by Dudley Pope
When Yorke had heard that Ramage’s father was a lifelong friend of the present First Lord of the Admiralty, he’d assumed it would have assured Ramage plum jobs and certainly command of a frigate within the next two or three years. But no, it had meant nothing of the sort. Instead it had led, a few months ago, to Lord Spencer picking Ramage for a job where nothing would be said if he succeeded, but if he failed he’d have been sacrificed as a scapegoat in the same way that his father had been sacrificed by an earlier government.
Why then had Lord Spencer chosen Ramage? Yorke had puzzled over the question for many weeks, but now, while he sipped his coffee and tried to get enthusiastic for dry toast, which even the swarm of flies seemed to ignore, he thought he knew the answer. It had been a tricky job—an impossible one on the face of it. There was a chance that Ramage was the only lieutenant available at that moment that Lord Spencer thought stood even a slight chance of succeeding. But the Navy didn’t lack bright young lieutenants. No, the answer was probably much simpler. Since Lord Spencer had known that failure would mean complete professional ruin, he’d probably cold-bloodedly chosen Ramage because if he failed he could spend the rest of his life running the family estate, wealthy if not contented, heir to one of the oldest earldoms in the country. For all too many young officers from less fortunate families, professional ruin would entail spending the rest of their lives as haberdashers’ assistants.
Yorke glanced at Ramage, who was still staring at the letter. His eyes were bloodshot, his face taut and strained, and he was hunched in the chair as though thoroughly weary: not the weariness of a few hours’ exertion but the weariness following months of strain. He was sure Ramage had never thought of Lord Spencer’s action in that light—and to tell him would not help him at the moment. Yet ironically Ramage had successfully carried out the orders—his presence in the Caribbean proved that—but now, instead of reporting to the Commander-in-Chief with his own ship, he had had to report that the Triton brig had been lost on a coral reef after being dismasted in a hurricane.
It didn’t matter that the only ship of war that survived the hurricane had been a line-of-battle ship, that three frigates had actually sunk, that Yorke’s own ship had been tossed up on the reef with the Triton. All that mattered was that, without a ship, Ramage was entirely dependent upon the generosity of the Commander-in-Chief, and Sir Pilcher Skinner did not view him with favour … He could not be blamed, given the way the Navy functioned, if he just shrugged his shoulders and sent Ramage back to England …
Which, thought Yorke as he poured himself more coffee, makes that letter folded beside Ramage’s plate even more intriguing …
“You’re serious about a berth in a Post Office packet?” Yorke asked.
When Ramage nodded, the young shipowner said, “We might have a long wait. The last one is two weeks overdue, and the next due any time now, but some privateer’s probably snapped her up.”
“There’ll be a long waiting list of passengers.”
“Not on your life!” Yorke exclaimed. “Very few people are so anxious to get to England that they want to risk their necks before it’s known what’s happening.”
“What do ‘they’ suspect is happening?” Ramage asked quizzically.
Yorke grinned. “‘They’ are positive there are just too many French privateers, and ‘they’ include Mr Smith, the Deputy Postmaster-General, who is in charge of Foreign Mails. I spent half an hour with him yesterday trying to arrange a passage.”
“Presumably you’ll have the whole packet to yourself.”
“No. I didn’t even get round to asking the fare. There are simply no packets. And all the Navy’s fault, if you listen to the Deputy Postmaster-General. He blames the Navy entirely—or Sir Pilcher, anyway.”
Ramage grimaced, irritated at finding himself making excuses for Sir Pilcher. “What does Mr Smith expect—a frigate to escort each packet?”
“No, just more frigates patrolling the more obvious places where privateers can seize the packets after they sail from here.”
“I can’t imagine privateers lurking in obvious places, can you?”
Yorke signalled to the steward to bring more coffee and turned to Ramage. “To be quite honest, I can’t imagine them finding and capturing one packet after another in the middle of the Atlantic either … Perhaps an occasional one. No, I’m sure they’re capturing them just as soon as they get through the Windward Passage—within a couple of days of leaving here, in other words; just as soon as they pass out of the Caribbean into the Atlantic.”
