Ramage and the Saracens r-17

by Dudley Pope

  "Well, he's down below in irons now," Jackson said.

  "Yus, that's all very well, but he could have been the death of Mr Hill and the Marines. Mr Ramage was all ready to rake 'em again!"

  "I wonder," Jackson said. "He wanted the fat man to think so, and the only way to do that was to sail across his stern. But don't you reckon he was bluffing?"

  "There's no way of telling," Rossi said. "If he was bluffing, well, it worked, and that's all that matters."

  "Gave Mr Hill a bad five minutes, though."

  "Gave everyone a bad five minutes," Jackson said, "including Mr Ramage. If his bluff hadn't worked, he'd have had to open fire, and can you imagine how he'd have felt, firing on his own men?"

  "Not half as bad as the men," Stafford said ironically. "But you're probably right, Jacko; he was bluffing, and he guessed right that the fat man's nerve wouldn't hold out."

  "It wasn't Mr Ramage's first bit of bluff today," Gilbert pointed out. "That was bluff when he steered across the bow of that ship of the line."

  Jackson shook his head.

  "I don't agree with you there, Gilbert. No one knew the Frenchman would turn away, and I'm damned sure Mr Ramage wasn't going to. It's just that the French captain lost his nerve."

  "Exactly!" exclaimed Gilbert, showing excitement for the first time that Jackson could remember. "The French captain's nerve broke before Mr Ramage's, just as the fat man's did. That's where Mr Ramage is so clever, he knows the French so well. He knows exactly when they will break."

  Jackson shook his head again, only this time it was because of near incredulity. "I believe you are right, Gilbert. I never thought of it like that but, as you say, it's the second time today."

  Gilbert nodded contentedly. "Yes, to understand Mr Ramage's mind, you have to think like a Frenchman."

  "He's right, Jacko," Rossi said. "He understands the French mind. The Italian, too: you remember all the tricks he played when we've been in Italy."

  "Well, he speaks Italian and French: they're very much alike, and perhaps speaking the language gives you an insight into the way they think."

  "Try and think of another explanation," Stafford said. "There isn't one. Not unless you want to believe in magic and voodoo."

  "I tell you someone else like Mr Ramage," Gilbert said, "and that's Mr Orsini."

  "You're right!" Jackson exclaimed. "He would have stayed almost alongside that frigate this morning if I hadn't steered us away without orders. I thought then he was just excited and forgot to get us out of range, but I think you're right; he knew Mr Ramage was bluffing."

  "He's a bright young lad, that's for sure," Stafford said. "It's a pity the Marcheeza can't see him."

  "Marchesa," said Jackson. "She's dead by now," he added lugubriously. "Boney's men will have murdered her."

  "I don't see why," Stafford said.

  "Don't be stupid!" Rossi said explosively. "You don't think Bonaparte would let her go back to Volterra, do you? Why, if she suddenly arrived just about everyone would rally to her and revolt against the French."

  "Yus, but he can put her in prison in Paris."

  "That's not Bonaparte's way. He'd be afraid she would escape. No, he'd kill her. Then there's no risk of her escaping and no risk of her marrying and having children, which would mean heirs."

  "She was a wonderful woman," Stafford said. "What times we had with her on board. I always reckoned Mr Ramage would marry her."

  "Religion," Jackson said laconically. "She was Catholic, he's a Protestant. Anyway, she was very hot-tempered, you know; I don't reckon she would have suited Mr Ramage over the long haul. I reckon Lady Sarah suits him in every way. A fine woman, Lady Sarah."

  "I'm not saying she isn't," Stafford said hastily. "I was just thinking about the Marcheeza. It's horrible to think of her murdered. She was so young - and so, well, alive."

  "Well, you'd better get used to the idea that she's dead," Jackson said quietly. "I'm sure both Mr Ramage and Mr Orsini think site's dead. Not that they have any way of knowing one way or another."

  "It's a damned shame," Stafford said. "Such a beautiful lady she was."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rear-Admiral Charles Rudd was extremely angry. "Damnation, Ramage, you let a couple of ships of the line slip through our fingers while you went chasing after a couple of frigates!"

