by Dudley Pope
“You have to admit you have no experience of the Navy in peacetime, Nicholas,” his father said. “I have, and looking at your service—where you’ve been able to pack more action into a very few years than any half dozen officers normally experience in a lifetime—I can’t see you being able to put up with the boredom.
“Yes,” he said, noting his son’s raised eyebrows, “sheer boredom. The Navy in peacetime is concerned with filling in the right number of the correct forms punctually, doing every sail order in the signal book in the minimum time, and covering the maximum amount of ship with the minimum of paint. Your service in command of a frigate will probably comprise dancing attendance on an admiral who has enough political ‘interest’ to keep himself employed.
“At sea you and the rest of the squadron or fleet will be in company with the flagship. When the admiral says tack, you tack; when the admiral says wear, you wear. Everything you do, as the ship’s captain, will be governed by a signal from the flagship, from hoisting your colours by the flagship’s drumbeat at daybreak to lowering them at her drumbeat at sunset.
“In port—which will be most of the time—you will dance attendance on the commander-in-chief, for several reasons. You are a very ‘eligible’ bachelor, and the admiral’s wife will have at least a dozen young daughters or protégées she considers suitable matches for you. You have a certain fame as a fighting officer, so you will be required to attend all social functions arranged by the admiral and his lady to give ton which the proceedings would otherwise lack. And you should remember that one word spoken out of place could lose you your command: for every ship in commission in a peacetime Navy, there are twenty captains on halfpay only too anxious to take over, and a vindictive admiral can put you on the beach.”
“I think you are deliberately painting a gloomy picture, Father,” Ramage protested, but his mother shook her head.
“If anything it would be worse for you, Nicholas,” she said. “From your first day as a midshipman until now there has been a war, with action, opportunity and promotion. You have come to think of that as normal naval service. But it is not. You may spend the rest of your life without hearing another shot fired, with promotion depending upon the captains senior to you dying of old age, not being killed in action … Nicholas,” she said with a seriousness he rarely heard, “I do not see you as a naval officer in peacetime.”
Ramage laughed because he understood what his parents meant, but they were also forgetting a point which they had discussed only two days earlier, when he had read out the reported terms of the articles of peace.
“You forget that we shall be at war again in a year or two. Bonaparte is only resting. If I can hold on to my command for a while, it means I shall be ready with my present ship’s company for whatever the French have in mind. It’s taken a long time to sort out these men. Now I wouldn’t change one of them.”
Gianna, still upset at Volterra not being mentioned in the articles, and due to see Lord Hawkesbury next day, protested: “You talk as if war is going to last for the rest of our lives.”
The Admiral said gently: “It may well do for the rest of our lives—” he gestured to include himself and the Countess “—and much of yours. Remember, Britain is now alone. Austria, Prussia, Portugal, the Russians—all have been our allies at one time or another. We’ve paid enormous subsidies to persuade ‘em to fight—for their own safety, incidentally—but now we haven’t the money and they’ve neither the ability nor courage. Britain alone can’t defeat Bonaparte: just think how many men he has under arms and how many acres of land under cultivation. Ultimately they are the two things that matter. If he can grow enough wheat to feed his people and has a big enough army to defend his borders, our blockade can’t hurt him. In the peace he’s now arranging he’ll restock his warehouses, as Nicholas says. Then he’ll be beyond our reach. If he can last out five years he’ll beat us because I’m sure we can’t beat him: our people have been taxed enough, in order to try to save the Prussians and the rest of them.”
“And I shall never again see Volterra …”
“Perhaps not: you must always have that in mind.”
“So how can I argue with Lord Hawkesbury to have Volterra included in the peace, or the subject of a further treaty?”
The Admiral shook his head. “My dear,” he said in his calm, gentle voice, “we have not encouraged you either to see Hawkesbury or to think Britain can help you. Just remember that Jenks is a politician, not a gentleman, and you should treat him as such.”
Lord St Vincent’s office was the next beyond the Board Room, high-ceilinged with a polished table on the far side, opposite the door and where the First Lord sat in an armless chair with his back to the window. His large head and a natural stoop made him appear smaller than he was.
The room smelled of guttering candles: St Vincent was usually the first to start work at the Admiralty, and the first officers he wanted to see would find their appointments timed for seven o’clock. Between seeing people—who ranged from captains receiving orders to politicians seeking favours for the nephews of friends—he attacked the papers neatly piled on his table, calling in the Board Secretary, Nepean, who often worked at the huge mahogany table in the Board Room itself.
The old Admiral wiped his pen with a piece of cloth and carefully placed the quill in a wooden rack before looking up at Ramage, who had been announced by a messenger, summoned into the room, and now waited while St Vincent went through the ritual of completing one task before starting another.
Unexpectedly he stood up and held out his hand. The two men shook in silence, and the Admiral gestured to the single straight-backed chair as he sat down himself.
“You’ve been busy since I last saw you. At the Duchess of Manson’s ball before you went off spying in France, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Ramage said.
“Since then you’ve been collecting a number of Gazettes.”
“Thanks to you, sir.”
