Governor Ramage R. N. Read online

  “It’s a long story,” Ramage said wryly.

  “Let’s hope it has a happy ending. Be pleased—as my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty say—to keep an eye on the Topaz then! Incidentally, she’s a legacy from my grandfather; made me serve an apprenticeship, then left me his fleet. Six ships, all named after gem-stones. Dine with me?”

  “Why—yes, I’d like to.”

  “One o’clock? You’ll find I’m carrying an interesting cargo. I’d like to hear a bit of that ‘long story’ if you—”

  “Mr Ramage, sir—”

  A plump, red-faced midshipman was standing waiting.

  “Captain Croucher’s compliments, sir. Would you report to him in the cabin.”

  Although a dozen thoughts were going through his mind as he nodded, Ramage remembered to warn Yorke that he might be a few minutes late. Walking aft, he saw the frigate captains leaving the cabin, followed by Jenks. The moment Jenks spotted Ramage he deliberately slowed down to let the captains get well ahead of him. The two of them had served together as midshipmen and later as lieutenants in the same ship and as he passed he whispered, “Watch your luff—I’m sure they’re brewing up something …”

  The Marine sentry saluted as Ramage knocked on the door and was told to enter. Croucher sat at the same table by the stern lights and facing the door, but Ramage sensed rather than saw that someone was sitting at the forward end of the cabin.

  “Ah, Ramage, here are your orders.”

  Ramage took the rectangular packet with a red seal on one side.

  “And the new convoy list. Forty-nine ships, seven columns of seven ships. You have the latest edition of the Signal Book, of course?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “There’s a copy of the Admiral’s additional signals in with your orders. Sign this.”

  As Ramage reached for the quill and inkwell he saw that the slip of paper was a straightforward receipt for the orders and convoy list.

  “And Ramage,” Croucher said, his voice hardening and his hands clenching like claws, “at your trial last year you escaped punishment on a technicality …”

  Ramage stiffened and looked directly at him, and Croucher’s cold, grey eyes looked down at the table.

  “Punishment for what, sir?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “Punishment presupposes guilt, sir. Of what was I found guilty?”

  He spoke quietly, but every nerve in his body was alert: he felt lightly balanced on the balls of his feet, poised and on guard, ready to fence with a master swordsman.

  From behind he heard Goddard’s oily voice. “At the moment you are guilty of anything I choose to say.”

  Ramage realized he was right: the cabin was a trap. With only Croucher and Goddard present—a captain high on the post list and a senior rear-admiral—either could accuse him of anything, with the other as an unimpeachable witness. Mutinous behaviour, treasonable talk, even attempted murder—what reasonable men would believe Ramage’s word against theirs?

  Slowly, despite the heat of the cabin, he felt his whole body chill and every hair rise up spikily, like an angry cat’s fur, his skin tightening in nature’s response to danger. The ticking of a clock grew louder and more precise, the slapping of wavelets under the counter more distinct; overhead seamen’s feet were padding on the deck. The colours of Croucher’s uniform—and everything else in the cabin—were now brighter and sharper, the cut glass reflected tiny rainbows on the bulkheads. He knew that in a few moments he’d be gripped by a rage which slowed down time, speeded his reactions, doubled his strength and left him without humility or humanity. Such rage gripped him rarely—only twice before in his life—and it frightened him.

  The Ramage family had never harmed Goddard. If the Ramages vanished off the face of the earth, Goddard would not gain a penny in cash or an inch of promotion; nothing except the congratulations of sycophants like Croucher who followed him for the rewards they got from his patronage. It was a senseless vendetta he waged.

  Suddenly Ramage remembered his reactions at the trumped-up trial Goddard had staged in the Mediterranean. At first he’d been shocked and overwhelmed, then he’d become too disgusted by their malicious cruelty and veniality to bother to fight back. Then he’d realized that his inaction was playing their game: by simply answering questions and not attacking he was letting them beat him.

  Ramage had been in Barbados by chance when the convoy arrived but his presence in the Lion’s cabin was a new opportunity for Goddard to attack him. He was collecting the evidence for another carefully rigged trial when the convoy reached Jamaica.