“Give Sir Pilcher a little credit,” Ramage protested mildly. “He has a standing patrol across the Windward Passage and well out into the Atlantic, and no privateer’s been sighted anywhere in the area for weeks.”
“You seem well informed. Have you any theories?”
“No, none at all.” Yorke noticed that Ramage’s eyes glanced down at the letter before he added, “I wish I had.”
“Has anyone?” Yorke asked flatly.
Shrugging his shoulders, Ramage said ruefully. “If he has, he’s keeping quiet about it in case Sir Pilcher gives him the job.”
“What job?” Yorke asked innocently.
“The job of delivering the mail,” Ramage said as the steward brought Yorke more coffee. “Albert, I think I’ll have some more, too. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted. What’s the secret?”
The man smiled happily. “A pinch of salt in the pot, sah.”
“Just salt?” Yorke asked doubtfully.
“Nuthin’ else, sah,” the steward said solemnly. “The beans must be fresh ground, of course.”
When the steward had gone back to the kitchen, Yorke said casually, “Any news from Admiralty House?”
“Nothing definite,” Ramage said, his eyes again dropping the letter.
“Any hint as to whether you’re in or out of favour?”
Again Ramage shrugged his shoulders and, after a minute’s hesitation, passed the letter to Yorke. “Sir Pilcher sent this last night, I can accept or refuse.”
Yorke’s brow wrinkled as he unfolded the sheet of paper. “Is that usual—having the option, as it were?”
Ramage shook his head. “On the contrary, it’s—” He broke off, not wanting to influence Yorke’s reaction.
The other man read slowly and finally glanced up. “Interesting.”
“You think so?” Ramage asked sarcastically, for once irritated by Yorke’s flippant manner.
“Interesting, significant—and suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
“Yes. I don’t know quite what it is, but I don’t like the option. Surely admirals don’t give lieutenants options, do they?”
Ramage shook his head. “I’ve spent most of the night trying to guess what’s behind it.”
Yorke stirred his coffee. “I begin to wonder why Sir Pilcher almost labours the point that you have the option. Let’s go through the letter slowly.”
He spread the letter on the table and ran his finger under the first few lines. “Well, after all the usual routine phrases, he tells you that there have been heavy and unexpected losses among the Post Office packets coming from England and returning. ‘Unexpected’? Any clue in that word?”
“That struck me, too, but I don’t think so. There were very few losses in the first years of the war; now they’ve suddenly increased. Obviously it was unexpected …”
“Very well, he goes on to say that increased frigate patrols off the coasts of Cuba, Hispaniola and Puerto Rico prove that far from there being more French and Spanish privateers, fewer than half seem to be operating this year compared with last. Do you believe that?”
Ramage smiled. “In the previous couple of years, frigate captains made small fortunes from head-money alone. Privateers have large crews, and at five pounds a head, plus prize-money … There’s no doubt the French and Spanish in the Caribbean are now short of both ships and men for privateering.”
“In the Caribbean,” Yorke emphasized, “and
perhaps for a few hundred miles out into the Atlantic. All right,” he said in response to an impatient gesture from Ramage, “we’ll leave privateers based in Europe out of it for the moment. Now, Sir Pilcher says that while he has no reason to think the packets are being lost on this side of the Atlantic, he has decided to make an investigation … that seems reasonable enough. However, he goes on to say, he is extremely short of ships, but ‘because you are at present unemployed by virtue of having lost the Triton brig,’ he is prepared to place the investigation in your hands as an alternative to you returning to the United Kingdom.”
Yorke read the passage again. “It’s rather like blackmail.”
“No, he’s quite right. I haven’t a ship now, and the court of inquiry into the loss of the Triton has cleared me of blame, so there’s nothing more to be done about that. If Sir Pilcher has no appointment for me, I return to England. That’s the routine.”
