Governor Ramage R. N. Page 9

  “Well then!” Southwick said lamely.

  “Well then yourself,” Bowen said affably. “Tell me, Southwick, does it give you any satisfaction navigating this ship safely from one side of the Atlantic to the other?”

  “Well, the Captain …” Southwick said, embarrassed at the question.

  “Don’t be so modest,” Ramage said. “Answer the doctor’s question!”

  “Well, yes, it’s bound to.”

  “Why are you such a special man, then?” Bowen asked, still grinning.

  When Southwick shook his head, puzzled at the question, Bowen said: “You get satisfaction when the Triton arrives safely in port. I get satisfaction when the Triton arrives with all her crew fit. Not one name on the sick-list!”

  Ramage stared at Bowen.

  “Surely you can’t be interested in all the costive problems, venereal disease, cuts, blisters and abrasions of more than fifty seamen?”

  Bowen shook his head but said simply: “Not as such. But a true answer to your question would be that I find the most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done in my life is to make sure that more than fifty shipmates on board the Triton, from the Captain to the boy drummer, remain fit. I believe in preventing disease: that’s the best way of curing it. My pleasure comes in writing in my journal, day after day, ‘No cases reported.’”

  Southwick nodded appreciatively, and Ramage said simply, “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” Bowen said with a wry grin. “The two of you have saved me from a fate worse than Wimpole Street.”

  “We’ll probably end up the chess champions of the Navy,” Ramage said. “We must start a tournament.”

  “We’re a set of pawns at the moment,” Southwick said with sudden bitterness.

  Bowen glanced at Ramage. “Might we ask how things went on board the flagship, sir … ?”

  “A certain amount of cynical indifference.”

  “I can imagine,” Bowen said sympathetically.

  Ramage doubted if he could. After being given permission to pass within hail, Ramage had taken the Triton over to a position just to windward of the Lion. Very grudgingly Captain Croucher had agreed to heave-to long enough for a boat from the Triton to get alongside and Appleby, the master’s mate, had delivered the letter and returned to the Triton.

  Half an hour later when the Triton was back on station, the flagship had signalled for the Greyhound to see if the Peacock or her next ahead required assistance.

  It seemed a stupid order, but for the life of him Ramage could not be quite sure why he thought so or why he was so angry. If either ship had wanted assistance she would have made the signal long since, so Goddard was simply covering himself. Lieutenant Ramage reported possible trouble, the captains of both ships reported that they were quite all right. If he had been the convoy commander he would have sent an officer on board each ship to find out what had happened. But, to be fair to Croucher and Goddard, their only information about the incident came from an officer they distrusted.

  “We don’t have to fret about it,” Bowen said in an even voice, tactfully offering advice to someone who was half his age but still his Captain. “Tell me, sir, do we call in at Antigua?”

  Ramage shook his head. “I doubt it; probably won’t even sight it. I expect the Admiral will detach the Antigua ships and order one of the frigates to see them in the last forty or fifty miles.”

  “Pity,” Bowen said, “I was looking forward to seeing the island.”

  “You’re not missing anything,” Southwick said. “It’s dull and dry and English Harbour is airless—and bad holding ground.”

  “And Jamaica?”

  Southwick shrugged his shoulders. “They can’t be compared. Jamaica’s a big island and Kingston a big city. Many parts of Jamaica are very beautiful—the Blue Mountains, for instance. But all these islands keep you doctors and the undertakers busy.”

  Ramage took out his watch. This was the accepted signal that their afternoon’s relaxation was over. The cabin was growing dark as Bowen stood up and asked: “The swell is increasing, I notice. Is this a bad sign?”

  Ramage nodded. “I’m afraid so, at this time of year.”

  “Does it definitely mean we’ll get a hurricane?”

  “No, by no means! It might mean that there’s one out there in the Atlantic, but there’s no telling if it’ll come our way. They’re like thunderstorms—impossible to guess which direction they’ll take.”

  “Well, it’ll be an interesting experience,” Bowen said.

