Ramage's Prize Page 9

  “Is just kidnapping,” Rossi exclaimed angrily, his accent becoming more pronounced. “Is a crook, this crimp!”

  “Sure it’s kidnapping,” Jackson said calmly, “and it goes on in every port in the world. It’s selling seamen to shipmasters, just like a chandler sells rope and candles. But every seaman knows the minute he sets foot in a bar that if he gets drunk the ladies of the town will get his money and the crimps or a press-gang will get his body. It’s the same in Genoa, isn’t it?”

  “No, is worse,” Rossi said soberly. “Too many seamen and not enough ships, so you lose your money after getting a knife between the ribs.”

  “I’d sooner take me chance with a crimp,” Stafford said complacently. “But Jacko, ain’t what we’re doing a bit sort of—well, irregular? We must be careful not to do nothin’ that’d get Mr Ramage into trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jackson said soothingly, “I’ve got my orders from Mr Ramage himself, and the money to pay off the crimp and buy some beer. Just remember that, as far as the packetsmen are concerned, we’ve just been paid some prize-money and want to enjoy ourselves.”

  “Yus, but wot ‘appens when we get on board the packet? Are we supposed to sign on?”

  “Mama mia!” exclaimed an exasperated Rossi. “Is not bright today, eh Staff?”

  The Cockney looked shamefaced. “It’s the heat. I’d sort of worked it out like that, I just wanted confirmeration.”

  “Confirmation,” Jackson corrected out of habit.

  “An’ I got it. ‘Ow much drinkin’ money did Mr Ramage give us, Jacko?”

  “Officially, he hasn’t given us any, and if anything goes wrong just remember we haven’t even seen him: we’ve just got shore leave from the Arrogant and that’s that.”

  “Is a boat,” Rossi said, suddenly pointing towards the Lady Arabella. A local boat was leaving her, crowded with men, and the heavily patched lugsail was being hoisted. Soon the boat was reaching quickly towards the jetty.

  “Come on, Jacko!”

  “Sit down, Staff: we aren’t going to welcome them at the jetty and give ‘em the freedom of the city; we’ll find them in a bar in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Supposing they split up?”

  “We’ll keep an eye on them.”

  But an hour later four very worried seamen came back to the same table in the saloon, their shirts soaked in perspiration, and ordered themselves drinks.

  “We’re in trouble now,” Stafford muttered gloomily. “What’ll Mr Ramage say?”

  “They vanish—poof!” Rossi said, disbelief in his voice, “and is getting dark.”

  “Why were they all carrying bags?” Jackson mused. “Large bags. Not their seabags, though; bags with something special inside. Listen, you three, I’m going to report to Mr Ramage; he’s waiting at the Royal Albion.”

  He was back within ten minutes, walking jauntily.

  “Ventures!” he said contemptuously. “Seems all these packetsmen are really budding merchants. They bring out goods to sell here—boots, shoes, wines and cheeses—I ask you, cheeses—and take back things that are difficult to get in England, and sell them in Falmouth.”

  In the cardroom at the Royal Albion next morning Southwick and Bowen were having a leisurely game of chess, the Master now regretting that he had refused the Surgeon’s offer of an advantage of two bishops.

  Bowen shook his head reprovingly. “The centre of the board, Southwick; always try to dominate the centre of the board.”

  “I know,” Southwick snapped, “you’ve told me enough times, but all I can say is it’s easier said than done.”

  “Are you looking forward to our cruise?”

  “Not much,” Southwick said. “Don’t like sitting round idle, especially on board a ship.”

  “Let someone else worry about sailing the ship for a change. I’m looking forward to the company of you and Mr Ramage without one or other of you constantly bobbing off on watch!”

  “Aye, it’ll be a nice enough voyage in that sense.”

  “But not in the other sense, though.”

  “No,” Southwick said. “Trouble is, we don’t know what we’re looking for.”

  “Getting the dozen former Tritons on board the packet—Mr Ramage’s method seems a trifle—er—unorthodox.”

