Ramage and the Freebooters r-3

by Dudley Pope

  Soon after the sun appeared above the bank and started to get some heat in it, the mass of cloud vanished, as if dried up, and tiny clouds, just balls of white fluff, began to appear, apparently from nowhere. Within half an hour they would grow slightly and, almost imperceptibly, like dancers on an enormous ballroom floor, begin to move into a regular formation, part of a dainty quadrille repeated all over the sky.

  By ten o'clock, as the hands were piped to exercise at the guns, the clouds would have formed into a dozen or so regular lines like so many skeins of swans flying one behind the other, converging on a point beyond the western horizon. Apart from the way they formed into lines, the shape of each cloud fascinated Ramage. Although the base was nearly always flat, the top was an irregular bulge and the front stretched out like a neck. Odd quirks of wind varied the shapes of the tops and fronts so that some clouds looked like a squadron of flying white dragons; others as if all the white marble effigies of recumbent knights had risen into the sky from the tops of their tombs. Still more seemed to be people's faces staring up into the sky—here a jovial and plump Falstaff sleeping off a wild night's drinking, there a lean and hungry-looking Cassius.

  But whatever their shape, they always moved westward, as if drawn by some inexorable force; and below them the tumbling seas too moved westward driven, like the Triton, before the wind.

  Always westward—except for the flying fish leaping up suddenly like tiny silver lances, skimming a few yards or a hundred, rising up the forward face of a wave and swooping over the crest and down again, miraculously staying a few inches above the sea until, leaving only a tiny ripple, they vanished as swiftly as they appeared. One, six, a dozen and even fifty at a time.

  Then one of the crew would shout and everyone would crowd the ship's side to watch dolphins racing past, crossing close under the plunging bow, twisting swiftly in the water in a swirl of white and steely blue to pass so close across the bow again it seemed impossible the stem would not hit them. Then, a few minutes before noon each day, he and South-wick would be standing amidships, where the effect of the brig's pitching and rolling was less, quadrants in hand, taking one sight after another, a man calling the time. Minute by minute the sun's image in the quadrant's shaded mirrors —reflected down until it appeared to rest on the horizon, allowing the angle to be measured—continued rising slowly. Then it slowed and gradually came to a stop as the man called noon, and hung there a few moments, apparently motionless. Ramage and the Master would read off the highest angles shown on the quadrant and resume watching the sun until certain the altitude was beginning to drop. The ritual of the noon sight, and a few minutes of addition and subtraction soon gave them the Triton's latitude.

  And then it was afternoon, with the sun—high now they were so far south and hot enough for an awning to be rigged over the quarterdeck—gradually dipping until it was dead ahead. The sunsets, different each evening, were always fantastic. The clouds would have fattened or lost formation and the setting sun, like an angry artist daubing paint, changed them into strange masses of garish yellow with red edges, or pink with a scarlet fringe, but above them and beyond them the sky too would be changing from the deep blue overhead to the palest blue on the horizon, cloud and sky contrasting raw colours and delicate tints.

  Quickly the colours would go, leaving the clouds dull grey and, by comparison, menacing; then, with a suddenness surprising to anyone used to the long evenings of the northern latitudes, it would be dark. Later the clouds would vanish to leave the stars brighter than one could ever imagine. And right astern the moon slowly rose, turning the Triton's wake into a bubbling trail of silver.

  And later, lying comfortably in his cot as it swung with the brig's roll, Ramage would hear the water rushing past the hull, roaring, bubbling, gurgling as the brig slowed momentarily in the trough of one wave, surged along on me forward face of the next, and then see-sawed as the crest passed beneath her and she slid into the trough.

  Every glass, every bottle, every knife, fork and spoon in the sideboard rattled and clinked; everything that could move even an eighth of an inch in the cabin did so with all the noise it could muster. And the ship's hull groaned as the crests and troughs constantly stressed and supported, lifted and dropped. Stringers and futtocks, beams and knees creaked in protest. To a landman it would seem the ship was breaking up; to a seaman it meant the ship was showing its strength, bending like a flexing cane instead of remaining rigid and brittle.

