Ramage's Diamond (15 page)

Baker knocked on the door of the cabin. “Captain, sir, your cutter is ready.”

He went up on deck, gave the larger canvas bag to Aitken, listened to Southwick reporting that the anchor was not dragging, and walked to the gangway. The side-ropes, newly scrubbed, were rigged and the bos'n's mates and side boys were waiting. A minute later he was sitting in the sternsheets of the cutter and clutching the bag, while Jackson was giving orders for the boat to shove off.

Ramage looked up at the
Juno
's curving sides. Yes, she looked smart enough and he was glad she had that yellow strake: it emphasized her sheer nicely. And the figurehead—the men had made a good job of painting
Juno.
The flesh tones had seemed rather lurid viewed from the fo'c's'le, but from a distance they seemed natural.

The men bent at the oars, steady strokes that made the cutter leap across the chop kicked up by the wind. Ramage wondered for the hundredth time what Admiral Davis had in store for him. Just as he left the quarterdeck Southwick had muttered: “It'll be convoys, sir,” and looking round at the other three frigates at anchor Ramage was sure the Master was right. All three frigates were smartly turned out, all were glistening with more paint than the Navy Board allowed, with touches of gold leaf here and there, showing their captains had dipped into their own pockets to buy the extra to make their ships smart. They reeked of prize-money, Ramage thought. Glistened with prize-money, he corrected himself. These three frigates were obviously the Admiral's favourites. One of them would carry out the sealed orders in the canvas bag he was holding on his knees.

H
ENRY DAVIS
, Rear-Admiral of the Red and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty's ships and vessels upon the Windward and Leeward Islands station, was a short, round-faced man in late middle-age, with stiff black eyebrows that stuck out of his forehead like boot brushes, but he had an open, cheerful face and after greeting Ramage on the quarterdeck of the
Invincible
he led the way down to the great cabin. He had eyed the canvas pouch that Ramage was carrying and was obviously anxious to get his hands on the despatches and orders it held, but he concealed his impatience.

The cabin was enormous by comparison with the
Juno
's and furnished as became an admiral in a ship of the line: half a dozen leather-covered armchairs, one of the largest wine-coolers Ramage had ever seen—made of mahogany and shaped like a fat Greek urn—and a sideboard with a rack in which half a dozen cut-glass decanters glittered in the sunlight reflecting through the sternlights. One of the two swords hung in racks in the forward bulkhead was an ornate ceremonial scimitar with a beautifully chased and gilded pommel, the other a curved fighting sword: obviously the Admiral favoured the cavalry type of sabre. The curtains drawn back on either side of the sternlights were a deep red damask woven with intricate patterns of silver thread—the same design, Ramage noted, as the ceremonial sword pommel. Probably bought in Persia, or presents from some Turkish potentate. Together they gave the cabin an atmosphere more suited to some bearded pasha.

“A drink?” the Admiral inquired, waving Ramage to one of the chairs. “The usual, or there is fresh lime or lemon juice. No ice I'm afraid; the damned schooner hasn't arrived from Nova Scotia. The last consignment lasted only a week; the fools didn't pack it properly. They said they were short of straw, so two thirds of it melted before they got here. Said they had to pump most of the way down.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Odd to think that a ship laden with ice blocks could sink itself with the ice melting …”

It could not, since ice took up more cubic space than the water it produced, but only a callow midshipman would point that out to an admiral. “A lime juice, if I may, sir.”

The Admiral stared suspiciously at Ramage from under his jutting eyebrows. “You
do
take a drink, though?”

Ramage saw the mottled complexion and bulbous nose of a man who obviously enjoyed a good brandy and hurriedly nodded his head. “Indeed, sir; it's just that I'm very thirsty. It's hot here in the bay, after the Atlantic.”

The Admiral grunted approvingly. “Hate this damned bay m'self, but at least it's cooler on board than on shore. My wife—she took the coolest house we could find, but at night, when the wind drops …” He shook a small silver bell vigorously and when a steward appeared ordered a rum punch for himself and a fresh lime juice for Ramage.