  “I’ll remind you of that remark if we run into it,” Southwick growled. “It blows so hard you won’t know whether you’re a pawn or a bishop.”

  “Heaven forbid a bishop,” Bowen said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BY NIGHTFALL the convoy, having gone through the chain of islands, was some twenty miles west of Dominica and steering north-north-west to pass the butterfly-shaped island of Guadeloupe, the only land in the area still held by the French. By passing far enough to the westward to be out of sight from the mountains, Ramage guessed, Goddard was hoping the convoy would not be spotted.

  Ramage shrugged: whatever the French might do he was now more concerned about the swell. He had just noted in the log that the waves were about five feet high. The wind was still light—too light.

  “Something’s killed the Trade winds,” Southwick commented.

  “Stunned them, anyway,” Ramage said wryly.

  “Still, I suppose we shouldn’t complain; the mules have behaved themselves today.”

  Ramage nodded. “They haven’t had much choice, with the Lark chasing them up.”

  “I think the word’s been passed along about the way we chase up, too.”

  “Yes—I was thinking about that merchantman when we went alongside the Lion this morning. Must have been like having a ship of the line coming up astern of us.”

  “I hope so,” Southwick said fervently, “I’m in favour of anything that keeps these mules in position.” He glanced round at the gathering darkness. “General quarters, sir?”

  Ramage nodded, and glanced to the eastward where a thin layer of cloud on the horizon showed Dominica. “We’ll leave the guns loaded and run out tonight.”

  He wasn’t quite sure why he had decided that, but he picked up the telescope and looked round the convoy as Southwick bellowed the order that sent the Triton’s crew running to their stations for battle. As he focused on the Greyhound he saw her guns run out and nodded approvingly: it was well done; the guns might all have been on one huge carriage. The same orders were being given in all the ships of the escort and he imagined that, as the world turned and dusk moved across the oceans, all the King’s ships at sea sent their men to quarters and, as the world continued turning and brought the dawn, the men were roused out again to greet it.

  He held the glass steady as he looked at the Peacock. A couple of men were at the wheel with another figure near them—probably the Captain or a mate. Two men on the fo’c’s’le, perhaps having a quiet smoke, since merchantmen did not have the strict rules laid down in warships. The ship ahead of the Peacock had the same number of men on deck. Everything looked normal on board both ships. He still wanted to know what the devil had been going on last night, but thanks to the Admiral’s absurd signal to the Greyhound no one had yet asked either ship a direct question.

  Yorke was at the taffrail of the Topaz: by now Ramage could recognize his stance. St Brieuc was with him and for a moment Ramage was envious of the young shipowner: he would have interesting company all the way to Jamaica. Southwick and Bowen and Appleby were good men, but their conversational range was limited. Yorke had Maxine’s company too. As Ramage watched the men running out the guns and reporting as they did so, he tried to console himself with the thought that Yorke did not have a Gianna waiting for him in England … He went below.

  It was dark when he got back on deck and the lookouts had been brought down from aloft. There were now six of them stationed round the ship: on
e on either bow, at the main chains both sides, and on each quarter.

  The sky was clear and starlit except for a big bank of cloud to the south-west. It was hard for Ramage to pick out the ships on the far side of the convoy since they were against the cloud bank, instead of against the stars. The Lion stood out clearly, quite apart from her lights, and so did the Topaz. The Greyhound, too, and what was probably the Lark. Ramage moved the night glass slightly, hoping to make sure, and saw a movement.

  The glass was swinging, and he had to move it back to spot what had attracted him. It was the Peacock, the last ship in that column. He looked more carefully and, as he watched, there was another movement—the forecourse was let fall, the canvas of the big sail came tumbling lazily down in the light wind. He could see it gradually taking up a billowing shape as the seamen braced the yard round and hauled home the sheets. Her main course was already set—that must have been what had first caught his eye. The Peacock was already turning slightly towards him, to starboard and out of the convoy.

  “Mr Southwick, get your glass on the Peacock. Quartermaster—pass the word for my coxswain!”

  “My oath!” exclaimed Southwick. “What’s she up to now?”

