Governor Ramage R. N. Read online

  “They might differ, but we can still read.”

  Croucher glanced nervously at the master who had interrupted him and Ramage thought he sensed a slightly deferential attitude. The Master was a tall man with a sun-tanned face. He was young and elegantly dressed, self-assured and had humorous eyes. A perfect subject for a portrait by the fashionable Lemuel Abbott, Ramage thought. He probably commanded one of the larger ships, but looked as though he was more used to luxurious London drawing-rooms and a life of leisure.

  “They differ for particular reasons, Mr Yorke, which I’d like to specify,” Croucher said lamely. “Hurricanes and calms in the lee of the islands, not to mention privateers and French galleys which can row out and board a becalmed ship—”

  “What will you people be doing while all that’s going on?” Yorke asked politely.

  Goddard stood up and ostentatiously left the cabin, followed by his lieutenant, and tried but failed to ignore Yorke’s cool and contemptuous stare. Hmm, thought Ramage, Mr Yorke must have a store of powerful influence hidden away to windward….

  “Gentlemen,” Croucher said pleadingly, “the sooner we finish our business the sooner we can leave this, ah, rather warm cabin.”

  “Hurry up then—the hurricane season’ll soon be over.” This time the interruption came from a Scots captain.

  Croucher held the printed Instructions as if they might be snatched from him. Perspiration poured from his brow and into his eyes, making them run, and Ramage began to feel sorry for him. He smoothed out the paper and said:

  “Gentlemen—Signals and Instructions for Ships under Convoy …”

  He’s the only man who can actually pronounce the capital letters, Ramage thought, and when several of the masters started coughing Croucher glanced up in embarrassment. It was quite unnecessary to read the title since everyone held copies.

  “Well,” he said, tapping the first page, “may I emphasize section four—Ships of the convoy out of their stations are to take advantage of all opportunities, by making sail, tacking, wearing &c., to regain the same. Gentlemen, I beg of you, keep your stations. Reducing sail at night is both useless and unnecessary here in the Caribbean, as several of you must know from past experience. We get a good breeze for a couple of hours either side of noon and the wind goes down with the sun. We should make sail rather than reduce it at nightfall.”

  Ramage nodded in agreement: dawn usually saw the captains of any of the King’s ships escorting a convoy flinging their hats on deck in a rage. The light revealed the horizon littered with merchantmen, all jogging along at a knot or so under reefed topsails, many of them hull down astern. Nothing would get them together again under a decent spread of canvas before noon, and by six in the evening the reefing and furling would begin all over again. In the Tropics there were usually at least ten hours of darkness, whatever the season.

  “And part five,” continued Croucher, “where it says, In the case of parting company, and being met with by an enemy … you’ll see it refers to page thirteen, and I’ve no need to remind you, Gentlemen, that there it gives”—he turned to the page—”an extract from an Act of Parliament which says, That if the captain of any merchant ship, under convoy, shall disobey signals or instructions, or any lawful commands of the commander of the convoy, without notice given or leave obtained … he shall be liable to be articled against in the High Court of Admiralty … and upon conviction thereof shall be fined at the discretion of the said court in any sum not exceeding …”

  Croucher’s voice had become louder as he tried to drown the snores of a dozing master and finally he held up his hands in despair. “Perhaps one of you could … ?”

  “George!” the nearest master bawled, nudging the sleeping man. “This fellow wants to ‘ear ‘imself talkin’, even if we don’t.”

  The master straightened up, rubbed his eyes, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and growled, “Five hundred pounds or a year in jail, heard it all a’fore, scores o’ times. And a hundred if he quits the convoy—it’s all written here.” He waved his copy. “Don’t know why he’s going on about it—must be trying to drum up business—he probably gets a percentage.”

  “Gentlemen!” exclaimed Croucher. “I have my duty to do, so please help me by being patient.”

  “Yes, George,” another master chided, “that was very unfair: it’s the Admiral that gets the percentage.”

