by Dudley Pope
Ramage was weary. As soon as he could leave the ship to Southwick he had gone below to talk to the wounded, while on deck the dead were being sewn into hammocks ready for burial. After that he had gone to his cabin to write his report to Admiral Goddard—potentially the most dangerous part of the night’s activities.
At daylight, with a clear horizon, the guns were secured and head-pumps rigged to scrub and holystone the deck. Large patches which had shown up black in the early light had finally revealed themselves as dried blood.
As they scrubbed, Stafford asked Jackson: “Will they take ‘er into Antigua?”
The American shrugged his shoulders. “If she isn’t damaged too much … otherwise Jamaica, I should think. Better off in Jamaica—big dockyard at Kingston.”
“Better price in the prize court there, too,” Stafford commented.
“Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that. Still, we won’t get much.”
“Why?” Rossi demanded angrily. “We did all the fighting! But for us they lose the Topaz. The Greyhound—she is very late.”
“All ships of war in sight at the time get a share,” Jackson said.
“Dio mio, is not fair!” Rossi exclaimed, his accent thickening the more angry he became. “The Lion and the frigates—the lugger, too—why, is so dark they see nozzing! The Grey’ound—’e only come after the flashes. Next time we write ‘im a letter of the invitation!”
“Easy now,” Stafford said mildly. “Listen, Jacko, I know that’s the law, but why?”
“If another warship’s in sight, it might affect what the prize did.”
“Cor, wot a lot o’ nonsense!”
“No it isn’t. Could be you one day. Say the Lark lugger found a big merchantman and chased her. Not a hope of catching up, and precious little of capturing her if she did. Then we come over the horizon ahead of the merchantman and capture her. The Lark has a right to a share—after all, she found and chased the prize: but for her she might have gone in a different direction. And we’d deserve a share, because without us she couldn’t have been captured. And if there was a third warship they’d probably deserve a share because that’s another direction the merchantman couldn’t have escaped.”
“Yus, well that makes sense, Jacko; but this was in the dark.”
“Dark or not,” Jackson explained patiently, “the Peacock knew the rest of them were there. She wouldn’t have tried to bolt across the bows of the convoy—she knew the Lion and Antelope were there. Nor astern, because of the Greyhound and Lark.”
A few yards aft of the three men, Ramage and Southwick were also discussing the night’s events, the Master saying vehemently: “I don’t care what you say, I’m damned certain that the Greyhound was there only because she was trying to keep station on us; she wasn’t bothering to watch the convoy. We could have gone ten miles ahead of the convoy towing a seine net and the Lord Mayor’s carriage, and come dawn we’d have found the Greyhound six cables astern of us.”
Ramage laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter, really; the main thing is she was there when needed.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, you’re generous to a fault. She was there all right, but by accident.”
Ramage grinned. “I’ll be more interested to hear how the Peacock talked her way into the convoy in the first place …”
“Haa!” Southwick snorted and waved towards the Lion. “Belike they’ll have a good tale ready. And it wouldn’t surprise me if we don’t get involved in it; in return for saving his reputation, his High and Mightyship will somehow put the blame on us.”
“Mr Southwick!” Ramage said reprovingly.
“Apologies, sir,” the Master said hurriedly, realizing that Ramage wanted him to apologize because seamen nearby could have overheard his criticism of Admiral Goddard. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid remark.”
An hour later, though, Southwick was more than ever convinced that the Admiral and his flag captain would make sure that none of the blame rested on their shoulders. He clattered down the companion-way, acknowledged the Marine sentry’s salute, and obeyed Ramage’s invitation to come into the cabin.
“Flagship’s just signalled, sir. You’re wanted on board. The Captain of the Greyhound has just left the Lion.”
Ramage patted the packet on the table. “I’m glad I stayed up late writing this. Have some coffee—there’s some in that pot.”
When Southwick shook his head, he added: “You ought to make the best of it while we are in the Caribbean: not often we get the real stuff!”
