Ramage's Devil (26 page)

“It's a serious matter, relieving him of his command.”

Ramage realized that the admiral was wavering, and he thought of the
Calypso
and her officers and ship's company. “Sir, the consequences of not doing so will be worse.”

“How so? Relieving a captain of his command is serious enough!”

“You are relieving him only on medical grounds, sir,” Ramage reminded Clinton. “You are not saying he is incompetent. But the consequences of leaving him in command—well, yesterday, there could have been three murders by him or a mutiny by the ship's company. There's bound to be mutiny if you leave him in command.”

“
Bound
to be mutiny? You don't have much confidence in the men you've spent so long training,” Clinton said sarcastically.

“On the contrary, sir: I have
complete
confidence in them: that's why I know they'd mutiny.”

Bennett was watching him shrewdly. He knows, Ramage realized, but the admiral has been too remote from the day-to-day handling of a ship's company for too long.

“Do you
really
mean you're confident they would mutiny?” Clinton demanded angrily.

Ramage nodded. “Yesterday, sir, Captain Bullivant said he would hang three men, Midshipman the Count Orsini, who happens to be the nephew of the ruler of Volterra and one of our allies; the master of the ship, who is certainly the most competent seaman and one of the bravest men I know; and an Italian seaman called Rossi, a man to whom I've entrusted my life on several occasions.

“Bullivant was going to have them hanged at sunset because after inspecting the entire ship's company he identified them as Satans. I trust, sir, that any seaman would mutiny rather than obey such an order to put nooses round their necks and haul them up to the yardarm.”

Ramage knew he was white-faced, and he kept his fists pressed down on the table to hide the trembling: he could feel perspiration soaking through his shirt but mercifully it did not appear on his face, which felt cold and clammy, as though he might faint.

“Quite,” Clinton said calmly. “However, it seems to me the only one now left with his neck in a noose is the commander-in-chief.”

“That's what he's there for, sir,” Bennett said cheerfully. “I agree with Ramage completely. I know what the Articles of War say and don't say, but I'd sooner the seamen mutinied than obeyed the ‘lawful' orders of a brandy-besotted madman. That's something the Articles don't allow for, and they should. Loyalty is what matters. Men who'd mutiny because of their loyalty to their officers and shipmates are the men I want round me when I go into battle.”

“We aren't in battle, we're blockading Brest, and judging from the last war the only action we're going to see is dealing with a drunken maniac,” Clinton grumbled.

“At least you're outside ‘Channel limits,' sir,” Bennett said. “That gives you more freedom.”

“Leaves me short of a post captain for the
Calypso.
”

Bennett glanced across the table at Ramage. “A post captain commanding a brig is a bit overweight.”

Clinton waved dismissively: “Ramage has to go to England with the brig: they'll need him at the inquiry into the mutiny and recapture, and for the Bullivant affair. Commanding a
prize-
brig, don't forget.” The idea raised another train of thought for the admiral. “Hmm, that's an interesting point. There's no question that Ramage
captured
the damned ship: he didn't ‘retake' her because he wasn't part of the original ship's company. He, his wife and four Frenchmen. He's the only one entitled to prize-money.”

“His wife will help him spend it!” Bennett said jocularly.

“So you'll be back in Plymouth in a couple of days. Lucky fellow,” Clinton said, and then added: “Why so gloomy? Sailing home after your honeymoon and with a sack full of prize-money!” Then a sudden thought struck him. “What about that young Scots first lieutenant? We ought to do something for him. Make him post into the
Calypso?”

Ramage remembered an attempt a year or more ago when Aitken was offered command of a frigate and the post rank that went with it; he had said he preferred to continue sailing with Captain Ramage. But now was not the time to mention that to a Scots admiral. Aitken could make the point later, if necessary.

Bennett rubbed his ample chins and looked down at the table. “If I was Ramage, sir, I'd be eating my heart out over the
Calypso
. And weren't you telling me earlier that he was concerned over this French count who is being transported to Cayenne—a friend of the Prince of Wales, didn't you say, sir?”