  Ramage didn’t have to watch his words, since they could swear he had said or done anything they liked. So be it! In battle, doing the unexpected can be as effective as doubling the size of your fleet. He turned suddenly to face Goddard.

  “With respect, sir, what do you want to charge me with?”

  He spoke quietly and slowly, but each word was hard and unambiguous. He added: “Wouldn’t you prefer to hurry it up and have me charged and tried before the convoy sails?”

  Goddard’s jaw dropped. Now for the second broadside, Ramage thought, and this will show whether that gross clown in admiral’s uniform really is a coward.

  “Wounding a superior officer, perhaps? That’d bring in mutiny, and Captain Croucher could swear to ‘treasonable utterances’ as well. But for a wounding charge I’d have to supply some tangible evidence …”

  He was careful not to move his hand towards his sword.

  Goddard stood up suddenly and warily, his eyes on Ramage. The young lieutenant’s face was taut; the two scars over the right eyebrow were pale against the tanned skin and the deep-set brown eyes watched unblinking. Goddard realized he was fearless but tense, like an animal waiting to pounce, yet in complete control of himself.

  Ramage’s eyes challenged but his hand hadn’t gone to his sword; there was nothing that could condemn him under the Articles of War. Goddard knew that he had gone too far: the young beggar was just calm and contemptuous, not cringing, and he could almost hear the metallic hiss of the sword leaving the scabbard. This wasn’t his way of carrying on vendettas. He had been scores of miles away when the trial he had ordered was actually held in the Mediterranean. He liked things to be neat and tidy. Documents to be read, orderly numbered exhibits for the prosecution, and the evidence carefully arranged so that Lieutenant Lord Ramage would be found guilty on a capital charge.

  Let’s frighten him, Croucher had said; if he’s frightened he’s much more likely to make mistakes. All Croucher’s advice had achieved was to frighten Goddard himself and get Ramage into a fighting mood. Goddard felt chilled, though his clothes were soaked with perspiration.

  What now? Goddard needed time, and he also needed to reassure this young puppy; lull his fears and hopefully leave him complacent, so that when the blow did strike …

  But Croucher was not a coward and he had already sensed his Admiral’s fear: like Ramage he had seen Goddard’s eyes glancing from side to side and noticed the sudden leap from the chair at Ramage’s reference to “tangible evidence.”

  Croucher said, “No doubt you’ll soon provide any evidence required, Ramage.”

  His voice carried little conviction but he had to support his Admiral. If Goddard continued to rise up the flag list, Croucher’s fortunes rose also. If Goddard fell from favour, Croucher was doomed to spend the rest of his life unemployed, on half-pay. Captain Aloysius Croucher, like any other officer sharing Goddard’s favours, was a party to the vendetta against the Ramage family whether he liked it or not.

  Ramage waited for Goddard to regain his voice, if not his poise.

  “It’s nine hundred miles to Jamaica, Ramage; I can only hope you carry out your duties satisfactorily for the whole of the voyage.” The voice became more confident, as if he had remembered something else. “At Jamaica you will still be under my orders of course—Sir Pilcher, you know …”

  Ramage knew only too well.
The Commander-in-Chief, Vice-Admiral Sir Pilcher Skinner, was a weak, fussy and cautious man who had spent a long career successfully dodging responsibility. He played the game of favourites so flagrantly that it had become a scandal even in an age when patronage was no crime. Many a good captain tried to avoid serving under him.

  Goddard had been Sir Pilcher’s flag captain several years ago, and Sir Pilcher had pushed him, so that when Goddard reached flag rank, Sir Pilcher had another young rear-admiral indebted to him—a young rear-admiral who, thanks to a wise marriage, had influence at Court. Goddard was said to be one of the few men who could get any sense out of the old King during his occasional bouts of insanity.

  Now Goddard was on his way to join Sir Pilcher as his second-in-command. I’m caught right in the middle, Ramage thought ruefully. Well, there’s one consolation—Sir Pilcher can only bring Goddard authority; he hasn’t any brains or boldness to contribute.

