Ramage's Prize Page 7

  “Not in an ordinary one,” Yorke said emphatically. “After what we’ve just heard I’d sooner wait and go in a convoy. If you can get your hands on one, that’d be different.”

  The idea was now slowly taking shape, like a buoy emerging from a fog bank. “We might all four be passengers.”

  “What—you wouldn’t be in command?”

  “Perhaps not. After all, we don’t know what happens, do we? It might be better to have a normal packet sailing in the normal way. With a few passengers—us, and perhaps some others.”

  “What, no Tritons, sir?” Southwick was shocked. “The four of us wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “A packet has—by Post Office regulations—a ship’s company of 28 men and boys … that includes the commander, master and mate.”

  “But even so, sir …”

  “But if a dozen of her men were given a few hours’ leave and didn’t return by sailing time … and the Navy offered a dozen seamen to help out …”

  “By Jove,” Yorke said gleefully, “that’s it!”

  “As far as the Post Office commander and the rest of the crew are concerned, they’d be just a dozen seamen taken at random from one of the King’s ships. That wouldn’t seem odd because the chance of finding a dozen merchant seamen in Kingston at half an hour’s notice is nil—particularly if one or two of the ships o’ war had sent out press-gangs a few hours earlier …”

  “Lack of secrecy, that’d be our best ally,” Yorke said. “Make a great fuss if the packet comes in—be sure the newspaper announces it, and so forth—so that the French will hear.”

  Ramage nodded slowly. “We might even use the newspaper to reveal—accidentally, of course—when she’s due to sail.”

  “Aye,” Southwick said, “have the Postmaster announce that all letters for England have to be at the Post Office by nine o’clock in the forenoon on a certain day. That’d warn anyone who was half awake that she’s sailing by noon.”

  As they talked, Ramage became convinced that the idea was not only a good one, but the only one likely to bring results. Then Yorke caught his eye and said flatly:

  “You suspect treachery, don’t you?”

  The words reached into Ramage’s mind and jogged something: something lying there since the visit to Smith’s office but which still refused to emerge. “I’m not sure. At the moment I suspect everything—and nothing.”

  “But as you’ve outlined it, you’re covering yourself against it.”

  “Of course, but treachery from any direction, not just on board the packet.”

  Southwick was shaking his head. “It’d have to be treachery on board all the packets lost so far,” he said. “I can’t really …”

  “No, I suppose treachery doesn’t seem likely,” Yorke admitted. “But privateers nabbing packet after packet doesn’t seem likely either.”

  “What happens if the packet doesn’t come in?” Bowen asked, in his usual down-to-earth manner.

  “We’ll have to think again,” Ramage said with a lightness he did not feel.

  “All that chess,” Southwick muttered. “She has to come in …”

  Ramage had just washed, shaved and dressed next morning before going down to breakfast when a knock at the door revealed a lugubrious servant who handed him a letter with the announcement that it had just been delivered by hand. As he fumbled in his pocket for a coin and gave it to the man, Ramage noticed the Post Office seal on the letter.

  It was from Smith and said: “The lookout on Morant Point has sent word that a vessel believed to be the packet was sighted to the south-east at daybreak, and I’m hastening to pass on the good news to you.”

  Ramage sat on the bed, feeling strangely excited. The lookouts at Morant Point, at the east end of Jamaica, had seen enough packets not to be mistaken: Smith’s “believed” was probably no more than a bureaucrat’s inability to write anything definite.

  One thing is certain, he thought bitterly. Although persuading Sir Pilcher to agree to the plan would be very difficult, Smith would never agree. The natural reluctance of a bureaucrat, and Post Office pride, made it dangerous even to suggest it. Dangerous in case Smith’s refusal resulted in a definite order from Sir Pilcher forbidding it … He went along to Yorke’s room, banging on Southwick’s door as he passed and calling him to join them.

  Yorke was having trouble shaving. “This damned strop,” he grumbled. “My hand slipped and I’ve almost cut it through!”

