Ramage's Prize

by Dudley Pope

  “What the devil can a dozen men do?”

  “They might—er, encourage the rest to do something.”

  That was true enough; if the Post Office men were shy of the smell of powder, at least men picked by Ramage would stiffen ‘em up a bit.

  “Very well, if you can get the Postmaster to agree to using a dozen of your men …”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ramage tried to make sure he would remember the exact phrase Sir Pilcher had used.

  If the Postmaster agrees, Sir Pilcher thought to himself, that’s his affair. Whatever happens after that is the concern of the Joint Postmasters-General. It won’t hurt those lofty fellows in Lombard Street to have their share of responsibility; they’re a sight too free in trying to push it on to other people’s shoulders.

  Sir Pilcher relaxed as Ramage left the room. The Postmaster would never agree to the lad’s crazy plan, but if he did … He shrugged his shoulders. Really, when the Cabinet decided to pass the responsibility to the Admiralty, they had absolutely no idea what it meant in practice.

  Once outside Admiralty House, Ramage paused in the blazing sun and scribbled down Sir Pilcher’s phrase, “Very well, if you can get the Postmaster to agree to using a dozen of your men.” He folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket.

  The Deputy Postmaster arrived punctually at the Royal Albion next morning, and even before he sat down at the breakfast table Ramage thought he detected a change in the man. Was it nervousness? Apprehension? His movements seemed jerky; the fingers of his big hands opened and closed, as if he was unsure of himself.

  After the usual greetings both men remained silent until the waiters had served them and moved back to stand by the kitchen door, as though on guard. As Smith began eating, Ramage asked: “What news, Mr Smith?”

  “About as bad as it could be. Seems that Lord Auckland delayed the Lady Arabella’s departure so she did leave after the Hydra. His Lordship tells me that news came in that two Lisbon packets have been lost, and the packet due from here didn’t arrive in Falmouth, either.”

  “And news of the war?”

  “Nothing fresh. The French hold out in Malta, though Sir Horatio Nelson has a squadron at Naples and is blockading them. The Czar of Russia is showing more signs of friendship with this man Bonaparte. But no great battles—you knew about Luneville, of course?”

  Ramage nodded: the Austrian defeat meant the end of Britain’s last ally; from now on she was alone in the war against France and Spain. “The Lisbon packets,” he said, helping himself to more fried bacon. “Any pattern? Where were they lost?”

  “No pattern,” Smith said. “At least, Lord Auckland did not mention any, except that they were homeward-bound. One was taken within sight of Porto, so she’d barely cleared Lisbon. The other was only fifty miles from the Scillies.”

  “The weather?”

  Smith wrinkled his brow, obviously casting his mind back over Lord Auckland’s letter.

  “The first one—light winds. The second—yes, it was blowing more than half a gale from the east, because one of the privateer’s boats capsized.”

  More than half a gale from the east. Ramage could picture the packet beating up to the chops of the Channel when she sighted the privateer. Yet she should have been able to turn and run …

  “What were the casualties in the packets?”

  “None in the first,” Smith said miserably, as though he knew only too well that it belied any serious attempt to avoid capture, “and one wounded in the second, according to the French newspapers.”

  “But they managed to sink the mails before hauling down their flags?”

  “Oh yes—there’s not been a single mail taken by the enemy yet.”

  “Not one that’s been reported, anyway,” Ramage said sourly, buttering some toast.

  “I resent that Mr Ramage: quite uncalled for.” Yet Smith’s voice carried no conviction.

  “We need to be realistic,” Ramage said sharply. “A captain in the Royal Navy surrendering his ship in half a gale with only one man wounded would face some very unpleasant questions at the court of inquiry.”

  “How can you say that? You’ve no experience of surrendering a ship.”

  “I have,” Ramage said, passing the toast rack to Smith.

  “With more than one wounded, I presume.”

  “Yes, two-thirds of the ship’s company dead or wounded, and the ship sinking,” Ramage said coldly. “More tea?”