  But Ramage admitted there were bad days: days when the Trades suddenly stopped, leaving the Triton wallowing in a heavy sea without the press of wind in her sails to stop her rolling, the atmosphere humid and oppressive. The seas would flatten quickly, but for an hour or two it always seemed she would roll her masts out. The white puff-ball clouds disappeared and in their place grey-blue patches on the horizon would quickly spread into near black squalls rushing silently down on the ship, like a hawk dropping on its prey.

  One moment she would be pitching and rolling with not enough wind to blow out a candle; then, its edge marked only by a white line of tiny crests, the squall would strike and in a matter of seconds the helmsman would be fighting the wheel to force the Triton to bear away under a reefed foretopsail.

  Blinding rain, howling wind, the knowledge both you and the ship were fighting for your lives, the deck running with water from rain and driven spray, always the fear one of the masts would go by the board—and then suddenly sunshine, the wind and black clouds gone as quickly as they came and even before you could pick up the speaking trumpet to give orders, the deck steaming as the sun's heat began drying out the planking. Seamen would strip off shirts, wring out the water and put them on again. (A fortunate few would have collected some of 'die rainwater to use for washing domes.) The nights were dangerous when the Trades decided to be wilful The Triton would be running in a steady wind, the stars bright, and suddenly a lookout would call a warning, or he or Southwick would spot it: a patch of sky astern with no stars. No hint of cloud, just that the stars had vanished. A minute or so to see which stars round the patch were being obscured—to determine the course of the squall —and men all too often, a hurried call for all hands to furl everything but the foretopsail which would be double reefed...

  *

  Ramage was just dunking of going below when Southwick, who was officer of me watch and had been tactfully keeping to the other side of me quarterdeck, leaving him to his thoughts, came over and said casually, 'Sawbones had a bad night, sir...'

  The old Master said it sympathetically but firmly. Ramage knew he was being told that the problem of the drunken surgeon, Bowen, must be tackled very soon; and in his clumsy; way Southwick was trying to prod him into doing it now, realizing how repugnant the task but knowing, with all his years at sea, that it would get worse the longer it was left Ramage nodded. 'I heard him. If he yelled to his steward for one new bottle he must have yelled for half a dozen.'

  'Four times,' Southwick said grimly, 'I counted. How do you stand under the Regulations, sir; can you forbid him any liquor?'

  Ramage appreciated the 'you': Southwick was well past fifty, Ramage just past twenty-one. If Southwick was anything but a good man, he'd use 'we' as much as possible, just to let the captain know how much he depended on the Master. But not Southwick: he was content and accepted the situation—and perhaps knew Ramage appreciated it Indeed he must know, since there were three or four score unemployed masters at the moment, probably even more, and Southwick knew that Ramage had asked the First Lord for him in the Triton. None of which had much relevance to Bowen's drinking.

  Ramage shook his head. 'I don't think the Regulations cover it. I can suspend him from duty pending an inquiry, that I do know. But it doesn't solve the problem.'

  'I agree,' Southwick nodded and Ramage, realizing the old man wanted to say more, prompted him by adding:

  'We can get rid of him as soon as we get to Barbados— though how we'd find another one I don't know. But he's probably a very good doctor w
hen he's sober and we're going to faced one in the West Indies.'

  'That's what I was thinking, sir. Yellow fever, blackwater ... doesn't do to think about all the diseases, even with a good "sawbones". In fact it's got a lot worse in the last year or so, from what I heard in a letter I had in England, A lot worse.'

  'In what way?'

  'Just the sheer number o' men dying, sir. I kept the letter. It's from the Master of the Hannibal'—he rummaged in a pocket and brought it out. 'These are the figures he gives.

  I hope they won't worry you too much, sir?'

  'No,' Ramage said dryly. 'I've been to the West Indies before...'

  'Well, the soldiers to start with. Out of nearly 16,000 white soldiers stationed there at the time, 6,480 died from fevers in the year ending last April—that's forty per cent. In the Santo Domingo campaign of '94, forty-six masters of transport ships and 11,000 men died. The Hannibal buried 170 of her crew in a month and lost two hundred in six months. Jamaica to Port au Prince is less than 300 miles, but the Reasonable frigate had yellow jack on board and buried thirty-six of her crew on the way. That's one man in three...'

