Ramage's Prize (13 page)

“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 daren'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.

Stevens then turned to the mate: “Well, Fred, let's see what jail bait the Admiral has sent us.”

His tone was so vicious that Ramage turned to see Stevens watching him. Let's hope we make a fast passage, Ramage thought; Stevens is going to be poor company. Ramage took only a few more minutes to realize that Stevens was unsure of himself; that his crude behaviour might be due to nervousness. But why? Was he always like this? Was he rattled because of his dozen missing men? Plenty of questions, but no answers yet.

The
Lady Arabella
's men were energetic but obviously poorly trained; so much so that the dozen former Tritons seemed out of place among them, moving faster although in a strange ship, anticipating the next order, working together—and keeping silent. At one point Ramage noticed Southwick beginning to fidget as some of the packetsmen began discussing Stevens' order to let fall the maintopsail.

By the time the mooring had been dropped and the brig was passing out of the harbour, Ramage had the impression that Stevens was too indulgent, treating the men as part of a large and wayward family of which he was a benevolent uncle. There was an easygoing atmosphere which should have made for a happy ship, albeit slack and badly handled, yet Ramage sensed undercurrents—glances between packetsmen, a wink here and a sly grin there, a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders and movement of eyebrows. There was nothing definite that he could point out to Yorke, but he was sure that Southwick had also noticed it.

Perhaps he was comparing the packet with all the ships he had served in? Such slack discipline would be fatal in a man-o'-war, where orders had to be given and obeyed instantly even though, in a gale or in battle, men might be killed. If they were allowed to debate orders, there would be occasions when they might be reluctant or slow to obey. Ramage remembered the
Triton
brig, both in battle and in the hurricane which had swept her masts by the board, leaving her a helpless hulk. No man had ever hesitated—nor had it ever occurred to Ramage that one might … Was this, he wondered, why packets were being lost? Not because the packetsmen lacked courage, but simply because they lacked discipline—what one might call “fighting discipline?”

That evening as Yorke, Southwick and Ramage walked the deck for some exercise before dinner, the sun was just dipping below the horizon astern, while to the north lengthening shadows were turning the mountains of Jamaica a soft blue-grey. The
Lady Arabella
was making good time against a falling Trade wind, stretching south-east with a long tack and then taking a short tack inshore.

Southwick had been speculating if they would find an offshore wind at nightfall, or whether it would back north-east as they rounded Morant Point, the easternmost tip of Jamaica, and head them as they began the long haul up to the north-east to make the Windward Passage.

The sea was already flattening; spray no longer flew up over the bow, and the wet, dark patches on the foot of the headsails were fading as the canvas dried. The brig's earlier sharp pitching had settled into an easier ridge-and-furrow motion, like the flight of a woodpecker.

Once round Morant Point, there would be no land until the brig began to pass through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola, the western end of which looked on the chart like the head of a grotesque, open-mouthed fish trying to bite the eastern end of Cuba. Cape Dame Marie formed the lower lip; Cape Nicolas Mole the upper.

The three men walked in silence, turning inwards as they reached the taffrail and tramping forward until they were abreast the main shrouds, where once again they turned and headed aft.

There were two men at the helm, and Much was on watch. Captain Stevens had stayed in his cabin once the brig was clear of the harbour, and the only other seamen on deck, apart from a lookout, were those Much called up from below when the time came to tack.

Ramage sensed that Much was not popular with the men. Quietly spoken, small and grey-haired, the mate gave orders clearly, without any hectoring or bullying, and Ramage was puzzled by the men's resentment—that seemed the only explanation of their attitude.

With the sun now below the horizon, Ramage felt a slight chill in the air, and knew that in half an hour Much would be kept busy sail-trimming in a faltering breeze.

“Ah, Mr Wilson!” Yorke said suddenly, gesturing to the Army officer as he came on deck. “Join us in our promenade.”

“Delighted, delighted. A mile before dinner; that's my rule. Stops me getting fat.”

“Why not walk half a mile and eat half as much?” Ramage asked lightly.

Wilson shook his head and fell into step beside them. “Much obliged for the suggestion, but it don't work.”

Intrigued that a flippant remark should be treated so seriously, Ramage asked why not.

“Food's not the problem,” Wilson said. “Porter's my trouble. Have a disgusting passion for it. Drink too much and get fat. Not drunk, you know; just fat.”

“Do you, by jove,” Yorke said sympathetically. “Have you tried watering the porter?”

“Tastes ghastly, my dear fellow, absolutely ghastly. Tried everything. Best walk a mile.”

