Ramage's Devil Read online

  “Why would she be wanting the physician?” Clinton asked, although it was obvious the question was rhetorical.

  “The Signal Book, sir,” Ramage said. “I don’t think there is any signal for requesting medical assistance.”

  “But why should she need it? Perhaps the surgeon has drunk himself stupid.”

  Ramage realized that he had not completed his reference to Bowen. “I think not, sir: his first ship was the Triton brig, which I commanded, and he stopped drinking.”

  Clinton smiled benevolently: he was making allowances for the pride of a young captain.

  “Not Bowen, sir—that’s the surgeon. He was cured.”

  “Who achieved that miracle?” Clinton demanded.

  “Well, sir, the master and I saw him through the worst of it. As I said, he’s a very intelligent man. A wonderful chess player.”

  “Hmm—I hope he isn’t trying to make pawns of us. She has the same officers and ship’s company; only Bullivant is new. What do you think is going on?”

  Had Bowen started drinking again? Or been injured himself? In that case, Bullivant would have asked one of the other frigates to send over her surgeon.

  “Where is the Calypso, sir? I did not see her.”

  “Some distance up to the north-west, in company with the Blackthorne frigate.”

  “So she would be close enough to ask the Blackthorne to send over her surgeon?”

  “Yes. The Blackthorne is nearer to us and relayed this strange signal. Who the devil would have thought up 215 over a pendant—it’s clever, if they really need the physician of the fleet.”

  “Or the physician’s authority,” Ramage said and then realized that he had inadvertently spoken aloud what was only a random thought.

  “What’s that you say?” the admiral demanded. “Authority? Medicine is what they want, I’d have thought.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Ramage thought, and time was passing and he still had to persuade the admiral about L’Espoir. “I was trying to see it from the Calypso’s point of view, sir. Sickness, fractures—all these can be dealt with by a surgeon. I was trying to see what the physician of the fleet had that a surgeon would not have, and medically—with respect—there woud be nothing of consequence. But the physician of the fleet would have authority. He would be reporting direct to you, and he could act on your authority …”

  “But what the devil does the Calypso want to bother me about?” Clinton growled. “I don’t care if the second lieutenant has just ruptured himself: that’s why she has a surgeon. Can’t be scurvy or anything like that—we left Plymouth only a couple of days ago.”

  Southwick, Aitken, Bowen, young Paolo, Jackson, Stafford—Ramage felt a great nostalgia. The Admiralty (having no choice) had appointed a new captain to the Calypso, but she would always be his ship: he had captured her from the French, refitted her in the West Indies, chosen her new name, taken her into action … He knew every man on board and had promoted most of the officers. Every seaman had been in action with him several times and people like Jackson, Stafford and Rossi had saved his life—and he theirs, for that matter.

  “Sir, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s serious and unusual. I know Bullivant only by report, but I do know my officers. The first lieutenant, Aitken, thought of the signal: I’m sure of that. He’s a very responsible young officer.” He remembered Clinton’s slight accent and added: “—and comes from an old Scots family with naval connections.”

  Clinton scratched his head, doubtful about something, although Ramage could not guess what. “Let me think about it. Now, are we finished with this Murex mutiny business? I want a list of names of the mutineers, of course, and all the loyal seamen, and the warrant and commission officers, who can give evidence against them. The brig’s first lieutenant can deal with that. The Navy Board will have the last Muster Book, so they can print up some posters naming these mutinous rascals. They’ll have to serve in French and neutral ships, or starve, you’ll see, and we’ll catch ‘em and stab ‘em with a Bridport dagger, just like we did those villains from the Hermione.”

  Admirals rarely used slang—at least, Ramage had not heard them—but “Bridport dagger” was very appropriate. Some of the navy’s best rope, particularly hemp, came from the Dorset town of Bridport, and hemp was always used for the hangman’s noose. The seamen, with their liking for the bizarre euphemism, had soon tied the town, the hemp, the noose and death into one tidy phrase.

