by Dudley Pope
He was careful not to move his hand towards his sword.
Goddard stood up suddenly and warily, his eyes on Ramage. The young lieutenant's face was taut; the two scars over the right eyebrow were pale against the tanned skin and the deep-set brown eyes watched unblinking. Goddard realized he was fearless but tense, like an animal waiting to pounce, yet in complete control of himself.
Ramage's eyes challenged but his hand hadn't gone to his sword; there was nothing that could condemn him under the Articles of War. Goddard knew that he had gone too far: the young beggar was just calm and contemptuous, not cringing, and he could almost hear the metallic hiss of the sword leaving the scabbard. This wasn't his way of carrying on vendettas. He had been scores of miles away when the trial he had ordered was actually held in the Mediterranean. He liked things to be neat and tidy. Documents to be read, orderly numbered exhibits for the prosecution, and the evidence carefully arranged so that Lieutenant Lord Ramage would be found guilty on a capital charge.
Let's frighten him, Croucher had said; if he's frightened he's much more likely to make mistakes. All Croucher's advice had achieved was to frighten Goddard himself and get Ramage into a fighting mood. Goddard felt chilled, though his clothes were soaked with perspiration.
What now? Goddard needed time, and he also needed to reassure this young puppy; lull his fears and hopefully leave him complacent, so that when the blow did strike ...
But Croucher was not a coward and he had already sensed his Admiral's fear: like Ramage he had seen Goddard's eyes glancing from side to side and noticed the sudden leap from the chair at Ramage's reference to "tangible evidence".
Croucher said, "No doubt you'll soon provide any evidence required, Ramage."
His voice carried little conviction but he had to support his Admiral. If Goddard continued to rise up the flag list, Croucher's fortunes rose also. If Goddard fell from favour, Croucher was doomed to spend the rest of his life unemployed, on half-pay. Captain Aloysius Croucher, like any other officer sharing Goddard's favours, was a party to the vendetta against the Ramage family whether he liked it or not.
Ramage waited for Goddard to regain his voice, if not his poise.
"It's nine hundred miles to Jamaica, Ramage; I can only hope you carry out your duties satisfactorily for the whole of the voyage." The voice became more confident, as if he had remembered something else. "At Jamaica you will still be under my orders of course - Sir Pilcher, you know ..."
Ramage knew only too well. The Commander-in-Chief, Vice-Admiral Sir Pilcher Skinner, was a weak, fussy and cautious man who had spent a long career successfully dodging responsibility. He played the game of favourites so flagrantly that it had become a scandal even in an age when patronage was no crime. Many a good captain tried to avoid serving under him.
Goddard had been Sir Pilcher's flag captain several years ago, and Sir Pilcher had pushed him, so that when Goddard reached flag rank, Sir Pilcher had another young rear-admiral indebted to him - a young rear-admiral who, thanks to a wise marriage, had influence at Court. Goddard was said to be one of the few men who could get any sense out of the old King during his occasional bouts of insanity.
Now Goddard was on his way to join Sir Pilcher as his second-in-command. I'm caught right in the middle, Ramage thought ruefully. Well, there's one consolation - Sir Pilcher can only bring Goddard authority; he hasn't any brains or boldness to contribute.
Ramage relaxed as he stood between the two men. The cabin was hot again and the sun bright in the stern lights. There was nothing to fear for the moment - thanks to his unexpected counter-attack whatever Goddard and Croucher had planned for today was cancelled. But another plan would follow; something calculated to bring indignity and shame on the real target of the vendetta, John Uglow Ramage, 10th Earl of Blazey, Admiral of the White, his father and the scapegoat so many years ago for a government's inefficiency and stupidity, and eventually the victim of its viciousness.
A sharp knock at the door made the three men jump, and at Croucher's call the Marine sentry said: "Mr Yorke to see you, sir."
Ramage turned in time to catch a slight questioning lift of the Admiral's eyebrows and an anxious pursing of the Captain's thin lips. Both were wary of Yorke - and perhaps a little afraid? Surely that was too absurd...
