Ramage’s Prize r-5 Read online

  "You seem well informed. Have you any theories?"

  "No, none at all." Yorke noticed that Ramage's eyes glanced down at the letter before he added, "I wish I had."

  "Has anyone?" Yorke asked flatly.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Ramage said ruefully, "If he has, he's keeping quiet about it in case Sir Pilcher gives him the job."

  "What job?" Yorke asked innocently.

  "The job of delivering the mail," Ramage said as the steward brought Yorke more coffee. "Albert, I think I'll have some more, too. It's the best I've ever tasted. What's the secret?"

  The coloured man smiled happily. "A pinch of salt in the pot, sah."

  "Just salt?" Yorke asked doubtfully.

  "Nuthin' else, sah," the steward said solemnly. "The beans must be fresh ground, of course."

  When the steward had gone back to the kitchen, Yorke said casually, "Any news from Admiralty House?"

  "Nothing definite," Ramage said, his eyes again dropping to the letter.

  "Any hint as to whether you're in or out of favour?"

  Again Ramage shrugged his shoulders and, after a minute's hesitation, passed the letter to Yorke. "Sir Pilcher sent this last night; I can accept or refuse."

  Yorke's brow wrinkled as he unfolded the sheet of paper. "Is that usual - having the option, as it were?"

  Ramage shook his head. "On the contrary, it's -" He broke off, not wanting to influence Yorke's reaction.

  The other man read slowly and finally glanced up. "Interesting."

  "You think so?" Ramage asked sarcastically, for once irritated by Yorke's flippant manner.

  "Interesting, significant - and suspicious."

  "Suspicious?"

  "Yes. I don't know quite what it is, but I don't like the option. Surely admirals don't give lieutenants options, do they?"

  Ramage shook his head. "I've spent most of the night trying to guess what's behind it."

  Yorke stirred his coffee. "I begin to wonder why Sir Pilcher almost labours the point that you have the option. Let's go through the letter slowly."

  He spread the letter on the table and ran his finger under the first few lines. "Well, after all the usual routine phrases, he tells you that there have been heavy and unexpected losses among the Post Office packets coming from England and returning. 'Unexpected'? Any clue in that word?"

  "That struck me, too, but I don't think so. There were very few losses in the first years of the war; now they've suddenly increased. Obviously it was unexpected..."

  "Very well, he goes on to say that increased frigate patrols off the coasts of Cuba, Hispaniola and Puerto Rico prove that far from there being more French and Spanish privateers, fewer than half seem to be operating this year compared with last. Do you believe that?"

  Ramage smiled. "In the previous couple of years, frigate captains made small fortunes from head money alone. Privateers have large crews, and at five pounds a head, plus prize money ... There's no doubt the French and Spanish in the Caribbean are now short of both ships and men for privateering."

  "In the Caribbean," Yorke emphasized, "and perhaps for a few hundred miles out into the Atlantic. All right," he said in response to an impatient gesture from Ramage, "we'll leave privateers based in Europe out of it for the moment. Now, Sir Pilcher says that while he has no reason to think the packets are being lost on this side of the Atlantic, he has decided to make an investigation ... that seems reasonable enough. However, he goes on to say, he is extremely short of ships, but 'because you are at present unemployed by virtue of having lost the Triton brig', he is prepared to place the investigation in your hands 'as an alternative to you returning to the United Kingdom'."

  Yorke read the passage again. "It's rather like blackmail."

  "No, he's quite right. I haven't a ship now, and the court of inquiry into the loss of the Triton has cleared me of blame, so there's nothing more to be done about that. If Sir Pilcher has no appointment for me, I return to England. That's the routine."

  "It still seems odd," Yorke persisted. "I can't believe he's so short of ships that he can't spare anyone else to make this investigation. It's obviously the most urgent job he and the Navy face! It's not just Jamaica that's affected: there's Barbados, Grenada, St Lucia, St Vincent, Martinique, Antigua, Tortola - dozens of 'em! The whole West Indies must be in turmoil, cut off from England in both directions, yet he..."

  Ramage nodded wearily. "Exactly! I can imagine him passing the job to the captain of one of his 74-gun ships, and giving him three or four frigates as well. Or even choosing one of his favourite captains and sending him off with a couple of frigates. But..."