The four men lapsed into silence for a few minutes, regularly turning and retracing their steps each time they reached the taffrail or main shrouds.

“Think we'll meet the Frogs?” Wilson asked suddenly.

Yorke glanced at Ramage, who said, “There's always a chance.”

“More than a chance from what I hear.”

“What have you heard?” Ramage asked politely.

“Post Office losing three packets out of four. Hardly any mail getting across the Atlantic. Chaos at the Horse Guards, so my colonel says: can't send reports to London or receive orders. Dam' funny, says I.”

A whimsical thought struck Ramage. “I hope you're prepared if we do meet the French,” he said lightly.

“Oh yes—make ready, present, fire! Yes, by Jingo, I'm ready; even brought m' own powder and shot.”

Ramage had his answer, but the soldier's manner stopped the conversation. He was one of those unfortunate people combining a limited brain with a forceful manner who unwittingly strangled almost any attempt at small-talk.

Yorke's silence showed he had reached the same conclusion, but he eventually devised an escape. After an inward turn that brought them facing forward again, he said, “Well, that's our mile for today—we're going to have to leave Captain Wilson to march on alone.”

“Dam' short mile,” Wilson commented cheerfully. “Mine's longer. I'll see you at dinner.”

Down in their cabin, Ramage said, “That was brilliant!”

“What a bore the man is. But probably a good soldier, for all that.”

“He might come in useful,” Ramage muttered. “I wonder whether we should tell him more.”

“I shouldn't bother,” Yorke said. “Just wait until something happens. He needs ten seconds notice, no more and no less. More would worry him and less would get him fussed.”

As Ramage opened a drawer and took out a clean shirt, Yorke said, “Do you think Smith will say anything to Sir Pilcher about the Tritons?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “I'll try not to stay awake tonight worrying about it.”

“I should hope not, but what did you tell Sir Pilcher?” Yorke persisted.

“Nothing. On the day he gave me my orders—and that was before the packet was sighted—I said I might need some men, and he agreed to me having a dozen former Tritons. Later he said I could use them in a packet if the Postmaster agreed.”

“So …?”

“So when a dozen of the packetsmen overstayed their leave, you heard me suggest to the Postmaster that a dozen seamen should take their place.”

“But you told Smith you were going on shore to ask Sir Pilcher for them!”

“No I didn't,” Ramage said emphatically, “I was very careful about the words I used. I said to Smith, ‘Might I suggest Sir Pilcher Skinner … 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.'”

“You seem to have learned that by heart.”

“I had! The point is that I was careful not to suggest that anyone
asked
Sir Pilcher. I'd already arranged for the dozen Tritons to be sent on shore from the
Arrogant,
and given them their orders. Sir Pilcher had given permission for me to use them on board the packet—if Smith agreed. Well, Smith agreed, so I'm completely covered as far as Sir Pilcher is concerned, and frankly I don't give a damn about Smith. Anyway, he not only accepted the men but signed ‘em on himself!”

“But the packetsmen—how could you be so sure they'd overstay their leave?”

“Seamen get drunk,” Ramage said vaguely. “You know that perfectly well.”

“Curious how Jackson and his men were waiting for you on the quay, though!”

Ramage glanced up in alarm. “How did you know that? You couldn't see from on board, could you?”

Yorke roared with laughter. “So you have a guilty conscience! No, that was just a guess. You fell for it, though.”

Ramage began to untie his stock. “Don't play tricks like that,” he said. “My nerves won't stand it!”

Yorke put a hand on his shoulder, his face now serious. “You take the most devilish risks at times. You're lucky to have people like Jackson and Southwick.” He paused for a moment. “And Stafford and Rossi and Maxton … and Bowen … the whole damned lot, come to think of it. Do you realize those men would do anything for you, and damn the consequences?”

Ramage looked sheepish. “I suppose they would—I've never thought about it.”

“You should,” Yorke said, a harshness creeping into his voice. “You should, in case one day you ask too much.”

“They've all risked their lives half a dozen times for me,” Ramage said defensively. “You can't ask more than that.”

Yorke shook his head. “You're wrong. You're asking more if you ask an honest man to lie on oath.”

“We've 35 days or more to argue that point, so leave it for now,” Ramage said, pulling off his shirt. Neither man spoke again as they changed their clothes.

When they went through to the saloon a few minutes after the gong had sounded for dinner and joined Bowen, Southwick and Wilson, they found only five places had been set. Mr Much was on watch, the steward said; Mr Farrell, the Surgeon, was ill in his bunk, and Captain Stevens always dined alone in his own cabin.