  “I’ll have the list for you, sir, and that rounds off the Murex affair, but there is one factor: you remember I mentioned earlier that the Count of Rennes and about fifty other Royalists were being transported by Bonaparte to Devil’s Island?”

  Admiral Clinton nodded. “Rennes? Isn’t he the refugee fellow that has a place in England? Down at Ruckinge, I seem to remember. My place is at Great Chart, and my wife and I met him several times. A friend of the Prince Regent, I think.”

  “The same person, sir. He came back to France at the peace. My wife and I were staying with him when he was arrested, as I was telling you, and his valet hid us. I have the valet on board the Murex—he’s one of the four Frenchmen who helped me retake the ship.”

  “The others—are they people like the Count?”

  “I don’t know who they are, sir, but L’Espoir was fitted out in great haste the moment Bonaparte heard that our ambassador was leaving Paris.”

  “So we are too late to stop her escaping. L’Espoir is on her way to Devil’s Island now.”

  “She’s only a few hours ahead, sir. She left Brest about half an hour ahead of the Murex.”

  By now Admiral Clinton was lost in his own thoughts and talking to himself. “Takes a frigate to catch a frigate—en flûte, you say, so she’ll have fewer men and few guns … more guards because of the prisoners … Yes, I’d better spare a frigate: it’d be dashed difficult if the Prince heard that nothing had been done … but if I could take the Count of Rennes back with me … the frigate’d be a prize too, and there’d be my eighth …” He gave a startled jerk, as if surprised to find he was not alone in the cabin.

  “Ah, Ramage. Yes, well, just had an idea about that dashed signal from the Calypso. You’ve got those extra men from Wells’s frigate, so the Murex isn’t short-handed now. Supposing you take her and go on board the Calypso and see what the devil it’s all about. You know the ship so well.”

  Ramage nodded and added the part that the admiral had omitted: “It will save you detaching any of your frigates, too, sir.”

  “Quite, quite,” Clinton said, as though the thought had never occurred to him. “Give me time to think about the Count of Rennes and L’Espoir, so if I have any more questions later you can answer them when you get back from the Calypso.”

  “If there is any urgency, sir, a situation which I think calls for the physician of the fleet, should I repeat 215 and the Calypso’s pendant?”

  Clinton thought for a moment. “That would also mean that this flagship had to come up to the Calypso?”

  “Yes, sir. I was thinking only of saving time in a dire emergency.”

  “Very well. But look’ee Ramage, you’re a sensible fellow. I’ve read all your Gazettes. Bit inclined to go your own way—that wouldn’t do if you were serving under me, mind you—but you succeed. So my orders to you—I’ll have them put in writing: it’ll only take a couple of minutes—are to go on board the Calypso, and sort out whatever is the problem. I must hurry to get into position off Brest—from what you say, Bonaparte has several ships he’d like to get out before I arrive to shut the door. Now, wait on deck while I get my dam’ fool secretary to write up your orders. Get the Calypso’s position from Captain Bennett, and anything else you need. Looks as if you’ll need to visit your tailor as soon as possible.”

  Ramage grinned. “There’s a lot to be said for trousers when you’re climbing up a ship’s side, sir; breeches are tight.”

  Clinton said: “Very well. Unless you find it absolutely necessary to hoist 215, you wil
l come up and report to me personally. Use your discretion. I have an odd feeling about this Calypso affair … Bullivant must have just been made post … Influence of the father, I suppose …” Again the admiral seemed to drift away in a reverie, and Ramage quietly left the cabin.

  Captain Bennett took Ramage into his cabin and unrolled a chart. “The fleet will be here”—he indicated a line thirty miles to the west of Ushant—”and there’ll be the usual frigates here, here, here and (providing this odd signal does not mean the Calypso has to go back to Plymouth) here. The admiral likes a couple of frigates with him, to investigate strange sail.

  “Do you want to note down any latitudes and longitudes?” he asked.

  Shaking his head, Ramage said: “I should be reporting back in a few hours. How far do you estimate the Calypso is to the north?”

