Ramage’s Prize r-5

by Dudley Pope

  "Not a hope " Stevens said dolefully.

  "We were six miles to windward when we sighted her. The Arabella looks a fast ship," he said contemptuously, "but whoever designed her must have used a haystack for a model."

  "Aye, 'tis true," Stevens said, still in a doleful voice. "She's not as fast as she looks."

  Yorke suddenly appeared at the other side of Stevens and said crisply, "If I owned this ship I'd be ashamed!"

  "How so, Mr Yorke?" Stevens was not provoked. His voice was still sad, like a professional mourner's.

  "I'd be ashamed at the way she's being sailed, and I intend telling Lord Auckland about it, too."

  "I can't set any more canvas, Mr Yorke; I haven't the hands to furl when the privateer gets to close quarters."

  "When? That's putting the cart before the horse," Yorke said, his voice taking on a distinct edge. "If you'd spent a couple of minutes sail trimming and then kept a sharp eye on the helmsmen, that privateer wouldn't have got within five miles of us, and we'd lose her once it's dark. Why, it's not too late even now."

  "I wish 'twas so," Stevens said lugubriously, "I've no wish to be a prisoner again."

  "Then put better men at the wheel," Yorke snapped. "Those two are steering a couple of points to leeward all the time."

  "Oh, you're mistaken, Mr Yorke, indeed you are; this ship won't hold up to windward like that fellow." Stevens waved towards the privateer. "Designed for close-hauled work, those Frenchmen."

  "Bah!" Yorke exclaimed. "Captain Stevens, it's my duty to remind you of your duty towards your passengers. You're not taking the proper steps to safeguard us. Why, you haven't sent the men to quarters yet. Look, every gun is still secured!"

  Well spoken, thought Ramage: Yorke's protest was just the sort a passenger would make. But at that moment he heard Captain Wilson's heavy footsteps clumping along the deck behind them.

  "I say, Yorke my dear fellow," Wilson said hotly, "that's demned insulting, don't you know? I've complete faith in Captain Stevens. We're ready to stand to our guns the moment the Captain gives the word. You'll see, we'll give our French friends a run for their money!"

  "Nonsense!" Yorke said angrily. "You don't seem to realize that all this is like a dispatch rider not putting spurs to his horse when he's chased by a squadron of enemy cavalry."

  "Oh, come!" Wilson exclaimed.

  "Listen, you know as much about the sea as I do soldiering," Yorke said abruptly. "I wouldn't presume to tell you how to lead your company into battle, but you can take my word for it that this ship is being sailed badly. Because of Captain Stevens, that privateer will be alongside us inside a couple of hours. We're just drifting, not sailing. Would you hobble a racehorse? That's what's going on, Captain Wilson, among other things, and if you doubt my word, ask Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick!" /

  Ramage realized that Yorke was deliberately provoking Wilson as a means of stirring up Stevens, but he didn't want Yorke to go too far: the way things were going the privateer might be trying to get alongside in less time than Yorke estimated, and Wilson's cheerful aggressiveness would be welcome. "Gentlemen," he said, "instead of bickering we ought to be listening to Captain Stevens giving us our instructions ..."

  Yorke glanced at him admiringly: neatly done, the shipowner thought to himself, very neat indeed. And he noticed Ramage was again rubbing one of the scars on his right brow, a sure sign that he was concentrating hard.

  Stevens coughed and straightened his back. "1 - er, well, you can see we turned away a few minutes ago..."

  His voice trailed off when he realized several pairs of eyes were watching him closely.

  "My orders," Stevens said lamely, a whining note in his voice, "they tell me to run from an enemy when I can, and when I can't run any longer, then to surrender - after sinking the mails."

  "Forgive me," Ramage interrupted. "I probably misunderstood you. I thought the Post Office instructs its commanders first to run, then fight when they can run no longer, and sink the mails only when they can no longer fight. Then surrender."

  "Of course, Lieutenant, of course! That's what I meant," Stevens said hurriedly.

  "Very well," Ramage said crisply, "but so far you haven't sent the men to quarters. Your guns are still secured, the magazine locked, not a musket or pistol issued, boarding nets not triced up and the mails aren't up on deck in case you have to sink them ... What exactly have you done so far, Mr Stevens, apart from buckling on that cutlass?"