A captain’s despatch after an action was addressed to Nepean, the Secretary to the Board, and began with the time-honoured phrase “Be pleased to lay before their Lordships …” A description followed, showing success or failure—and often revealing something of the character of the writer. Ramage’s despatches were concise rather than brief; he had long ago noticed that the officers cultivating brevity did so quite deliberately, knowing that a reputation for such a style would be useful when reporting near failure.
When their Lordships considered that an officer had done particularly well, his despatch (after being edited in case it contained information of use to the enemy) was sent to the office of the Secretary of State for the Home Department, further along Whitehall, to be handed over to the Gazette printer, Andrew Strahan, who had his office there.
His father had been the first to draw Ramage’s attention to the importance of writing careful despatches. He pointed out that a good captain did not need his despatch to be published in the Gazette, because the Board knew his worth, but for a deserving officer serving with him in the action, a mention in a despatch was invaluable; it was often the only road to promotion. It was useful for a lieutenant seeking promotion to be able to show a Gazette or two in which he was mentioned. And, as his father had emphasized, if a man has a common surname make sure you give the number by which he is known in the service.
The number of lieutenants John Smith in the Navy List was startling; it was not unusual to see “Lt John Smith the Fourth” or seventh or tenth in a Gazette. Yet, again proving that a despatch often revealed a good deal about its writer, it was not unusual to read one in which not a single officer or man was mentioned, so unwilling was the captain (or even the admiral—and St. Vincent himself had been guilty of it after the battle which gave him his title) to share either credit or glory.
St Vincent tapped a copy of the Gazette lying on the table. “You read yesterday’s issue?”
“Yes, sir,” Ramage said, his voice neutral.
“What did you thin
k of the main announcement signed by the Secretary of State and Otto?”
St Vincent was a friend of Addington; the Prime Minister was obviously proud of the treaty with Bonaparte, since his own Secretary of State had negotiated it. But Ramage, knowing that a wise man would tell a white lie but refusing to be a hypocrite, simply turned down the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t like it, eh? Why?”
St Vincent never wasted words; he doled them out, spoken or written, as a miser might give a coin to an improvident nephew. Did a wise post captain with a good deal less than three years’ seniority really reveal his views to the First Lord? Well, St Vincent was shrewd; probably he really wanted to know what Admiral the Earl of Blazey thought, and guessed his son’s views were similar.
Ramage turned his hat in his lap, to give the impression he was taking time to consider his reply.
“With respect, sir: Bonaparte has made fools of us.”
St Vincent’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t think Lord Hawkesbury would like to hear you say that.”
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “My father has already told him that—and a good deal more—a couple of days ago.”
“In what way is Bonaparte supposed to have made fools of us?” St Vincent asked sarcastically.
“Our blockade has emptied his warehouses; he has no rope, canvas or timber to repair his ships. Now he makes us lift the blockade. We captured many of his islands—you yourself took Martinique, sir—and now he gets them all back, at no cost.”
“Not all,” St Vincent protested.
“All that matter, sir,” Ramage said stubbornly. “We’ve lost thousands of men from sickness but very few from fighting, and spent millions of pounds on the war—to no purpose.”
“I didn’t know you were a strategist,” St Vincent growled. “If you intend to go into politics, let me give you some advice—” the Earl broke off when he saw the expression on Ramage’s face. “Yes, well, you take after your father in that respect.”
Ramage inspected the inside band of his hat.
“Now that peace is signed,” St Vincent said, “are you sending in your papers?”
Ramage looked up, startled. “No, sir. At least, not unless their Lordships ask me.”
“You don’t need the halfpay,” St Vincent said.
“I had no intention of requesting it, sir,” Ramage said tartly. “As far as I know, I am still on full pay in command of the Calypso and on a month’s leave.”
St Vincent had moved the Gazette, which had hidden a bulky letter bearing the Admiralty seal. The Earl picked up the packet, turned it over so that Ramage could read the superscription, and slid it across the table to him.
“Captain the Lord Ramage, H. M. frigate Calypso, Chatham.”
As Ramage reached out for the packet, St Vincent held up his hand. “Don’t open it yet: read the back.”
Just below the seal, copperplate handwriting said: “Secret orders—not to be opened until south of latitude 10 degrees North.”
Ten North! That was south of the latitude of Barbados in the West Indies or the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of West Africa. So the orders concerned the South Atlantic. The coast of Africa or South America in peacetime? What on earth could be happening down there?
St Vincent stood up and walked to the window. There was not much to see; Ramage knew that this and the Board Room’s three other windows overlooked a stable. The early morning sky with its scattering of cloud was now becoming overcast; there would be rain by teatime.
Abruptly, and with his back to Ramage, the First Lord asked: “How is the Calypso’s refit proceeding?”
Obviously the First Lord did not trust the daily reports he received from his dockyard commissioners. “Slowly, sir, as far as I could see when I was on board three days ago.”
“Ah yes, you and your visitors took up a lot of time.”
“Indeed, sir?” Ramage could almost see the Commissioner’s report. “How so, sir?”
“The dockyard men could not get on with shifting the guns.”
“Sir, there hasn’t been a single dockyard man on board since the Calypso moored up in Chatham.”
