Ramage's Diamond

by Dudley Pope

  Then the cutter was alongside, lines were thrown, and there were the gangway steps dancing up and down as the boat rose and fell in the swell waves. He pulled the flaps of his boat cloak clear, jammed his hat firmly on his head, swung back his sword scabbard and, as the boat reached the top of a wave, grabbed a manrope in each hand and began climbing up the wooden battens which passed for steps. The manropes were greasy and dirty, instead of being scrubbed white.

  Then he was standing on deck with a confused set of impressions. Two sideboys were standing to attention, others were running from forward, and a lieutenant was saluting but without a telescope under his arm. Long untidy tails of ropes were snaking over the deck as though the ship was a chandler’s shop on a busy afternoon, and there were many spots of grease on the deck, which had not been scrubbed for days. Not a man on deck was properly dressed.

  A tall, thin and pale-faced man lieutenant with bloodshot eyes stood in front of him at the salute. There was a moment of complete silence on board and he knew every man on deck was watching: in this instant they would form their initial impressions of the new captain, impressions that often turned out to be lasting.

  He eyed the lieutenant coldly but for the moment did not return the salute, so the man stood there, arm crooked. Then he slowly stared round the ship. First his eyes ran along the deck forward, across the fo’c’sle, noting that the ship’s bell had not been polished for a week, then up the foremast where at least four topsail gaskets on the larboard side were too slack and two on the starboard side of the furled topgallant were almost undone.

  Where was Southwick? Ramage returned the lieutenant’s salute and nodded as the man repeated his name. He was the First Lieutenant. ‘Muster the ship’s company aft, if you please,’ Ramage said, his voice deliberately neutral, ‘and then report to me in the cabin. My trunk is in the boat…’

  As he turned aft to go down to the captain’s cabin he saw he had made the impression he wanted: the men were looking apprehensive, like naughty boys caught raiding an orchard; the first lieutenant looked crestfallen, and Ramage had guessed the fellow had followed Ramage’s eyes and perhaps seen the ship’s condition for the first time in many weeks. He was half drunk, Ramage was certain.

  As he reached the companionway he saw Southwick hurrying up the ladder from the lower deck, his face shiny and freshly shaven. Southwick saluted, his round face showing his obvious pleasure, his flowing white mop of hair already beginning to escape from his hat as random eddies of wind tugged at it. ‘Welcome on board, sir: I was shaving – the sentry…’

  Ramage returned the salute and then shook the old Master’s hand. A few seamen were watching curiously and Ramage gestured to Southwick to precede him down the companionway to the cabin. Unbuckling his cloak and throwing it on the settee, Ramage sat down and told Southwick to sit opposite. The low headroom made it uncomfortable to stand, and he suddenly felt tired after the journey from London and the hurrying round Portsmouth.

  ‘Is it as bad as it looks?’ he asked.

  ‘Worse, if anything, sir. We’ll never do anything with these lieutenants!’

  ‘We don’t have to try,’ Ramage said grimly. ‘They’ll be off the ship first thing tomorrow. We’re to have all new officers, although I know nothing about them. His Lordship kindly gave me the choice of first lieutenant, but I traded it for you as Master.’

  Now it was Southwick’s turn to grin. He was a good sixty years of age but for all his red face, stout build and white hair – which once led someone to liken him to a martial bishop from a country diocese – he was a fine seaman, firm with the men but fair. ‘I’m grateful, sir, but I’m afraid we have more than our share of scalawags in this ship.’

  Ramage went to the door and closed it, and when he sat down again he said: ‘Everyone I’ve met keeps dropping hints. All I know is the captain was dismissed the Service. The Port Admiral is suitably mysterious, and the ship looks more like a fairground.’

  ‘Drink,’ Southwick said cryptically. ‘The captain was a drunkard. He was tried for “conduct unbecoming…” but in fact he used to lock himself up in his cabin with a bottle for days on end.’