  Stevens was both embarrassed and on the defensive now, as though Ramage was asking him if his wife had ever cuckolded him. "Now, now, Mr Ramage," he said chidingly, "don't let us be impetuous. Coolness in action, Mr Ramage, I'm a firm believer in it; you'll learn in time how important it is."

  Ramage flushed with anger at the crudeness of Stevens' remark, and decided it was time to regain the initiative. "I agree, Captain," he said coolly. "Although I doubt if you've ever fired a shot in action, despite surrendering twice, I can assure you from experience that your theory is correct."

  Ramage jumped in surprise as someone standing behind him gave a sudden bellow of bitter laughter. He turned to find Much who, looking directly at Stevens, said contemptuously, "Impetuous!"

  Stevens now gave Ramage the impression of a man not only under great strain, but who had a lot to conceal, like a clerk in a counting house just before his books were checked. But to be fair, Ramage told himself, a clerk might be worrying that some arithmetical error could cost him his job, not scared that a fraud he had perpetrated would be discovered. Whether the clerk was honest or fraudulent, the symptoms could be the same. *

  "Yes, Mr Mate, impetuous!" Stevens said, as if trying to reassert his authority.

  "We don't have too much time," Ramage said, gesturing at the privateer. He then pointed at the boat hanging across the packet's stern. "Isn't it time we cut this adrift? It's going to interfere with the guns."

  "I'm the Master of this ship, Mr Ramage."

  "Yes, you mentioned that earlier," Ramage said pointedly, "but since you've let the ship sag off to leeward, we'll have to fight, and repelling an attack eventually gets down to aiming and firing guns. And I assure you" - Ramage pointed over the beam - "that she'll soon be within range, thanks to the course you've been steering."

  "Get the mails on deck, Mr Much!" Stevens ordered, ignoring Ramage. "And look lively about it."

  Ramage turned away, noting that Farrell had joined them but not said a word so far. As he walked to the mainmast he saw that the men at the wheel were still letting the ship sag off to leeward, and Stevens had given them no fresh orders, nor sent men to the sheets and braces. Yet perhaps he was pressing Stevens too much - or causing the pressure, anyway. The man was getting even more nervous, but left in peace for a few minutes he might possibly start making the right decisions. He might yet decide to fight.

  Jackson and Stafford, as if anticipating the approaching climax, were standing where they could see any gesture Ramage made - even a raised eyebrow. Yorke and Southwick, moving a few feet away from Stevens, were watching the seamen hauling bags of mail on deck and placing them just abaft the aftermost gun on the lee side. From there it would be easy to pitch the bags out through the port.

  Three men came up with several pigs of iron, and Much took the neck of the nearest bag, cut off the lead seal and untied the knot of the line holding the bag closed. He put in two of the iron weights and retied the line, then took the next bag. There were twenty-three bags, Ramage noticed, and painted on the canvas were the large numbers that Smith had so carefully checked in Kingston. Finally all the bags were weighted with iron bars and, after ordering a seaman to guard them, Much walked over to Stevens and said loudly, "Your mails are ready to go!"

  Stevens ignored the emphasis on "Your" and said quietly, "Thank you, Mr Much, and I see you've put a sentry over them. Excellent!"

  Yorke caught Ramage's eye and joined him by the mainmast. "What's he going to do? Fight or surrender?"

  "Who knows?" Ramage said. "It's lik
e trying to shovel smoke. I wish we knew more about the Mate."

  "A very religious man, obviously," Yorke said. "Probably one of Mr Wesley's followers - they're pretty numerous in Falmouth. He might regard Stevens as a sinful man."

  "Or a villain," Ramage said.

  "And all the time he might be just a fool. But" - Yorke looked round, and lowered his voice - "I think he's mightily influenced by that crafty surgeon."

  "Yes, it's a pity Bowen hasn't been able to get much out of the fellow."

  "Chess isn't a talkative game."