Ramage decided that Bennett was a man to whom he already owed a debt of gratitude worth more than a brig.

“Bennett,” Clinton said, his voice rasping, “you have an unhappy knack of mentioning things I'm trying to forget.”

“Sir, I shouldn't forget that the Prince of Wales is unlikely to forget a commander-in-chief who forgot his friend being carried off to a certain death in Cayenne …”

And now, Ramage thought, the repetition of “forget” and “forgot” means the ace of trumps has gone down on the table. Or it's the bait dangling in front of the fish. Or the snare carefully placed outside the rabbit hole.

“Blast it, Bennett. I've been tossing up between the Prince of Wales and Lord St Vincent ever since Ramage mentioned the Count of Rennes. And it's probably not only the Count: if there are fifty of them, half are bound to be Royalists who went back to France after exile in England and know Prinny. At least half, probably more.”

“You are caught between the devil (
pace
Bullivant) of the Admiralty and the deep blue sea of the Prince, seems to me, sir.”

“It's all right for you to joke about it,” the admiral complained. “I'm the one who has to choose.”

“Oh, I chose when you first told me about it yesterday, sir,” Bennett said blithely.

“You did, eh?” the admiral exclaimed, his voice now truculent, the accent becoming more pronounced. “Surprising how easy it is to choose when you don't have the responsibility.”

Ramage expected Bennett to react strongly, but instead the little man picked up the quill pen lying on the table and waved it back and forth as though fanning himself.

“I'm like that surgeon fellow, whatever his name was. I'll put it in writing if you wish, sir. As your flag captain I'm expected to give you professional advice when you ask for it.”

He paused and then tapped the table with the feather of the quill. “My views are simple. Question number one, what do we do with the drunken Bullivant? Wrap him up, in a canvas straitjacket if necessary, and send him home in the
Murex
brig with reports by Bowen and Travis tucked in his pocket.”

He tapped the table twice. “Question number two, who is to command the
Calypso
? There's only one possible man, and that's Ramage here. He's not needed for the
Murex
because her first lieutenant is a capable fellow, saw the mutiny and can write reports and give evidence. Also he deserves his chance of getting command of her from the Admiralty. I'm assuming Ramage here is resigned to his new wife returning to England without him.”

He tapped three times. “Now, the third question, what to do about the ship of exiles. She's a frigate now armed
en flûte.
She must look very much like the
Calypso
. She'll sail like her—except, since she's French carrying exiles, she'll be short of men and will most likely shorten sail at night. And she left the Gullet about 36 hours ago.

“What you are to do, sir, brings us back to the devil and the deep blue sea. Well, consider the devil in the shape of the First Lord of the Admiralty and the rest of the Board: they're political appointments. Lord St Vincent was appointed by Addington and will probably be replaced (along with the rest of the Board) by Addington's successor. So that devil can come and go. But now let us look across the deep blue sea … One day the Prince will be King. He will probably have a long life—they're a long-lived family—and no doubt he inherits the long memory, too.”

He grinned at Admiral Clinton. “I'll give you my recommendations in writing, sir, but you'll have to take my word for the reasoning behind them.”

“Oh, you're a droll enough fellow,” Clinton said, mellowing slightly. “Watch out that one day I don't drop you over the side. Ramage, call that nincompoop of a secretary for me: I seem to have a number of orders to write, and I want them all carefully copied into my order book. Especially those intended for you.”

T
HE ABOMINABLE Bullivant had changed nothing in the great cabin: the desk was polished, the keys were still in the locks of the drawers. The settee was the same as usual, its dark-blue cover not torn or stained. The armchair was unmarked (except by the passing years flattening the springs). The man's possessions had been stowed in his trunks and sent across to the
Murex
. Yet although he had been on board for only a few days he had left an invisible atmosphere: now Ramage knew how the owner of a house felt standing in a room which had been rifled by a burglar.