  “By another Act,” Croucher said hurriedly, “as of course you are all aware, any master who shall desert or wilfully separate or depart from a convoy without leave obtained is liable to a penalty of one thousand pounds—”

  “And fifteen hundred if he’s carrying Naval stores,” Yorke commented conversationally. “Curious how with a government cargo the penalty is always inversely proportional to the probable value.”

  “Be that as it may,” Croucher said lamely, “I can only execute the laws—”

  “And meanwhile the English language is executed—murdered, rather—by the constitutional lawyers who draft the wording of these laws.”

  “Please, Mr Yorke! Then we come to Every such master is liable to a penalty of £100 who, being in danger of being boarded or taken possession of by the Enemy, shall not make signals by firing guns, or otherwise to convey information to, the rest of the convoy, as well as to the ships of war under the protection of which he is sailing—”

  “They mean ‘warn the rest of the convoy and escorts.’”

  “Of course they do!” Croucher exclaimed angrily.

  “Then why not say it briefly and simply? Any fool can be verbose and obscure.”

  “Where was I? Oh yes—he is sailing; and in case of being boarded or taken possession of, shall not destroy all instructions confided to him relating to the convoy.”

  He is reading now, thought Ramage, like a dog scurrying past his master, fearful of being kicked. Having got so far without interruptions Croucher rushed on.

  “At the bottom of the page, No lights are to be shewn on board any of the ships after ten o‘clock at night—”

  “It gets dark by seven o’clock in these latitudes,” Yorke commented.

  “Quite so.” Croucher said coldly, looking round accusingly at his clerk. “There should have been a note to that effect written in just below my signature. Would you remember that, gentlemen? Seven o’clock, not ten. And for the rest—Great care is to be taken that no light be seen through the Cabin windows, as many mistakes may arise from them being taken for the commanding officer’s lights or signals made.”

  “How true,” Yorke said sadly with a shake of his head. “How very, very true.”

  Ramage put his handkerchief to his face to stifle a laugh but Croucher, oblivious to the irony, nodded in agreement.

  “Well, gentlemen, the rest you know: page three—the signals are clear, page four—please watch for the section, The ships astern to make more sail. The signals you can make to the escorts are on page seven. Pages eight and nine—well, fog signals hardly apply. Night signals—yes, please use good lights, gentlemen; make sure your lamp trimmers are up to the mark. Finally, may I draw your attention to the memorandum on the back of the last page. All masters of merchant vessels to supply themselves with a quantity of False Fires to—”

  The snoring again drowned his voice, and one of the masters shouted, “George, belay the snorin’.”

  “—to give the Alarm on the approach of any Enemy’s Cruizer in the Night; or in the day to make the usual signal for an enemy. On being chased or discovering a suspicious vessel—”

  “A ‘suspicious vessel!’” Yorke said. “How can a vessel be suspicious! Bows up and stern down, I suppose, sniffing the air like a gun-dog.”

  “—vessel, and in the event of their capture being inevitable, either by day or night, the master is to cause the jeers, ties and haul yards to be cut and unrove, and their vessels to be so disabled as to prevent their being immediately capable of making sail. I think that just about covers everything,” Croucher said, and flushed
as Yorke said agreeably, “Oh indeed it does; both in the singular and the plural.”

  “Gentlemen, I think the Admiral …”

  Croucher motioned to his clerk, who scurried out of the cabin. A minute or two later Goddard came back without looking at anyone, walked aft, stood against the bright glare of the stern lights and said:

  “Captain Croucher has told you that we risk meeting privateers and rowing galleys, as well as French and Spanish ships of war, all along our route to Jamaica. It is a grave risk, gentlemen, and I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t give you a further warning: there is a good reason for supposing the French will make a determined attempt to attack this particular convoy. That answers the question some of you may have been asking yourselves—why the Lion, a ship of the line, is part of your escort.”

