Ramage and the Renegades r-12 Page 11

  Ramage said softly: 'Stokes, at the moment you are trying to decide whether to attempt to brazen it out, or admit to what amounts to fraud. There are no courts and judges where we are going. I am the judge and jury. I can tell you now that I do not think you are a clerk in holy orders, despite your warrant, and I shall not let you minister to the ship's company.'

  'You could get yourself into a lot of trouble, Mr high and mighty Lord Ramage,' Stokes said viciously.

  'Oh yes,' Ramage said, hoping to draw out the man even more, 'I could face a court martial; I could be dismissed the service.'

  'That's right; the famous Lord Ramage court-martialled for ill-treating his chaplain. What a scandal that would cause. Be the death of your father, the shame of it.'

  'How much did you owe?' Southwick suddenly asked.

  'Owe who?' Stokes said sharply.

  Ramage said: 'Stokes, you are not a clerk in holy orders; you do not even have the education necessary for a sexton, so let us agree on that. I am not really interested in your debts or why you bolted. I'm concerned only with that warrant. You are not entitled to it, but somehow you got it.'

  'Ah, frightens you, doesn't it? You daren't touch me while I have the warrant. That proves the Admiralty believe me.'

  'It's issued by the Navy Office, not the Admiralty, and it certainly does not prove the Navy Board believe you. Describe the Chaplain General,' Ramage said suddenly.

  The question took Stokes completely unawares. 'Well, he's - he's rather like me. No, perhaps taller. A very nice man; sympathetic, and concerned that the Navy has only the best men as chaplains ...'

  'What does he look like?' Ramage persisted. 'Bald, white hair, grey, black, fifty years old or eighty? Does he walk with a limp? Deep voice or shrill?' He had seen him once at Lord Spencer's, and like many such clerics who owed their position to patronage, the Chaplain General was portly and pink, but his nose was an object few would forget: it was purple, bulbous and almost incredibly long, like an elephant's trunk. Also the voice emerging from the bulky cleric was little more than a squeak; not a voice to fill a modest drawing room, let alone a vast cathedral.

  Stokes shrugged his shoulders. As the fainting fit receded in his memory and the word 'warrant' obviously took on the role of a talisman, his cunning was returning and with it a shoddy bravado. 'Can't remember; I only saw him for a moment or two.'

  'If you saw the Chaplain General only once and at a distance there are things about him you would remember.'

  'Well, I don't, and that's that.'

  'Get up,' Ramage said, the quietness of his voice making both Southwick and Aitken prepare to move swiftly. Stokes, too, realized that there was a change of mood in the cabin. 'Take off that surplice.'

  'Whoa, my Lord!' Stokes protested, 'you can't give orders like that to a man of the cloth!'

  'I know, but you are a vagabond, not a man of the cloth, and I'm not having vagabonds walking about this ship disguised as men of God. Take it off or the Marine sentry will strip you bare.'

  Stokes suddenly realized that the quiet voice was a danger signal. Swaying and frightened, he pulled off the surplice and cassock and stood in his underwear, holding them out to Ramage like a peace offering.

  'What happened?' Ramage asked.

  'When, sir?' Stokes was admitting defeat, but now fright was changing to panic.

  'How did you get that warrant?'

  'It's all legal, sir,' the man whined. 'I wrote to the Chaplain General applying for a position in one of the King's ships, and saying I looked forward to visiting foreign countries. I enclosed a recommendation from the Bishop of London and the Dean of Westminster.'

  'How did you get them?'

  'Oh, that was easy. I knew their names and styles, you see.'

  'How did that get you recommendations?' Ramage asked, puzzled by Stokes's patient explanation of what seemed so obvious to him.

  'Well, it means I got all the details right in the letters of recommendation. I write a fair hand and a change of pen is a change of style.'

  'Oh, you forged them!'

  'Of course, sir,' Stokes said contemptuously. 'I got my new name out of a University register, so if anyone looked up Percival Stokes they'd see he had a good degree and was a clerk in holy orders. The Chaplain General was ill and his secretary accepted my letters, and the next thing was an Admiralty messenger delivered my warrant and orders to report to "His Majesty's ship Calypso, frigate". And I did.'