  Ramage held up a hand to stop the recital. If 16,000 troops were sent into battle and lost 6,500 killed, it would mean they'd suffered a disastrous defeat. A sail of the line going into action and losing two hundred men out of about seven hundred would mean she'd been battered and probably sinking...

  'Send Bowen to the cabin.'

  'He mayn't be sober, sir...'

  'Probably not; but I'll see him in fifteen minutes. As sober as you can make him...'

  'I understand, sir. Five minutes under the wash-deck pump, if need be!'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ramage looked up from the desk as the door opened. From outside a man said: 'You thent for me, thir?'

  The blasted fellow had forgotten his false teeth.

  'Come in, Bowen.'

  The surgeon shuffled in like a sleepwalker, walking in a reasonably straight line but only because what would have been staggers to left and right were being counteracted by the Triton's rhythmic rolling.

  Bowen had once been tall, and, despite a weak mouth, handsome. And from what Southwick said, once an excellent surgeon in London with a long list of fashionable patients. Then, for reasons no one knew, Bowen found his hand preferred reaching for a glass of gin rather than a scalpel.

  Ramage looked up at the man again, hating what he had to do. Bowen's carriage had obviously once been proud and erect; but now—even allowing for me low headroom in the cabin—the shoulders were hunched and his head rested athwart them as though the neck had all but given up trying to do its job. Both arms hung loosely, the muscles slack, and being long they gave him an ape-like appearance.

  But the clothing and the face revealed the full story. His shirt, greasy with dirt, obviously hadn't been off his back for a fortnight; the coat and breeches were stained by liquor slopping from glasses held by a shaking hand, and the humidity was producing a crop of mildew.

  The face was grey; not the greyness of someone rarely in the sun, but the greyness of a very sick man. The cheeks sagged and the mouth hung open, lips slack, as if the muscles were too gin-sodden to hold the flesh in place. There was a slight hint the muscles on the left side were still trying because the right side of the mouth hung lower, the lop-sided effect increased by a habit of permanently tilting his head to the right. His grey hair, just pushed clear of the brow, was greasy and unkempt, matted together like a wet deck mop.

  Ramage thought sourly he could well be one of the wretched, liquor-sodden creatures loitering outside some sordid gin palace, pleading with the potman for a glass of swipes or begging a penny from a customer for a drop of gin. Yet almost unbelievably those long and still delicate fingers, now trembling and spasmodically clenching, had been capable of fine and delicate surgery; that brain, now lost in the befuddling fog of gin fumes, could diagnose and treat complex illnesses. Although any man's death was a tragedy, sometimes the way a man lived was worse.

  'Sit down, Bowen.'

  The man nodded gratefully and stupidly, groping for the chair and lowering himself into it. Then slowly be raised his head and tried to focus his eyes on his captain.

  At that point Ramage realized that in all the past days and hours of thinking about the man, he had not only failed to think of a solution, but now couldn't think what to say.

  Yet ironically his position was the reverse of that of a doctor. He knew what the illness was, but until he knew what caused it neither he nor the medical world could cure it. What made a man crave liquor to the exclusion of everything? Perhaps Bowen----- 'I'm afraid I haven't had much chance to get to know you, Bowen.'

  'Thmy fault, thir—I've been too beathly drunk to be fit company for anyone.'

  The answer was so honest Ramage began to feel sympathetic.

  'Perhaps. Tell me, how old are you?'

  'Fifty, thir; old enough to know better and too old to do anything about it'

  He had obviously long since given up the struggle: Ramage sensed the man now had no desire to change.

  'And how long in the Service?'

  Bowen was obviously thinking hard, groping in his memory as if in a dark room scrabbling for something in a drawer.

  'Two yearth, thir.'

  Ramage, who constantly fought an inability to pronounce the letter 'r' when he was excited, knew he couldn't stand a long conversation with a man who lisped and hissed.

  'Sentry! Pass the word for my steward! Now, Bowen, where the devil have you left your teeth?'

