Ramage and the Freebooters

by Dudley Pope

  Yet, Ramage thought sourly, within ten minutes of being on board the Prince of Wales the Admiral’s wretched secretary would triumphantly announce that Ramage, his clerk and Southwick had forgotten some tedious and unimportant form…

  The brig was within a hundred yards of where she was to anchor. Ramage only hoped the men remembered his signals and was pleased the Admiral had chosen a spot so near the flagship. The Triton was – if all went according to plan! – about to furl all sail, anchor and hoist out a boat without one word being spoken: everything would be done by signals from Ramage.

  He made the first signals with his right arm. In a few moments it seemed that every man in the ship was either hauling a rope or climbing the rigging. The yards were hauled round, the bellying sails flattened and then fluttered; men swarmed out on the yards to furl the sails neatly, securing them with gaskets.

  Even as that was happening Ramage was signalling to the quartermaster and the brig turned to head right into the wind’s eye, gradually slowing as she did so. The sound of water sluicing away from the stem, rushing along her sides and gurgling under the counter, which had been part of their lives for so many weeks, died away, leaving a silence which was unsettling.

  Slowly the Triton lost way. Southwick, watching over the taffrail, lifted his hand as she began to drift astern and Ramage signalled to the men on the fo’c’sle. A moment later a splash told him the anchor had been let go; then he saw the cable snaking out through the hawse, tell-tale whisps of blue smoke vanishing in the wind.

  From where he was standing Ramage could see the compass without moving. He checked the bearing from the flagship: by the time the Triton drifted astern to the full scope of her cable she’d be in the correct position. And Southwick was already signalling to more men, making sure that all the yards were square – not an inch lower either end, precisely horizontal, all at right angles to the masts. The boat would be hoisted out within a couple of minutes. Ramage looked at Southwick and pointed below, indicating he was going to change. A man may have sworn under his breath, he thought, otherwise not a word had been spoken. But probably the Admiral had been asleep…

  But the Admiral had not been asleep: as Ramage, hot and sticky in full uniform, reported to him in the great cabin of the Prince of Wales, he was greeted with a breezy, ‘Like to see a ship well handled, m’lad!’ and an outstretched hand which shook his with a firm grasp.

  Admiral Robinson’s appearance and manner belied the impression given by the string of signals which greeted the Triton. Tall, almost plump (he had the figure of a man who once had been a great athlete but now the muscle had turned to fat) he would have passed for Southwick’s younger brother – his face was round, almost cherubic, pleasant and open. His nose was larger, and its redness owed more to claret than the hot sun; the eyes were alert and clear blue; his blond hair was bleached by the sun into a pale yellow which blended with the streaks of white.

  After asking what sort of voyage Ramage had had, nodding approvingly when told about the capture of La Merlette, and inquiring after the health of Ramage’s parents (hinting, Ramage wondered, that he had no animosity towards the Earl?), he said: ‘I wasn’t expecting you, m’lad: I asked the Admiralty for five more frigates!’

  ‘I don’t know about the frigates, sir; I’ve brought letters from Lord Spencer.’

  He fished in his pocket for the key, which was completely embedded in a large piece of red wax, with the Admiralty seal on both sides. He gave both key and the small locked pouch to the Admiral, who called for his secretary, handed him the lump of wax and said curtly: ‘Break out the key – not in here, I don’t want chips of wax over everything.’

  ‘You were lucky with La Merlette,’ he commented as the secretary left the cabin and, to Ramage’s surprise because he’d forgotten the point, continued: ‘You were sailing under Admiralty orders, so naturally I don’t qualify for a share in the prize money. The thieving old Commander-in-Chief doesn’t take his eighth – more’s the pity as far as I’m concerned. But if she’s as sound as you say I’ll buy her in – I need all the small vessels I can get my hands on.

  ‘Being Commander-in-Chief on this station’s like trying to run a post-chaise service – never enough coaches or horses and too many passengers all wanting to go in different directions at the same moment. Ah, Fanshaw, the magic key – thank you.’

  As he unlocked the pouch Ramage rose to leave him alone to read the letters, but the Admiral glanced up and shook his head.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, m’dear fellah. A drink? Tell Fanshaw what you want – just excuse me a moment.’

  Lifting his spectacles, which had been hanging round his neck on a piece of ribbon, he adjusted them and broke the seal on the first of the letters.

  Ramage shook his head at Fanshaw, declining a drink, and watched the Admiral’s face. Not a muscle moved as he turned the page and read on, then read the whole letter a second time. But there was no doubt that the first letter was the vital one.

  ‘Bad business, Ramage. You know what this is all about’ – he waved the letter – ‘and His Lordship says you can answer any questions. Tell me, are the Jacobins at the back of it? The Irish? Those damned corresponding societies? Or all three?’

  ‘None, sir, as far as I could see. I think the men simply feel mutiny is the only way to get what they want. At least that was certainly the case in the Triton.’

  ‘What, they mutinied as well? His Lordship says’ – he waved the letter again – ‘there’s no sign of the mutiny ending. It hasn’t ended has it?’