  Ramage pointed over the starboard quarter. The privateer, well heeled under a press of canvas, was now almost bows-on, her hull gently seesawing as she drove up and over the swell waves in a graceful but powerful movement reminding Ramage of the ridge and furrow flight of the woodpecker. With sheets eased and a flowing white moustache of bubbling water at her bow, she must be near her maximum speed.

  Half an hour ago the Arabella and the black-hulled privateer had been well separated, although steering courses that slowly converged. But now the privateer, racing along under a skilled captain, had seen the Arabella gradually sagging down to leeward so she would soon be in the privateer's path and perhaps a mile ahead. After that, Ramage noted grimly, unless Stevens can be forced to act, it will be only a matter of minutes before she ranges up alongside to windward with the Arabella at her mercy.

  "Come on," he said to Yorke, "she looks very nice but she reminds me of the gates of Verdun prison. It's time we gave Stevens some more encouragement."

  Stevens was watching the privateer with all the horrified fascination Ramage had once seen in a rabbit stalked by a weasel.

  "She'll soon be within gunshot," Ramage said cheerfully.

  "Ah, Mr Ramage. Gunshot eh? These guns won't do any good. You're thinking of those 12-pounders you have in frigates."

  Ramage decided it was time for frankness.

  "Mr Stevens, quite apart from the fact that none of your passengers wishes to be captured, are you going to continue disobeying your orders?"

  "What orders, Mr Ramage?" Stevens said in the same doleful voice he used earlier.

  "To fight when you can no longer run."

  "But we're still running, Mr Ramage."

  "With your sails badly trimmed, Mr Stevens."

  "Oh, so the Royal Navy is teaching me my business, eh?"

  "If you think the sails are trimmed properly, then you need some lessons," Ramage said abruptly. "Now, can we be told why you haven't sent the men to quarters?"

  "No point, Mr Ramage; our shot would never reach her!"

  "We can but try."

  Stevens shrugged his shoulders and then said, as though placating a child who was scared of the dark, "Very well, I'll send the men to quarters if it'll make you feel any better Mr Ramage. Much" - he turned forward and shouted to the Mate - "send the men to quarters!"

  Ramage began rubbing one of the scars on his brow, struggling to control his anger, and a moment later felt Yorke's hand on his other arm, gently pulling him away.

  "Steady," Yorke murmured when they were out of earshot. "Just listen a moment: this fellow's acting out a play!"

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "Well, so far we've thought he hasn't known what the devil to do next, but now I'm dam' sure that not only has he done exactly what he wanted so far, but he knows exactly what else he wants to do."

  Ramage turned and stared at him. "You realize the significance of what you're saying?"

  "Yes," Yorke said soberly, "and I've a fancy the same thought has crossed your mind, too."

  Ramage nodded as he looked around the Arabella's deck. "They all seem to know the routine..."

  The men were obeying Much's order, but judging by the almost lethargic way they were moving about preparing for action, the prospect of a few score screaming French privateersmen leaping on board was not filling the packetsmen with the spirit of butchers; indeed, Ramage noted, they looked more like complacent grocers. But was he misjudging the men because he was more used to the cheerful bustle and controlled excitement of a man-o'-war preparing for battle?

  Mr Much now had the men casting the lashings from the guns, overhauling train tackles, removing tompions and scattering sand on the deck to prevent men's feet slipping. Just enough spray was coming over the weather bow and washing aft along the deck to make it unnecessary for men to sprinkle water on the planking to douse any stray grains of powder and to stop the sand blowing away. Other men were opening a large wooden chest and taking out heavy, bell-mouthed musketoons as well as regular muskets. An opened case of pistols stood near by and two seamen, each with an armful of cutlasses, were going round the guns, calling to the men to collect their weapons.

  There was little disciplined movement about the men at the guns - obviously they were rarely if ever exercised at quarters. And while there was no sign of excitement, there was no sign of fear, either. Surely there should be one or the other?

  Yorke nudged him. "Come on, let's collect our musketoons, and a brace of pistols too!"