  “No choice,” Southwick said, lifting a bishop carefully, and then hastily putting it back. “Has to be a little unorthodox when they give him these rum jobs. I tell you this, Bowen: I’m dam’ sure the Admiralty couldn’t make up its mind whether to give the job to an admiral with a squadron or a junior officer …”

  “Or Mr Ramage,” Bowen said cheerfully. “He makes a nice compromise.”

  “Check,” Southwick said triumphantly.

  Bowen glanced at the board, moved his knight, and looked up again. “Best choice they—you see what you did, don’t you? Good—they ever made.”

  He rolled a pawn along the table-top. “You know, Southwick, potentially Mr Ramage is a fine chess player. Curious, he makes brilliant moves when he’s using his own life—and other people’s. Yet sit him behind a chessboard and he gets lost …”

  “It’s a matter of concentration,” Southwick said. “Nothing concentrates your thoughts better than knowing you’ll get killed if you don’t do the right thing. But sitting behind a chessboard—well, he’s probably thinking of a dozen different things while his opponent decides on a move.”

  “I suppose so,” Bowen said. “For me, I can think only with a chessboard in front of me.” He moved his queen. “Check, I think; possibly even checkmate. You see, Southwick, you don’t concentrate either.”

  “How can I, when you’re jabbering all the time,” an exasperated Southwick exclaimed. “Anyway, it’s not ‘mate.’”

  Bowen pointed to his knight.

  “Oh blast it,” Southwick said. “I hate knights. I like straightforward moves, none of this hoppity dodging about business.” He looked at his watch. “Hmm, time we began moving.”

  Ramage was in his room and finding it strange to be out of uniform. He was thankful that he and Yorke were the same build—more or less, anyway. A tightness across his shoulders warned him to be careful lest a seam split, and that Yorke was narrower-chested. But he had excellent taste and a good tailor, so borrowing his clothes for the first day or so on board the Lady Arabella was a pleasure.

  Yorke reached over and gave the stock a slight twitch. “You’re listing to starboard a trifle.”

  “It’s your damned tailor,” Ramage grumbled, “he’s sewn in a list.”

  “When we get on board,” Yorke said, “we are—well, ourselves as it were?”

  “Completely. We all know each other. The only thing is you don’t know any of the ex-Tritons—Jackson, Stafford and the rest of them.”

  Yorke grinned. “I’m glad we’ll have those rascals with us. They’re reassuring. Wish we had all the rest of them.”

  After rapping on the door Southwick called from the corridor: “Bowen and I are just leaving, sir. Your carriage will be ready in a couple of minutes—they’re putting up your baggage now.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  YORKE and Ramage climbed on board His Majesty’s packet Lady Arabella to find Southwick and Bowen on deck talking to a sombre and lanky man with a thin, cadaverous face who immediately came over and introduced himself.

  “Gideon Stevens, gentlemen, owner and commander of the Lady Arabella: welcome on board.”

  Ramage, realizing Stevens had been expecting him to be in uniform and now could not distinguish them, introduced himself and Yorke.

  Stevens’ voice was soft, almost ingratiating. “The steward will show you to your cabin, gentlemen. Your baggage will be hoisted on board in a moment or so. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  The small cabin that Yorke and Ramage were to share was panelled in dark mahogany and smelled stuffy; at least one of the previous occupants had smoked cigars and the stale, cloying aroma still clung to the furnishings. The covers on the be
rths, the cushions on the two chairs and the carpet were all a dull, deep red.

  “This plum colour—it just doesn’t go with polished mahogany,” Yorke grumbled.

  “Doesn’t show the dirt either,” Ramage pointed out. “Don’t forget Captain Stevens has to safeguard his profit.”

  “Ninety-nine per cent of the fare, I should think,” Yorke said acidly. “And why the devil didn’t the steward open the skylight to air the cabin?”

  The saloon was large, combining a dining-room and drawing-room in one, and the passengers would spend much of their time in it when they reached the colder weather to the north. It was also panelled in dark mahogany, matching the long dining-table. A heavy oil-lamp hung in gimbals at each end of the cabin; a big brass stove at the forward end warned them that once they were through the Windward Passage it would get a degree colder every day.