  'So you are not "Percival Stokes"?'

  'Not likely!' the man said scornfully. 'Percival - what a name. No, the Reverend Percival Stokes lives in Bristol, according to the University register.'

  'What's your name, then? Your real name?'

  'Robert Smith.'

  'Very well, Robert Smith. What debts are you bolting from?'

  'Well, there are several,' he admitted.

  'Were all your creditors taking you to court?'

  'Well, no, only one, but the others would have the minute they heard about it.'

  'How large is that one debt?'

  'Sixteen pounds.'

  Southwick sniffed and Aitken grinned: they could see the way their captain's mind was working.

  'Listen carefully, Smith. I can stop a ship returning to England and have you landed under an arrest, charged with impersonation, defrauding the Admiralty, and various other things that will put you in the Bridewell - the Bridewell, not the Marshalsea - for several years, and when you're released your creditors will still be there waiting to pop you in the Marshalsea. Or . . .'

  Smith was now pale and shaking; the perspiration was pouring down his face and he was too panic-stricken to lift a hand to wipe it away. He was watching Ramage, waiting for the next words.

  'Or what, sir?' he exclaimed.

  'Well, the Navy won't surrender a seaman for a civil debt of £20 or less. Although we're now at peace, the wartime laws concerning our seamen still apply. If you want to volunteer for the Navy, you're free to do so. Sleep on it and tell Mr Southwick tomorrow morning. In the meantime Mr Aitken will tell the purser to issue you with a hammock. Now, clear your gear out of the cabin you've been using and get forward!'

  Smith almost ran through the door, remembering to keep his head down.

  Aitken said: 'Not one of the King's best bargains, sir!'

  'No, but it's got him out of the gunroom.'

  'Aye, and for that many thanks, sir.'

  'And as soon as we meet another of the King's ships, we can transfer him.'

  Southwick said, 'I have to admit I admire the rogue, sir. Fancy forging references from the Bishop of London and the Dean of Westminster! He was lucky the Chaplain General was ill: if there'd been an interview ... he doesn't look much like a chaplain.'

  'I've seen worse,' Ramage said, 'even if they smell fresher, but I admire him, too.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Because Ramage hated all the paperwork attached to commanding one of the King's ships he set aside one complete afternoon a week. On that day his clerk brought him the pile of forms, reports and letters that he had to read or sign - rarely both - and Aitken and Southwick trod carefully, knowing the captain would be ill-tempered and, so the master claimed, equipped with a magic shovel that in a couple of seconds could make a mountain out of a molehill.

  He opened the muster book, curious to read the latest entry. Robert Smith was now entered and rated a landman. He was noted down as being thirty-eight years old and born in Peckham, London. The purser had dated the entry the day before the Calypso sailed from Chatham. In that way, Smith would be paid from the day he joined the ship - but at the rate of a landman, not a chaplain. Ironically the pay was about the same; it was the 'groats' that lined a chaplain's pocket.

  Closing the muster book, he looked at the muster table, and then at a single sheet of paper which showed all that was known and needed to be known about the ship's company of the Calypso on her first voyage in peacetime. Ironically the form was still drawn in the usual wartime wording.

 
There were four 'classes' of men - ship's company, Marines, supernumeraries 'victuals and wages' and supernumeraries 'victuals only'. Each of these four had then to be placed in one of five categories, 'Borne' (which meant carried on the Calypso's books), 'Mustered' (paraded and answering their names as read from the muster book), 'Checqued' (not on parade but their presence on board confirmed), 'Sick on shore', and 'In prizes'.

  So today the Calypso's ship's company totalled ('borne') 211, with 199 mustered and 12 checqued, with none sick on shore or away in prizes. The figure sixteen appeared in the 'supernumeraries victuals and wages' column because in addition to the dozen masons and bricklayers, the surveyors and draughtsmen were being paid and fed as part of the ship's company, while the figure two in the 'supernumeraries victuals only' showed that the botanist and the artist were being fed but not paid - the Admiralty or Navy Board had made some private arrangement.