  As they walked towards the arms chest Ramage once again looked at the privateer over on the starboard quarter, heeled over as her captain tried every trick he knew to work his ship up to windward. He pictured him watching the luffs of the great fore and aft sails and keeping his men working at the sheets, taking advantage of every gust to steer a few degrees closer to the wind - the old trick of "luffing in the puffs" - like a conductor determined to get the best out of his orchestra. By contrast, the Arabella now seemed to have even less life in her. He glanced up at the set of the sails, and then at the helmsmen, who avoided his eyes.

  "Stop daydreaming," Yorke said. "Just look at our soldier friend!"

  Wilson was standing at the arms chest with Bowen,- busily loading musketoons. A dozen or more muskets, obviously already loaded, rested against the side of the chest.

  Ramage said nothing. Instead he looked at the privateer for a good half a minute. Now he could make out the details of her rigging, which meant she was a mile away, perhaps less, and closing fast. The combination of the packet sagging to leeward and the privateer working her way up to windward meant she was almost sailing in the Arabella's wake. And at a guess she's sailing a couple of knots faster. In half an hour or less, she'll be alongside...

  To carry out my orders, Ramage told himself once again, I should do nothing. The complete answer to the Admiralty's question is hidden somewhere on board this damned packet. And I'm pretty sure I have half the answer already. Not neatly worked out, admittedly, because there's no time to sort out the significance of everything that's happened since the privateer lifted over the horizon. Between now and the time she catches us and makes us all prisoners, something must happen that provides me with the other half of the answer.

  But what the devil can happen that I can't predict now? She'll range alongside, send over a swarm of boarders, and that will be that. As a prisoner, how can I get the information to the Admiralty? What about the next year or two - or three or four - in a French prison? I've gone over all this dozens of times since we left Jamaica, and I decided what to do. I decided I would let myself be taken prisoner if necessary. Lying comfortably in my bunk at night or sitting in an armchair talking with Yorke, the decision was easy and seemed to be the right one.

  Now, staring at the privateer - which previously was only an abstract idea - it's damned obvious I'm wrong: utterly and completely wrong.

  I am wrong for three reasons - all of them blindingly obvious now that black hull is slicing along in our wake. First, even the most obsessive gambler would not bet tuppence that I'll be alive a moment after those privateersmen swarm on board, so the chances are Their Lordships will never hear what I have found out so far - albeit a mixture of observation, conjecture and suspicion. Second, even if I am taken alive I will not be able to get the word to the Admiralty from a French prison. And third, what more can I find out in the time it will take that privateer to get alongside - half an hour, perhaps
- that I don't know now?

  All that thinking while lying in my bunk did not allow for one thing. It was the only mistake I made - but it was enough. I never suspected Stevens would behave like this. He has, and so have the rest of the packetsmen. That is half of the answer to the Admiralty's question. And half a loaf is better than no bread - providing the half gets to the Admiralty.

  By the time he turned back to Yorke and Southwick his mind was made up. There was no time to get Sir Pilcher's letter and wave it under Stevens' nose: words weren't going to help now, whether written by a commander-in-chief or the First Lord of the Admiralty. Speed was the only thing that might save the Arabella - speed and surprise.

  "Keep close to me," he told the two men, and walked over to the binnacle. He glanced down at the compass and then at the luffs of the sails. "Steer north," he snapped at the helmsmen, "and God help you if you let her get half a point off course."

  Before the startled men could say a word he turned to Southwick. "You have pistols? Good - watch these men. If they don't obey you, shoot them."

  He looked round for the Mate and saw him standing by the mainmast.

  "Mr Much," he called, "As a King's officer I'm relieving Captain Stevens of his command. Get those sails trimmed properly!"

  Motioning Yorke to cover Stevens, he bellowed, "Tritons! Stand by Mr Much!"

  As he turned to go to Stevens at the taffrail he saw the man glancing round wildly. Suddenly Stevens snatched the cutlass at his side and, holding it high over his shoulder, ran to the starboard main brace to try to slash through the heavy rope so that the main yard would swing round out of control.

  Ramage leapt towards him and a moment before Stevens could wield the cutlass, managed to trip him. As the Captain toppled forward his head banged the bulwark and he crumbled to the deck.

  Ramage tugged his sword from the scabbard and, not sure whether or not Stevens was still conscious, stood over him.

  "Captain Stevens, you are charged with treason. I am assuming command of this -"