Ramage’s Prize r-5

by Dudley Pope

  The man's behaviour was inexplicable because Ramage could not credit that anyone could take a game of chess - or any game, for that matter - so seriously. He once commented to Yorke that if one got down to Farrell's level, the game became a business. Yorke pointed out that there Farrell had failed: from the beginning, despite cajoling and sneers, Bowen had refused to play for money. Farrell's disappointment had been obvious - at first, anyway, until Bowen found his stride and began to win more often than he drew or lost.

  For Ramage much of the tedium of the voyage was removed because it gave him a chance of making a leisurely study of the personalities of several different men - Farrell, Captain Henry Wilson, Mr Much the Mate and his son Our Ned. Stevens was not worth much effort: he was a typical close man who, having made a little money, regarded the world with suspicion and divided it into two sections - the part which could make him further profit, and the part which might cost him money.

  The sea, ships and seamanship had very little interest for Stevens, and far too much was left to the Mate. Stevens rarely seemed to reach any decision in the instinctive way of a true seaman: when he gave the order to reef, for instance, Ramage felt that he was applying some formula, or dredging his memory for a precedent. Yorke finally summed up Stevens: "He's a greedy man who long ago reckoned that owning and running a Post Office packet would make the most money in the shortest possible time. That's why he's not running a lead mine or a rope walk in Bridport."

  The Mate's son, Our Ned, was the type of young man that, if he was serving in a ship commanded by Ramage, would have been transferred at the first opportunity. He was small and slim; his face was long and narrow with the eyes close together, two small brown buttons which had a tendency to glance uneasily from side to side. Perhaps it was just the shape of his mouth, but to Ramage he always seemed to be smirking secretly when he spoke to anyone: as though he was the possessor of some secret, or the speaker was being laughed at by people standing behind him. But for all that, he was probably the most useful man in the packet's crew. He knew nearly as much as his father - whom he treated alternately with patient affection and near-mutinous derision.

  The Mate was a lonely man who lived in a private world; a world limited to the hull, sails, masts and spars of the Lady Arabella and occasionally lit by Our Ned. It was hard to define the Captain's attitude towards him - at various times Ramage had seen signs of irritation, awe, fear and respect. The Mate's attitude towards Captain Stevens was harder to discover because he spoke rarely, but both Ramage and Yorke agreed that it was based on contempt. It was as though Stevens had some guilty secret which the Mate knew about, disapproved of, but could do nothing to change.

  Just as the Mate's world was the ship, Captain Wilson's world was the Army and, Ramage thought, at times just the barrack square. During every waking moment Wilson's life was drill and manoeuvre: his every remark was littered with military expressions. For Wilson nothing turned, it wheeled; nothing was passed, it was outflanked. Distance was range; going on deck for fresh air was making a sortie. Yet the blond-moustached captain had a clear if limited brain, even though he tended to see problems with the same deceptive clarity as the instructions in a drill book: if the enemy is behind that hill, you outflank him by this manoeuvre.

  Once clear of the Tropics, the Lady Arabella ran into ten days of light, variable winds in which the packet tacked and wore two or three times an hour in order to steer not just in the direction they wanted to go but to avoid heading back towards the Bahamas.

  After the variables came a gale and a sudden drop in temperature. It lasted five days, and the five passengers spent most of the time in the saloon playing cards or chess, or else lying in their bunks reading, wedged in by pillows and cushions against the rolling of the ship that tried to pitch them out.

  On the afternoon of the last day, as the cloud began to break up and the wind to lessen, Yorke tossed aside the book he was reading and sat up in his bunk.

  "You don't fret much about privateers these days."

  "I'm taking some leave," Ramage said. "It expires in a couple of days' time."

  "Why then?"

  "I think we'll find we have to start watching for privateers from then on."

  "Two days, eh?" Yorke said slowly. "Neither one nor six, but two. I admire your precision."

  Ramage grinned. "Geography. I reckon the majority of privateers from St Malo, Rochefort, Barfleur and such ports patrol no farther out than six hundred miles."

  "Why that magic figure?"