  Jackson reported and was told to get aloft with a night glass.

  “Report anything unusual. Watch that last ship, the Peacock. She’s leaving the line with her courses set. And see if the Lark lugger and the Greyhound spot her.”

  Ramage could see the Greyhound and she seemed to be continuing on the same course. Her masts were in line, she had reefed topsails and no other sails were being let fall. Apparently she hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. But the cloud to the south-west now covered more of the sky and from the Greyhound’s position the Peacock’s silhouette probably blended in with the blackness.

  “Could be in trouble, sir,” Southwick said in a voice flat enough to show he had little enthusiasm for the idea. “Might be hauling her wind to close with the Greyhound. Sprung a leak … needs a surgeon … hard to say.”

  Jackson was hailing from aloft: “She hauled out of the line to windward, but now she’s back on the convoy course and maybe fifty yards to windward. They’ll never notice anything from the Greyhound,” he added.

  “No, the angle’s wrong,” Southwick muttered. “The Lark might notice.”

  “I doubt it,” Ramage said. “She’s pretty far over.”

  Jackson called: “She’s overhauling her next ahead. Both courses and topsails set. I think she’s shaking out the reefs in her topsails.”

  “Not leaking,” Southwick said. “Not on that course. So help me, why is it always us?”

  Ramage was thinking the same thing. The Greyhound, whose Captain was not out of favour with Admiral Goddard, and who was a post captain already on his way up the list, could afford to make a mistake. The Greyhound was nearer the Peacock, too. Why had the responsibility fallen on the Triton?

  “Shall I turn up the hands?” Southwick asked.

  “Yes, but quietly: don’t let the bosun’s mates pipe it, and no shouting. Noise carries on a night like this.”

  “Aye, we don’t want to look foolish.”

  “Or warn anyone,” Ramage said grimly.

  “Deck there,” Jackson called. “She’s abreast her next ahead.”

  “With all that canvas set she’ll come through like a surfboat,” Southwick grumbled.

  She’s coming to the head of the convoy—that is obviously her intention, Ramage thought to himself, because she’s set a lot more canvas and she’s hauled clear of the line.

  “Maybe she’s leaving,” Southwick said. “Decided to sail independently. She was a runner anyway, before she joined.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ramage said. “She’s for Jamaica. If she was leaving the convoy why not reduce sail for a few minutes, let the convoy draw ahead and then bear away to the westward? Why steer north? She’d be crazy to pass the convoy on the outside—which is what she’s trying to do now—and then have to cut right across in front of the Lion.”

  “Maybe she’s decided to make for Antigua,” Southwick said doggedly. “She’s a runner, so her master can make up his own mind.”

  “True—but what could have changed his mind in the last 24 hours? There’d be nothing for him in Antigua except transhipment cargoes which wouldn’t interest a runner. The good freights are in Jamaica and he knew it when he asked to join the convoy.”

  “It’s a puzzle,” Southwick admitted. “But he’s certainly going a long way round for Jamaica.”

  Again Jackson hailed. “Abreast her second ahead, sir.”

  Now the Peacock must be just about abreast the Greyhound.

  “That frigate’s lookouts,” Southwick suddenly snarled. “They ought to be flogged.”

  Ramage decided to reserve judgment until he saw how well the Peacock showed up against the cloud when she came abreast of the Triton. But, he told himself quickly, if she gets as far as that, I’d better be doing something about it! For the moment I can risk leaving her, but not for long.

  Yet why the devil were he and Southwick getting so worked up over a ship out of position? In a convoy this size it’d be usual for at least ten ships to be out of position by now, and half the convoy would be spread all the way to the horizon by dawn. Why were they so obsessed by this miserable runner? He could imagine the Admiral’s scornful sneers to Croucher, his flag-lieutenant and anyone else who cared to listen about young Ramage deciding to declare war on a merchantman that displeased him … Was he getting obsessed?