  “I’m sorry,” Smith said contritely. “Was that your first command?”

  “I started off the battle as the Fifth Lieutenant. The Captain and the rest of the officers were killed before it ended. I took command because I was the senior officer left alive.”

  Ramage could have said much more, but decided against it. How could he explain to a Postmaster that he was contemptuous of the French and Spanish habit of firing a single broadside pour l’honneur du pavillon before surrendering? It was a charade, a fraud, a polite gesture. Any captain who gave a damn whether he had fired a single broadside (taking care to cause no casualties, for obvious reasons) or surrendered without firing a shot was only slightly less a fraud than the men who accepted such a code of behaviour.

  “The Scilly Isles one,” Smith said. “You feel she should have put up more of a fight?”

  “No, since I wasn’t there I couldn’t make a judgement. But I’m certain she could have made a greater effort to escape—after all, the Post Office has told commanders to run when they can, and with half a gale from the east the whole Atlantic was open to her.”

  “I wondered about that,” Smith admitted.

  “Well, what did you hear last night from the commander of the packet?”

  “Captain Stevens reports a completely uneventful voyage of 43 days. He sighted two frigates south-west of the Scillies, and then nothing until he met a British sloop-of-war east of Barbados.”

  “Has he any ideas—or suspicions?”

  Smith shook his head. “He says there are so many enemy privateers around that the packets are bound to be captured.”

  “Yet he came through safely—and saw only British warships.”

  “It’s only the exceptional case that gets through these days.”

  “I know,” Ramage said soothingly. “Captain Stevens is probably upset over the losses anyway.”

  “Philosophical, I should say.”

  “Yet the other commanders and masters must be friends of his—after all, they’re probably all Falmouth men.”

  “Yes, but he tells me the French are still regularly exchanging prisoners fairly quickly.”

  Ramage signalled to a waiter and ordered more coffee for himself and tea for Smith.

  “So Commander Stevens is not much help.”

  “I’m afraid not. Have you—er, made any plans?”

  “Yes, and I want to discuss them with you.”

  Smith leaned forward attentively, pushing aside a plate.

  “I’m proposing to sail in this packet,” Ramage said.

  “I rather anticipated that.”

  “And I’ll need three other berths: four in all.”

  “Very well: that leaves six remaining.”

  “Have any Naval officers applied?”

  “No: eleven Army officers, and nineteen planters and businessmen.”

  “Who were the Army officers?”

  “A captain of the 31st Foot—and a lieutenant from—oh dear, I can’t remember all the regiments.”

  “Could you give a berth to the one that seems the steadiest and leave the others empty?”

  “Of course,” Smith said eagerly, “That’ll be the Captain from the 31st, name of Wilson. By the way, don’t forget you have to provide your own food and bedding.”

  “I haven’t forgotten Captain Stevens makes a profit from me of fifty guineas without having to provide a slice of bread or a pillow-case.” A sudden thought struck him. “I presume that we pay when we arrive in Falmouth?”

  “Oh no! You settle with me
on behalf of the Captain before the ship sails!”

  “Why?” Ramage asked flatly. “Tradition?”

  “No—the commanders insisted on that as soon as the packets started being captured. I think they like to send the drafts home by a merchantman in convoy: it’s safer than having it on board the packet and risking capture.”

  “The gallant commanders can’t lose,” Ramage said sourly, and then regretted the remark. Smith flushed but said nothing.

  “When are the passengers supposed to board?”

  “When do you propose she sails?” Smith asked, and the tone of his voice assured Ramage that the Postmaster now accepted his authority.

  “Would noon the day after tomorrow be normal?”

  “Quite normal. If you’d asked me, that’s when I’d have suggested. It gives Captain Stevens enough time to provision the ship.”

  “And give his men some shore leave,” Ramage said casually. Smith grinned. “Yes—a few hours to dispose of their ventures.”

  Ramage realized he should have remembered that that alone would have ensured the men came on shore.