"Tell him to come in," Croucher called.
Yorke walked in and nodded affably to Croucher before he saw Goddard.
"Ah, Admiral! Forgive me for interrupting you."
"Not a bit, Mr Yorke, not a bit; you're always a welcome visitor."
Only one thing brought that ingratiating note into Goddard's voice: talking to someone with power and influence.
"I was looking for Mr Ramage. He was kind enough to accept my invitation to dine on board the Topaz, and as he hadn't joined me at the gangway I thought he might have mistaken the day."
"Mr Ramage is a fortunate young man," Goddard said heartily. "Ramage - I hope you haven't let such an invitation slip your memory?"
"No, sir, I was going over as soon as you had finished - er, giving me my instructions."
"Very well - now, let's see: you've signed the receipt for your orders? Ah yes, Mr Croucher has it. Well, I think that's all. Keep a sharp lookout on your side of the convoy, whip in the stragglers - the usual sort of thing, and you know it all anyway!"
Ramage had to admit that Goddard carried it off very well, even down to voicing a hope that Yorke and his passengers would find time to dine on board the flagship when they reached Kingston - a hope Yorke acknowledged with a perfunctory nod.
Chapter Three
The black-hulled Topaz had a corn-yellow sheerstrake - to match her name, Ramage guessed - and was well equipped. There was plenty of new rope (the golden brown of manilla, the strongest and most expensive of all), the decks were scrubbed and the brasswork polished man-o'-war fashion. Large awnings rigged out with tight lacing were cleverly designed to give the maximum shade, folding chairs had their padded blue canvas seats and backs neatly fringed and tasselled, and the ship's company was working hard and was obviously cheerful. She looked like a newly launched "John Company" ship - usually only the Honourable East India Company could afford to keep their vessels so spotless.
Yorke had not spoken since leaving Croucher's cabin; he merely nodded when Ramage said he wanted to give a message to his coxswain waiting in one of the Triton's boats. Now, as Ramage stood on board by the mainmast and looked round the Topaz, Yorke suddenly grinned and asked: "Does she pass muster?"
"If she was a King's ship, I'd say yes; but since I haven't seen the rest of the Yorke fleet I'll reserve judgment."
"You won't be disappointed; they're all like the Topaz - identical, in fact. Masts, yards and sails are interchangeable, Navy fashion. With everything standardized for all six ships I save enormously on refits and routine maintenance. The only difference between the ships is the sheerstrake: each has her sheerstrake painted the colour of the stone for which she's named. Drives the painters mad, matching up. Everything else is the best I can get, including the ship's company. I pay them more than anyone else."
"But money doesn't always get good men," Ramage said dryly. "It often attracts the bad ones!"
"True, but I pick them carefully and my scale of wages works differently. When I get a good seaman I pay him well enough to stay with me. If some other ship offers him a berth as a petty officer, he's usually a lot better off staying with me as an able seaman."
"So you have bosuns serving as seamen - and masters serving as bosuns, presumably?"
"Damn nearly," Yorke said, laughing at Ramage's dig. "Do you know the current hull insurance rates, hurricane surcharge apart?"
"No - five per cent?"
"Anything from six to ten per cent. I pay four."
"An uncle who's an underwriter?" Ramage teased.
"I wish I had. No, when underwriters see my ships they know their only risks - apart from the perils of war - are extremes: perhaps an early hurricane, a month of fog in the Cho
ps of the Channel and so forth: not rotten masts going by the board when rotten cordage gives way, or sinking when butts of hull planks spring..."
"So by spending a pound more on rigging you can insure a hundred pounds' worth of hull for a premium of four pounds instead of six to ten."
"Exactly! And get the best freights: I let the others carry the bulky and dirty stuff. With a war on there's always plenty of freight valuable enough for shippers to pay extra to get safe delivery."
"I'm beginning to think you're a good businessman as well."
Yorke laughed. "A pretty compliment - I think. 'As well' as what?"
"As well as a good seaman."
"That's the finest compliment you can pay me."