  The masters glanced at each other, trying to guess which of them commanded the ship carrying a cargo so valuable to the enemy, and Ramage too watched closely—the master with the valuable cargo would not be curious. They all looked round, obviously puzzled, except for Yorke. He was watching Goddard with the same amused tolerance as before. But if Yorke’s ship was of particular interest to the French he would surely look concerned even if not puzzled. There’s probably no such ship or cargo, Ramage decided; Goddard is trying to scare the masters into keeping their positions—and to be fair, he is justified in using any lies, threats or stratagems to ensure that.

  “Unfortunately,” Goddard continued, “I have to give you a further warning. The Admiralty intended that five frigates should be waiting for us here in Barbados.” He gave an irritated sniff, hinting at his disapproval of what was to follow. “Regrettably the senior officer on this station has only three frigates available. But remember, the main purpose of the escort is to defend you against attack. In other words, I don’t want to be forever sending the frigates off over the horizon to round up laggards.

  “If you value your lives, stay with the convoy. That means keeping a sharp lookout and not reducing sail at night. Most of you already know that the wind drops away nearly every night, and anyway, losing a sail is of little consequence when the alternative is losing your ship to the French rascals who’ll be lurking around like wolves.”

  He’s scared, Ramage thought to himself. A regular convoy would count itself lucky to have a couple of frigates to carry it to Kingston. He has three frigates, the Lion, a brig, and a lugger. But scared of what? Losing a ship from a convoy meant trouble for the commander of the escort if he was a junior captain. Trouble with the Admiralty and a sheaf of protests from owners and underwriters. But a rear-admiral with Goddard’s patronage coming out as the new second-in-command to Sir Pilcher Skinner at Jamaica could lose a quarter of the convoy without too many eyebrows being raised. A valuable cargo would probably be money to pay the troops and buy stores, and the Lion would be carrying it. What could be frightening him?

  The probable answer was that Jebediah Arbuthnot Goddard, Rear-Admiral of the White, could handle a squadron of the King’s ships, where every captain obeyed his signals instantly, or answered for the consequences under the Articles of War, but the prospect of trying to deal with 49 aggressive individualists, each of whom had probably thumbed his nose a dozen times at a frigate captain who’d ranged up close and fired a shot across his bow to try to force him to set more sail, daunted him.

  “Very well,” Goddard said heavily, “you can rely on Captain Croucher to do everything in his power on your behalf, and the same goes for the commanding officers now joining us”—he gestured to them in turn—”Captain Edwards of the Greyhound, Captain James of the Antelope, Captain Raymond of the Raisonnable and Lieutenant Jenks of the Lark lugger.”

  Several of the masters looked across at Ramage, wondering what he was doing at the conference, and Yorke raised an eyebrow. Ramage had half-expected a sarcastic or ambiguous reference but the deliberate omission took him unawares and he glanced down, his face expressionless, just as Yorke stood up, stooping slightly because of the low headroom.

  “Admiral Godson—I am sure I speak also for all my fellow shipmates in thanking you, in hoping we have a successful voyage to Jamaica, and in expressing our confidence in yourself and Captain Cruncher.”

  The masters grunted their assent as they began to leave the cabin, and those who noticed Yorke’s deliberate mistakes over the names did not trouble to hide their grins.

  Goddard flushed, but recovered in time to squeeze out a smile. “Thank you, Mr Yorke.”

  As Ramage stood up to leave he saw Croucher motioning the three frigate captains and Jenks to stay behind. As no signal was made to him he followed the masters out of the cabin. Had there been some change of plan? Was he not to join the convoy after all? That would be almost too much to hope for …

  CHAPTER TWO

  RAMAGE stood on the gangway abreast the mainmast. After an hour in the dim cabin he was almost blinded by the bright sun as he watched the masters waiting impatiently for their boats. Every few moments one would spot his and dodge out from under the tautly stretched awning to bellow an order to hurry up.

  Whether smooth of manner or rough, the masters had something in common: each was a good seaman. He might be truculent when ordered about by an escort captain; he might furl or reef at night to avoid risking his owner’s money on new sails; but he was every inch a seaman, whether commanding a large ship with a crew of thirty or a small schooner.