  Ramage and Yorke had just finished inspecting the saloon and noting that the green corrosion on the brass of the lamp and stove fittings indicated a lazy steward, when a ruddy-faced, stocky young Army officer walked in and, stopping in front of Yorke, barked: “You Ramage?”

  “No, this gentleman is.”

  “How d’y’do: I’m Wilson, 31st Foot.”

  He had an open, round face, the mouth almost hidden by a blond moustache a shade lighter than his hair, which was already thinning. Ramage liked his straightforward bluffness and after a minute or two left him talking to Yorke as he went back up on deck to find Southwick deep in conversation with the commander.

  “Ah, sir,” Southwick said. “Mr Stevens was saying how much he liked the brig rig.”

  “It’s ideal,” Ramage said agreeably. He’d enjoyed commanding the Triton brig, and for a moment pictured her wreck now lying on the coral reef near Puerto Rico. He glanced round and added: “Particularly with a small crew.”

  “That reminds me,” Stevens said, pulling out his watch, “I gave a dozen men leave last night. They’re due back—why, half an hour ago!”

  He turned away, excusing himself and calling: “Harry? Pass the word for the bosun! Oh, there you are. Where are those men? They’re half an hour adrift. And damnation, here’s Mr Smith’s boat with the mails. He’ll want to muster the ship’s company as soon as the mails are stowed. Harry, get yourself on shore and find the men!”

  He turned back to Ramage, “I can’t understand it. Never had trouble before.”

  “I heard there was a hot press last night,” Ramage said casually. “Just about cleared the streets of Kingston.”

  “They’ve got Protections.”

  “They can be stolen …”

  Ramage watched Stevens nibbling at the idea, picturing his seamen drinking themselves insensible on the local rum … crimps or doxies relieving them of their cash and their Protections (much more valuable than money) … the drunken men being seized by the press-gang and sobering up under guard in one of the ships of war anchored close by …

  “Harry! Changed my mind!” Stevens shouted. “You’d better stay on board and get the mails below. Send Our Ned to find the men.”

  He turned back to Ramage. “Bad time to have men coming back late: the Agent musters the ship’s company, then we’re off. Still, mayhap Our Ned will find them. He’s the mate’s son.”

  He turned away again. “Fred!” he bellowed, and when a small, grey-haired man came over he said, “Mr Ramage, this is the mate, Fred Much. He’s Our Ned’s dad.”

  Much shook hands, and then said to Stevens: “What’ll we do if Our Ned can’t find ‘em?”

  “Let’s wait until he comes back a’fore we start fretting,” Stevens said curtly, and Ramage sensed there was little love lost between the two men.

  When the Deputy Postmaster-General came on board, Stevens at once took him down to his cabin. The paperwork must be formidable, Ramage thought; Smith was carrying quite a bulky bag.

  Meanwhile Fred Much, with a list in his hand, was supervising the men, using a net sling and the stay tackle to hoist the mail on board. The heavy canvas bags, each with its mouth closed by a thick draw-string, the knot of which was secured with a lead seal, were lined up alongside the hatch coaming. When seamen in the boat called that the last one was coming up, the mate sent a boy for the Captain.

  Stevens came back with Smith, who held out his hand to the mate for the list. He consulted it and began to walk slowly along the row of bags. Ramage noticed that each had a three-figure number stencilled on the side, and Smith was comparing the numbers with those on the list.

  Finally he folded the paper and walked back. “All there, Mr Mate?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Satisfied, Captain?”

  Stevens nodded. “I’ll sign for ‘em, Mr Smith. Right, Fred, get ‘em below and pass the word when they’re stowed.”

  As the Captain and the Postmaster disappeared into Stevens’ cabin again, Yorke and Southwick walked over to Ramage and Southwick said wryly, “Might be different owners, but the paperwork seems about the same!”

  “And the problems, too!”

  “You mean the men overstaying their leave, sir?”

  “Yes,” Ramage said, raising his voice slightly and winking at Southwick. “Not unknown in the Royal Navy, eh, Southwick?”

  “Indeed no; but believe me, sir,” he said, his voice heavy with disapproval, “I’d never have given men leave within a few hours of sailing! Not in the present circumstances.”

