he bent down to grimace at his own image – ‘has reflected every Board meeting since this place was built in 1725.

  ‘These carvings over the fireplace – pearwood, by Grinling Gibbons, as you’ve probably guessed. He did them in the 1690s and they were probably taken from Wallingford House, which was knocked down to make room for this building.

  ‘And how do you like our wind dial? I can glance up and see if a nice west wind is keeping the French shut up in Brest, or if there’s an east wind on which they might slip out. In fact until I became First Lord I never realized what danger an east wind brings to this country, giving every enemy fleet from the Texel to the Cadiz a chance of getting out of port. Or what an ally we have in a west wind, penning them in like sheep!’

  Because of his father, Ramage had known the Spencer family since boyhood. Never very well, but enough to allow the First Lord to relax with a lowly lieutenant for a few minutes.

  And now he was impressed with the older man’s obvious enthusiasm for his job as First Lord of the Admiralty. But for all that he was a politician; any day a government reshuffle might promote him to some other post or demote him to some well-paid sinecure like the President of the Council for Trade and Plantations. Or to complete eclipse if the government fell – which he guessed it might do over the Spithead affair. Yet since Spencer was appointed First Lord three years ago he’d become both popular and respected: an unusual combination.

  If the Board Room was about seventy-five years old, Ramage reflected, it meant members sitting at that table had given the orders which sent Anson on his great voyage round the world in the Centurion. And Captain Cook on three voyages revealing the extent of the Pacific Ocean. And sent Admiral Byng – much too late and with a small and ill-equipped squadron – to defeat off Minorca. Then, as the resulting public outcry threatened to topple the government, had obeyed its order to make Byng the scapegoat and brought him to a mockery of a trial which led to him being shot by a firing squad on the quarterdeck of the St George at Portsmouth.

  And, he realized with a shock, from here had gone the orders sending his own father to the West Indies in command of a similar squadron in similar circumstances. Following the inevitable defeat, similar orders for a court martial had been given and for similar reasons – though his father had been disgraced as the price of the government staying in power, not shot…

  Spencer must have read his thoughts because, his face expressionless, he said casually: ‘Yes, some great and some shameful decisions have been made in this room. I can’t claim credit for any of the former nor undo any of the latter.’

  Ramage nodded, since no answer was needed, but he felt a considerable relief because Spencer had said more than mere words. The trial of Admiral the Earl of Blazey had been a cold-blooded political manoeuvre, but it had also split the Navy.

  That had been inevitable because many officers were active in politics or linked by family ties or patronage with leading political figures. They had been quick to strike at the government of the day through his father – and not a few took advantage of an opportunity to satisfy their jealousy of a young admiral already famous as one of the Navy’s leading tacticians. Although several of these men were now dead or superannuated, there were still many in high positions who carried on the vendetta against the Earl’s family – helped in turn by the younger officers who looked to them for promotion – and the vendetta had extended to the Earl’s son and heir, Ramage himself.

  ‘Sit down – here, in Lord Arden’s chair.’

  Arden, second senior of the Lords Commissioners, sat at the First Lord’s left hand.

  As Spencer unlocked a drawer in the table, Ramage thought of the brief and peremptory letter in his pocket ordering him to report to the First Lord. It gave no reason, but as far as Ramage was concerned there could be only one.

  Spencer put several papers on the table and, patting them with his hand, remarked: ‘Mercifully there are few lieutenants in the Navy List who’ve had so many contradictory reports on them forwarded to the First Lord.’

  And here we go, Ramage thought bitterly. First the honeyed words: now the harsh judgement. Well, it wasn’t unexpected. He’d been back in England for several weeks since the Battle of Cape St Vincent. For the first three he had been recovering from the head wound, and as soon as he wrote to the Admiralty reporting himself fit he’d expected the summons to London or an order to report to some port for a court martial.

  His father hadn’t tried to comfort him; in fact the old Admiral insisted he didn’t accept any reprimand and, if necessary, demanded a court martial. But the days had gone by without anything more than a bare acknowledgement of the letter. While it meant no reprimand it also meant no employment.

  Turning the pile of papers over so the bottom one was uppermost, the First Lord said: ‘Let’s just run through these. Then you’ll see my predicament. Here’s one from Sir John Jervis – as he then was – dated last October and praising you for your bravery in taking command of the Sibella frigate after all the other officers had been killed, and going on to rescue the Marchesa di Volterra from Napoleon’s troops. He encloses one from Commodore Nelson – as he then was – which is even more fulsome, saying you literally carried the Marchesa off from beneath the feet of the French cavalry.

  ‘Now for the next one. This, from another admiral, refers to the same episode and says you should have been condemned by a court martial for cowardice, and that the trial he’d ordered was interrupted.

  ‘What am I to believe? Well, I take the word of Sir John, since he’s the senior officer.