“It still seems odd,” Yorke persisted. “I can’t believe he’s so short of ships that he can’t spare anyone else to make this investigation. It’s obviously the most urgent job he and the Navy face! It’s not just Jamaica that’s affected: there’s Barbados, Grenada, St Lucia, St Vincent, Martinique, Antigua, Tortola—dozens of ‘em! The whole West Indies must be in turmoil, cut off from England in both directions, yet he …”
Ramage nodded wearily. “Exactly! I can imagine him passing the job to the captain of one of his 74-gun ships, and giving him three or four frigates as well. Or even choosing one of his favourite captains and sending him off with a couple of frigates. But …”
“But you can’t see why he’d pick a lieutenant who commands nothing more than a cabin trunk. Neither can I. This sheet of paper,” Yorke said, holding up the letter contemptuously, “does not tell a tenth of the story. When do you have to give your reply?”
Ramage took out his watch. “In an hour’s time, and I’m damned if I know what to say.”
“What’s in favour of accepting?”
Ramage picked up one of the heavy knives on the table and balanced it horizontally on a finger. “Nothing really, except that it might be amusing to try to find out what is happening to the packets—assuming Sir Pilcher is merely being silly, not cunning.”
“Suppose he is being cunning and there’s something else involved?”
“I hope I’ll find out in time to get out of it.”
“That means you’ll accept?”
Yorke spoke so sharply that Ramage glanced up in surprise. “You think I should refuse?”
Ramage did not hide his disappointment when Yorke nodded. Despite the vagaries of the letter, he had hoped that somehow it would get him back to sea again. The heat and smell of Jamaica and the noise and bustle of Kingston were little to his liking. Moreover the heavy social pressures brought on eligible young officers by anxious mothers seeking matches for their dumpy daughters drove most young men to the rum bottle before long.
But now Yorke was grinning. “Refuse—and then wait. See what else the old boy has to offer!”
“Bargain?” Ramage exclaimed, obviously horrified.
“Now, now! Don’t use those nasty tradesmen’s words. There must be a good reason why Sir Pilcher wants you to undertake this job, when he has dozens of other officers to choose from. Once you know why he picked you instead of some post captain, you’ll be in a better position to make up your mind.”
There was much in what Yorke said: he needed to know Sir Pilcher’s motives. “But supposing he’s being straightforward? It’s unlikely, but what then?”
“Up to you,” Yorke said banteringly. “It looks as though we’re all stuck in Jamaica until the packets start getting through or a convoy assembles in a couple of months. If you want to go home in a packet you’d better solve the mystery!”
Ramage glanced at his watch and said as he slipped it back in his pocket, “I’d better get along to Admiralty House.”
“Present him with an ultimatum,” Yorke said.
“Force majeure,” Ramage said, “it’s quicker and more certain than negotiation.”
CHAPTER TWO
RAMAGE was thankful the large waiting-room at Admiralty House was cool and comfortably furnished; probably one of the coolest spots in Kingston since Jamaica was already sweltering in what promised to be the hurricane season’s hottest day so far. There was hardly a breath of wind, and Ramage pitied any captain under orders to sail—it would be a case of out boats and tow …
The white-painted jalousies over the windows let in sufficient light while their slats threw striped shadows on the walls and kept out the sun’s harsh glare. The floors were cool marble and four rattan armchairs were grouped in the middle of the room round a small, highly polished baywood table whose legs stood incongruously in shallow, metal trays of water: part of the constant war waged against white ants in the Tropics.
The ceiling was high, adding to the sense of coolness, and there was a large portrait in a wide, matching gilt frame, carefully hung in the precise centre of each of three walls. Ramage saw that the one opposite the window, like the centre panel of a triptych, was of Sir Pilcher Skinner, with—presumably—his plump wife on the wall to his right. Was the young woman on the other wall a daughter?