St Vincent swung round. “Rubbish! You’ve had eighty men!”
“Excuse me, sir,” Ramage said carefully. “I was told by the Commissioner I would get eighty men, to shift the guns. In fact none arrived and my own men have been doing the work. My First Lieutenant had a great deal of trouble getting even a few hoys to carry the French guns on shore.”
St Vincent sat down at the table and quickly shuffled through a pile of papers. He found one page and ran his finger down it. His eyes flicked back and forth along the lines.
“The Commissioner has allocated one hundred and ten men to the Calypso. Eighty to get the guns out; twenty are riggers; and ten are to help strike that foreyard.”
“When were those men supposed to start work, sir?”
The date the First Lord gave was the day after the Calypso arrived in Chatham. “We might have been allocated one hundred and ten men, sir, but none has come on board, unless they started today. I was there on Friday and I can’t think they’d work half a day on Saturday. Yesterday, Sunday, was a holiday.”
“The Commissioner himself signed this return, Ramage; are you calling him a liar?”
Ramage pictured the ingratiating figure at the jetty, rolls of fat quivering, servile to the Admiral—and using the Ramage family visit as an excuse for “delaying” men not even on board.
“A liar, sir, with respect, and a fraud too. Where were those one hundred and ten men working?”
“I intend finding out,” St Vincent said grimly, “but don’t you go down to Chatham until your leave expires; it’s better that I stir things up at Somerset House.”
The Navy Board occupied Somerset House, and there the Comptroller, Sir Andrew Snape Hamond, held sway. Probably the most dishonest man connected with the Royal Navy, he controlled the purchase of everything concerning the King’s ships. Everything from rum to salt pork; timber to trousers for the men. All of it was bought from private contractors; all bought, Ramage thought bitterly, with “a token of our esteem” being sent by the contractors to people like Hamond. More than a hundred dockyard men should have been working on the Calypso for more than seven days. What were they doing? Where had the Commissioner sent them? That many men in seven days could probably build a house, Aitken had said. Did one of the Commissioner’s friends now have a new house on Gad’s Hill?
The First Lord finished writing a note, rang a small silver bell and gave the sheet of paper to the clerk who hurried in. “Give that to Mr Nepean. I want it ready for signature before noon.”
Once the clerk had left the room, St Vincent said: “I deliberately left you in command of the Calypso. Have you wondered why?”
“No, sir,” Ramage said, trying to guess the reason for the question.
“You don’t lack confidence, young man.”
Something in St Vincent’s tone angered Ramage and before he could stop himself he said: “Captains lacking confidence usually put their ships up on a reef, sir.”
“Quite,” St Vincent said amiably. “I was commenting, not criticizing. Your skin is too thin. However, your new orders. You rarely carry out my orders in accordance with their wording—”
“But always in the spirit of their meaning, sir!”
“—their wording,” St Vincent repeated, ignoring the interruption. “Where do you stand on the post list?” he demanded.
“About tenth from the bottom, sir.”
“An admiral tenth from the top of the flag list is more tactful when speaking to the First Lord.”
“I apologize for my manner, sir.”
“But not for your words, eh? Anyway, your new orders concern something where it is highly probable that your views and the Board of Admiralty’s coincide.” There was a hint of a smile round St Vincent’s mouth. “They are also the first orders you have ever received in time of peace.”
Rama
ge recalled previous encounters with St Vincent and his predecessor as First Lord, Earl Spencer. Always there was the heavy emphasis on his disobeying orders, but it seemed more a question of “give a dog a bad name” because the orders were always carried out. That was the important thing; no senior officer had ever told him to do something and then had to blame him for failure. The trouble was that senior officers soon regarded themselves as omnipotent. Instead of simply writing orders telling the officers what was to be done, they went into details of how they were to be carried out, and that was the mistake. No one could anticipate every circumstance. It was the man on the spot, the captain of the ship, who had to make his plans according to the situation he found. Surely a general did not order a colonel to capture a particular fort and tell him by what highways, tracks and byways he was to approach it. Perhaps generals did …
“Do you know anything about surveying?”
“Surveying, sir?”
“Obviously you don’t; the word has paralysed you. Well, you can go through the Marine Department and get some instruction from the Hydrographer, Dalrymple, or his assistant, Walker. You need to know how to survey an island and chart its waters.”
“Aye, aye, sir. A large island?”
“No. Perhaps a couple of miles long by one wide.”
“Do any charts or maps exist, sir?”
“A rough chart; nothing to rely on.”
“Might I ask—?”
“Trinidade.”
“Trinidad? Why, there’s—”
“Not Trinidad,” St Vincent said testily, “but Trinidade.” He was careful to emphasize the second “e” by pronouncing it as a “y.” “It’s off the Brazilian coast, seven hundred and fifty miles east-north-east of Rio de Janeiro and seven hundred from Bahia.”
“Does it belong to Spain or Portugal, sir?”
“What I am going to tell you remains secret until you open your orders. At present it—I’m referring to the service upon which you are being sent—is known to the Prime Minister, the Secretary of State, myself and Nepean, who wrote the orders. As far as your family and your ship’s company are concerned, you are bound for the South Seas.”