by Dudley Pope
He looked up to find two grey eyes watching him. Daring him? Certainly far from offended. Yes, she understood: she knew that her warm body had just been compared with one of the most exquisite female bodies ever revealed in marble, and the comparison apparently neither offended nor embarrassed her. Those grey eyes, the calm look, the complete composure seemed to be saying: “Well, what is the verdict?”
And he heard her say, softly: “Well, what is the verdict?”
“You know already,” he said. “I recognized you at once.”
“I always thought,” she said conversationally, “that Bernini’s Apollo was too young. In my imagination I had always thought him older – about your age, I suppose.”
“Daphne is as I always thought her,” he muttered, finding his breath reluctant to go down to his lungs.
“My brother will be wondering where we are,” she said. “Or what we are talking about, anyway.”
The meal was the most sparkling that Ramage could remember: the long and dangerous voyage that Yorke, Southwick and he had made (with Jackson, Stafford and Rossi) in the Post Office packet to discover why the ships were being captured now turned into a tale of teasing and hilarious episodes (hilarious when told now; terrifying at the time) which kept the three men glowing with reminiscence and many times brought protests from an almost incoherent Alexis, weakened by laughter and hiccoughs as the narrative began in Jamaica and proceeded to Portugal. The afternoon was finally brought to an end when Aitken passed the word that a lieutenant had arrived from the flagship with a pouch full of papers for Ramage.
They comprised, as he complained sourly to Southwick, just about every paper an admiral’s imaginative clerk could draw up. For the two prizes – a bundle of papers including the surveys of their hulls by the master carpenter of the Barbados yard and two carpenters from the fleet; on their sails by the Queen’s master and the master attendant at the yard; on their guns by the flagship’s gunner and two more from other ships; on their provisions by the flagship’s purser and master, assisted by two other masters…and so it went on. In one of the French frigates, a cask of red wine with a loose bung had turned to vinegar – so the contents were valued as vinegar, not wine…
Yorke, Southwick and Alexis waited while he turned the pages – he had wanted to glance through all the papers, in case any were urgent, before saying goodbye to the Yorkes because at the moment he had no hint when the convoy was to sail.
Ah, there was the final valuation for one of the frigates: £11,384 11s 6d.
He skimmed through the second survey until he came to the valuation: £1,284 6s 2d less. That made a total of £21,484, which in turn meant that Admiral Clinton’s eighth (which he did not have to share with a second-in-command because he had not joined Clinton off Brest at the time the Calypso sailed) was about £2,600, with £5,300 or so for himself, £2,600 for the Calypso’s officers, master and surgeon, the same for the midshipmen, other warrant officers, Marine sergeant and so on, and the rest of the ship’s company would share £5,300. Considering the pay of an ordinary seaman was 19 shillings a month, the wild hour it had taken to capture each of the frigates had been profitable.
He saw Southwick watching him and guessed the old master realized he had reached the valuations – which were in fact the prices at which Rear-Admiral Tewtin was prepared to buy in the prizes and put them into service with the Royal Navy. Fortunately these sort of purchases rarely led to disputes: the Admiralty and the Navy Board had long ago put a price on ships’ tonnages with allowances for age and condition, and on just about every object to be found in a ship, so the various surveys carried out by men who did not stand to gain or lose a penny were usually very fair.
Ramage read out the total figures.
Alexis, who knew that the two frigates concerned were the prizes the Calypso had captured at Devil’s Island, gave a contemptuous sniff. “That doesn’t seem a very good price for two splendid frigates!”
“Please excuse my sister,” Yorke said jocularly.
“But no,” Alexis protested, “there’s not a ship in our fleet whose hull is not insured for more than three times one of those frigates.”
“They carry more than three times the cargo!” Yorke said.
“I’m talking of the hull insurance only. Anyway, they’re not so dangerous to capture,” Alexis protested, to be calmed by a smiling Southwick.
“If we captured such a French merchant ship laden with cargo, ma’am, we’d probably get three times the prize money.”