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Very few shipowners are both! I've an idea more ships sink through perils caused by penny-pinching owners than through what the underwriters call 'the perils of the sea'."
Yorke nodded. Unfortunately Ramage was right - Yorke knew only too well that a penny-pinching shipowner employed a poorly paid master who in turn had to be penny-pinching, and was not above taking the opportunity to cheat his master and his men by way of revenge. Behind every master stood a dozen more, unemployed and eager to take his place. To keep his job, the master had to see that every old and tired rope was turned end for end to double its proper life-span, that ripped sails were repaired until there were often more patches than original cloth, and that his ship sailed with half the number of seamen needed to handle her properly. The owner, safe in his country house, knew that if there were not enough men to weigh the anchor in some distant port the Navy would send over men to help, if only to make sure the convoy sailed on time; and if the ship sprang a leak, the Navy's carpenters would set to work to keep her afloat. The convoy system had many advantages and many shipowners thought of it as getting some return on the taxes they had to pay.
"Come and inspect the cargo," he said to Ramage, who nodded politely but then exclaimed: "But they're all brass!"
"Every single one," Yorke said, as Ramage looked along the line of guns, and then at the small swivels mounted every few feet along the top of the bulwarks. "I had them recast a year or so ago. They were seventy years old, if a day."
"Any problems at the foundry?"
"No, they just add a little more tin - which is damnably expensive - because apparently it gets lost over the years and weakens the metal. But brass guns are an economy in the end - no rust, no constant chipping and lacquering."
"And you have good gunners?"
"No - hopeless!"
"But why?" Ramage asked in surprise. "What's the point of brass guns if... ?"
"My gunners are hopeless, my seamen are landsmen, my petty officers are nincompoops ... Until I know whether you're going to press any of them!"
"Then you can sleep in peace. I'm short but I haven't pressed a man out of this convoy."
"You must be one of the few King's ships that hasn't."
"I know, but I prefer quality to quantity."
"I wish some of your fellow captains felt the same way."
"Perhaps they do."
"True - but can they create quality?"
Ramage avoided answering - this was tender ground. He didn't intend telling the master of a merchantman of his contempt for the lack of leadership shown by some of his brother officers, however hospitable Yorke might be.
"Come along," Yorke said, "you must inspect the cargo."
Noticing Ramage's lack of enthusiasm and tendency to dawdle as he inspected the ship he added, "The female section of it are probably eaten up with impatience, and they won't be very flattered to find you were more interested in brass guns."
"Female section?" Ramage exclaimed. "Women? Hey, you showed me a false manifest! Since when have ladies rated as cargo?"
"Well, these do!"
Ramage was completely unprepared for the four people waiting in the airy saloon of the Topaz. Hehad expected a portly planter and his wife, a colonel or two and perhaps a general and his strident spouse, all with complexions matching the highly polished mahogany panelling and figures in keeping with the well-padded chairs and settees.
With easy grace Yorke bowed to the two men and two women.
"May I present Lord Ramage?"
Ramage had time only to glance at the men and notice that one of the women was young before Yorke completed the introductions : "M'sieur and Madame St Brieuc, their daughter Madame de Dinan, and M'sieur St Cast."
"We are honoured," St Brieuc said as they shook hands and Ramage kissed the ladies' hands. "Surely you are the young man who captured the privateers near here? Mr Yorke has been telling us about it."
As he spoke, in almost perfect English with an accent that only hinted at his French nationality, Ramage tried to think why the names had a curious - even spurious - ring about them.
Yorke answered St Brieuc's question. "The very man."
To Ramage he said gaily, "You might as well know you're going to have to sing for your supper!"
"Sing for your supper?"
The daughter looked puzzled as she repeated the words toherself, lowering the fan which had been hiding most of her face since her eyes had first met Ramage's a few moments earlier.
Her voice was little more than a deep murmur with a heavy French accent, to Ramage it seemed he sensed her words rather than heard them; an intimate voice that brought a tightening in his thighs.
He was brought back to the reality of the saloon by Yorke. "An expression, ma'am - it means..."