He sat down at the desk, jerking open one drawer after another. Nothing had been removed, nothing added. Letter book—that was still here, and he flipped open a few pages. Bullivant had not written any official letters or, more likely, the clerk had not copied them into the letter book. Order book—yes, the Board order giving Bullivant command of the
Calypso,
followed by the Admiralty order to him to join Admiral Clinton's fleet were here, and so was Clinton's order to Bullivant telling him to place himself under the admiral's command. Nothing else.

The “Captain's Journal” was here, started the day Bullivant joined the ship, and Ramage put it in another drawer without reading it. Yes, here was the muster book, and an entry indicated the date that Bullivant had joined the ship “as per commission.” No one had noted that he was replacing Captain Ramage, who was on leave. Now there was a nice point—in noting that Bullivant had gone to the
Murex
“by order of the commander-in-chief,” did Ramage now note that Captain Ramage had taken (resumed?) command “as per commission,” thus having taken command twice without ever having (officially) left the ship? Or did he ignore Bullivant's brief command?

Some tedious quill pusher at the Navy Board could worry about that bureaucratic problem, and no doubt the correspondence ensuing would continue for another ten years. He noted that no seaman had been discharged and no new men had joined the ship.

He put the muster book and letter book back in the drawer, and took Admiral Clinton's order from his smock. Soon he would be back in uniform. Several officers in the flagship had offered spare uniform frocks and breeches, stockings, shirts and stocks, but Ramage guessed that his own clothes would still be in the
Calypso,
and indeed almost the first thing his steward Silkin had reported was that his trunks had been brought up from the hold and all the clothing was being washed or cleaned or ironed with a sprinkling of vinegar to get rid of the musty smell.

He opened Admiral Clinton's two sets of orders and read the second one again. The admiral and Captain Bennett had drawn them up in a hurry, which ensured brevity.

“Whereas I have received information,” Admiral Clinton's orders began, “that the French national frigate
L'Espoir
sailed from Brest very recently carrying as prisoners a large group of men and women accused by the French government of disloyalty and sentenced to transportation and exile in Cayenne, you are hereby required and directed to proceed with all possible despatch in His Majesty's ship
Calypso
under your command and make the best of your way towards Cayenne and intercept the said French national frigate
L'Espoir
and free the prisoners and carry them safely to a port in England, reporting at once to my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty the success of your mission …”

He slid the letter between two blank pages in the order book and put the volume back in the drawer, locking it. It was lucky that Bullivant never bothered to put a key in his pocket—every drawer in this particular desk had a different lock.

The shouting, stamping and scuffling on the deck overhead had finally stopped and Ramage listened for feet clattering down the companion-way, to be halted at his door by the Marine sentry, who would then call out the person's identity.

He sat back and sighed with sheer pleasure. It was exciting to be back—he had spent so long in this cabin it seemed like home. Indeed, it was his home. Certainly sitting at this desk dressed as a French fisherman was unusual, but there was no time to wait for Silkin's smoothing iron to finish its work.

Since boarding the ship he had used the first fifteen minutes to listen to Silkin (who regarded his sartorial report as the most important the captain would want to hear) and then come down to the great cabin and read his orders once again. He had done this while Aitken prepared the ship for the next step.

And now there were the footsteps clattering down the companion-way, and the clank of a sword-hilt held high but not high enough to prevent it catching one of the steps.

The thump of feet and clatter of a musket indicated the Marine sentry coming to attention. Two voices, a question (from the sentry, one he would have had to ask even if the visitor had been his own mother), and a reply.

Then a tap on the door and the sentry's voice: “Captain, sir—the first lieutenant!”

“Send him in.”

And in came a smiling Aitken, crouching slightly because of the low headroom, his sword held clear with one hand, his cocked hat under his arm.

“Ship's company mustered aft, sir.”