  "Well, each prize they take must be sailed back to France with only a small prize crew who have to dodge British patrols - and British privateers, too. They'd be lucky to average five knots. Six hundred miles - five days' sailing - seems far enough!"

  Yorke waved a hand in agreement. "I'm glad you think like a privateersman!"

  "I wish I could: our necks might depend on it!"

  "They do, too. Tell me, now we've been on board nearly a month, d'you think this was the best way of carrying out your orders?"

  Ramage made a face. He'd spent many a sleepless hour in his bunk asking himself that question. "Too early - or too late - to say. Ask me again as we pick up the mooring in Falmouth."

  "That's how I feel," Yorke said ruefully.

  "So far," Ramage admitted, "even if we don't know much more than we did in Kingston, I'm still convinced the only way anyone will ever find the answer is to be on board a packet."

  "I wonder," Yorke mused. "One privateer capturing one packet and sending her in with a prize crew - what can that really tell you? It's happened twenty or thirty times already and the Post Office discovered nothing!"

  "If I knew, obviously I wouldn't be here," Ramage said briskly. "But we know what to look for and what questions to ask. The gentlemen in Lombard Street are land animals. They can only make guesses."

  "Are the French really interested in the mails?" Yorke persisted. "Are they trying to get hold of them? Cut communications, perhaps?"

  "No. I've thought a lot about that," Ramage said, "but the commanders all report sinking the mails before surrendering. Although I can't imagine them saying otherwise, I believe them. If not, we get into the realms of treachery, and it's too widespread for that. I doubt if the French have got one bag of mails so far. Anyway, if they were trying to cut communications, would they rely on privateers? I doubt it."

  "Then I can't understand why the French bother with packets: no cargo to sell; just the hull."

  "A fine hull, though: fast and well built. Just the sort of ship to fit out in St Malo and send to sea again as a privateer!"

  "Yes, but not a very profitable capture - compared with the value of cargoes. I've carried cargoes in the Topaz worth ten times what the ship was insured for."

  "Agreed, agreed," Ramage said. "But you're forgetting the most important thing: obviously a privateer takes what comes along: one day it's a Topaz worth twenty-five thousand pounds with her cargo, the next day it's the Lady Arabella worth - how much? Six thousand pounds?"

  "You could build her for that. But, my friend, you're also forgetting something."

  "And that is?"

  "That twelve months or so ago the packet losses suddenly increased by several hundred per cent, while the losses of merchantmen stayed the same."

  Ramage shook his head. "No, I haven't forgotten. That's the puzzle. That's why we're passengers in the Lady Arabella!"

  Chapter Nine

  Stafford looked at the bags of spices, picked one up, shook it and then sniffed. "Nutmeg, eh? Yer mean to tell me there's money in a bag o' nutmegs, Wally?"

  The seaman nodded. "Cost me two shilluns in the Windward Islands, they did. I'll get five pound in Falmouth - mebbe ten if I give 'em to the troachers."

  "Poachers?" Stafford exclaimed.

  "No - troachers. They're the old women who take our stuff to sell out in the villages. They go from house to house. Probably get a shillun each for nutmegs." He fondled the bag lovingly. "Troachers is best for things like spice
s. The profit comes in selling 'em one at a time."

  "What about rum?" Jackson asked.

  "Oh, merchants is best for likker."

  "Why's that? Why not house to house?"

  "Merchants are more used to arrangin'," the seaman said vaguely.

  "Arranging?"

  "With the Customs, an' all that sort of thing."

  "All helps pay the rent," Jackson said. "Must double your pay."

  "Double it?" the seaman exclaimed indignantly. "You've got a pretty daft idea of how much we get paid! That lot there" - he waved at the bags of spices - "and me drop of rum will make the same as five years' pay. An' me outward freight's already made me that - with the money coming home safe in the next convoy from Jamaica."

  "Supposing the Arabella is taken?" Jackson asked.

  "Don't matter," the seaman said airily. "All this is insured."

  "You say a packetsman's pay is bad?" Stafford asked.

  "Well – t’aint as bad as what you chaps get, but it's bad enough. The Captain gets only eight pounds a month."