  ‘It hadn’t when we sailed. Yes, the Tritons had mutinied.’

  ‘How did you get under way from Spithead, then?’

  The Admiral asked the questions swiftly: he was obviously a man who thought, spoke and acted quickly: his voice had a decisiveness about it that Ramage liked. Although his eyes rarely moved, they were sharp. Ramage realized he was a man who did not make any unnecessary movement – apart from waving the letter.

  ‘We were anchored in a strong wind with a shoal to leeward and it was high water, sir. When they refused to weigh I – well, I cut the cable with an axe and ordered ’em to make sail. They didn’t have much choice: we’d have gone up on the shoal in three or four minutes…’

  The Admiral’s expression did not change but his eyes narrowed. ‘That’s all there was to it?’

  ‘In getting under way, yes. But luckily some men just transferred to the Triton and who’d served with me before discovered–’

  He stopped just in time: in another moment he’d have revealed the whole plot: a plot not mentioned in the log, nor in his journal…

  ‘Discovered what?’

  ‘Discovered that mutiny was pointless,’ Ramage said lamely.

  The Admiral smiled. ‘It all sounds an interesting yarn: you’d better come to dinner and tell me more about it. I have a house just by the jetty. We dine early – four o’clock, in an hour’s time. As you’re now to serve on this station I’ll give you your orders at the same time because you’ll be under way again as soon as La Merlette comes in with the rest of your men.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘You don’t seem very disappointed, Ramage. Most officers just arrived from England could find fifty reasons why they wouldn’t be able to sail again inside of three weeks.’

  ‘Social–’ he just managed to stop a tactless remark, but the Admiral completed the sentence.

  ‘Social life on shore doesn’t interest you?’

  Ramage reddened. ‘In one sense, no sir.’

  The Admiral laughed. ‘But you’re prepared to put up with the invitations of flag officers and commanders-in-chief, eh?’

  There was no point in wriggling and the Admiral was taking it in good part, so Ramage laughed.

  ‘Yes, sir. But I’ve also a good ship and a good crew, and now I know what they’re like on a long passage I’d like to try ’em on different fare.’

  ‘Different fare it’ll be, I promise you that,’ the Adm
iral said and his tone was suddenly serious. ‘But hurry along now or you’ll be late for dinner. If you’ve mail on board, tell my secretary and he’ll send a boat over to collect it. You’ve no need to water and provision: you won’t be going far. And try to remember everything about London fashions – the women’ll be all agog!’

  As soon as the three wives had withdrawn, the Admiral looked up at Ramage and said: ‘Your written orders will be prepared in the morning, but I want to run over the gist of them now so you can ask questions. Both Captain Chubb and Captain Dace had precisely the same orders very recently, so you can have the benefit of their experience.’

  Both captains looked embarrassed, but since the tone of the Admiral’s voice had not changed, Ramage thought for a moment it was a natural modesty, then realized they must have failed to carry out the orders.

  ‘Grenada had a violent insurrection a couple of years or so ago – do you know much about it?’

  Ramage shook his head: he remembered some references in a newspaper but that was all.

  ‘Well, you’ll find out all about it when you get there, but briefly a man called Fédon led a revolt that all but threw us out of the island. Backed by the French, of course, and dozens of innocent people – planters and the like – were murdered. We landed more troops and the revolt was put down. Now the island is quiet again and trying to recover. Any questions so far?’

  ‘Is there a chance of another revolt, sir?’

  ‘No. But that’s not to say there aren’t people in the island who’d like to see the French take over; just that they don’t amount to anything.

  ‘Very well, Ramage, now for your part. Grenada is a rich island – mostly from sugar, molasses, rum, cotton, cocoa, and some coffee – but not very big. They don’t import much, which means of course that merchantmen from England don’t call there very often. Instead, the island schooners carry the produce up to Martinique, where it’s transhipped.’

  Ramage nodded, but so far he couldn’t see where the Triton came into it.

  ‘About four schooners a week sail from Grenada for islands to the north and at least two are bound for Martinique with cargoes for transhipment to England. The rest are carrying out local trade and don’t go farther than St Vincent. Can you guess your orders yet?’

  Managing to hide his surprise at the sudden question, Ramage thought quickly. Had there been a slight emphasis on the word sail in the phrase ‘sail from Grenada’? And the Admiral was obviously concerned with those bound for Martinique. It was worth a try.

  ‘The schooners for Martinique sail, but they don’t always arrive, sir?’

  The Admiral glanced at Chubb and Dace, then looked straight at Ramage. ‘Was that a guess, reasoning, or do you already know something about this?’

  ‘Half-way between a guess and reasoning, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s what happens. They sail from Grenada and some never arrive at Martinique, which is only about 160 miles away. And all the islands they pass are held by us. The Grenadines – lumps of rock: not even a rowing boat could hide among them. Then Bequia – the Army has a small garrison there. St Vincent and St Lucia both with plenty of troops. The longest stretch of open water is from St Lucia to Martinique, and that’s only twenty miles or so. But for all that, some of the schooners just vanish.’