  Ramage relaxed as he stood between the two men. The cabin was hot again and the sun bright in the stern lights. There was nothing to fear for the moment—thanks to his unexpected counter-attack whatever Goddard and Croucher had planned for today was cancelled. But another plan would follow; something calculated to bring indignity and shame on the real target of the vendetta, John Uglow Ramage, 10th Earl of Blazey, Admiral of the White, his father and the scapegoat so many years ago for a government’s inefficiency and stupidity, and eventually the victim of its viciousness.

  A sharp knock at the door made the three men jump, and at Croucher’s call the Marine sentry said: “Mr Yorke to see you, sir.”

  Ramage turned in time to catch a slight questioning lift of the Admiral’s eyebrows and an anxious pursing of the Captain’s thin lips. Both were wary of Yorke—and perhaps a little afraid? Surely that was too absurd …

  “Tell him to come in,” Croucher called.

  Yorke walked in and nodded affably to Croucher before he saw Goddard.

  “Ah, Admiral! Forgive me for interrupting you.”

  “Not a bit, Mr Yorke, not a bit; you’re always a welcome visitor.”

  Only one thing brought that ingratiating note into Goddard’s voice: talking to someone with power and influence.

  “I was looking for Mr Ramage. He was kind enough to accept my invitation to dine on board the Topaz, and as he hadn’t joined me at the gangway I thought he might have mistaken the day.”

  “Mr Ramage is a fortunate young man,” Goddard said heartily. “Ramage—I hope you haven’t let such an invitation slip your memory?”

  “No, sir, I was going over as soon as you had finished—er, giving me my instructions.”

  “Very well—now, let’s see: you’ve signed the receipt for your orders? Ah yes, Mr Croucher has it. Well, I think that’s all. Keep a sharp lookout on your side of the convoy, whip in the stragglers—the usual sort of thing, and you know it all anyway!”

  Ramage had to admit that Goddard carried it off very well, even down to voicing a hope that Yorke and his passengers would find time to dine on board the flagship when they reached Kingston—a hope Yorke acknowledged with a perfunctory nod.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE black-hulled Topaz had a corn-yellow sheerstrake—to match her name, Ramage guessed—and was well equipped. There was plenty of new rope (the golden brown of manilla, the strongest and most expensive of all), the decks were scrubbed and the brasswork polished man-o’-war fashion. Large awnings rigged out with tight lacing were cleverly designed to give the maximum shade, folding chairs had their padded blue canvas seats and backs neatly fringed and tasselled, and the ship’s company was working hard and was obviously cheerful. She looked like a newly launched “John Company” ship—usually only the Honourable East India Company could afford to keep their vessels so spotless.

  Yorke had not spoken since leaving Croucher’s cabin; he merely nodded when Ramage said he wanted to give a message to his coxswain waiting in one of the Triton’s boats. Now, as Ramage stood on board by the mainmast and looked round the Topaz, Yorke suddenly grinned and asked: “Does she pass muster?”

  “If she was a King’s ship, I’d say yes; but since I haven’t seen the rest of the Yorke fleet I’ll reserve judgment.”

  “You won’t be disappointed; they’re all like the Topaz—identical, in fact. Masts, yards and sails are interchangeable, Navy fashion. With everything standardized for all six ships I save enormously on refits and routine maintenance. The only difference between the ships is the sheerstrake: each has her sheer-strake painted the colour of the stone for which she’s named. Drives the painters mad, matching up. Everything else is the best I can get, including the ship’s company. I pay them more than anyone else.”

  “But money doesn’t always get good men,” Ramage said dryly. “It often attracts the bad ones!”

  “True, but I pick them carefully and my scale of wages works differently. When I get a good seaman I pay him well enough to stay with me. If some other ship offers him a berth as a petty officer, he’s usually a lot better off staying with me as an able seaman.”

  “So you have bosuns serving as seamen—and masters serving as bosuns, presumably?”

  “Damn nearly,” Yorke said, laughing at Ramage’s dig. “Do you know the current hull insurance rates, hurricane surcharge apart?”