  "But sir, I could never have got here in time for you to send a force to take those ships."

  "How do you know? You've no idea how long it took them to get seaworthy again. I'd been looking everywhere for those two. It was your duty to get here as fast as you could and warn me."

  Ramage repressed a sigh. He had already described to the Rear-Admiral in both words and a written report the circumstances of the collision, and how he had considered and finally turned down the idea of making a dash for Naples to raise the alarm, knowing there was no time, but the Rear-Admiral could not get out of his mind the picture of two ships of the line locked together and helpless, just waiting to be captured.

  It was hot in the cabin of the flagship; the Defender was lying at anchor in an airless Naples Bay, a 100-gun ship with two 74s nearby. Rudd, a thin-faced, morose man with a high-pitched voice, had greeted the Calypso's arrival with Le Tigre without enthusiasm. Almost his first words when Ramage had reported on board the flagship had been: "Let me have your written report." It was only after he had read the report and discovered about the collision between the two French ships that he had become enraged, vowing that his two 74s could have got to the French before they could have made themselves seaworthy.

  The sinking of one frigate and the capture of another, even though the circumstances were fully described in the report, were dismissed as being of slight importance. Finally Ramage thought of a way to change the subject slightly.

  "The prisoners I put ashore on the island of Capraia, sir: I doubt if there is nearly enough food on the island for them and the local people."

  "I should think not," Rudd growled. "I don't know why the devil you landed all the prisoners there."

  The remark was so stupid and unfair, in Ramage's view, that he made no comment: one could not argue with flag officers, at least not with this one, who seemed to be a singularly obtuse man.

  Rudd's day cabin in the Defender, extending the width of the ship, was sparsely furnished. Either Rudd liked to live a Spartan existence or he was a poor man, unlucky where prize money was concerned. There were half a dozen chairs, a small table that showed he did not do much entertaining on board, a battered mahogany wine cooler which most flag officers would have scorned, regarding it as only suitable for the wardroom, and the curtains drawn back on either side of the sternlights were of heavy red velvet, well faded by sunlight.

  The furnishings of the cabin, Ramage thought, were a clue to Rudd's attitude: he was a disappointed man.

  Rudd tapped Ramage's report, which he was still holding in his hand. "I shall forward this to their Lordships, and I can tell you they won't like it. No, they won't like it a bit. They will consider-as I do - that you have not backed up your flag officer: instead, you have chased after prize money. Well, I warn you now, I may not buy in Le Tigre; she needs a great deal of repair, judging from your report, and I have next to no facilities here. So let that be a lesson to you: do your duty instead of chasing after prize money."

  The remark was so obviously that of an embittered man that before Ramage could stop himself he said: "I don't need the money, sir."

  "Ha, that's an old excuse! Where do you think your present command came from?"

  "I captured it in the West Indies," Ramage said quietly, and Rudd gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

  "Well, Ramage, you arrive here with a frigate and another one which is badly damaged, and a tale of four hundred prisoners abandoned on the island of Capraia. What am I supposed to do?"

  Ramage realized that whatever he said would be wrong: the Rear-Admiral was still dazzled by the prospect of two French ships of the line locked together, just waiting fo
r him to come along and capture them and pocket the prize money - and buy some new curtains, Ramage thought.

  And why, Ramage thought angrily, if I can sink one and capture another French frigate in a morning, are Rudd's frigates and 74s spending their time at anchor in Naples Bay? Yet he knew that a junior post-captain expecting to be treated fairly by a new flag officer was whistling in the dark. Or, rather, singing to the moon.

  "I suppose I have to collect those prisoners," Rudd continued. Then apparently not realizing the contradiction, said: "I'll need to send both my 74s if there are four hundred of them."

  So, Ramage thought bitterly, two 74s are going to be sent to carry out a task that a few minutes ago you expected to be done by one frigate's ship's company . . .

  "You'll forfeit the head money," Rudd said. "I'm not paying out for prisoners I have to collect myself."

  "I don't know the statutes concerning head money, sir," Ramage said bitterly, "but I thought it was paid to the ship that captured the prisoners, not to the ship that simply transported them."