  Southwick chuckled. “Take your chance with the hotel’s barber!”

  “Prefer to shave myself,” Yorke said crossly, “it’s part of the ritual of waking up!”

  “You gave a hail, sir,” Southwick prompted Ramage.

  “They’ve sighted the packet.”

  “Well I’m damned!” The Master ran his hand through his flowing white hair like a shopkeeper demonstrating a mop. “I thought the French had got her.”

  “You’re going off to Sir Pilcher?” Yorke asked.

  “Once she’s anchored. I’d sooner be able to point to her than talk to him of a ship that’s out of sight.”

  Yorke nodded approvingly. “That’s a good idea. Out of sight makes it—well, abstract almost. By the way, should I dash down and see Mr Smith about a passage?”

  “No, I’ll arrange all that. Incidentally,” Ramage added, “I must warn you that it’ll cost you fifty guineas and you provide your own food as well as bedding.”

  “Food? Why on earth does the passenger supply food?”

  “I don’t know,” Ramage said, “and nor does Smith. It’s an old tradition, though food is provided outward-bound. If it’s any consolation, the fare back to Falmouth is four guineas less than the fare out!”

  “The whole thing intrigues me,” Yorke said, busily lathering his face. “The packets for Lisbon, Gibraltar and Malta provide food each way.”

  “Each way,” Ramage said, “but Smith tells me the fare homeward from Gibraltar costs ten guineas more than outward, and from Malta it’s five guineas extra.”

  “Tradition, too?”

  “No—he says victuals cost more in Gibraltar and Malta than Falmouth.”

  Yorke snorted. “More likely they know they have passengers on board at pistol point!”

  “Don’t you charge more in your ships?” Southwick asked

  “No fear. Same either way. And we provide food and bedding.”

  He wiped the razor and began shaving, his voice distorted as he stretched the skin of his face. “By the way, I’ve been thinking of your passenger idea. I can see a disadvantage.”

  “That I end up in England?”

  “Yes. You might end up in England and have nothing to report to the Admiralty.”

  “I know, but I don’t think it matters.”

  “Doesn’t matter? But surely—”

  “The only place I’ll find the answer is at sea in a packet, that’s for sure. And being at sea in a packet means departing from one place and arriving at another.”

  “Still—” Yorke began doubtfully.

  “At least it’ll mean a packet got safely back to Falmouth,” Southwick said.

  “And you’ll have had a quiet voyage playing chess with Bowen,” Ramage said.

  Southwick’s face dropped as if he was suddenly seeing the packet’s progress across every minute of latitude and longitude as a game of chess with the doctor.

  “I’ll put up a silver cup,” Yorke said. “‘The Western Ocean Trophy.’ The winner is the man with the most games as the packet enters Falmouth.”

  “I’ll add fifty guineas,” Ramage said. “How’s that for encouragement.”

  “Fine, sir,” Southwick said gloomily. “Trouble is, it’ll only encourage Bowen, not me.”

  Ramage was talking to the Deputy Postmaster-General in his office when a clerk brought word that the packet had just been sighted passing Fort Charles.

  “Do you want to come out with me?” Smith asked.

  Ramage shook his head. “No—for the time being I’
d prefer it if no one on board the packet knew that there’s an investigation under way. You haven’t mentioned to your staff …”

  “To no one.”

  “Good, but find out what you can from the commander—if he saw privateers, has news of more losses and so on.”

  “She left Falmouth before the Hydra sailed,” Smith pointed out. “Six days before. And she’s come via Barbados.”

  “Of course,” Ramage said, irritated that he’d forgotten. “So they’ll have no hint that …”

  “None at all.” Smith looked at him shrewdly. “You know, Lieutenant, you sound as if you suspect them!”

  Ramage was thankful that he had decided not to take Smith into his confidence.

  “No—after all, they’re one of the packets that hasn’t been captured! And what would a packet crew gain by being captured?”