  ‘Then we have the third report, again from Sir John, telling me how you captured a dismasted Spanish frigate while commanding the Kathleen cutter. As Sir John says, he admires your bravery but cannot possibly overlook that in making the capture you flatly disobeyed Commodore Nelson’s orders.

  ‘Well, all that seems clear enough – until I open the enclosure from Commodore Nelson which is full of praise and doesn’t mention a word about disobedience.’

  He put down the two pages and picked up the remaining ones.

  ‘I received this shortly after the despatch describing the Battle of Cape St Vincent. Sir John gives due credit to your action but makes it quite clear that he’s not sure whether it was due to bravery or foolhardiness, and that you acted without orders and, much worse, lost the Kathleen cutter, into the bargain.

  ‘Now,’ the First Lord said flatly, ‘that’s more than sufficient grounds for a court martial. However, since Lieutenant Lord Ramage is involved, it’s not as simple as that. Do you know why?’

  A puzzled Ramage shook his head.

  ‘Because on the same day I received a private – and, I might say, quite irregular – letter from Commodore Nelson pointing out that had you not deliberately rammed the Spanish San Ni
colas with the Kathleen cutter and slowed her down, he would never have been able to catch up and capture her and the San Josef, and he ends his letter with a request that I should “look after” you.’

  ‘Well sir, I–’

  ‘And as if that wasn’t enough,’ Spencer said with a show of anger, ‘no sooner does Sir John receive an earldom for his splendid leadership in the battle than he tells me that if any occasion arises where a resourceful young officer is needed, I could make use of you – as long as I didn’t expect you to pay any heed to my orders!’

  ‘But, my Lord–’

  ‘And another very senior officer present at the battle writes to a friend – who sent me a copy of the letter – saying that you and another officer ought to be brought to trial at once in case other captains take it into their head to ignore the Fighting Instructions and quit the line of battle.’

  ‘But Captain Calder’s known to be jealous of the Commodore–’

  Spencer lifted a hand to silence him and said grimly, ‘I didn’t mention Captain Calder’s name, and I recall that the Commodore received a knighthood and the nation’s admiration for capturing two Spanish sail of the line.’

  Numbed and resentful, Ramage stared down at the table, trying to guess the reason for Spencer’s long recital. It sounded more like a prosecutor reading the charges. Warily he waited for the judgement since he obviously hadn’t been summoned to see the First Lord for a social talk.

  ‘How is the Marchesa?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you, my Lord,’ mumbled Ramage, taken completely by surprise and wondering if he’d murmured his thoughts aloud.

  ‘She looked very lovely at Lady Spencer’s ball the night before last. In fact we both remarked what a splendid pair you made. You’re an appalling dancer, though.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘I believe she’s very grateful for the risks you took when rescuing her.’

  ‘So I’m given to understand, sir,’ Ramage said stiffly.

  ‘And obviously prepared to run risks herself by dancing with you.’

  Ramage remained silent.

  Spencer suddenly slapped the table and laughed.

  ‘Ramage, my boy, every other lieutenant in the Navy List would give ten years of his life to sit where you sit now with the First Lord. At every opportunity they’d say “Yes, my Lord”, “No, my Lord”. They’d laugh at my poorest jokes. They’d agree with everything I said. They certainly wouldn’t sulk, because they know one word from me would put them on the beach for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘Quite, my Lord.’

  Every word was true and Ramage knew it; he was sulking like a schoolboy: like a child who kept crying long after he’d forgotten what caused the tears.

  ‘There’s a slight difference in my case, my Lord.’

  ‘And that is…?’

  ‘Since I knew before I came into this room I was going to be put on the beach for losing the Kathleen, sir, I’ve nothing to lose – or gain – by laughing, saying yes or saying no.’

  Even as he spoke he regretted the words: they were – discipline apart – unnecessarily offensive to a man who was clearly trying to do in the kindest, most tactful way, whatever the Board had decided. And Ramage suddenly realized he’d misunderstood Spencer’s earlier remark about the great and the shameful decisions made in this room. The Board must have outvoted Spencer, who’d probably spoken up for him. Spencer had been giving him advance warning, not apologizing for the orders given years ago to his father.

  Yet the First Lord said nothing in reply to his outburst; no anger showed in his face; instead it was bland. He looked down and opened the drawer again, bringing out several flat packets, all sealed with red wax. He sorted them out and slid them along the table towards Ramage.

  ‘Read out the superscriptions.’

  ‘Rear Admiral Sir Roger Curtis, KB, off Brest… Admiral the Earl St Vincent, off Cadiz… Rear Admiral Henry Robinson, Windward Islands Station… Lieutenant the Lord Ramage, Blazey House, Palace Street, London… Lieutenant the Lord Ramage, Blazey House, Palace Street, London…’

  Ramage glanced up to see Spencer’s sardonic smile.

  ‘You can open those addressed to you. Here–’ he pushed across the silver paper-knife.