  ‘Could it be treachery by the skippers, sir?’

  ‘No, we thought of that. The skippers are local men; they’ve everything to lose. They and the schooners really do vanish; we’ve never found a trace of man or vessel that’s failed to reach Martinique. Nor do the schooners ever turn up later flying the Tricolour. Very well, that’s about all we know. Your job is to go to Grenada, find out what happens and put an end to it.’

  ‘May I ask what measures have been used up to now, sir?’

  ‘Tell him,’ the Admiral instructed the two captains.

  Both glanced at each other. Dace cleared his throat and, without looking at Ramage, said in a monotone: ‘There aren’t enough escorts – none in fact – so convoys can’t be sailed, and anyway even if they could the freight rate’s so high now the schooners prefer to make a dash for it. They reckon they can make three round voyages – if they don’t get caught – in the time it’d take a convoy to get there and back; particularly since it takes twice as long to unload ten ships arriving all at once in a convoy than it does ten ships arriving singly at regular intervals–’

  ‘He knows that!’ the Admiral interrupted impatiently.

  ‘–well, Captain Chubb and myself started patrols between Martinique and Grenada. He took the windward side of the islands and I the leeward side. We did that for two months. We saw nothing.’

  ‘The schooners were still captured?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dace said uncomfortably, glancing at the Admiral.

  ‘Did any of them take the windward side or all of them keep to the leeward, sir?’

  Dace again looked embarrassed and from the way the Admiral glanced up Ramage guessed the idea hadn’t occurred to any of them. What he intended as an innocent question now left an admiral and two captains looking foolish.

  ‘Would it have made any difference do you think?’ the Admiral demanded.

  Dace shook his head. ‘And I doubt if they’d try: they’d have a long beat to the eastward to clear St Vincent and St Lucia. They’re an independent crowd, the schooner-owners.’

  Ramage asked: ‘Is there any point on the route which it’s known the schooners always pass safely?’

  Chubb nodded. ‘They pass Bequia. Beyond that we’re not sure. Perhaps St Vincent, but it’s usually dark by then.’

  ‘But the local traders to St Vincent – are they ever captured?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was the result of sailing them from St George at different times?’

  Dace answered. ‘None, because they have to spend a night at sea whatever time they leave St George’s–’

  ‘Damn it man!’ the Admiral exclaimed. ‘How many times do I have to say it. The capital of Grenada is St George. It’s clear enough on the chart. Why do you people insist on calling it St George’s. St George’s what? It’s named after the saint, it doesn’t belong to him!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. Well, we’ve tried sailing them at dawn, noon, dusk and the middle of the night. Didn’t make any difference.’

  Ramage decided he’d find out more when he reached St George: neither captain could tell him much and he was merely stirring up a lot of resentment by asking questions the answers of which could only emphasize that a lieutenant with a brig was now being given orders for an operation which two post captains commanding frigates had failed to carry out.

  ‘Well, there you are Ramage,’ the Admiral said, and Ramage had an uneasy feeling he had read his thoughts. ‘We’ll join the ladies: they’ll want to hear news of the latest fashions in London – and the gossip.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Southwick listened gloomily as Ramage finally told him about the Admiral’s orders and then exclaimed indignantly: ‘A needle in a haystack sort of job! How does he expect us to do it when a couple of frigates failed?’

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders and said without conviction, ‘We draw less – we can get into places a frigate can’t.’

  Southwick shook his head. ‘No, sir: I know these islands pretty well and there’s deep enough water wherever they’d need to go. Leastways, they can get in close enough to see. No, I reckon I know what’s happened.’

  Ramage, idly watching Grenada looming up in the distance, said: ‘Out with it, then!’

  ‘Well, with all these schooners vanishing, the planters must be screaming over produce rotting on the quayside and freight rates rocketing, and the owners because insurance rates will be astronomical. And you can almost hear the underwriters in London yelping out as they pay for claim after claim. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re refusing to write any more policies. Don’t blame ’em either. If neither schooner-owners nor planters get insurance…’

  An
d Southwick was right: the planters had enormous influence in Parliament, and so had the underwriters. Long ago Admiral Robinson would have had peremptory orders from the Admiralty to dispose of the privateers. Now–’

  ‘You know what I think, sir?’

  And Ramage was sure he did – that was why he’d kept the orders to himself for two days – but there was no harm in hearing Southwick’s conclusions now.

  ‘I reckon it’s happened like this, sir. As soon as the Admiralty started chasing the Commander-in-Chief, he sent off a couple of frigates, but in two months they haven’t caught a single privateer. Now, the Admiral knows he’s going to get a real rubbing down as soon as word goes back to London that three months or more later the situation’s as bad as ever, and he wants to protect himself and his two captains…’

  Ramage nodded – he’d thought that, realizing the Admiral was not only shrewder than he’d given him credit for but considerably more ruthless.

  ‘…And he knows your stock’s pretty high after the Cape St Vincent action, sir. So just as he’s wondering how to tell the Admiralty he can’t smoke out the privateers but at the same time shield himself and two of his captains, along comes the Triton to join his command.