Ramage opened the pouch and took out the papers, handing the top one, his orders, to the Admiral, who read through them quickly. “Hmm, I'm glad to have another frigate. Never have enough. Their Lordships don't seem to appreciate the problem of running a station like this, covering dozens of islands with so few ships. Ramage, eh? Any relation to the Earl of Blazey?”

“Son, sir.”

“Mmm, then you are the young fellow I've been reading about in the
Gazette
from time to time. Well, you are going to find it a lot quieter out here. No excitement. Convoys up and down the islands, an occasional chase after a privateer …”

Ramage pictured Southwick's face and did not notice the Admiral watching him closely. “You look disappointed.”

“No, sir,” Ramage said hurriedly, careful not to add that it was what he had feared.

“I don't remember seeing your name on the latest List I have. When were you made post?”

“A month ago,” Ramage answered and knew what the Admiral was going to say next.

“Hmm, most junior on the station—by a couple of years or so.” He gave a dry laugh. “That'll be a relief for some of my young firebrands: when they saw the
Juno
I expect they thought she was still commanded by your predecessor, who has more seniority than the rest o' them put together. Now, you have despatches for me?”

Ramage took five packets and gave them to the Admiral, who looked at the rest of the papers Ramage was holding. “What are those—Weekly Accounts and that sort of thing—list of defects as long as your arm?” When Ramage nodded, the Admiral rang the bell, which he had put down beside his chair. “Give 'em to my secretary,” he said, bellowing to the sentry to pass the word for Mr Henshaw. When Henshaw arrived, as thin and nervous a secretary as Ramage had ever seen and obviously also the ship's chaplain, the Admiral did not bother with introductions, merely telling him to take the
Juno
's Weekly Accounts and start dealing with them.

As Ramage stood, intending to leave the Admiral to read his letters from the Admiralty, he glanced up. “You haven't finished your drink yet,” he said impatiently. “Just sit down while I read through this. When were you last at the Admiralty?”

“The beginning of last month, sir, when I was made post.”

“Who did you see?”

“The First Lord, sir.”

Again the Admiral stared at him. “And how was Lord St Vincent, eh?”

“In good health,” Ramage said lamely, guessing at the questions that must be passing through the Admiral's mind, since it was rare for a young post captain to see the First Lord, and he must have realized that Ramage was still a lieutenant when he entered the First Lord's office.

The Admiral ripped open the first letter—all of them, heavily sealed, were numbered, Ramage had noticed; presumably they were marked in order of importance. As the Admiral read, Ramage twisted slightly in his chair and looked round the cabin again. The Admiral was certainly a man who liked comfort—and who could blame him? The two gimballed lanterns were silver, four other lanthorns clipped to the bulkheads were inlaid with silver wire which was worked in the horn in the same pattern as the sword-hilt.

The Admiral grunted and Ramage heard him ripping open a second packet. The canvas covering the cabin sole was new, and it would take several more coats of the pale green paint before the material was smooth. Ramage shifted his position: the armchairs were comfortable enough but leather was hardly a suitable covering for the heat of the Tropics: he could feel perspiration making his breeches stick to the material.

Again the Admiral grunted. “His Lordship mention any forthcoming operations to you?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm.” Again the eyebrows lifted and then lowered, and the Admiral opened the next letter, glanced through it quickly and went on to the fourth, which produced a snort of disgust. The fifth hardly appeared to interest him and he gathered them all up again and looked at Ramage.

“Know Martinique at all?”

“A little, sir. I know most of the other islands.”

The Admiral stood up, putting the papers down on his chair and walking over to his desk. There were a dozen or more charts rolled up and stowed in a rack to one side and he looked through them, finally pulling one out. He spread it out and put paperweights on the sides to prevent it rolling up again. Then he beckoned to Ramage, who saw it was a chart of Martinique and realized for the first time how similar it was to the foot of Italy.