  'I... I... I can't remember, thir.'

  'Think, man! You had them for breakfast, didn't you?'

  'No... didn't eat breakfatht.'

  'Supper, then.'

  'Nor thupper; at leatht, I don't think mo.'

  Douglas, the steward, appeared as Ramage realized the man probably hadn't eaten a proper meal for days, if not weeks.

  'Douglas, Mr Bowen has mislaid his teeth. They're in his cabin somewhere—fetch them, please.'

  As Douglas left, Ramage turned back to the surgeon.

  'How long have you been drinking like this?'

  'Like what, thir?'

  The voice revealed he was—well, not exactly cringing, nor trying to seem innocent. Ashamed? Yes! So perhaps there was the remnant of pride there, and he prayed it had not sunk too deep.

  'Don't play the fool,' Ramage said harshly, hoping the man would soon be completely sober, and that a few hard words would speed up the process. 'You're a gin-sodden wreck; just a pig swilling from a trough. Now, how long have you been drinking like this?'

  Pressing his hands to his temples, Bowen seemed to be trying to stop his head spinning. He stared at the deck a few inches in front of Ramage's feet and said in a near whisper:

  'Three yearth, thir.'

  'For a year before you joined the Service?'

  'Yeth . . .'

  'In other words, your first year's drinking wrecked your life. Eventually only the Navy would employ you as a doctor?'

  'I thuppothe thath true, thir: I hadn't thought of it.'

  Douglas knocked at the door, came in and discreetly handed the surgeon his teeth as though they were a pair of spectacles.

  He left the cabin and Ramage busied himself with some papers while Bowen fitted them, fumbling with shaking hands.

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Ramage nodded and turned bade to face him.

  'Tell me, Bowen, he said conversationally, 'when you were a doctor in London, I imagine you often had patients who drank too much and came to you for treatment?'

  'I'm afraid so, sir. Drink's a curse which afflicts the rich and poor alike. Cheap gin or expensive brandy—the effect, medically speaking, is just the same.'

  'If it isn't cured, I suppose the patient dies?'

  'Invariably. The liver, you see: it can't stand the damaging effect of all that liquor.'

  Ramage realized Bowen was now talking in a completely detached manner; once again a doctor discus
sing a medical problem. Well, he thought grimly, maybe 'physician, heal thyself might work.

  'What do doctors consider the chances of effecting a cure? How many, say in a hundred cases?'

  'Depends entirely on the patient, sir. And on his family and friends. No nostrums can cure. Fashionable quacks prescribe expensive medicines and treatments, but the patients the or go mad and the quacks get rich...'

  'But what starts a man drinking so excessively? I mean, not every hard drinker gets like—well permanently besotted.'

  'Well, that's hard to say. Most people drink a normal amount—a glass of claret, a sherry, port, a good brandy after dinner. Hot toddy on a cold night. They have a drink because it tastes well, it livens the spirit...'

  'But that's far removed from being drunk all the time.'

  'Yes, that's the puzzling part. It's not a fashionable view among medical men, but I think it is an illness, like a fever. It affects some and not others. Like yellow jack. It strikes down one man and leaves another.'

  Ramage was interested now, conscious that something quite different was emerging from the drunken man seated in front of him. Bowen's voice was becoming brisk and assured. Although the words were slightly blurred, for he was not yet fully sober, here was the man of medicine talking to the brother of a patient.

  'You see, sir, the strange thing is you can take two men and each can drink the same amount. Wine with the midday meal, wine and brandy at supper. Perhaps several brandies. Now one of those men will, all his life, drink the same amount with no difficulty. He'll never feel the need to drink more.

  'But the other man,' Bowen continued, his eyes brighter now and emphasizing his words with a wagging finger, 'will find he starts having just one more drink on each occasion. Particularly in the evening. One more, then another. He doesn't get particularly drunk—until perhaps one evening he's enjoying an argument, or quarrels with his wife, or something is worrying him. Then he gets very drunk. The next morning...'

  Ramage nodded. He knew the feeling, though in his case because he'd drunk more in one evening than he had the previous month.