“Afraid I prefer my tea, sir; seems Frenchified, coffee.”
Ramage looked up at him with pretended disapproval. “That sort of attitude won’t make these planters rich—” he waved towards the chain of islands. “They depend on coffee, sugar and rum.”
“The Navy’s Board’s a good customer for rum, anyway.”
“It’s just as well they are: I doubt the planters will ever lure the English away from their gin.”
“The Admiral …” Southwick reminded him.
“Ah yes,” Ramage said, with a flippancy he did not feel, “obviously a social invitation. He breakfasts later than I do.”
He picked up the packet and reached for his hat and sword. “Well, Mr Southwick, if you’ll heave-to the ship to windward of the flagship, I’ll climb into my carriage and Jackson can drive me over to see the Admiral.”
Rear-Admiral Goddard had been badly frightened and now he was furious. By contrast Croucher’s thin face gave nothing away. Both men were trying to hide from Ramage that the attack on the Topaz was their main concern.
“Tell me again, Ramage: how did this begin?” Goddard said, tapping his knee with Ramage’s report, which he had not yet opened.
“The ship’s company had stood down from general quarters, sir,” Ramage said. “I was on deck and looking casually round at the convoy with my night glass. I happened to glance at the Peacock just as she let fall her forecourse.”
“A great pity you hadn’t seen her main course let fall,” Goddard snapped.
“I did, sir; that was the movement that first attracted my attention. They were still bracing the yard round and sheeting home when I saw them set the forecourse.”
“We have only your word for that.”
“Of course, sir,” Ramage said, but couldn’t resist adding quietly, “It’s a pity we have no corroboration from the Greyhound …”
Croucher glanced at him quickly and Goddard looked away, saying, “Then what did you do?”
“Sent a man aloft with a glass. He reported she was hauling her wind. She then came onto a course parallel with the convoy’s and about fifty yards to windward.”
“But you didn’t see fit to inform me,” Goddard said.
“No, sir,” Ramage said flatly.
“Note that, Mr Croucher. The Admiral’s not important enough, eh Ramage?”
“I didn’t mean that, sir. If you were informed every time a ship of the convoy was out of position, you’d receive a hundred signals a day.”
“But this was an unusual circumstance.”
“It didn’t seem so unusual at the time: no one knew she was anything but an ordinary merchantman.”
“If there was nothing unusual, why did you send a lookout aloft?”
A good question, Ramage thought to himself.
“I did say ‘so unusual’ sir. I sent a man aloft because I saw she’d set her courses, but—”
“Why had she set her courses?” Croucher interrupted.
“To attack the Topaz, sir,” Ramage said evenly. “I know that now, but I could hardly be expected to know that at the time.”
“Why not? She was the obvious target!”
“Indeed?” Ramage pretended surprise and could not resist adding: “I had no idea, sir, and as far as I knew the Peacock was an ordinary merchantman the Admiral had allowed to join the convoy.”
Goddard waved a hand at Croucher, as if telling him to be quiet.
“You couldn’t know
,” he said. “It wouldn’t have mattered if the Peacock’s next ahead”—he broke off, realizing that was a bad example—”or any other ship for that matter—had been the target: you should have warned me.”
Ramage could see the way that Goddard was shaping his defence. He would tell the Admiralty that Lieutenant Ramage had known all about the attack but had not told him. Very well, he thought, you have a fight on your hands, and here goes the first broadside: “I had already warned you, sir: I’d told you all I knew.”
“You did what?” Goddard exclaimed.
“I warned you, sir.”
“D’you hear that, Croucher?” he asked sarcastically. “Lieutenant Ramage had already warned me!”
Croucher knew what Ramage meant, and tried to tell the Admiral—”I think I underst—”
“But he says he warned me, my dear Croucher: have you ever heard such impudence?”
“The letter, sir,” Croucher said lamely.
“The letter?”
Ramage said, “My written report, sir: the one I delivered yesterday morning.”