"That instead of paying for my dinner with money, I perform some service instead," Ramage completed the sentence, embarrassed that his brief reverie might have been noticed. "Entertain you with a song, for instance."
"Or stand on his head, or juggle with a dozen wine glasses," Yorke added.
Ramage saw the joking had misfired because the girl was now looking embarrassed and said: "The juggling - I do not understand why..."
"My dear," her father said, "Mr Yorke was simply telling his lordship that we hope he'll tell us of his adventures. A warning, as it were!"
Madame de Dinan had large brown eyes set in a small oval face. She was about five feet tall, and her almost classic French beauty was saved from the coldness of statuesque perfection by the warm brown eyes and the wide, sensual mouth. She's married, Ramage thought sadly; all that store of love and passion reserved for someone else...
Suddenly he remembered that St Cast and St Brieuc were tiny fishing villages tucked behind the rocks and reefs of the Breton coast, not far from St Malo and south of the Channel Islands. They were only a few miles from each other and he could picture that section of the chart, with Dinan a few miles inland. So these people were probably travelling under assumed names, which was hardly surprising since they were obviously Royalist refugees.
St Cast spoke for the first time. A large, florid man with white hair and heavy features which could be friendly or haughty with little change of expression, he had an unexpectedly high-pitched voice, but he enunciated every word precisely, not through pedantry but as though accustomed to giving instructions.
"Are you coming to Jamaica with us?"
When Ramage said he was, Yorke took the opportunity of asking: "What was all that nonsense with the Admiral?"
"I don't think I'm one of his favourites."
"I'd guessed that much. Hope I did the right thing, dragging you from the cabin like that."
"Not only was it the right thing to do, but you timed it perfectly!"
"They looked like two cats deprived of their mouse," Yorke said. "A fat cat, a thin cat and a choice mouse."
Ramage laughed and then, before he could stop himself, commented bitterly, "But only a temporary deprivation."
Yorke turned to his guests and said, with what Ramage thought was unnecessary gaiety, "While I was on board the flagship I saw that the Lieutenant was also out of favour with Admiral Goddard. I'm not betraying naval secrets because about fifty other masters noticed the same thing!"
>
While Ramage puzzled over the "also", St Brieuc - a small man with the profile of a thinner Julius Caesar - was inspecting his nails. "A temporary affair, I trust," he said politely. "A temporary fall from grace ... perhaps a passing cloud?"
Ramage saw that everyone was curious. Well, there was no need to keep secret something of which the whole Navy was aware.
"No, hardly a passing cloud; it's as permanent as - as the Minquiers."
St Cast's heavy features froze. He glanced at St Brieuc, as if asking a question, and received an almost imperceptible nod in reply.
"I see you have guessed that we are travelling incognito. I -"
Ramage flushed and held up his hand. "M'sieur - the allusion was quite accidental. Your names - the villages are familiar because I've served in a ship based on the Channel Islands. They must have been in the back of my mind when I tried to think of some - some symbol of permanence, like the Minquiers Shoal."
"No harm is done," St Cast assured him. "We simply -"
Again Ramage held up his hand to silence him, embarrassed but assured.
"If you are travelling incognito I am sure there's a good reason, and in wartime the less one knows the less one can be forced to reveal if captured..."
The girl shuddered and her mother reached out to touch her arm with a reassuring gesture. Ramage and Yorke tactfully glanced away but St Brieuc, standing more erect, said with quiet pride: "Maxine has reason to know what you mean: the men of the Revolutionary Tribunal tortured her for three days to force her toreveal where in Brittany we were hiding."
Ramage said quickly, "Your presence here proves that they failed."
"Yes," her father said simply, "but she'll carry the scars of their handiwork to her grave."
The girl suddenly glanced up with a smile, snapped her fan shut and, pointing it at Ramage, said gaily, "You have to sing for your supper!"
Grasping the chance to brighten the atmosphere, Ramage gave a sweeping bow. "Madame has only to name the song, and you'll hear singing that will make a frog envious!"
"The song of the Triton."