  Ramage remembered the first lieutenant with the bloodshot eyes and slightly hesitant manner. ‘The first lieutenant drinks too: do you think he found the strain too much?’

  Southwick shook his head vigorously. ‘At least, sir, not in the way you mean: for him the only strain is keeping away from a bottle too.’

  ‘And the other lieutenants?’

  Southwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven’t seen much of them, sir; but from the gossip I picked up in Portsmouth they are good men who had no backing from the first lieutenant, so they gave up.’

  ‘With the captain and the first lieutenant drinking, it’s a mercy they didn’t put the ship ashore.’

  ‘The first lieutenant nearly did, I gather, right here at Gilkicker Point. The other three managed to get her anchored, and the Port Admiral came out to see what was going on and found the captain insensible here in the great cabin and the first lieutenant standing with his back hard up against the capstan to avoid falling down.’

  ‘I wonder why they didn’t try the captain for “negligently hazarding the ship”?’ Ramaged mused.

  ‘Hard to prove, sir: you need the evidence of the first lieutenant on a “negligently hazarding” charge, and here the two of them were at fault.’

  There was a loud rapping on the door, and when Ramage answered the first lieutenant came in, stood to attention as best he could with the low headroom, and reported the ship’s company mustered aft.

  He was drunk all right, and although he was not yet thirty years of age the muscles of his face were slack and the flesh puffy, the eyes shifty and his brow and cheeks covered with perspiration. He had been a heavy drinker for years.

  ‘Very well. I notice there is no sentry at the door of this cabin.’

  ‘No, sir, I er…’

  ‘Is my trunk on board yet?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir, but–’

  ‘Come along, Southwick,’ Ramage said, taking a small parchment scroll from a pocket in his cloak and picking up his hat.

  On deck the sun was occasionally breaking through low cloud; there was enough breeze to knock up occasional white horses although the Juno was tide-rode. Ramage strode to the capstan and turned to face forward. The men were drawn up in a hollow square in front of him. To his left the Marines stood stiffly to attention, a diminutive drummer boy at the end of the file. In front of him and to his right were the seamen and behind him the officers.

  The deck was even filthier than he had thought at first: cracked pitch in many seams showed they were long overdue for repaying or running over with a hot iron. Many ropes’ ends needed whippings, the wood of many blocks was bare and showing cracks for lack of oil. Even on deck the stink of the bilges was nauseating – when had they last been pumped? Curiously enough the 12-pounder guns were newly blacked, the carriages freshly painted and the tackles neatly coiled. Perhaps the gunner was the only conscientious man on board.

  Ramage looked at the sea of faces. It would be days, if not weeks, before he could put names to them all. They were an untidy crowd but they were nervous; there was just enough movement of feet and hands to reveal that. Every one of those men knew what was about to happen: the captain was going to ‘read himself in’ by reading aloud his commission. Until it was done he had no authority on board, but after that he could order them into battle so that not a man lived; he could order them flogged – which was more than the King could do – and he could have them arrested and charged with crimes which put their necks in hazard. He could be judge and jury, father and confessor…

  The drunken first lieutenant shouted ‘Caps off!’ as Ramage removed his own hat and, tucking it under his left arm, unrolled the scroll, and began reading it aloud. He pitched his voice so that the furthest men had to strain their ears above the wind humming through the spars and rigging. From long experience he knew that was t
he best way of getting their attention.

  ‘By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral…to Captain the Lord Ramage… His Majesty’s frigate Juno… willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain…strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said frigate to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments…’

  It was a long document and from time to time he paused deliberately. He wanted to be sure they all absorbed the full significance of the last line, however many times they had heard it before. He glanced round and saw he had the men’s attention all right. ‘You will carry out the General Printed Instructions and any orders and instructions you may receive …hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril…’

  He put on his hat, rolled up the commission, tucked it in his pocket, and then stood with his hands clasped behind his back. A ship’s company always expected a new captain to make a short speech after ‘reading himself in’, something that set the keynote and gave the men a chance to have a good look at the person who now had more direct power over their lives than their King. More than most ships’ companies, this one needed some indication of what they could expect from their new captain. They were going to be warned that from now on things would change, radically and abruptly. They all knew why their previous captain had left the ship and they had seen that Southwick was the new Master. They did not yet know that the rest of the officers were being replaced.