  "Absolutely rubbish," Rudd said. "All you did was put them ashore on the island."

  "I captured - indeed rescued from the sea - the men in Le Jason and certainly captured those in Le Tigre. The fact I put them ashore on Capraia doesn't alter the fact I captured them in the first place, sir."

  "Don't argue with me," Rudd said brusquely, "there's no head money for you."

  So the captains of the two 74s (presumably Rudd's favourites) would get the head money. Yes, it was unfair, Ramage thought; but this sort of thing happened when you had flag officers like Rudd. They would play favourites all the time. Favoured frigate captains could be sent to cruise in areas where they would be most likely to find prizes; frigate captains out of favour - or simply not well known to the flag officer - would be sent off escorting convoys, the most tedious and profitless task in the Navy.

  Well, there was nothing he could do about it; Rudd was a rear-admiral and flag officer on the station; Ramage was, he realized, probably the most junior post-captain and certainly the latest arrival on the station. All it needed now, he thought grimly, was orders to escort a convoy to somewhere like Malta, or Gibraltar.

  But Rear-Admiral Rudd was clearly considering something: his narrow and lined face was contorted with thought; he was gripping one thin hand in another, as though trying to twist off the fingers. Finally he said: "I'll send you with the 74s because you know where you landed the two groups of Frenchmen, and I don't want the 74s to have to comb the island for them. You won't take off any of the prisoners, so it won't affect the head money; you'll just act as a pilot."

  Ramage said nothing; in due course he would be getting written orders and that would be that. He would pilot the two 74s to their head money, and no one would say thank you.

  "I've heard about you," Rudd said unexpectedly. "You have quite a reputation in the Navy. Among other things, for not being very strict in obeying orders. I want to make it clear that while you serve on this station you obey both the spirit and the letter of my orders. I hope I make myself quite clear, Ramage."

  "Indeed you do, sir," Ramage said politely. "Abundantly clear."

  So now we get that too, Ramage thought: a flag officer jealous of a junior officer who had many of his despatches published as Gazette letters. The flag officers never considered that one had to da something in the first place, and publishing a despatch in the Gazette was up to their Lordships at the Admiralty: they were the people who decided which despatches were printed.

  It was ironic, he thought, that famous admirals like Lord St Vincent and the late Lord Nelson were delighted when one had a letter published in the Gazette; it was only little men like Rudd, who had probably reached the summit of his career and knew it, who were resentful.

  "Very well," Rudd said, "you'll be getting written orders in due course; in the meantime, I presume you have your weekly accounts and returns ready for me?"

  "Yes," Rossi agreed, "the Bay of Naples is very beautiful, but stay in the Bay - don't go on shore!" "What's wrong with the shore?" demanded Stafford.

  "The shore is full of Neapolitans, and they are to Italy what the Cockneys are to England."

  " 'Ere," demanded Stafford, "wotcher mean by that?"

  "In two minutes they have all your money; in three they have your shirt; in four they've stuck a knife in your back and left you for dead!"

  "Oh, so that's what happens among the Cockneys, too?" asked an offended Stafford. "Well, I might remind you that when you came to stay at my 'ome when we was given leave from Chatham, you didn't lose a penny piece nor an 'air off your 'ead!"

  "Excuse me, I exaggerated," Rossi said placatingly. "What I mean to say is all Neapolitans are lazzaroni: pickpockets and murderers. So be careful if you go on shore."

  "What about where you come from?" Stafford persisted. "Is it any better in Genoa?"

  "The worst you ever hear about Geneva is that the Genovesi are, how do you say, tight-fisted; a bit careful with their money."

  "Mean," Stafford said. "Mean like the Scots."

  Rossi shrugged. "Call it what you like, but I think it is only sensible to keep your hand on your money when standing in a crowd of pickpockets, and to count your change when dealing with cheats."

  Gilbert laughed softly. "Between Neapolitans, Genovesi and Cockneys, how is a poor Frenchman to survive?"

  "Don't ever go on shore," Jackson advised. "Pass the bread barge."