  "But you can't see why he'd pick a lieutenant who commands nothing more than a cabin trunk. Neither can I. This sheet of paper," Yorke said, holding up the letter contemptuously, "doesn't tell a tenth of the story. When do you have to give your reply?"

  Ramage took out his watch. "In an hour's time, and I'm damned if I know what to say."

  "What's in favour of accepting?"

  Ramage picked up one of the heavy knives on the table and balanced it horizontally on a finger. "Nothing really, except that it might be amusing to try to find out what is happening to the packets - assuming Sir Pilcher is merely being silly, not cunning."

  "Suppose he is being cunning and there's something else involved?"

  "I hope I'll find out in time to get out of it."

  "That means you'll accept?"

  Yorke spoke so sharply that Ramage glanced up in surprise. "You think I should refuse?"

  Ramage did not hide his disappointment when Yorke nodded. Despite the vagaries of the letter, he had hoped that somehow it would get him back to sea again. The heat and smell of Jamaica and the noise and bustle of Kingston were little to his liking. Moreover the heavy social pressures brought on eligible young officers by anxious mothers seeking matches for their dumpy daughters drove most young men to the rum bottle before long.

  But now Yorke was grinning. "Refuse - and then wait. See what else the old boy has to offer!"

  "Bargain?" Ramage exclaimed, obviously horrified.

  "Now, now! Don't use those nasty tradesmen's words. There must be a good reason why Sir Pilcher wants you to undertake this job, when he has dozens of other officers to choose from. Once you know why he picked you instead of some post-captain, you'll be in a better position to make up your mind."

  There was much in what Yorke said: he needed to know Sir Pilcher's motives. "But supposing he's being straightforward? It's unlikely, but what then?"

  "Up to you," Yorke said banteringly. "It looks as though we're all stuck in Jamaica until the packets start getting through or a convoy assembles in a couple of months. If you want to go home in a packet you'd better solve the mystery!"

  Ramage glanced at his watch and said as he slipped it back in his pocket, "I'd better get along to Admiralty House."

  "Present him with an ultimatum," Yorke said.

  "Force majeure" Ramage said, "it's quicker and more certain than negotiation."

  Chapter Two

  Ramage was thankful the large waiting-room at Admiralty House was cool and comfortably furnished; probably one of the coolest spots in Kingston since Jamaica was already sweltering in what promised to be the hurricane season's hottest day so far. There was hardly a breath of wind, and Ramage pitied any captain under orders to sail - it would be a case of out boats and tow...

  The white-painted jalousies over the windows let in sufficient light while their slats threw striped shadows on the walls and kept out the sun's harsh glare. The floors were cool marble and four rattan armchairs were grouped in the middle of the room round a small, highly polished baywood table whose legs stood incongruously in shallow, metal trays of water: part of the constant war waged against white ants in the Tropics.

  The ceiling was high, adding to the sense of coolness, and there was a large portrait in a wide, matching gilt frame, carefully hung in the precise centre of each of three walls. Ramage saw that the one opposite t
he window, like the centre panel of a triptych, was of Sir Pilcher Skinner, with - presumably - his plump wife on the wall to his right. Was the young woman on the other wall a daughter?

  All the artist's skill with brush and pigments could not conceal the fact that Sir Pilcher's legs and neck were too short for his plump body, nor disguise the fat and sagging cheeks eventually tapering and merging into several chins which sat on his lace stock like slices of wet bread. He was depicted standing four-square on the quarterdeck, his uniform a splendid array of blue, white and gold, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword and right hand holding a telescope tucked under his arm. Few people, however, would think the pinkness of the cheeks came from the rays of a setting sun; that colour and texture of watered silk came only from owning a good cellar and employing a chef who took a pride in his work.

  Yet the face was curiously cheerful; Sir Pilcher looked like a man who could enjoy a good joke almost as much as a well-roasted saddle of lamb or a fine claret. The artist had been clever (and for Ramage it redeemed an otherwise undistinguished portrait) in catching the Admiral's eyes.

  Although the eyes could be humorous on occasion, Ramage guessed that they could also be as shifty as a dishonest moneylender's when Sir Pilcher was being forced into making a decision or taking responsibility. Yet with no fleet in the Caribbean, making minor and mostly administrative decisions was his only major task.