  He took a deep breath. The men saw the swell of his chest, and they interpreted it as Ramage intended: as a sign of exasperation.

  ‘The Juno is supposed to be a King’s ship,’ he said loudly, his voice a complete contrast from the even tone he had used when reading the commission, ‘but just look at her. The first thing I see even before I get on board are badly furled sails, and the yards aren’t squared. The first thing I touch on boarding are greasy manropes. The first thing I see on deck are untidy men lounging round and tripping over uncoiled ropes. I get the impression that this frigate has just been recaptured from a couple of score of bumboat women…’

  He paused because he expected at best that the men would give nervous giggles, but instead he heard genuine if somewhat embarrassed laughter.

  ‘Tomorrow everything changes. Tomorrow any sentry or lookout who has not reported a boat heading for the ship the moment he sights it will spend the next five hours at the masthead. Any man in dirty clothes – unless he is doing a dirty job – will find himself scrubbing the messdeck for a week. If any man thinks he will get away with that in future–’ Ramage half turned and gestured up to the badly furled sails on the yards, ‘he is an optimist. By noon tomorrow I don’t expect to find a speck of dirt or grease on any deck or in any locker, nor any piece of brasswork without a shine…’

  He had their attention all right but he was damned if he was going to end up on a conciliatory note: the former captain had been at fault and the first lieutenant had taken advantage of it. The remaining lieutenants might have done their best, but the previous Master had obviously let everything slide, regarding it as a holiday in disguise, and the petty officers had slacked off. Every commission, warrant and petty officer in the ship had taken advantage of the situation. They might just as well have spent the last six months on shore. So they were being warned, and from tomorrow morning onwards no man would have an excuse. He looked at the men again. They had stiffened themselves up already; here and there a man tugged his shirt straight.

  ‘There is plenty of work for the bos’n’s mates, but I warn each and every one of you: there is not so much that they will be too busy to sew a few red baize bags if they are needed.’

  He looked slowly at the men and glanced round at the first lieutenant and nodded, then turned and strode below. As he made his way to his cabin he knew that the last sentence had struck home. It was useless talking to a ship’s company and using abstract terms like discipline, loyalty, responsibility – they treated them as mere words. What had really made every man straighten his shoulders had been the new captain’s last remark: a red baize bag was something that every man recognized and feared.

  Some of the old traditions were useful, and this was one of them. The sight of a bos’n’s mate sitting on deck methodically making a cat-o’-nine-tails, carefully splicing the nine thin tails into the thick rope handle, and probably covering the splice with a Turk’s head, had a fascination for the men, who always knew the man who was to be flogged. The sewing of the red baize round the handle was part of a ritual which was rounded off by the bos’n’s mate stitching a small bag from the red baize just large enough to hold the coiled cat-o’-nine-tails. With his work completed the cat was put in the bag and the whole thing handed over to the master-at-arms. The expression ‘letting the cat out of the bag’ had a grimmer origin than landsmen realized.

  Since a new cat-o’-nine-tails was used for each flogging, if the captain was a harsh one then indeed the bos’n’s mates were kept busy. As Ramage reached his cabin and walked through the door – that damned fool of a first lieutenant still had done nothing about a Marine sentry – he found he did not want to think any more about flogging.