  “Well now,” Smith said affably, as a waiter set down a teapot and a coffee-pot, “can you and your people be on board by nine o’clock in the morning? Your baggage can be stowed and you’ll be settled in before she sails.”

  “Excellent,” Ramage said. It would fit in perfectly with his timetable, and give him time to look over the packet and her crew before she sailed.

  “The packetsmen,” Ramage added casually. “How is their leave arranged?”

  “Captain Stevens usually gives half of them a few hours the first day, and half get the night on shore.”

  “A dozen men at a time—oh well, they have Protections, too, lucky fellows; they can enjoy themselves without worrying about a press-gang picking them up!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  HIS Majesty’s packet brig Lady Arabella was on the special Post Office mooring right in front of Kingston itself, and the following evening four seamen were watching her from a waterfront bar. They had moved one of the two tables in the tawdry saloon to a spot where they could get the best view, tipped the potman lavishly and told him to stay away until they called him.

  The bar was otherwise empty; in fact it was unlikely that three dozen seamen could be found in all the bars within two hundred yards of Harbour Street and not ten more in all the brothels. The reason was simple—the same four men had visited a few of the bars earlier and mentioned that there would soon be a hot press out because one of the ships of the line had just received sailing orders. It took only a few minutes for the word to spread among the men who belonged to the few merchantmen in the anchorage, and they vanished like summer mist at sunrise.

  Now the only seamen in the city’s bars were those with Protections tucked in their pockets or money belts. Some Protections, issued by the Admiralty, declared their holders to be protected from being pressed because of their jobs—ferrymen, for instance, who were often disabled seamen for whom a Protection was the nearest thing to a pension they were likely to get. Other Protections had been issued by the Government of the United States—or, rather, its Customs officers—and declared their bearers to be American citizens.

  Although the documents issued by the Admiralty were rare, the American Protections were comparatively common: the Customs officer in any American port readily issued one to any man who swore on oath that he was an American citizen. There was nothing to prevent a man collecting one in each of a dozen different ports, and then selling the other eleven at a handsome profit. British seamen considered a change of name a small price to pay for immunity from the press-gangs.

  One of the four men sitting at the table owned a genuine American Protection which was probably unique in Kingston that day because it truly described its owner as an American citizen: Thomas Jackson, a lean man with a cadaverous face and receding sandy hair, had indeed been born in Charleston, South Carolina, forty years earlier, and thus became an American at the age of twenty. The document—with the American eagle printed right across the top and signed with a flourish by “James Bennett, Collector of Customs for Charleston”—was now yellowed and foxed by tropical heat, creased and stained at the edges with salt water.

  Thomas Jackson had carried it with him for more than three years, a genuine document which would stop a press-gang hauling him on board a British warship or ensure that an American consul would subsequently secure his release. Yet for more than three years Thomas Jackson had served in the Royal Navy, and for most of that time he had been the captain’s coxswain. For nearly two years his Captain had been Lieutenant Ramage, and between the two men, so different in rank, age, temperament and background, existed that indefinable bond between men who have shared the same dangers and know that a French round-shot did not care whether it knocked the head off an earl’s heir or the son of a Carolina woodsman.

  Two of the other men, Stafford and Rossi, had served with Lieutenant Ramage for the same length of time; only the fourth, a coloured seaman named William Maxton, who came from Grenada at the southern end of the Windward Islands, was a comparative newcomer.

  Will Stafford was a true Cockney, having been born in Bridewell Lane. He was now 27 years old and stockily built with a round and cheery face and curly brown hair.

  An observant onlooker might have been puzzled by his delicate hands (the skin now coarsened by hauling on ropes) and a habit of rubbing thumb and forefinger together, as though feeling material. Before being swept into the Navy’s net Stafford had been a locksmith, not a tailor, and he made no secret of the fact that much of his work on locks had been done by his sensitive fingers at the dead of night, unrequested and unpaid, though rarely unrewarded.