  In peacetime the smaller ships would have been hard pressed to find enough cargo to trade from one port in the English Channel to another, and would sail without insurance because no underwriter would risk his money without prohibitive premiums. War had given these small, old vessels a new lease of life. The shortage of ships had driven up the freight rates so the owners could afford the insurance, and the peacetime race to be first at the market-place with a cargo to get the highest prices had been stopped by the convoy system. All the ships now arrived at the same time and the convoy’s speed was that of its slowest vessel.

  “Didn’t you command the Triton brig?”

  Ramage turned to find Yorke standing beside him.

  “I still do.”

  “Where is she?”

  Ramage pointed to where she was lying at anchor on the far side of the shallow bay.

  “I’ve been hearing about you catching privateers off St Lucia and reading about you and Commodore Nelson at the battle off Cape St Vincent. I’d like to offer my congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Mr—should I adopt your style and say, ‘Mr Yorkshire?’”

  Yorke laughed. “I was rather pleased with that! Anyway,” he said, putting out his hand, “Sydney Yorke, ‘master under God’ and owner of the Topaz.”

  “Owner?” Ramage exclaimed, as he shook hands, “Why, you’re …” He hastily rephrased his remark, “You have a fine ship.”

  “And ‘You’re young to own and command her?’”

  “Well, I didn’t actually say it!”

  “I inherited her. From what I hear, m’lud,” Yorke said with a mock bow, “there are one or two senior officers not far from here who rated you young to catch privateers who’d escaped a couple of senior frigate captains—and would have rated you too young to trump the Spanish Fleet at St Vincent.”

  Ramage grinned as he returned the bow, and Yorke suddenly waved. “There’s my boat.”

  Although neither man was conscious of it, each shared a common inheritance, the sea. For Yorke it had taken the form of a ship; for Ramage it was a family tradition of service in the Royal Navy. The Royal Kalendar, in the section headed “House of Peers, Earls,” devoted three heavily abbreviated lines to Ramage’s father:

  “Hen. VIII. 1540. Oct. 9. John Uglow Ramage, E. of Blazey, V. Ramage, an admiral of the White. St Kew Hall, St Kew, Cornwall.”

  A glance at the preceding names, for the earldoms were listed in date order, showed the earldom was the third oldest in the country, having been created by Henry VIII more than 250 years earlier, while the viscountcy—which the eldest
son was allowed to use—was even older. The index several pages earlier gave the motto, family name and heir:

  “Blazey, E. 1540. Nec dextrorsum nec sinistrorsum.

  Neither to the right nor the left. Ramage, V. Ramage.”

  Although the facts were brief enough, a keen student of history could hazard a reasonably accurate guess at what else might have been said. The Ramages were a family that supported Henry VIII at the dissolution of the monasteries and, in return, received the title and grants of former church lands. They were staunch Royalists a century later and, along with many other Cornish landowners, had much of their property confiscated by Cromwell’s Roundheads after bitter fighting. They lived to see the new King give it away to his favourites after the Restoration.

  But no student or reference book could even hint at why the present heir to the earldom, Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, did not use his title; nor how it was that he spoke fluent Italian (with an uncanny ability to mimic the colourful Neapolitan accent, Italy’s equivalent of Cockney), Spanish and French. His skill in Italian came from a childhood spent in Tuscany, since his parents had close links with Italy. His knowledge of French and Spanish, he was always quick to admit, was entirely due to his mother, a very determined woman who chose strict tutors.

  From the day he first went to sea Ramage, on his father’s advice, had not used his title: the old Admiral knew only too well the problems that a young midshipman might face if some well-meaning hostess gave him precedence over his captain at the dinner table because of his title.

  As Yorke’s boat came alongside the Lion, the young shipowner said with sudden seriousness, “Well, good luck; might be wiser to keep a sharp lookout over your shoulder than over the bulwark. I wish you were coming to Jamaica with us.”

  “I am.”

  Yorke spun round. “Oh! So I guessed right…. Well, you’re young to have fallen foul of an admiral who forgets his name contains four more letters after the first three!”