  It was frequent enough in many ships; setting up a grating vertically at the gangway and lashing a man spreadeagled to it, or putting a bar in the capstan and securing a man to it by roping his outspread arms… He was certain that it rarely served its purpose as a punishment. Captain Collingwood had once said that it spoiled a good man and made a bad man worse, and Ramage agreed. He had ordered only three floggings in his career so far, all three officially for drunkenness, though in fact two were for mutiny. The men should have been court-martialled, and if a court had found them guilty, as it certainly would have done, they would have been hanged, so they were grateful for the floggings. Ironically, Ramage reflected, by ordering the floggings and logging them for drunkenness instead of requesting a court martial for mutiny, he had laid himself open to be court-martialled…

  There seemed to be irony all round. Ironic that the first time he entered the captain’s accommodation on the Juno he had been so furious at finding the first lieutenant the worse for drink that he had had no time to enjoy its spaciousness. Ironic, too, that as he approached in the cutter, instead of proudly surveying the ship, largest he had yet commanded, and as a frigate one of the most coveted commands, he had been eyeing her critically, noting badly furled sails, lounging men, dirty topsides, gossiping officers…

  For all that, his accommodation was excellent. The great cabin right aft, the full width of the ship, was bright and airy, lit by the stern lights, with a settee, a large table athwartships and half a dozen chairs. A mahogany sideboard had been built in to the bulkhead on the forward side with a lead-lined wine cooler to one side covered in matching mahogany. The cabin sole was covered with canvas which had been painted in black and white squares, a chessboard pattern, yet the whole cabin was long overdue for more work with a paintbrush. But by the standards of the ships Ramage had previously commanded, it was a spacious great cabin. Of course it was all comparative; calling it the ‘great cabin’ would strike most landsmen as sarcasm, but the name referred to its function rather than its size, and even when in it no one could forget that the Juno was a ship of war. There was a 12-pounder gun on each side, the barrel and breach gleaming black and the carriage and trucks painted deep red. The train tackles of each gun were neatly coiled; both were secured for sea. Out of curiosity Ramage went over and ran a hand over the breeching and tackles, and then glanced down at the painted canvas beneath the wide trucks. Obviously the gun had not been run out, in practice or in action, for many months; the wide trucks had not been rolled over that paintwork… He glanced across at the gun on the other side. That too had its ropes neatly coiled, but had not been moved for months.

  The two remaining cabins were half the size of the great cabin, although each held another 12-pounder. A section of
the ship the width of the great cabin and forward of it had been bulkheaded off and then divided in half along the centre-line, making the bed place, or sleeping cabin, to starboard and the coach – some captains referred to it as their state room – to larboard.

  He walked through to the bed place to inspect the cot, and was thankful that it was well scrubbed; simply a long, shallow wooden box suspended from the deckhead by ropes at each end so that it could swing as the ship rolled. A mattress spread in the box and some sheets and blankets completed the bed …he felt sleepy at the thought of it.

  He could hear men padding about overhead, for the quarterdeck was above, while one deck below and forward of him was the ward room, with cabins on each side for the four lieutenants, Master, Surgeon and perhaps the Marine officer. Forward of that but outside the ward room were the even smaller cabins, boxes, really, with bulkheads made of canvas stretched over frames made of battens, of the purser, gunner, carpenter, bos’n, and captain’s clerk. And, larger, the midshipmen’s berth.

  Forward of that the Marines were berthed, and even farther forward the ship’s company lived. They ate their meals at tables slung from the deckhead, each table belonging to six or eight men and called a mess, with a number. The mess system often provided a thoughtful captain with an indication as to whether or not he had a happy ship’s company. Once a month a seaman could make an official request to change his mess, which was usually a signal that he had quarrelled with his shipmates. Half a dozen requests a month were acceptable; more than that should warn a captain that there was too much quarrelling and bickering on the mess deck.

  At night the tables and forms were stowed and hammocks were slung: hammocks which spent the day stowed in nettings along the top of the bulwarks and covered with long strips of canvas, out of the way and, in action, providing some protection against musketry fire.

  Only the captain lived in solitary glory on the main deck, along with twenty-six of the Juno’s 12-pounder guns and a Marine sentry. Ramage wondered if it was the loneliness that had driven the previous captain to drink. Loneliness and responsibility, two things faced with confidence by a competent captain but which became corrosive acids to destroy an uncertain man.