  He spoke in a casual voice but watched Smith, who was sorting his inevitable piles of papers as he answered. “Gain? Why, nothing! In fact everything to lose—remember their little ventures that so shocked you.”

  Indeed, Ramage thought, ten guineas invested by a seaman in ventures would be more than six months’ pay for these men and more than a year’s pay for a man serving in one of the King’s ships.

  “What is the pay of a commander?” he asked, almost thinking aloud.

  “Nothing lavish—eight pounds a month.”

  “Only eight pounds?” Ramage exclaimed. It was within a few shillings of his own pay, and lieutenants in a first-rate received seven pounds.

  “Yes—but don’t forget the Post Office is also paying him to charter his ship. I don’t know the rate. And the passengers’ passage money—that’s paid to the commander.”

  “So his wages are not much more than a token.”

  “I suppose you could look at it like that. If he can’t sail on a voyage because of illness he receives his pay—against a physician’s certificate, of course.”

  “Who would then command the ship?”

  “The Master. No packet is allowed to sail with less than a master in command. A fairly recent ruling.”

  “They had sailed with less—before the ruling?”

  “Occasionally,” Smith admitted.

  “Does a packet often sail with only the Master in command?”

  “Not too often. One or two commanders suffer from ill health,” Smith said uncomfortably.

  “But the Post Office knows about them.”

  Smith nodded. “They take steps, where they can.”

  “So such a commander gets his pay and can make his profit from the charter money without stepping out of his house?”

  “Yes,” Smith admitted angrily, “but see here, Lieutenant, I don’t reckon your inquiries into privateering give you a right to criticize the Post Office!”

  “I’m not criticizing,” Ramage said coolly. “I was merely asking you to confirm something you’ve just said. If you choose to interpret your own statements as criticism, well …” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” Smith said quickly, “I’m a sight too touchy. Fact is, these losses are getting on my nerves. If only you realized what’s at stake.”

  Ramage’s eyebrows lifted, and Smith said: “Communications. Without them London is—well, like a giant without arms and legs!”

  Was that all he meant? Ramage wished he could be sure.

  “I must see about the boat,” Smith said. “You’re sure you won’t come out with me?”

  Ramage shook his head.

  “When shall I—er, tell you what the commander has to report?” Smith asked.

  “Why don’t you dine with me at the Royal Albion?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Smith said apologetically. “It’s a custom of mine to dine the commander the night he arrives.”

  “Ah yes, so you told me. The newspaper?”

  “I’ll arrange all that. Tomorrow’s issue of the Chronicle will announce today’s arrival and warn everyone that the mail closes at nine o’clock the following morning.”

  “If you’re dining the commander tonight why don’t we meet tomorrow morning? Breakfast at my hotel? Say seven o’clock?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SIR Pilcher Skinner had been vastly relieved when his secretary brought in the news from Morant Point that the packet had been sighted. Relieved and surprised, since he had already presumed her lost. Still, it was a relief to know she had sailed before the Hydra, so there would be no unexpected or unwelcome official business in the mails; just private letters, and now he was a widower he found himself taking less and less interest in family or friends. It was unfortunate that his daughter had not found herself a husband but he had long since given up worrying about it.

  He pulled out his watch. Eleven o’clock already and Henderson had put out a pile of reports for him to sign, so that they could be sealed and sent home in the packet. As he reached for his pen he reflected crossly that although the Admiralty had given him few enough ships for the station, from the paperwork one would guess he had ten times more than the Channel Fleet.

  The Channel Fleet: he shivered at the very thought of it. Jamaica suited him well enough: a splendid climate—although it could be a bit too hot in the hurricane season—and the most comfortable quarters the Navy had to offer. And prize-money—by jingo, the prize agents here must be making enormous profits, judging by the fees they charged for their dabblings.

  He glanced at the top report, scribbled a signature and put the page to one side. He glanced up. Now Henderson was back again. There was no peace for a commander-in-chief, although he shouldn’t really complain since the fellow did a splendid job.