The Admiral jabbed a blunt forefinger on Fort Royal, and then moved it to include the great Fort Royal Bay. “Bane of my existence, that damned place,” he said sourly. “I have to watch the French there like a terrier at a rabbit hole. That's going to be your job for the next few weeks—months, probably. Sorry for it, my boy, because you are going to get heartily sick of the sight of the Pointe des Salines,” he jabbed a finger on the southernmost tip of the island, “and Diamond Rock—that's this one here, sticks up a mile offshore like a great tooth—and Cap Salomon.” He pointed to the headland on the south side of Fort Royal Bay. “Aye, and as far up as Pointe des Nègres.” He gestured at the headland on the north side of the Bay.

With his finger he traced a line from Pointe des Nègres to the southern end of the island. “Up and down, my lad, twenty-five miles. You'll be the terrier at the rabbit hole, and I don't want a French rabbit to get in or out without you taking him and sending him here with a prize crew on board.”

Ramage said nothing, puzzled at the shortness of the line the Admiral's finger had traced. The Admiral mistook his silence and said crossly: “If it doesn't appeal to you, there's always convoy work.”

“Oh no, sir,” Ramage said hastily, rubbing one of the two scars on his right brow, “it is just that—” he paused, wondering whether he was being indiscreet, and the Admiral said impatiently: “Come on, out with it!”

Ramage pointed from Pointe des Nègres to Pointe des Salines. “You made a point, sir, that I should be patrolling only between those two headlands, and I was—”

“You're wondering why I don't want you to patrol round the whole island? A good point, m'boy, since you don't know Martinique well. Luckily for us there's a deuce of a strong north-going current along the Caribbean side of the island, and when it's not going north it's going west.”

He ran his finger down the middle of the island. “You can see it's mountainous: damned big peaks they are, too, and it means there's usually precious little wind on the west side. The island makes an enormous lee that often stretches twenty miles to the west. What does that tell you?”

“That with a light wind and a strong north-going current,” Ramage said, “it must be almost impossible for merchant ships to come in from the Atlantic round the north end of the island and beat their way down to Fort Royal, sir.”

“Exactly. They never risk it, so it shuts one door. It forces 'em to come round the south end of the island, using the current to get 'em up to Fort Royal. But even then they're sometimes between the devil and the deep blue sea: if they stay offshore and there's any west in the current they get swept out into the Caribbean, and even when they get out to the lee they're too far to the west for merchantmen to stand a chance of beating back to Fort Royal. So they stay very close inshore, working the current and the offshore and onshore breezes, anchoring when necessary.”

He pointed to the Diamond Rock. “They keep close to the coast and pass between the Rock and Diamond Hill, here on the mainland, through the Fours Channel. It acts as a funnel. That's where you catch 'em. Now”—he jabbed a finger on the coast north to Fort Royal—“the only reason for patrolling as far north as Pointe des Nègres is to snap up anyone trying to use the current to give himself a lift to the north or west. You can go right into Fort Royal Bay often enough to see any ship preparing to sail.”

He took the weight off so the chart rolled up. “Stop anything sailing by all means, but—and this will be in your orders—your main concern is to stop any ship
arriving.
Those Frenchmen are desperate for supplies: the Army is yelling out for powder and shot, tents and provisions; the Navy's desperate for masts, spars, canvas and cordage.”

He waved Ramage back to the chair and sat down again himself, picking up his drink. “Watch out you don't get caught in that damned current yourself, though a frigate can beat back the minute she gets some wind.” He raised his glass as though in a toast. “Diamond Rock and Diamond Hill—you may not find diamonds, but let's hope you find plenty of gold in the shape of prize-money, eh? You can have a word with Captain Eames of the
Alcmene:
he's been patrolling the area for the past three months and has probably picked up a trick or two. I need the
Alcmene
for this special operation,” he added crossly, “although I can ill spare him for such a long time.”

The Admiral stared at the rum in his glass, his brow furrowed and then glared at Ramage from under his bushy eyebrows. “Your ship's company,” he said abruptly. “Any trouble with them?”

“Why, no sir!” said a startled Ramage.

“No sign of disaffection, no troublemakers on board?”

“No sir, a happy ship's company.”

The Admiral nodded. “Well, watch them. You know what happened to the
Jocasta?
”