  Ramage touched the letter in his pocket, as if seeking some link between the paper and the portrait staring fixedly at him. If he accepted, his orders would be drawn up with extreme care by a man who wanted to get the most done while assuming the least responsibility. Sir Pilcher wanted a lowly lieutenant to find an answer (which had presumably eluded the resources of the Post Office and several ministers of state in Whitehall) but at the same time was giving him no authority. The Admiral was no fool, and Ramage guessed that the letter represented the first time he had ever given a mere lieutenant the option of backing out; of politely declining. If Sir Pilcher thought he was being magnanimous (which was unlikely) to the mere lieutenant it was rather like staring cross-eyed into the muzzle of a highwayman's pistol on Blackheath and being given the option of "Your money or your life!"

  The rattan of the chair squeaked in protest as Ramage stretched back. The captain, who had been the sole occupant of the waiting-room when Ramage arrived, was now with the Admiral, and since he commanded the Hydra frigate, which had arrived from England only a day or two ago and was about to sail again, Ramage was going to have a long wait.

  He wriggled his feet: the heat made them swell so that his long boots were tight and uncomfortable. He noticed the Royal Albion Hotel's shoeblack had expended a lot of energy on them, but not much skill; the leather was lacklustre - the fellow had not learned to use the minimum of polish and a bit of spit.

  Let's sit comfortably in Admiralty House and look at everything from Sir Pilcher's point of view, Ramage thought to himself. Sir Pilcher owed absolutely nothing to Lieutenant Ramage; on the contrary. From Sir Pilcher's point of view...

  "Ramage," a smooth voice said at the door, and he turned to see Henderson, a thin man wearing a clerical collar who seemed to combine the roles of Sir Pilcher's chaplain and secretary. "The Admiral will see you now."

  The chair creaked as if in relief as Ramage stood, straightened his stock, gave the scabbard of his sword a tug and wished he had drunk less coffee: it was swilling around in his stomach, now unpleasantly chilly and uncomfortable. He was nervous; there was no denying that. For all his offhand talk to Sidney Yorke, the fact remained that the word of a British admiral could end a young lieutenant's career as effectively as a whole broadside from a French ship of the line.

  Clack, clack, clack - he found himself treading heavily on the marble floor. Whistling in the dark, Ramage? Trying to keep your spirits up? Don't forget, Sir Pilcher may simply be putting out an anchor to windward: he knows a great deal about the working of the collective mind of Their Lordships ...

  The portrait was good: as he looked at the subject again Ramage realized that he had underrated the artist, who had been as subtle as he dare while still being sure of getting his fee. The Admiral rose from behind his desk in a movement halfway between the majestic and the ponderous, and pointed to rattan armchairs grouped round another small table, a replica of the arrangement in the waiting-room.

  "Ah, my boy, let's sit here and be comfortable," he said affably.

  He motioned Ramage to one side of the table and sat down opposite in a chair which groaned loudly in protest.

  "I've been giving Captain Jeffries of the Hydra frigate his orders: he sails for Antigua in a couple of days, lucky fellow."

  "Indeed, sir?" Ramage said politely. The Admiral's voice was curiously squeaky considering the bulk from which it emerged.

  "Taking Admiralty orders and all the routine paperwork. Absurd not being able to entrust anything to the Post Office. There's talk of the Admiralty having to use the King's ships instead ... and I'm so short of frigates. Damnably short."

  Ramage nodded, guessing that most of Sir Pilcher's frigates were out cruising, combining the hunt for privateers with the hunt for prizes, to bring a double profit to Sir Pilcher: a tactical profit of fewer enemy ships, and a cash profit since he received an eighth of all prize money. Jamaica was the biggest money prize the Admiralty had to offer: two years in command of the station in wartime made an admiral as rich as a nabob who had spent a lifetime in India.

  "Mr Dundas," Sir Pilcher said, as though thinking aloud. "An impetuous man."

  But a powerful one, a startled Ramage thought to himself. As His Majesty's Secretary of State for the War Department and one of Mr Pitt's closest friends, Henry Dundas can afford to be impetuous since his drinking partner is the Prime Minister.

  "Yes, an impetuous man. He has just ordered all his general officers out here to send duplicate and triplicate - triplicate - copies of dispatches and routine reports by merchantmen sailing home in different convoys. He passed a duplicate of this order to the Prime Minister, who sent copies to both Lord Auckland and Lord Gower. Never could understand why they have Joint Postmasters-General," he sniffed. "And a copy to the First Lord of the Admiralty. Most uncalled for, in my opinion."