  The mate could hear them clearly and Ramage hoped that the conversation would be reported to Stevens. Yorke had seen Ramage’s wink and gave a rasping cough. “No, most unwise, and I’ve a damned good mind to tell Stevens so. Particularly unwise since, for safety’s sake, we must sail as soon as possible. Why, I’m sure a French spy’s telescope is watching us at this very moment.”

  One by one the bags were lowered into the hold, and Ramage could hear them being dragged about. Then there was banging, thumping and cursing as the men hauled shifting boards into position, lashing them so that the bags could not slide around as the ship pitched and rolled.

  Finally the mate passed the word that all the bags were stowed, and Smith climbed down into the hold. He was back on deck within a couple of minutes and with a curt “Good, batten down then” to the mate, returned to Stevens’ cabin.

  Ramage had seen another man—who had boarded with Smith—wandering about the ship, peering into various corners. “The searcher,” he murmured to Southwick.

  Southwick surveyed the man, whose clothes were obviously intended for a much fatter person, and who walked with a curious gait, swinging his left arm in unison with his left leg but keeping his right arm rigidly at his side, as though holding up his trousers.

  “He can search as much as he wants,” Southwick commented, “but he looks to me as though he’s completely lost.”

  At that moment Smith came back on deck, followed by Stevens. Both men were flushed and angry and Smith said abruptly, without bothering to turn his head: “You sail at noon, Captain, whether they come back or not!”

  “But how can I? We’ve barely enough men to handle the ship in heavy weather, thanks to Lombard Street’s meanness. And I’m supposed to beat off privateers—with a handful of men and boys. I’m short of the Master, too, since he’s sick in Falmouth. No sir, we don’t sail.”

  Ramage knew this was the moment he had been waiting for and walked casually over to join the two men. “Mr Smith—I hope I’m not interfering, but I can’t help thinking that some of Mr Stevens’ men might have ‘run,’ or been picked up by a press-gang.”

  “They most certainly have not deserted,” Stevens said emphatically. “Perhaps got themselves beastly drunk, but they’ll be back!”

  “But I can’t allow you to wait, Captain; I’ve already made that quite clear,” Smith said firmly. “I couldn’t even in peacetime—you know full well the packet sails as soon as the mails are on board. In the present circumstances it’s most important you sail before the French get the word …”

  “But I dar
en’t,” Stevens almost wailed. “A dozen men short of my complement! I’ll lose the ship for sure.”

  “Might I suggest Sir Pilcher Skinner?” Ramage said smoothly.

  “Sir Pilcher?” Smith repeated. “What—how could …”

  “A dozen well-trained seamen from one of his ships … if it meant the packet could sail at once. Particularly in view of all the circumstances …”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t do that,” Stevens protested. “Not sail with Navy men!”

  “Why not?” Smith demanded. “I’ll remind you the Post Office has hired your ship; that’s why she’s called ‘His Majesty’s packet brig Lady Arabella.’ His Majesty has chartered her and pays the wages, Captain. And I am his agent. Yes, Mr Ramage, that seems a very good idea.”

  “I’ll go on shore at once and see what I can arrange,” Ramage said. “A dozen men, eh?”

  Stevens nodded reluctantly.

  “Topmen?”

  “If you can get them.”

  “We can try!”

  An hour later Ramage returned with a dozen seamen, led by Jackson, and ordered them to line up in front of Smith, who sat waiting at a small table under the quarterdeck awning with the muster book, a pen and ink in front of him. There was no sign of Captain Stevens.

  Swiftly Smith questioned the men: full name, age and nationality; where born and when; rating. When he had written the details in the muster book he dismissed the men and turned to Ramage.

  “Is there a receipt you want me to sign?”

  Ramage shook his head. “No, there’s no need,” he assured Smith.

  “Well, thanks very much; you’ve got me out of a very difficult situation. I’m sure Captain Stevens will be grateful, once he’s given the matter some thought. Now I just have to muster the rest of the ship’s company, and then you’ll be under way.”

  With the muster complete, the dozen new men given their positions in the watch bill, and the searcher reporting lugubriously that he’d found nothing, Smith finally shook hands with the Captain, took his farewell of the passengers and climbed down into his boat.