  “Well, the Blackthorne is in sight of us and the Calypso can see her. Say twenty miles. This is a five-knot wind for a brig like the Murex—she must have a clean bottom.”

  “She’s clean,” Ramage said, “but with only a dozen hands I haven’t been pressing her!”

  “A dozen, eh?”

  “And four landmen, only one of whom speaks English!”

  At that moment a bespectacled young man came into the cabin after the Marine sentry announced him.

  He handed a slim volume and a sheet of paper to Ramage. “A copy of the Signal Book and the admiral’s orders, sir: he particularly wants you to read them before you leave the ship.”

  Murmuring “If you’ll excuse me,” to Bennett, he read the copperplate handwriting and stylized wording. The phrases were dignified, those used by their Lordships and admirals for scores of years. They added up to the fact that whatever happened the man giving the orders took no responsibility for the results, while the man receiving them had no choice … However, in this case Admiral Clinton had obviously consulted Steel’s List and found that Ramage was senior to Bullivant, and the orders, which of necessity were phrased with no knowledge of what was the matter, gave Ramage authority “to rectify, make good, issue orders and otherwise do what is required for the benefit of the King’s Service in relation to the vessel herein described.”

  Ramage folded the orders and tucked the paper down the front of his shirt. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Captain Bennett and used his pen to sign the receipt for the orders and for the Signal Book which the young secretary had been holding out.

  As he climbed down into the cutter he felt himself being pulled in two directions. Up to the north, something strange was happening to the Calypso, a ship he had come to love and a ship’s company he regarded as his own family. Out to the west, L’Espoir was carrying Jean-Jacques and fifty other victims of Bonaparte to Devil’s Island, which meant harsh imprisonment probably ended eventually by a quick death from the black vomit.

  Ramage watched as the small cutter was hoisted on board and heard Swan preparing to get the Murex under way again. The extra dozen seamen would mean the Murex could stretch to the northward under courses as well as topsails.

  As soon as Swan came aft, Ramage handed him the new copy of the Signal Book. “Have someone sew up a canvas bag and find a weight to put in it. That Signal Book must be kept in the bag and the whole thing thrown over the side if …”

  “Yes, sir,” Swan said. “Anyway, now the ship isn’t deaf and dumb any longer!”

  “We might regret that,” Ramage said. “The admiral will be changing all the signal numbers now the French probably have Murex’s original book.”

  “Oh no, sir, I forgot to tell you. I was on deck when the mutiny started and the Signal Book and private signals were on the binnacle box. I managed to throw both over the side before the mutineers got control of the ship. I’ll take an oath on that, sir.”

  Ramage sighed with relief but said: “I wish you’d told me that earlier. The admiral is already choosing the number to add to all those in the Signal Book, and drawing up new private signals.”

  “Well, I know the penalties for signals, so …” Swan said, and both men knew the phrase usually added to them when they were issued. The new private signals handed over by the admiral’s secretary, Ramage noted, had two paragraphs of warning: “The captains and other officers to whom these signals are delivered are strictly commanded to keep them in their own possession, with a sufficient weight affixed to them to insure their being sunk if it should be found necessary to throw them overboard … As a consequence of the most dangerous nature … may result from the enemy’s getting possession of these signals, if any officer … fail in observing these directions, he will certainly be made to answer for his disobedience at a Court Martial …”

  Which was why Swan wanted to make it clear that he had disposed of the signals. But he would certainly be tried—a court martial could clear a man of any suspicion just as well as it could find him guilty.

  “You have witnesses?” Ramage said. “You may need them.”

  Swan said: “Yes, I understand, sir. Phillips saw me, and the two men at the wheel, who did not mutiny.”

  “Good, they’ll be sufficient. Now, let’s start carrying out our present orders. First, steer north-north-west, and warn the lookouts to watch for two frigates, one French-built. Both of them are well to the north of the fleet. We have to visit the northernmost one, the French-built.”

  “Like your last ship, the Calypso,” Swan said, smiling at the thought.