  Alberto Rossi, nicknamed Rosey by his shipmates, was correctly described in muster books as having been born in Genoa and was twenty years old, plump and black-haired with flamboyant good looks. Like many Genovesi, Rossi spoke good English: hundreds of men from that great seaport had to seek employment in the ships of other nations because there were too few ships flying the flag of the Republic of Genoa, which had recently been occupied by the French and renamed the Ligurian Republic. Rossi maintained a bantering reticence about his reason for signing on in a British ship of war that happened to be in the harbour, although admitting it was the fastest and certainly the safest way of leaving the city without being asked embarrassing questions.

  Although the other three had formed a tightly knit group under Jackson’s leadership, and many times had risked their lives with their Captain, they had accepted Maxton when he joined the ship because of his cheerful intelligence. In turn, Ramage had come to realize that he could rely on the quartet. In common with most of the men of the Royal Navy they gave their loyalty not to a flag or a vague ideal, but to an individual they could respect. It was a spontaneous and natural loyalty; not the loyalty demanded by the harshly worded Articles of War.

  “Jacko,” Stafford said suddenly, glancing round to make sure the potman was out of earshot, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand, “make sure I stay sober.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “But I do. I worry all the time. Just supposing these beggars don’t come on shore from the packet. Say they don’t get leave?”

  “They will,” Jackson said reassuringly. “You saw the first half going back on board twenty minutes ago.”

  “Aye, and three sheets in the wind, the lot o’ them! Supposin’ the Captain decides he don’t want the rest of his men blind drunk, and belays their leave?”

  “Then we’ll go on board and pull ‘em out like winkles. Got a bent pin?”

  Rossi tapped his mug of beer. “Seriously, Jacko, is a good question. Accidente—everything depends on it!”

  “It’s a good question all right,” the American said calmly, “but if they don’t get leave and come on shore, we can’t do anything: it’s as simple as that. You saw the first half had their run on shore, just like Mr Ramage said, so why
should anything stop the second half? There’s plenty of time for them to get their twelve hours before the Arabella sails at noon tomorrow.”

  “All right,” Stafford conceded, “let’s say they’re here and we’ve got ‘em all stupid drunk. Where’s this bleedin’ crimp supposed to meet us, so we can hand ‘em over to him?”

  “Down the other end of Harbour Street. At the Sign of the Pelican. He owns it.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  “Yes, he’s got only half the money and doesn’t get the rest until morning. And I swore Maxie would slit his throat if he tried any nonsense.”

  “But a dozen drunken packetsmen,” Stafford persisted. “Where the ‘ell is he going to lock ‘em up safe?”

  Jackson sighed. “He’s got a small building out the back like a big cell. Has a mahogany door on it two inches thick and a padlock as big as a melon. They’ll be half drunk by the time we invite them along to the Pelican, and there it’s free drinks on us. As they pass out we pass them out to the crimp who locks ‘em up in his cell. I had a good look at it—they can shout until their tongues wear out and no one’ll hear them.”

  “Like a purser’s storeroom,” Stafford commented, “only he sells seamen to shipmasters!”

  “And then?” Rossi prompted Jackson.

  “With all the packetsmen locked up for the night we sleep at the Pelican, and the other eight of our lads join us with their seabags. Then at nine o’clock tomorrow morning we lurk around the landing stage and wait for the word from Mr Ramage to go out to the Arabella and take the packetsmen’s places.”

  Stafford shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t like the idea of trusting that crimp.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Jackson said contemptuously. “He’ll do anything for money, and I’ve got it. He doesn’t get the other half until we leave the Pelican to board the packet, and he’s only to keep that cell door locked until he sees her sailing out past Fort Charles. Why, he’s doing this sort of thing all the time, only usually he has to find the drunks to lock in his cell. Then he has to drag ‘em off to a merchant ship that’s short of men, get them signed on and collect his money from the Captain before they’ve sobered up. I bet he’s selling a couple of dozen men a day once a convoy starts forming up here.”