  But most effective, Ramage noted, guessing that Sir Pilcher's soliloquy was an oblique way of leading up to the letter. After staring at the empty chair next to Ramage for a minute or two without speaking, Sir Pilcher focused his shifty eyes on him.

  "Well," he asked, "you've read my letter?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Ramage realized that he still had not finally made up his mind how to answer the inevitable question: now he was facing the Admiral the decision that he thought he had reached with Yorke at breakfast seemed wrong.

  "Think you stand a good chance of finding out what's happening?"

  "No, sir," Ramage said lamely.

  Sir Pilcher's jaw dropped into the folds of his many chins. "No?"

  Obviously it was not the answer Sir Pilcher had expected, and he groped in his pocket as he recovered from his surprise. Eventually he extricated a blue-enamelled snuffbox and snapped open the lid.

  "Why not?" the Admiral demanded, glowering at the brown powder in the box, a podgy finger and thumb poised ready to take a pinch.

  "There's not enough information to go on, sir: the packets are disappearing somewhere in scores of thousands of square miles of ocean."

  "They can't just vanish."

  "So many privateers, sir," Ramage said vaguely, deliberately trying to avoid being put on the defensive and making specific objections which the Admiral could pin down and dismiss with an airy wave of the hand.

  Sir Pilcher shook his head violently, the flesh of his face swinging from side to side as if about to break loose from the bone. "There might be more to it than privateers," he said mysteriously.

  Ramage remained silent, realizing that his refusal had fallen flat.

  "Much more," the Admiral said, his voice dropping con
spiratorially.

  "I had no idea, sir; you didn't mention it in your letter."

  "Secrecy, my dear boy: you realize what all this means, don't you?"

  Unsure if the question was rhetorical and wary of the querulous note in Sir Pilcher's voice, Ramage said nothing.

  "It means, my dear Ramage, that because so many packets are being captured, London is cut off from the rest of the western hemisphere. Completely cut off! Can you imagine it? In the middle of a war, Whitehall can't send a single order to any admiral or general overseas - let alone to Governors and those sort of people - and be sure it'll be received unless it's sent in a ship of war. The War Office is cut off from the Army out here, the Admiralty isn't receiving my dispatches and I'm not getting their orders; and not a single merchant in England or the West Indies can send or receive an order or a remittance. Both war and trade are at a standstill - and have been for months..."

  "I see, sir," Ramage said, feeling some comment was necessary.

  "Just think of the Admiralty and War Office not receiving regular dispatches from their commanders-in-chief for weeks and months. Imagine the confusion when they finally get one and find it refers to matters raised in three preceding dispatches they've never received. And the dreadful position commanders-in-chief are in when they suddenly get instructions referring to previous orders and plans which never reached them. The Hydra brought out triplicate copies - triplicate," he repeated pettishly, "of all Admiralty and War Office orders going back five months. It doesn't do to think of what's happening at the Navy Board and all the other offices: it'll take months to find out which reports and requests of mine they've received and which have been lost..."

  Sir Pilcher broke off and shuddered, apparently overcome by the enormity of scores of clerks being deprived of the hundreds of reports and forms which might have been sunk in the Atlantic in weighted mailbags to avoid them falling into enemy hands.

  Ramage conjured up a picture of London as the head of a body deprived of most of its limbs: an order from the head in London was incapable of provoking even a twitch of a muscle in the limbs of Jamaica or Martinique, Barbados or Antigua ... if the losses spread, what of Canada and Gibraltar, the Peninsular and the Mediterranean? Every frigate and smaller vessel in the Navy would have to be clapped into service just delivering and collecting official mail, let alone dealing with the correspondence of merchants all over the world. Cargoes not shipped until they were paid for; urgently needed provisions, cordage, sails, powder and shot for the King’s ships not sent because the Navy Board, Ordnance Board and the dozen other offices never received requests and reports ... He felt something approaching sympathy for the portly admiral sitting opposite him and staring fixedly at a snuffbox. The French had (perhaps accidentally) suddenly discovered a way of paralysing Britain. True, the opportunity had always been there, but surely the French didn't have enough ships to comb the oceans picking out Post Office packets?