Ramage nodded in agreement and opened the next packet. His orders for the convoy. “Seventy-two ships,” he commented to no one in particular. “All the ships rendezvous here, thank goodness.”
“Why is that a good thing?” Alexis asked, collecting a frown from her brother. “Oh, pardon me: these are not matters concerning women!”
“They concern the Emerald, so they concern you,” Ramage said idly, his eyes skimming down the copperplate handwriting of Tewtin’s clerk. “The advantage of sailing from here is that all seventy-two ships must assemble here by the set date, and then we all sail together. But if we started with, say, twenty-five from here, and then went on to pick up ten from St Vincent, and another fifteen from St Lucia, and the rest from Tortola, we’d be delayed a month…at St Vincent there’d be three ships still waiting for the last of their cargo, and they’d have a sorry story that if I did not wait they’d have to sail in the next convoy and they’d be ruined…and so it would go on. Here, if there are only sixty-five ships ready when the convoy is due to sail, Admiral Tewtin will send us on our way…”
“I love Barbados,” Alexis said. “Can Sidney and I persuade you to come to the races with us tomorrow afternoon – after a meal on board the Emerald?”
Ramage looked at Yorke for confirmation but he grinned. “You’ll get used to it,” he said cheerfully. “I own the shares in the company but she runs it.”
“You don’t own all of them,” she protested.
“Not all,” he said mockingly, “but enough that I don’t have to listen to you.”
“But you do, though.”
“Just out of politeness,” he said, and Ramage saw the affection in his glance.
Chapter Four
As the captain’s coxswain, Jackson always commanded the boat carrying Ramage to and from another ship; while he steered the Calypso’s cutter towards the flagship he reflected on the years he had served with Mr Ramage, and how often they had been in action together, frequently side by side.
From there it was an easy daydream trying to remember how often each had saved the other’s life. Jackson eventually gave up trying to reach a total because how did one count a shouted warning which saved death from a slashing sword or a well aimed pistol, compared with actually warding off the sword, or shooting down the man aiming the pistol?
It was a pointless exercise anyway because, as far as he could see, the two of them were running about equal, and if they were to stay alive and die of old age, they were going to have to carry on as before until this war ended – if it ever did.
Apart from the recent year and a half following the Treaty of Amiens, which did not really count, Jackson found he could not remember what peace was like: the war had been going on for – well, it must be eight or nine years now.
Ramage, sitting in the sternsheets and trying to get some shade from the brim of his hat, although as many rays reflected up from the waves as came directly from the sun, suddenly had a shock. He had been thinking of Sarah, and how many more tedious weeks of worry must pass before he had any definite news, when he found that he could not recall her face.
Every time he called on his memory, he saw only a blur. Yes, her voice came, and a few of her mannerisms: he could hear some of her little jokes and many of the whispered endearments. But her face, like an elusive word or name, refused to appear.
In her place he saw Alexis, and guiltily he dismissed her immediately, telling himself that as he had been talking to her only a few hours ag
o it was hardly surprising she came to mind so readily.
And here was the Queen: already her lookouts had hailed, already Jackson had shouted back the answer: “Calypso!”, warning the flagship that the approaching boat carried the captain of the named ship, and ensuring that sideboys would be ready, holding out the sideropes.
Ramage grasped the canvas pouch which had been resting on his lap. Rear-Admiral Tewtin would want to talk about the convoy: what route Ramage intended to take back to England (and the answer to that would be that it depended on wind direction), and no doubt a few ships would be mentioned as being of special concern – meaning the owners were friends of the admiral, or friends were shipping cargoes in those ships.
In fact, Ramage found the admiral in good humour. Or, to be more exact, once he found that Ramage accepted the valuations of the two frigates, he stayed in the good humour with which he had obviously greeted the dawn.
“You read the papers about the convoy?”
“Yes, sir, and the sailing date. No delays if ships haven’t arrived?”