  “Lieutenant Ramage, sir. Says it’s important.”

  “Important!” Sir Pilcher snorted. There wasn’t a lieutenant in the Navy List who didn’t think whatever he was doing was important. “Well, what’s he want? He has his orders.”

  “He wouldn’t disclose the substance of it, sir.”

  Disclose the substance of it! Only Henderson could use a phrase like that. Half the time he sounded like a superannuated judge.

  “Oh very well, send him in.”

  Why can’t the boy just go away and carry out his orders? Run into some damned silly little problem, no doubt; scared of taking any responsibility and determined to shove it on the Commander-in-Chief’s shoulders. That seemed the ambition of every officer on the station—and every blasted quill-pusher in the Admiralty, too, including the First Lord!

  Henderson announced Ramage.

  “Ha! What now, my boy?”

  “The packet, sir.”

  “Yes? She’ll be anchoring shortly. Surely you don’t want my permission to board her?”

  “Not board her, sir.”

  Now what did he mean by that emphasis on “board?” He’s a deep one, this lad. “Just because one packet’s got through I hope you don’t think …”

  “Oh no, sir. I had a proposal—”

  “You’ve got your orders; just carry ‘em out!” Wouldn’t hurt to shake him up a bit, Sir Pilcher decided.

  “Very well, sir: I just wanted to warn you of possible repercussions.”

  “Repercussions? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “I’m proposing to sail in her.”

  “I should think so. You won’t find out what’s going on by lounging around Government House!”

  “And take Southwick and Bowen—the former Master and Surgeon of the Triton—and a dozen men with me.”

  “A dozen men? Seamen?”

  “Yes, sir. You were kind enough to warn Captain Napier to keep some Tritons available.”

  “My goodness! You’re not expecting the Admiralty to pay their passage money, are you?” The lad’s up to something, that’s for sure, Sir Pilcher decided. Why on earth doesn’t he just take a passage himself and—oh well!

  “Mine, Southwick’s, sir, and the Surgeon, Bowen; not the seamen.”

  “Very well, I’ll allow you three, just berth, bedding and victuals. No wi
nes and spirits. But the seamen—are they to be guests of the Post Office?”

  “In a way, sir. I want to exchange a dozen of them for a dozen of the packet’s men.”

  It was a good idea, but the Post Office would not like it—the protests would be endless. How to lodge the dozen Post Office men left in Kingston, and then crowding them all into the next packet, and no doubt the commander would demand a victualling allowance for them—oh no!

  “I’m sorry, Ramage, it’s out of the question.”

  “It’s our only chance, sir.”

  “Your only chance,” Sir Pilcher corrected. “You have your orders.”

  “Yes sir, but—with respect—I can’t tackle a privateer by myself!”

  “Your orders don’t say that you should: you’re supposed to inquire, not fight.”

  “The First Lord mentioned ‘halting the losses,’ sir.”

  “See here, Ramage, you weren’t supposed to see that letter: I exceeded my authority in showing it to you. Forget all about it. And don’t plan to fight privateers, either.”

  “But that’s been the trouble, sir. I think we’re going to find at least some of the packets have been taken by small privateers: ones from which they could have escaped if they had had the wish.”

  “That’s absurd! You’ve no grounds for saying that. These privateers carry scores of men.”

  “Just so, sir. And they’re not that fast. They’re crammed with men and guns. They can dodge frigates most of the time because they’re slippery to windward, but I can’t see how they can catch so many of the packets, which are designed for speed.”

  “Well, they do, and that’s that.”

  Ramage knew he had nearly lost. There was only one more chance. “But if I arrive at Falmouth, sir, I can’t help feeling His Lordship will think I’ve just taken passage in the packet to get home.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about that; you stand a dam’ good chance of ending up a prisoner in France.” Damn, he shouldn’t have said that: it was just the opening the boy wanted.

  “Exactly, sir: but with a dozen of my own men, we’d stand a good chance of escaping a privateer.”