  Louis slid it along the table towards him. Then Jackson continued: "On shore all is wickedness. Why, London was so wicked that it shocked poor old Staff into joining the King's service and coming to sea. Genoa was so wicked even Rosey could not stand the competition and came to sea. And I wonder about you four -" he gestured at Gilbert, Louis, Auguste and Albert,"- what made you leave Brest?"

  Gilbert laughed. "Well, we are the only ones with a good excuse because we escaped with Mr Ramage and Lady Sarah. The only thing wrong with Brest is Bonaparte's men; they are all murderers."

  Stafford gave a melodramatic sigh. "Well, it seems the Calypso is a home for us poor refugees!"

  "Refugees be damned," Jackson said. "I volunteered."

  "I should think so," said Stafford. "Revolting, that's what you Americans are! You didn't know when you were well off."

  "I jumped out of the frying pan into the fire when I took the King's shilling," Jackson said mildly.

  "But I bet you took the precaution of getting that Protection first," Stafford said. "With an American Protection in your pocket you can get out whenever you want."

  "Aye, I have a Protection," Jackson admitted, "but I don't think getting out 'whenever I want' is so easy. I have to apply to an American consul, and there aren't many of them about. That's where Americans get stuck: they can't get leave to go on shore, so they can't get to a consul."

  "Then they shouldn't have joined in the first place," Stafford said unsympathetically.

  "A lot of them don't join, as you well know," Jackson said stiffly. "They get pressed into service from some British or neutral ship even though they have Protections just because the officer in charge of the pressgang reckons they're British."

  "They usually are," said Stafford. "They just got a Protection at the Customs House - or an American consul - when they managed to get on shore. I've met dozens of British seamen with Protections. After all, what does a Protection prove? Nothing. It just says the man appeared before the Customs officer or consul and said he was an American subject born in such and such a place. He doesn't have to prove it. Then it goes on to say he appears to be a certain age, has a certain colour hair, and so on. Half the Navy have dark brown hair, light complexion and 'stand about five feet eight inches'."

  "You're just bitter because you don't have a Protection," Jackson said teasingly.

  "Oh yes, I do!" exclaimed Stafford. "I bought it off a chap five years ago. It says my name is Matthew Fletcher and I was born in Wilmington, Delaware. It is signed by the Customs collector there, and
it describes me perfectly."

  "Why don't you use it, then?" Jackson asked.

  "For the same reason you don't use yours," Stafford said. "I'm quite happy where I am."

  "I'll remind you of that when you have one of your fits of grousing," Jackson said. "There are times when you sound like the most miserable man on earth."

  "Wot a lie," Stafford exclaimed. "Why, 'appy Will Stafford from Bridewell Lane - everybody knows me!"

  "Don't lose that Protection," Jackson advised. "You might need it some time to save yourself from us."

  Ramage wriggled in the chair, which was too small for a grown man, and he wondered how it had got into the captain's day cabin of the 74-gun ship. Yet the chair was no more uncomfortable than the manner of the captain, Edward Arbuthnot, commanding the Intrepid. Arbuthnot was just the opposite of his admiral: where Rudd was thin and tall, Arbuthnot was stocky and plump. The only similarity, Ramage reflected, was that both men had a shifty manner; neither inspired confidence; they were not the men to find it easy to get credit at a gaming table. They were men, Ramage decided, with whom all transactions would have to be in cash.

  "Well, Ramage," Arbuthnot said, "since you know where you landed these dam' Frenchmen on Capraia, the Admiral tells me you will act as our pilot."

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders and said politely: "I don't know what good I will be able to do. The French will have moved since then. I put one group ashore north of the port and the other south. By now they'll probably have joined up at the port - it's the only village on the island."

  "It'll be up to you to find them," Arbuthnot said shortly. "You landed them, you find them."

  Ramage saw the trap: Arbuthnot was preparing the way for his own men failing, and was making sure he had a scapegoat ready. The Admiral's orders to me do not say that," Ramage said carefully.

  "Perhaps not, but I do, and I'm the senior officer on this operation," Arbuthnot said sharply.

  "You and the Phoenix will be carrying five hundred troops, as well as your usual ship's company," Ramage pointed out. "I'll just have my ship's company."