  "Pore fellah," Stafford said sarcastically. "But a couple of 'undred pounds of ventures will help - he carries ventures, I suppose?"

  The seaman nodded. "And we carry passengers, too. You've seen 'em. Fifty guineas each - that's what they've paid the Captain. Clear profit for the skipper - stands to reason!"

  "My 'eart bleeds for you pore men," Stafford said sourly, trying to provoke the seaman.

  "We take risks, though," the seaman said defensively. "Look how many packets have been lost in the last year."

  "Think how many of the King's ships have been lost, too," Jackson said, "and they have to stand and fight."

  "Well, we have to run from the Frenchies - that's orders from Lombard Street," the seaman said angrily. "We're just carrying the mails: we ain't men-o'-war - neither us nor the packets."

  "Easy now," Jackson said soothingly, "no one's blaming you; we're just talking. Come on, I'll help you pack up these spices again. Thanks for showing us. We don't have to worry about the strange smell now!"

  That night, Jackson slid into Ramage's cabin and reported the conversation.

  "Making a profit equal to five years' pay?" Ramage repeated incredulously.

  "That's what he said, sir. And that's on this venture alone. He's already made that on the one he took out, and the money goes home on the next convoy."

  "But what does he get paid? More than our seamen, anyway. Say a pound a month. Five years' pay is -"

  "Sixty pounds," Yorke said in the darkness. "So his profit is one hundred and twenty pounds on a round trip - providing he gets the inward-bound venture back safely."

  "Doesn't matter, sir," Jackson said. "It's insured."

  "The venture is?" Yorke asked sharply.

  "So the fellow said."

  "Is this seaman the same chap that told you about making four voyages a year?"

  "The same, sir."

  Yorke sighed. "And I don't suppose he can read or write..."

  "He can't," Jackson said glumly, guessing the point Yorke was going to make.

  "He can't, eh? Well, let's not forget he's making four hundred and eighty pounds a year ... How does that compare with the Royal Navy, Nicholas?"

  Ramage thought for a moment. "A third less than the captain of a first-rate like the Victory or the Ville de Paris, and twice as much as the master," he said. "Exactly five times as much as Southwick was paid as master of the Triton brig," he added bitterly.

  "Not bad for a man who can't read or write," Yorke said ironically.

  "Well, sir," Jackson said, "I'd better be getting back before anyone spots my hammock is empty."

  After the American left the cabin, Yorke said softly to himself, "An assured market, free freight and no risk: a merchant's dream, my dear Nicholas, and one that comes true only for seamen in a Post Office packet!"

  "Not just the seamen," Ramage said. "What about the mate and the captain? I wonder how much they venture?"

  "Well, the captain gets paid eight times as much as a seaman - that's about the figure, I think - and we can be sure he ventures in proportion, although he only makes three voyages a year. Eight times the seaman's £480 - hmm, that's £3,840, which is only £160 less than the Prime Minister is paid."

  "And £840 a year more than the First Lord of the Admiralty," Ramage added.

  "And no risk!" Yorke said. "That's the beauty of it."

  "You're envious of the insurance," Ramage said lightly, trying to erase the bitterness in his mind.

  "I most certainly am! These packetsmen are backing a horse so that they win whether the horse wins, loses or drops dead."

  Suddenly Ramage felt goose-pimples spreading over his body in the darkness. The water was swilling past outside the hull; the whole ship was creaking, as it had done since it rounded the east end of Jamaica. But, for the first time, he did not hear it. He heard only his heart beating, and the faint echo of Yorke's voice saying: "... whether the horse wins, loses or drops dead."

  It was absurd, but it had all the beauty of a simple plan. After a few minutes he relaxed and began to feel sleepy.

  Next morning Ramage went up on deck to find seamen checking over the Lady Arabella's storm canvas, and was reminded that in Europe it was now halfway between autumn and winter. Curious how one never referred to winter and summer in the Tropics, only the hurricane and the dry season. Hurricane season if you were a sailor, rainy season if a soldier.