  He pushed aside the muster documents and pulled over the Calypso's log. There were in fact two, one kept by Southwick and referred to as the 'Master's Log', and his own, known as 'the Captain's Journal'. He had not filled it in since leaving Chatham, and he used Southwick's times and positions. He filled in the words 'Calypso', 'Ramage', 'fourth' and 'September' in the blank spaces at the top of the page where it said: 'Log of the Proceedings of His Majesty's ship________, Captain_______, commander, between the__day of________, and the__day of ________' The last two spaces were left blank. There were certain superstitions few officers cared to ignore. One was never to write the final date in a log book or journal (they were supposed to be sent to the Admiralty every two months) until it was actually completed, and even though a page equalled a day, and another was not to write in the final entry of a voyage which said 'From_______, to________' until one actually arrived. Life was uncertain enough without teasing fate.

  He began to fill in his journal. The first column headed 'H' was a series of numbers from one to twelve - the time. The next two columns were headed 'K' and 'F', the knots and fathoms run, entries that land people rarely understood because in the log a knot could mean speed, one nautical mile an hour, or a distance (one nautical mile) with any extra distance measured in fathoms, or units of six feet. 'Courses' and 'Winds' headed the next two columns, while 'Remarks' occupied the right-hand half of the page, and recorded such mundane matters as the opening of a cask of salt beef, and the number of pieces it contained, compared with the number stencilled on the side by the contractor, which was the Navy Board's figure.

  Now for the course, distance, longitude and latitude, recorded at the bottom of - surely that was a lookout hailing? He wiped his pen and listened. Yes, young Martin was answering.

  'Deck here!'

  Then, from high above: 'Sail ho, dead ahead, approaching fast!'

  'What do you make of her?' demanded Martin.

  'Need a bring-'em-near, sir, but reckon she's got everything set to her royals.'

  'Very well, I'll send someone up with a telescope.'

  Ramage thankfully jammed the lid back on the inkwell, slid the books and papers into the top right-hand drawer of his desk and, out of habit, locked it. Royals set almost certainly meant a ship of war - except, he corrected himself, the world is at peace now. But no merchant ship, not even one of the Honourable East India Company, would be bowling along with royals set in this breeze. Only a ship of war had enough men to handle a cloud of sail in an emergency. The approaching ship could be British, French, Dutch, perhaps even Danish. Unlikely to be Swedish and definitely not Russian - both because few were still at sea and because they were handled in an unbelievably lubberly way.

  By now Ramage had collected his telescope from its rack on the bulkhead beside the door and his hat from the hook just below it. He arrived on deck in the weak sunlight to find the western edge of the Bay of Biscay still reasonably calm despite the freshening wind.

  Most likely a French ship of the line making for Brest or Rochefort, although, come to think of it, very few French ships of the line had been at sea in the last few days of the war.

  'I was just going to send down Mr Orsini, sir,' Martin said. He knew the captain could hear hails through his skylight, but overhearing had no official existence, and Martin added: 'Foremast lookout reports a sail dead ahead steering towards us, and he thinks he can see the royals over the horizon.' Martin pointed at Jackson going hand over hand up the shrouds. The American was reckoned to have the best eye for identifying ships - not just the rig but often the name as well.

  Martin was excited and so was Orsini, but both youngsters. the frigate's fourth lieutenant and the midshipman, had forgotten one thing: there was no war on. Three months ago, such a sighting would have meant sending the men to quarters, opening the magazine, wetting the decks and scattering sand over them, loading the guns, the surgeon setting out his instruments and the galley fire being doused. Now, it was peacetime. But Ramage saw Aitken and Southwick coming up to the quarterdeck, both aware there would be no action but both unable to break a habit - of a lifetime for Aitken, of many years for Southwick.

  Ramage pulled out the brass eyepiece tube of his telescope, slid it back a fraction of an inch so that the focusing mark was against the end of the larger tube, and looked ahead, where by now he could see an occasional fleck of a sail as the Calypso rose on a swell wave. The other ship was not quite on an opposite course because the masts were not in line: she was steering to pass along the Calypso's starboard side and, at a guess, pass perhaps a mile off.