“Indeed not. The merchants throughout the islands have had the date for weeks. But can you be ready?”
“Yes, sir: we’ve started provisioning, and wooding and watering shouldn’t take too long. But you didn’t mention what other ships I’d have.”
“Why, bless my soul!” Tewtin said, “the two prizes, of course!”
“But sir, they’ve neither ships’ companies nor sufficient provisions. And L’Espoir is only armed en flûte.” Ramage had a sudden picture of Tewtin expecting him to sail the ships to England with the original prize crews – two thirds of the Calypso’s ship’s company, in other words, leaving him with three virtually defenceless frigates to defend both themselves and the convoy.
Tewtin apparently correctly interpreted the reasons for the dismay showing on Ramage’s face. “I’m making two of my lieutenants post, to command; two other promising young lieutenants will become first lieutenants, and four young lieutenants who should never have gone to sea will be getting their last chance…All thanks to you bringing in a couple of prize frigates, Ramage. Now I’ve been frank with you. I’ve put in good captains and good first lieutenants…”
“And the ship’s company, sir? Aren’t you short of seamen?”
The admiral looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, yes, I wish I could give you more men in both frigates, but you know how it is out here in the West Indies. I’ve lost a thousand men from yellow fever in the last year.”
“So what’s being done to make up the shortages in those two ships, sir?” Ramage asked, although, since he knew, the answer would be a formality.
“Take what you need from the best-manned ships in the convoy,” Tewtin said nonchalantly. “Tell any masters who complain that the men will be more useful protecting the merchantmen by serving a gun in a frigate than cowering behind a few casks of molasses.”
That was one thing about Tewtin, Ramage admitted: he did not beat about the bush. He had just found a way of sending the June convoy to England without having to use even one of his own frigates; he had been able to use two of the prizes to make post two of his favourite lieutenants and give two more of them hefty promotions (and at the same time get rid of some duds).
The hint that the Count of Rennes was a friend of the Prince of Wales and that it might be unwise to delay his return to England had made little impression: Tewtin might only be a rear-admiral but obviously he knew (or guessed) enough about Court life to know that Prinny’s attention could be held at most for only a couple of minutes, unless the subject concerned women or the latest fashion in men’s clothing.
“Lieutenant Newick has all your copies of the convoy instructions, one for each master, although God knows by now they should know them by heart. Secret signals – I haven’t received the latest ones from the Admiralty (who nevertheless are trying to dissuade flag officers from issuing their own). So you’ll have to draw up a set. Send them over here for copying – I know your clerk won’t be able to make seventy-two copies in time.”
Tewtin bellowed a hearty “Come in” when the sentry at the door announced a name, and Newick walked in, holding a bundle of papers and to be met by an angry Tewtin.
“Do you expect Mr Ramage to carry those convoy instructions round as though he’s selling copies of the Morning Post? Have them sent down to his boat.
“When you reach flag rank, Ramage,” he added, “if you haven’t discovered it already, you’ll find you’re surrounded by dolts. And in my experience so far, the higher the rank the more dolts it attracts.”
At that moment Ramage felt he could grow to like Tewtin, who said: “Hold the meeting of the convoy masters the day before they sail. Any earlier, they’ll forget all your warnings. And it’s just early enough in the hurricane season that all those scoundrels wanting to cadge sailcloth or a topsail yard or cordage can be told there’s no time for any of that nonsense: hoist in boats and get the capstans and windlasses turning!”
Ramage sat at the far side of the room on a small dais – in fact a platform used by the auctioneer in Bridgetown when taking bids for whatever luxuries (like armchairs, crockery, cutlery and cloth) the latest convoy from England had brought in. The masters were coming in to Bridgetown’s only large hall for the convoy conference, but Ramage knew from experience they were men who could only demonstrate their independence by being late. It was like the old and tedious story of a senior officer keeping you waiting fifteen minutes and unwittingly giving you a good insight into the uncertainty he felt about himself. A confident man had no need to play such silly games.