All the artist’s skill with brush and pigments could not conceal the fact that Sir Pilcher’s legs and neck were too short for his plump body, nor disguise the fat and sagging cheeks eventually tapering and merging into several chins which sat on his lace stock like slices of wet bread. He was depicted standing foursquare on the quarterdeck, his uniform a splendid array of blue, white and gold, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword and right hand holding a telescope tucked under his arm. Few people, however, would think the pinkness of the cheeks came from the rays of a setting sun; that colour and texture of watered silk came only from owning a good cellar and employing a chef who took a pride in his work.
Yet the face was curiously cheerful; Sir Pilcher looked like a man who could enjoy a good joke almost as much as a well-roasted saddle of lamb or a fine claret. The artist had been clever (and for Ramage it redeemed an otherwise undistinguished portrait) in catching the Admiral’s eyes.
Although the eyes could be humorous on occasion, Ramage guessed that they could also be as shifty as a dishonest money-lender’s when Sir Pilcher was being forced into making a decision or taking responsibility. Yet with no fleet in the Caribbean, making minor and mostly administrative decisions was his only major task.
Ramage touched the letter in his pocket, as if seeking some link between the paper and the portrait staring fixedly at him. If he accepted, his orders would be drawn up with extreme care by a man who wanted to get the most done while assuming the least responsibility. Sir Pilcher wanted a lowly lieutenant to find an answer (which had presumably eluded the resources of the Post Office and several ministers of state in Whitehall) but at the same time was giving him no authority. The Admiral was no fool, and Ramage guessed that the letter represented the first time he had ever given a mere lieutenant the option of backing out; of politely declining. If Sir Pilcher thought he was being magnanimous (which was unlikely) to the mere lieutenant it was rather like staring cross-eyed into the muzzle of a highwayman’s pistol on Blackheath and being given the option of “Your money or your life!”
The rattan of the chair squeaked in protest as Ramage stretched back. The captain who had been the sole occupant of the waiting-room when Ramage arrived, was now with the Admiral, and since he commanded the Hydra frigate, which had arrived from England only a day or two ago and was about to sail again, Ramage was going to have a long wait.
He wriggled his feet: the heat made them swell so that his long boots were tight and uncomfortable. He noticed the Royal Albion Hotel’s shoeblack had expended a lot of energy on them, but not much skill; the leather was lacklustre—the fellow had not learned to use the minimum of polish and a bit of spit.
Let’s sit comfortably in Admiralty House and look at everything from Sir Pilcher’s point of view,
Ramage thought to himself. Sir Pilcher owed absolutely nothing to Lieutenant Ramage; on the contrary. From Sir Pilcher’s point of view …
“Ramage,” a smooth voice said at the door, and he turned to see Henderson, a thin man wearing a clerical collar who seemed to combine the roles of Sir Pilcher’s chaplain and secretary. “The Admiral will see you now.”
The chair creaked as if in relief as Ramage stood, straightened his stock, gave the scabbard of his sword a tug and wished he had drunk less coffee: it was swilling around in his stomach, now unpleasantly chilly and uncomfortable. He was nervous; there was no denying that. For all his offhand talk to Sidney Yorke, the fact remained that the word of a British admiral could end a young lieutenant’s career as effectively as a whole broadside from a French ship of the line.
Clack, clack, clack—he found himself treading heavily on the marble floor. Whistling in the dark, Ramage? Trying to keep your spirits up? Don’t forget, Sir Pilcher may simply be putting out an anchor to windward: he knows a great deal about the working of the collective mind of Their Lordships …
The portrait was good: as he looked at the subject again Ramage realized that he had underrated the artist, who had been as subtle as he dare while still being sure of getting his fee. The Admiral rose from behind his desk in a movement halfway between the majestic and the ponderous, and pointed to rattan armchairs grouped round another small table, a replica of the arrangement in the waiting-room.
“Ah, my boy, let’s sit here and be comfortable,” he said affably.
He motioned Ramage to one side of the table and sat down opposite in a chair which groaned loudly in protest.
“I’ve been giving Captain Jeffries of the Hydra frigate his orders: he sails for Antigua in a couple of days, lucky fellow.”