Ramage's Devil r-13

by Dudley Pope

  '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, Brown, or 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 thirty-six 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.'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The 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 quillpusher 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 dispatch 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 ba
ck 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.'

  'Aitken' - Ramage stood up and walked towards the young Scot, his hand extended. As they shook hands, Ramage added: 'I'm glad to be back and I'm glad I have the same officers.'

  'Thank you, sir. We held our breaths when we heard the British ambassador - Lord Whitworth, I think it is - had left Paris, but when you didn't come back from your honeymoon we guessed that the French had captured you and her Ladyship.'

  Ramage gestured down at his smock and trousers. 'You didn't expect to meet me off Ushant in this rig! Well, you should see her Ladyship - she's dressed as a fishwife.'

  He led the way up the ladder and out on deck. The Marines were lined up in two ranks against the taffrail; Southwick, the lieutenants and Orsini were at the starboard end of the front file, and the seamen formed the other three sides of the square so that the quarterdeck was a box of men.

  Ramage had mustered all the men not through any overweening conceit but, because of that confidence always existing among men who have fought beside each other many times, he knew that they wanted to see him and be reassured.

  The drunkard who had briefly taken his place had been hoisted out lashed on to a stretcher shouting and screaming that the seamen at the staytackle were doing the Devil's work. Now Bullivant was on his way to Plymouth in the Murex and he could only feel sorry for Sarah. She will, he thought grimly, see and hear what we went through with Bowen. Still, it is a bare 120 miles from Ushant to Plymouth and the Murex should stretch over to the northeast at a good six knots, so that Sarah will have to put up with it for only twenty-four hours. Then she would post to London and very soon the thought of the recent excitement would be like a half-remembered dream.

  On top of the main capstan: the ship was not rolling enough to make it difficult for him to balance, and he could look round and see everyone, except for two or three Marines hidden by the mizenmast. But it was a dam' cold wind: the downdraught from the mainsail seemed to go straight through his smock. The advantage of full uniform in a northern climate was its warmth, although it was too hot for the Tropics - the cocked hat, for instance, seemed to gain a pound in weight for every ten degrees of latitude it moved south, so that near the Equator it was about as comfortable as a knight's helmet.

  Now the Marines were standing stiffly to attention, the lieutenants frozen to the deck, and the seamen looking up at him, some grinning, some straight-faced, but none sucking teeth. Few captains seemed to realize that the presence or absence of the sucking of teeth revealed more about the men's attitude, happiness or discontent, than anything else.

  He spoke a few words of greeting as he pulled the first of Admiral Clinton's orders from the front of his smock and the Marines and lieutenants unfroze. The seamen knew only too well what was coming next and made sure they were standing comfortably.

  Ramage unfolded the paper and began the ritual of 'reading himself in'. Until that was completed he could not officially give any orders and expect them to be obeyed; he had purposely made 'stand at ease' a gruff comment rather than an order, and the helm order to Southwick was to save time. Then he began reading.

  'By virtue of the power and authority to me given as commander-in-chief of His Majesty's ships and vessels comprising the Channel Fleet, and being off Brest and outside the Channel limits, I Reginald Edward Clinton, Vice-Admiral of the Red, do hereby constitute and appoint you captain of His Majesty's ship the Calypso frigate, willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in-her accordingly...'

  Ramage paused for breath, cursing the man who had originally (probably a hundred years ago) drawn up the wording, never considering the poor captain who had to recite them loud enough so that over the sound of the wind and the sea every man in a ship's company could hear them. Well, almost all the seamen were grinning now, and he continued.

  '... Strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said Calypso frigate to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective employments... and you likewise to observe the General Printed Instructions ... Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril; and for so doing this shall be your warrant...'

  That last sentence meant just what it said: lieutenants, post-captains and admirals had been court-martialled and broken for failure. The commission of course covered any orders given by superiors, and the admiral's actual orders had a vagueness about them explained partly by the lack of much knowledge about L'Espoir, her prisoners and her route, but also so worded that whatever happened (in case of failure) the admiral could not be blamed. Admiral Clinton had been careful to note that he and Ramage were 'outside the Channel limits', because within Channel limits only the Board of Admiralty could appoint captains.

  Ramage folded the orders and tucked them back inside his jersey: he had 'read himself in', he was (once again) commanding the Calypso. As soon as he had 'read himself in', Ramage reflected, a captain usually made a speech to the ship's company (threatening, inspiring, flatulent, boring - different styles). But all these men, all the names attached to the sea of faces surrounding him, knew him well: they had gone into action with him, boarded enemies beside him, pistol, cutlass or boarding pike in hand. Some had been blown up with him, most had seen him brought back unconscious from wounds. There were no words to say to such men.

  He just looked round slowly at all the men, raised his right hand in a salute that suddenly reminded him absurdly of a Roman emperor's gesture, and jumped down from the main capstan amid a swelling roar of cheers: 'Three cheers and a tiger,' and apparently led by Southwick.

  Well, he was back. Where was L'Espoirl

  The sea now had the is-it-mauve-or-is-it-purple? of the deep ocean, with white horses stippling the tops of a few wind waves while swell waves slid beneath them. The Calypso was pitching slightly and rolling heavily, the masts and their yards creaking and the bulging sails frequently flattening and slatting as a particularly quick roll suddenly spilled the wind for a minute or two.

  Astern the sun had lifted over the line of distant black cloud lying low and flat on the eastern horizon like a shadowy baulk of timber floating on the sea, and quickly the last of the stars were dazzled away and the sky overhead turned pale blue and cloudless.

  In a few hours they would be crossing that invisible line of latitude 23 degrees 27 minutes Nort
h, marking the Tropic of Cancer, and, Ramage reflected thankfully, at last they seemed to have picked up the Trade winds.

  For the previous few days it had been a damp and dreary ritual. During the night the wind dropped, leaving the Calypso wallowing in a confused sea which bounced her up and down like a doormat being shaken and made everything movable creak, rattle or bang. In Ramage's cabin even the wine glasses clinked in their rack as though toasting each other. Two drawers full of clothes which had not been shut properly skidded across the painted canvas that served as a carpet on the cabin sole, spilling silk and lisle stockings, handkerchiefs, stocks and shirts as though a dog was making a nest in a draper's storeroom.

  Dawn each day had revealed thunderstorms building up all round them, the lower clouds foaming upwards towards a higher layer which soon cut off the sun. From time to time Ramage had stood at the quarterdeck rail, picturing L'Espoir scores of miles ahead and sailing in different weather, the Trade winds sweeping her south and west to Cayenne, sails bulging, the French captain cheerful as he marked his chart and filled in his journal to record a fast passage from Brest.

  In the Calypso, Ramage, almost stifling with frustration, had looked up at the sails hanging down like heavy curtains, chafing against rigging, the foot of each one wearing against the mast since the sails of the King's ships were cut with a straight foot, not the deep curve favoured by merchant ships deliberately to avoid the chafe but reducing the area of the sail, something a ship of war could not afford.

  Clew up to save some of the chafe or furl and avoid any at all? Or leave them so that he would not lose a minute once the first gust of wind arrived? But when it came (this week or next) would the wind be just a nice gust or would it be a roaring blast from one of those great thunderstorms that would send topmen hurrying to furl as courses were hastily clewed up and Aitken doubled the number of men at the wheel so that four stood a chance of preventing the overpressed frigate broaching as she raced to leeward, barely under control?