  He shivered. The temperature was still dropping steadily, like water from a leaking roof: the days when the thermometer moved leisurely between eighty and eighty-five degrees were memories. In a week he would be thankful if it went above sixty-five. Sixty-five! In the Caribbean the water temperature rarely dropped below eighty...

  Yorke joined him standing aft at the taffrail, watching the Lady Arabella's wake as she dipped and lifted her way over the swell waves. The sky was overcast and Stevens had not been able to get a sight the previous day. With the ship close-hauled there was enough wind to ensure that the helmsmen could not overhear their conversation.

  Yorke prodded one of the two brass 9-pounder stern-chase guns with all the hard-bitten contempt of a horse coper. "We need a lot more of these 'Post Office guns'!"

  "Instead we have those miserable 4-pounders..." Ramage gestured to the two guns each side. "Punt guns at best. Useful against wild duck."

  "How can we fight?" Yorke asked. "Judging by the losses, We aren't fast enough to run, so the point is of more than academic interest now!"

  "If we fight," and Ramage purposely emphasized the first word, "we just keep steering away from a privateer: keep her astern and bang away with these 9-pounders. They should carry farther than a privateer's bow-chasers. And we'd hope she hadn't any long 9-pounders on her broadside."

  "It'd be suicide to let her get a broadside into us," Yorke commented.

  Ramage nodded. "Calls for some smart tacking and wearing! Still, there might be a heavy sea running."

  Yet like most events at sea, Ramage mused, it was impossible to dogmatize. Firing a broadside from a heavily rolling ship could be like shooting at snipe from the back of a runaway horse, yet a well-trained and cool gun's crew firing on the broadside would probably do more damage than a badly trained, excitable crew firing a stern-chase gun in the same conditions.

  But for all that a couple of well-served stern-chase guns - particularly these long-barrelled "Post Office guns" - were like a kick from a mule's hind legs: very effective as long as the ship could keep stern-on to the enemy target. And that in turn meant the enemy (unless she had a good margin of speed) could only approach bow-on, and none of her broadside guns could be brought to bear.

  If the enemy had a good margin of speed she could of course approach from astern and then range alongside; if only a slight margin she could suddenly turn away at the last moment, firing her broadside guns in turn as they bore. He knew that was what a large privateer would probably try to do to the Lady Arabella. It required skilfu
l gunnery: the enemy gunners would see the target in their sights for only a second or two as their ship swung. On the other hand, every shot that hit was potentially more effective because a ship's transom and bow were very vulnerable compared with her sides: a shot smashing through it could sweep the whole length of the ship below deck, possibly damaging the rudder, steering gear or the masts below deck. Raking a ship, firing into her end on, whether through the transom or bow, was the most destructive method of attack.

  Presumably that was why the Post Office equipped each packet with two 9-pounders as stern-chase guns: given the "turn and run" instructions, they were the best defence for a fleeing packet, since she could rake her pursuer.

  Although the long barrels of the 9-pounders gave them the extra range, their very length and weight made them less useful as broadside guns because they were more difficult to handle: apart from the extra weight, they had to be run in farther so the men could get to the muzzle for sponging and loading. That in turn meant more room was needed, and the gun had to be hauled farther to run it out again ready to fire. All this meant more time.

  Ramage guessed that in specifying long guns for stern-chase, the Post Office was gambling that any ship attacking a packet was likely to be a privateer, and the average privateer (they hoped) would be slower and armed with more but smaller guns, since privateers favoured close-range action. Smaller guns with shorter barrels certainly meant much less range, but they also meant easier handling, a higher rate of fire and more grape and canister shot fired into the victim. For the weight of one of the long 9-pounders, a privateer could probably fit a couple of 4-pounders. More than double the rate of fire but perhaps half the range ... That was why a highwayman preferred a brace of pistols, with a range of only a few paces, rather than a musket that could bowl a horse over at fifty yards: the highwayman's potential victim would be in a carriage only a few feet away.

  Ramage knew only too well that privateer tactics were completely different from usual ship-to-ship actions: two lines of battle ships or frigates would fight it out with broadsides, and usually one would try to board the other only after she was badly damaged.