“Oh that,” Goddard said, dismissing it with a shrug. “You could hardly expect me to pay any attention to that, could you?”
“Yes, sir,” Ramage said, his voice toneless, but rubbing the scar over his brow. “That’s why I made it in writing and had it delivered on board …”
“Rubbish, pure rubbish; I don’t even know where it is, now.”
“I have a copy on board, sir,” Ramage said unambiguously.
“You’re not telling me your report said the Peacock would attack the Topaz, are you?”
Goddard bellowed with laughter, but Croucher’s expression was wooden. Ramage had the feeling Croucher did not like the way the interview was going.
“No, sir, I merely reported all I knew. That was all anyone could know until the Peacock went alongside the Topaz.”
“Balderdash, my boy; sheer balderdash. What the devil did you think the Peacock was going to do when she hauled her wind?”
“Possibly leave the convoy, sir. After all, she was supposed to be a runner from England to Barbados. She might have got impatient at the slow speed, she might have started to worry over this increasing swell and wanted to get into Jamaica quickly for fear of a hurricane.”
“But she came right down the column.”
“Yes, sir, and as soon as I couldn’t find a reasonable explanation for her conduct, and when we sighted the second ship also coming up the inside of the column, we went into action.”
“Much, much too late to do any good.”
“Hardly, sir,” Ramage reminded him politely. “We saved the Topaz.”
“You were lucky, Ramage, and don’t you damn well forget it.”
“If you think—”
A knock on the door saved Ramage from an angry and insolent reply. Croucher called and a lieutenant came in to report to him.
“The Topaz left her position, and now she’s close to windward, sir. She’s not flying any signals but they’re getting ready to hoist out a boat, I think …”
“Very well,” Croucher said. “I’ll be on deck in a minute or two.”
As soon as the lieutenant had left Croucher looked at the Admiral questioningly, and he and Goddard walked out of the cabin, leaving Ramage standing by the desk.
Ramage was angry about the tone of Goddard’s questioning—although it had been predictable—but, alone in the cabin, he found he had a vague feeling of uncertainty. Had he really been slow to guess the Peacock’s intentions? Should he have ignored the need for surprise and set off a few false fires to raise an alarm, or fired some rockets or a couple of guns?
If he had done so, and then found the Peacock was simply leaving the convoy, he’d have looked foolish, and Goddard could rightly have blamed him for giving the convoy’s position away to the enemy. As he thought about it, he realized that his present uncertainty was not entirely due to the Admiral. He wanted to know what Yorke thought about it. Was he angry about the Triton’s late arrival? He might be. Yorke knew, as the Admiral did not, that Ramage was aware that the Topaz carried the “valuable cargo.”
The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Yorke—and the St Brieucs—must think he’d let them down. Originally they had been pleased to hear that the Triton was to be close to them, yet they’d been attacked from that very direction. Out of the darkness a ship full of privateersmen had appeared and as far as they knew Ramage had seen nothing until the last moment. To them it must have seemed lamentably late.
Perhaps Yorke was coming on board to make an official complaint. As the minutes passed, Ramage became more and more certain of it. He imagined a written complaint to the Admiral, signed by St Brieuc: Goddard would find that invaluable in hammering nails into Ramage’s coffin.
Ramage suddenly sat down in the nearest chair: his knees no longer had any strength. The skin of his face was cold and covered in perspiration; his stomach felt as if cold water was swilling around inside it. The sun streaming in through the stern lights was now just a harsh glare; there was no joy or beauty in the blue of the sea or the sky: it was all without purpose. Doubts, questions, half answers and more doubts chased through his mind like mice in a treadmill; his hands were clenched as if to let go meant he’d fall into limbo. He had no idea whether time was passing quickly or slowly until he heard loud voices.
Suddenly the door was flung open by Croucher and Goddard strode in past him, looking back over his shoulder and saying angrily, “I resent the implication, sir; I resent it, I say.”
“I’ve no doubt you do, Admiral; I think I’d resent it if you didn’t.”