  Nervously Ramage slit open the first. He recognized the once-folded piece of parchment and his eyes immediately picked out the relevant word – ‘Lieutenant the Lord Ramage… His Majesty’s brig Triton…willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her… Hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril…’ It was signed, ‘Spencer, Arden, Jas. Gambier’ – three of the Lords Commissioners.

  His commission! And what a command – a brig! Triton, Triton…? He searched his memory.

  ‘Ten guns, two years old, fresh out of the dockyard after a refit,’ Spencer said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ramage said humbly, holding up the commission. ‘I didn’t expect quite…’

  ‘I know. Keep your gratitude for a moment: you’ve another letter to read.’

  Unpleasant orders, no doubt. He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom and Ireland

  Whereas by our Commission bearing date this day we have appointed Your Lordship to the command of His Majesty’s brig Triton, you are hereby required and directed to proceed without loss of time in His Majesty’s brig Triton under your command to Rendezvous Number Five off Brest and deliver to Admiral Sir Roger Curtis the packet with which you have already been entrusted. You will then, without loss of time, proceed to Rendezvous Number Eleven, off Cape St Vincent and having ascertained from whichever frigate is stationed there, the position of the squadron under the command of Admiral the Earl of St Vincent, you are to deliver to His Lordship the packet which has already been delivered to you, taking particular care that neither you nor any of your ship’s company shall inform any other person or persons in Lord St Vincent’s squadron of the state of affairs at Spithead.

  Upon reporting to His Lordship, you will answer any questions put to you by His Lordship as freely and truthfully as is within your power.

  As soon as His Lordship permits you will leave the squadron and proceed without loss of time to the Windward Islands Station and, immediately upon finding Rear-Admiral Henry Robinson or, should he be absent, the senior officer upon the station, and deliver to him the packet of which you are already possessed, and answer any questions put to you as freely and truthfully as lies within your power. You will take particular care that neither you nor your ship’s company shall inform any other person in Admiral Robinson’s squadron of the state of affairs at Spithead.

  You will then place yourself under the command of Rear-Admiral Robinson, or if he is absent, the senior officer upon the station, for your further proceedings.

  Given the 16th day of April 1797.

  Spencer, Arden, Jas. Gambier.

  As he was reading the time-honoured phrases, Ramage knew there was a ‘but’. Giving him command of the Triton brig was obviously the Admiralty’s way of privately approving his recent behaviour and equally privately rewarding him for it; but there must be a special reason why he had been selected. The task seemed more appropriate to a frigate commanded by a post-captain.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Spencer.

  ‘Seems straightforward, sir.’

  ‘The Triton’s at Spithead.’

  But every ship of war at Spithead had mutinied: when Admiral Lord Bridport had made the signal to weigh anchor a few days ago, the seamen in some fifteen sail of the line had refused to obey, run up the shrouds and given three cheers. The officers had been sent on shore and ropes had been rove from the foreyardarms, warning that anyone who did not support the mutiny would be hanged.

  At this moment, Ramage reflected, the Admiralty which administered the most powerful Fleet the world had ever seen couldn’t tell a d
ozen men to row a boat with any hope of its order being obeyed. He laughed involuntarily at the absurdity of it.

  Immediately Spencer’s hands clenched, the knuckles white.

  ‘You find the fact His Majesty’s Fleet at Spithead is in a state of mutiny and complete anarchy a laughing matter, Ramage?’

  ‘No, sir!’ he added hastily. ‘It’s just that I seem doomed to get commands in – er, unusual – circumstances. The Sibella was under attack and sinking when I had to take command as the only surviving officer. My first task after being given my first official command, the Kathleen cutter, was to rescue the crew of a frigate aground and under enemy fire. Then I lost the Kathleen at the Battle of Cape St Vincent. Now – if you’ll forgive me for saying so, my Lord – my next command is a brig whose crew has mutinied!’

  Spencer smiled and for a moment said nothing. Yes, the lad was like his father. Face on the thin side, high cheekbones, eyes deep-set under thick eyebrows, nose straight, not quite aquiline. By no means handsome but, as his wife had remarked a couple of evenings ago at the ball, there was something about the lad that made him stand out among the hundred or so men present. Hard to define why – he wasn’t tall; in fact he was quite average. Slim hips, wide shoulders and an arrogant walk. No, Spencer thought, not arrogant as much as confident. Habit of rubbing that old scar over his brow – as he was doing this very minute – when he was worried. Had trouble pronouncing the letter ‘r’ when he got excited – he’d just say ‘bwig’ for ‘brig’.

  Spencer forgot the mutiny as he studied Ramage, realizing a lot would depend on the lad’s character over the next few weeks. Next few hours, in fact. No, it wasn’t the face or the stance, nor the physique or the voice… At that moment Ramage glanced up nervously and Spencer saw that part of it was the eyes. He realized they could express the same menace or defiance as the muzzles of a pair of pistols. And looking into them you could no more guess his thoughts than you could see the lead shot in the pistols’ barrels.