Southwick sat on his left and Aitken on his right, and in front of Ramage was a pile of twelve-page booklets, each measuring a dozen inches by eight. The title, in small type and neatly displayed between double rules, said: “SIGNALS and INSTRUCTIONS for SHIPS under CONVOY”. In tiny type was the announcement: “Printed by W Winchester and Son, Strand.”
“Forty-three of the mules up to now,” Southwick growled.
“Don’t be impatient, you’re going to have their company for weeks…” Ramage chided as he turned over the first page of one of the booklets. The title was repeated, with the extra explanation: “INSTRUCTIONS explanatory of the SIGNALS”.
As Ramage glanced down the seven numbered paragraphs on this first page he felt the all-too-familiar despair. Number III, for instance: “No signals are to be made by the ships under convoy besides those appointed by the Commander thereof.” What would happen, in fact, was that proper signals made by the commander (himself) would be ignored and incomprehensible flag signals would be hoisted by mules. Days later it would transpire that the mules were using an old signal book from some past convoy.
The next instruction was almost a mockery: “The ships of the convoy out of their stations are to take advantage of all opportunities, by making sail, tacking, waring, &c to regain the same.”
What forbearance (or plain stupidity) the Admiralty had shown in not making it a direct order that unless the weather made it necessary, the mules must not reef at night, or furl topsails, and drop so far astern that by dawn they would be specks on the horizon, just the trucks of their masts showing up in a powerful glass. Or, even worse, they would be below the horizon, and the whole convoy would have to heave-to until noon while they caught up. Well, Ramage thought grimly, if Yorke played his agreed role at this convoy conference, perhaps this time there would be less of all that nonsense.
The next instruction followed on logically: “In case of parting company (which the ships of the convoy are to avoid by all possible means) and being met with by an enemy, the Commanders of the ships are to destroy the rendezvous, these signals, and all other papers whatsoever concerning the destination of the fleet, SEE PAGE 13.”
Idly Ramage turned to page 13, although he knew what it said. It began by quoting the Act of Parliament under which it was enacted that “if the Captain of any merchant ship, under convoy, shall wilfully disobey signals or instructions, or any
other lawful commands of the Commander of the convoy, without notice given, and leave obtained for that purpose”, he was liable to be hauled into the High Court “at the suit of the Crown”, and fined up to £500 or jailed for up to a year.
The next section warned a master that he could be fined £1,000 for sailing alone from a port where a convoy was being arranged, and more important, Ramage reckoned, he could be fined £1,000 if he should “afterwards desert or wilfully separate or depart from such convoy without leave obtained from the Captain or other Officer in His Majesty’s Navy entrusted with the charge of such convoy…”
Ramage noted that the cheapest infringement for a master seeking a bargain was, ironically, for one of the most important tasks falling to a master in time of attack – he would have to pay up to £100 if, “being in danger of being boarded or taken possession of by the enemy”, he “shall not make signals by firing guns, or otherwise convey information of his danger to the rest of the convoy, as well as to the ships of war under the protection of which he is sailing; and, in case of being boarded or taken possession of, shall not destroy all instructions confided to him relating to the convoy”.
On the final page, a paragraph set by itself in solitary splendour and headed MEMORANDUM said:
‘All Masters of Merchant Vessels to supply themselves with a quantity of False Fires, to give the Alarm on the approach of an Enemy’s Cruizer in the Night; or in the Day to make the usual Signal for an Enemy. On being chased or discovering a suspicious Vessel, and in the event of their Capture being inevitable, either by Night or Day, the Master to cause the Jeers, Ties, and Haul Yards to be cut and unrove, and their Vessels to be otherwise so disabled as to prevent their being immediately capable of making Sail.’
Aitken muttered: “I think they’re all here now, sir.”
Ramage looked up to find the hall now almost full, and if a complete stranger looked at all the masters and tried to guess who they were, the chances are he would choose farmers attending an auction to bid for some well-favoured grazing land.