  “No—five per cent?”

  “Anything from six to ten per cent. I pay four.”

  “An uncle who’s an underwriter?” Ramage teased.

  “I wish I had. No, when underwriters see my ships they know their only risks—apart from the perils of war—are extremes: perhaps an early hurricane, a month of fog in the Chops of the Channel and so forth: not rotten masts going by the board when rotten cordage gives way, or sinking when butts of hull planks spring …”

  “So by spending a pound more on rigging you can insure a hundred pounds’ worth of hull for a premium of four pounds instead of six to ten.”

  “Exactly! And get the best freights: I let the others carry the bulky and dirty stuff. With a war on there’s always plenty of freight valuable enough for shippers to pay extra to get safe delivery.”

  “I’m beginning to think you’re a good businessman as well.”

  Yorke laughed. “A pretty compliment—I think. ‘As well’ as what?”

  “As well as a good seaman.”

  “That’s the finest compliment you can pay me.”

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Very few shipowners are both! I’ve an idea more ships sink through perils caused by penny-pinching owners than through what the underwriters call ‘the perils of the sea.’”

  Yorke nodded. Unfortunately Ramage was right—Yorke knew only too well that a penny-pinching shipowner employed a poorly paid master who in turn had to be penny-pinching, and was not above taking the opportunity to cheat his master and his men by way of revenge. Behind every master stood a dozen more, unemployed and eager to take his place. To keep his job, the master had to see that every old and tired rope was turned end for end to double its proper life-span, that ripped sails were repaired until there were often more patches than original cloth, and that his ship sailed with half the number of seamen needed to handle her properly. The owner, safe in his country house, knew that if there were not enough men to weigh the anchor in some distant port, the Navy would send over men to help, if only to make sure the convoy sailed on time; and if the ship sprang a leak, the Navy’s carpenters would set to work to keep her afloat. The convoy system had many advantages and many shipowners thought of it as getting some return on the taxes they had to pay.

  “Come and inspect the cargo,” he said to Ramage, who nodded politely but then exclaimed: “But they’re all brass!”

  “Every single one,” Yorke said, as Ramage looked along the line of guns, and then at the small swivels mounted every few feet along the top of the bulwarks. “I had them recast a year or so ago. They were seventy years old, if a day.”

  “Any problems at the foundry?”

  “No, they just add a
little more tin—which is damnably expensive—because apparently it gets lost over the years and weakens the metal. But brass guns are an economy in the end—no rust, no constant chipping and lacquering.”

  “And you have good gunners?”

  “No—hopeless!”

  “But why?” Ramage asked in surprise. “What’s the point of brass guns if … ? “

  “My gunners are hopeless, my seamen are landsmen, my petty officers are nincompoops … until I know whether you’re going to press any of them!”

  “Then you can sleep in peace. I’m short but I haven’t pressed a man out of this convoy.”

  “You must be one of the few King’s ships that hasn’t.”

  “I know, but I prefer quality to quantity.”

  “I wish some of your fellow captains felt the same way.”

  “Perhaps they do.”

  “True—but can they create quality?”

  Ramage avoided answering—this was tender ground. He didn’t intend telling the master of a merchantman of his contempt for the lack of leadership shown by some of his brother officers, however hospitable Yorke might be.

  “Come along,” Yorke said, “you must inspect the cargo.”

  Noticing Ramage’s lack of enthusiasm and tendency to dawdle as he inspected the ship he added, “The female section of it are probably eaten up with impatience, and they won’t be very flattered to find you were more interested in brass guns.”

  “Female section?” Ramage exclaimed. “Women? Hey, you showed me a false manifest! Since when have ladies rated as cargo?”

  “Well, these do!”

  Ramage was completely unprepared for the four people waiting in the airy saloon of the Topaz. He had expected a portly planter and his wife, a colonel or two and perhaps a general and his strident spouse, all with complexions matching the highly polished mahogany panelling and figures in keeping with the well-padded chairs and settees.

  With easy grace Yorke bowed to the two men and two women.

  “May I present Lord Ramage?”