Yorke’s voice was calm but cold and Ramage realized the Lion must have luffed up, backed a topsail, let Yorke get on board, and got under way again without him noticing. He stood up but Goddard, whose face was swollen with rage and shiny with perspiration, did not notice him.
“Dammit, Mr Yorke, how was I to know the Peacock was French?”
“It wasn’t hard to guess: every man in my ship was suspicious of her. She’s obviously foreign built; those sails were never stitched in an English loft, and Lieutenant Ramage had warned you that she was behaving oddly the night before.”
Ramage glanced up in surprise: how on earth had Yorke guessed that?
Goddard was equally startled. “Mr Yorke, you can’t possibly know anything about Mr Ramage’s activities!”
“But he did warn you, didn’t he, Admiral? I heard his lookout hailing the deck the night before and I presume the Triton’s boat delivered his report yesterday morning. But why don’t we ask him, since he’s here?” Yorke’s voice was mocking.
Goddard glanced round in surprise and Ramage realized that he was so disturbed by Yorke that he had forgotten his cabin was not empty.
“By all means. He did make some sort of report, but it was only vague suspicions.”
“I fail to see how his suspicions could have been anything but vague, since he and the Peacock were at opposite ends of the convoy. But you failed to act on the report and you yourself had no suspicions at all. After all, it was you who let the Peacock join the convoy.”
“Come now, Mr Yorke; how could you possibly know what action I took?”
“Come now, Admiral, I saw you signal to the nearest frigate to ask the Peacock if all was well on board. The master of the Peacock answered—quite truthfully, I am sure—that it was. My officers and I were expecting you to order the frigate to send a boarding party to investigate both the ships involved.”
Ramage felt like singing: the sea was blue and so was the sky. Yorke might not be able to save him from Goddard in the long run. The Admiralty, Sir Pilcher Skinner, the Articles of War and tradition were agreed that, no matter what had happened, no admiral could be in the wrong if it meant putting a young lieutenant in the right. But Ramage valued Yorke’s and the St Brieucs’ verdict more than Goddard’s or Croucher’s.
Goddard sank into the chair Ramage had just vacated. He looked as though
he had flinched from a blow, and the movement had toppled him over.
Yorke took a couple of steps towards him, holding out a white envelope with a heavy seal on it.
“This is addressed to you; it’s from … It concerns my freight.”
Goddard snatched it, broke the seal and started reading. Slowly his heavy jowls sagged; slowly the redness in his face turned to white. At last he seemed to realize that he was in for a terrible beating.
“This is ridiculous. Most unfair. Please, Mr Yorke, I’m sure that when you explain everything to M. St Brieuc he will see fit to withdraw this complaint and decide not to deliver the other letter he mentions.”
“Which letter?” Yorke asked, and Ramage guessed that the question was put only so that he could hear the reply.
“The … the letter he has written to Lord Grenville. After all, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs is hardly concerned …”
“On the contrary, Admiral; when you think about it you’ll realize that Lord Grenville is his only official channel of communication and is most concerned about his safety.”
“I quite see that, Mr Yorke. My point is rather that I’m hoping you’ll be able to persuade M’sieur—the writer of this letter—that there is no cause for complaint.”
“With respect, Admiral,” Yorke said, his voice still deceptively quiet, but choosing his words with care, “not only can I hold out no hope of so persuading him, but I’d be misleading you if I didn’t warn you that I shall not attempt to do so since I fully agree with him.”
“Come, come, Mr Yorke,” Goddard said, his voice wheedling. “You know well enough that in battle chance plays a major part and …”
“In battle, yes,” Yorke said, like a relentless prosecutor setting out an unbeatable case. “But you were not in battle. The battle is separate and there is no complaint about how it was fought, thanks to Mr Ramage here. It was the whole sequence of events from Carlisle Bay, when you took this French privateer—pirate is a more accurate description—under your wing and assigned him the most perfect position in the convoy for carrying out his plan.”