  “She is the Calypso,” Ramage said, and gestured towards the taffrail. As the two men walked up and down the windward side, out of earshot of the men at the wheel and the quartermaster, Swan pausing from time to time to shout orders through the speaking-trumpet to get the brig under way, Ramage described what had happened, and why the Murex was being sent to the Calypso.

  “Captain Bullivant,” Swan said, “just made post, obviously. We served together as lieutenants in the Culloden.”

  “A pleasant fellow, eh?” Ramage said, realizing that Swan would be careful not to criticize one captain to another but hoping the man would realize that he needed to know as much as possible.

  “He had his friends,” Swan said carefully. “His father is one of the biggest contractors to the Navy Board.”

  “I heard about that,” Ramage said. “Salt meat, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Swan said, unable to keep a bitter note out of his voice. “You know, a cask of salt beef, and stencilled on the outside it says ‘Contains 52 pieces’ …”

  “And when the master counts them, there are only 47,” Ramage finished the sentence. “And although every ship in the navy notes it down in the log—the contractor’s number on the cask and the number of the pieces short—and although the log goes to the Admiralty and the Navy Board can trace the contractor in each case from the number, nothing is ever done about it.”

  “But the Bullivants of this world and the people they bribe at the Navy Board get richer,” Swan said, thankful that the new temporary captain of the Murex needed only a pointing finger, not a detailed chart.

  The two men walked over to the binnacle, and after a look at the compass card and a glance up at the luffs of the sails, Ramage nodded to the quartermaster.

  He was, Ramage noted, one of the original men of the Murex, but Swan had already said that he was only an ordinary seaman. He wondered why the Murex’s captain had not rated the man “able.” Perhaps he had a bad record, a good seaman but a heavy drinker. All too many men disobeyed the regulations and “hoarded their tot”—instead of drinking their daily issue they kept it until the end of the week so they could get very drunk. They knew before they put aside the very first tot that if they got drunk they would probably be flogged, but all too many seasoned topers reckoned a dozen with the cat-o’-nine-tails a fair exchange for ending Saturday night in an alcoholic stupor.

  With the wind almost on the beam, the brig was sailing fast. Already the line-of-battle ships making up the fleet were on the Murex’s starboard beam, and in half an hour they would be well aft on the quarter
, their hulls beginning to sink below the horizon, hidden by the curvature of the earth.

  There was little for him to do until the Blackthorne and the Calypso were sighted, so he went below to talk to Sarah. As soon as he saw her sitting on the settee, he remembered the family’s London home in Palace Street. There Mrs Hanson, the butler’s wife, was also the housekeeper, and Ramage had once heard her describe a disgruntled person as “on the turn, like yesterday’s milk in a thunderstorm.”

  Sarah’s expression showed that she was far from happy; Mrs Hanson would regard it as definitely curdled. No wonder the Admiralty Instructions forbade officers to take their wives to sea in wartime!

  “So you’re back,” she said bleakly. “Are we bound for Plymouth now?”

  “No, not yet,” he said. “One of the frigates with the fleet is the Calypso and—”

  “But she’s yours!” Sarah exclaimed, suddenly coming to life.

  He shook his head. “With war breaking out so quickly and the First Lord having to send out a Channel Fleet, he would have taken every ship that could get to sea. Obviously the Calypso had not been paid off, so as I wasn’t there a new captain was sent down and he took her round to Plymouth to join Admiral Clinton.”

  “Clinton? The Scots family?”

  “I think so: he speaks with a Scots accent. Why?”

  “He was out in the East Indies once and I met him when he called on father. I think he’s quite well regarded.”

  “Yes, we’re lucky he’s commanding the Fleet.”

  “It hardly matters, surely, if we are going to Plymouth.”

  “Dearest, I have no idea whether we’ll be sailing for Plymouth or Jamaica or the Cape of Good Hope. All I know is that Admiral Clinton has given me orders which I am carrying out. They should take only a few hours, but”—he softened his voice—“they concern a ship, men and the sea, so nothing is certain.”