  All captains risked getting obsessions—it was part of the lonely life of command. The Navy understood the problem and was patient with such men. One he knew of had an obsession about flags—couldn’t bear the idea of any flag having a speck of dirt on it or the slightest worn patch. Another couldn’t bear brick-dust on board and the men had to use fine sand for polishing brasswork. Where does Lieutenant Ramage fit into all that? Oh, he turns a merchantman into a fleet of enemy ships …

  “Deck there!—abreast the fifth ship!” Jackson called, and a few minutes later: “Deck there!—abreast the fourth ship.”

  Merchantmen out of position always dropped astern. But both times when the Peacock had been out of position she had forged ahead … he turned to Southwick.

  “Fetch Jackson down, and send the men to quarters.”

  Dammit, he’d left it late now; minutes wasted with a lot of daft thoughts. He put his speaking-trumpet to his lips: “Marines stand by on the larboard side with muskets loaded; boarders muster at the main chains with pikes and pistols, but keep clear of the guns!”

  “Deck there!” Jackson hailed. “There’s another ship moving up the inside of the column!”

  “The devil there is!” exclaimed Southwick.

  “Tell us ship and position, blast you!” Ramage snarled.

  “I’m just trying to make sure, sir,” said Jackson’s chastened voice from above them in the darkness. “I think it’s the one that was ahead of the Peacock—I’m just trying to give an idea,” he added hastily, knowing how Ramage hated indecisive answers that included the phrases “I think” or “about.”

  “Yes, it’s her all right—the seventh, and now she’s abreast the sixth ship, and the Peacock’s abreast the third.”

  “Leave him up there,” Ramage told Southwick, who had quietly passed the order that sent the men running silently to the guns.

  Southwick asked, “What do you make of it, sir?”

  “Damned if I know,” Ramage admitted frankly. “It’s some monkey business, but exactly what, I can’t think. That second ship’s the one the Peacock went aboard last night—why, it’s absurd!”

  “At least we’re up to windward,” Southwick said.

  This was Ramage’s only advantage: he could wait until the last moment before doing anything, wait until there could be no mistake about what the Peacock and the second ship intended to do. What, exactly, did he intend to do? Strictly speaking he ought probably to drop down to the Peacock, c
lose with her and ask her what she was up to. If there was trouble he would have to explain to a court martial why he had not done so.

  But he didn’t want to show his hand until the last moment. He was certain that the Peacock was up to something sinister and there was very little time left. His greatest ally would be surprise, if he could avoid raising the alarm. If he was wrong, and there was an innocent explanation of the Peacock’s manoeuvres, the damned ship could give the Admiral all the ammunition he wanted to fire the final broadside into the Ramage family.

  And he knew that Southwick was thinking of that, too; aye, and Jackson as well, up aloft there. They were all on his side; and they could all be wrong …

  The Peacock was closing fast: Ramage was startled when he looked over the Triton’s quarter with the night glass: even though it showed the Peacock upside down, she nearly filled the eyepiece.

  “Quickly, Mr Southwick; check over the larboard side guns; I wasn’t listening as they reported.”

  “Aye aye, sir; I was, though, and all is well.”

  Southwick disappeared forward and again Ramage turned towards the Peacock, at the same time hailing Jackson to come down: the Peacock would soon be close enough to hear any shouting on board the Triton. If only there was some moonlight, so he could get a sight of the Peacock’s decks. Were they empty of all but the watch?

  The Master reported: “All loaded and the men hoping they won’t have to draw shot and powder.”

  It was a childishly reassuring report: the only way of avoiding having the men drawing shot and powder from the bore of a gun was to fire it.

  The Peacock was almost abreast the second ship: almost abreast the ship astern of the Topaz: in one minute’s time he had to do something … ye gods, do something! And he still hadn’t given it any real thought. Suddenly he felt cold as he remembered Goddard’s warning at the convoy conference about the valuable cargo. He knew now what the Peacock was doing and it was probably too late. He was so frightened he froze; the worst kind of fear, the fear for someone else.

  “Mr Southwick!” His voice was high and he hoped the men would not notice. “Mr Southwick—I’m laying us aboard that rascal!”