  No new private signals or challenges had been issued as a result of the Treaty; the only flags now to be routinely hoisted, apart from the colours, were the three from the numerary code giving the Calypso's number in the List of the Navy. And they would be hoisted only to another British ship of war. Ramage saw that Orsini had the flags ready.

  Ramage felt curiously naked and unprepared: never before had he sailed towards a ship of the line - he was fairly sure that was what she was - with no more preparation needed than making sure three flags were bent on to a halyard. He knew from the aimless way they were walking round the quarterdeck that Southwick and Aitken were having similar feelings.

  'Deck there - Jackson here, sir.'

  Martin glanced at Ramage, who nodded to emphasize that the youngster was officer of the deck.

  'Deck here - what d'you see?'

  'Ship of the line, sir; British, may be the Invincible, and probably a private ship.'

  A private ship: Jackson could not make out an admiral's flag. With luck, the ship being so near home, she would pass with just a cheery signal, instead of heaving to and her captain ordering Ramage to report on board with his orders, and generally making the most of many years of seniority but knowing that, with Ramage sailing under Admiralty orders, he could not interfere in any way.

  'Fetch Jackson down,' Ramage murmured to Martin. The reason was mundane enough - the binnacle drawer had opened and slid out a couple of days ago and both telescopes in it had landed on the deck and cracked their object glasses. There were now only three working telescopes left on board - Ramage's own, the second that Martin had been using but had sent aloft with Jackson, and the third being used by Aitken.

  When the American was down on deck again he said to Ramage: 'She's been at sea a long time, sir; I had one last look as I came down and she and us lifted to waves together so I could see her hull as she rolled. Plenty of copper sheathing missing and her bottom green with weed. Topsides need work on them and her sails have more patches than original cloth.'

  'Probably coming home from India, and only had time to call at the Cape for water.'

  That remark, directed at Southwick, brought a knowing nod. 'She won't want to delay us, then!'

  There was nothing more irritating than having to heave to and launch a boat at the whim of a captain whose name was higher on the post list - particularly when the boats had been well secured for a long voyage.

  The two ships were approaching quickly: Ramage guessed that the Invincible - if that was who sh
e was - must be making ten knots, with a soldier's wind, and the Calypso a good seven. He looked again with his glass. Yes, he could make out the patched sails now and, as both ships rose on swell waves, saw what Jackson meant about the weed. She must be three or four miles away. Her masts were coming in line now - she was altering course to close with the Calypso. Perhaps she intended just asking for news. Ramage suddenly realized that if he had to board her he could take Robert Smith, landman, with him. The report to the Admiralty about the 'chaplain' was already written; the letter needed only dating and sealing.

  There was something very impressive about a ship of the line running dead before the wind: ahead of her the waves swept on in regular formation while she, her sails straining in elegant curves, seemed to curtsey as her stern lifted to a swell wave, her stem sliced up a sparkling bow wave and the whole ship seemed to rise with a massive eagerness until, the swell wave passing under her, she slowed and the whole process began again with the next wave.

  And she was hoisting a lot of flags!

  'Hoist our pendant numbers,' Ramage snapped, 'and stand by to answer some signals!'

  Orsini now had Martin's telescope because he was responsible for signals.

  'Well?' Ramage asked impatiently.

  'I - I'm not sure, sir. Do we have the old signal book, sir?'

  'Of course not. Why?'

  'I think she's making an old challenge!'

  'Rubbish! You'll say she's hoisted the private signal in a moment!'

  'I think she has, sir,' Orsini turned to Ramage. 'My memory is not good, sir, but I'm sure that's one of the challenges for last July, and one of the sequence of private signals also for July. If she -'

  Aitken interrupted, a note of urgency in his voice: 'Sir, if you don't have the latest challenges and private signals, you use - in wartime - the ones for the same day but two months earlier!'

  'We don't have the replies,' Ramage said, thinking aloud. 'All the books were returned to the Admiralty when the Treaty was signed.'

  Suddenly he felt chilled and swung his telescope to his eye again.