Ramage's Diamond

by Dudley Pope

  Finally, past South Point and with Needham Point fine on the starboard bow, Carlisle Bay still hidden by trending inland just beyond it, Ramage took one last look over the Juno. The crew of his cutter were rigged out in white trousers and blue shirts, their round sennet hats shiny with new black paint. There was no need to inspect them; Jackson would have checked over every man, and they would be freshly shaven and their queues newly tied. Pendant numbers were streaming and the new ensign rippled in the brisk wind. Already Ramage felt the heat of the land, although they were still a mile offshore, and he could smell – was it hay? Hardly. More likely the smell from the sugar cane.

  The four lieutenants were wearing their best uniforms; young Orsini was standing aft with Benson waiting for orders, and both the youngsters, wearing their dirks, were trying not to stare at the coastline – Ramage had heard Aitken reprimand them for climbing up on a gun for their first real sight of Barbados.

  Captain Ramage was bringing the Juno frigate into Barbados. He had dreamed of commanding a frigate and the dream had come true. He had dreamed of taking his own frigate to the West Indies, and the dream had come true. Yet even as he looked around, felt the heat of the deck soaking through the soles of his shoes, looked around again to check for the tenth time that not a rope was out of place, not the tiniest grease spot on the deck, that the anchors were bent on to the cables, that the topmen were waiting for the order to swarm aloft and furl the sails, knowing that the Admiral would probably be watching with a critical eye glued to a telescope, even now it seemed unreal. He caught Southwick’s eye and wondered if the old Master could read his thoughts. Southwick glanced round, saw no one watching, and gave Ramage a broad wink, his face remaining impassive. Still holding his quadrant in his right hand, the Master bent over the binnacle and then looked ahead. ‘I don’t know how many ships there’ll be in Carlisle Bay, sir, but it’ll be opening in a moment – you can see Charles Fort and Beckwith Battery. Ah, there! One frigate…that’s a brig just west of her. The flagship must be just – ah! I can just see the ends of her yards!’

  Ramage glanced across at Aitken, but the first lieutenant was already calling Benson and Orsini. ‘Have you got a bring-’em-near, Benson?’ The midshipman snatched up a telescope. ‘Orsini, signal book?’ The boy waved the slim volume.

  Aitken looked at them sternly. ‘Benson, you’d better read the signals faster than the flagship makes ’em!’

  The boy ran to the starboard side and climbed up on the aftermost gun, standing there with the telescope to his eye, Orsini standing on the deck beside him, ready to flick open the book at whatever page told him the meaning of the numbers that would be signalled.

  Then the flagship was in sight, a long crescent of sandy beach beyond her, and Southwick was looking through his quadrant. He knew the height of her maintruck from her waterline and had already set on the quadrant the angle it would make at the distance off Ramage wanted to be when he began the salute.

  ‘Another hundred yards, sir.’

  ‘Gunner, stand by for the salute!’ Ramage called down to the maindeck.

  But there was no signal from the flagship telling him where to anchor. Another case of being damned if you waited and damned if you did not. Some admirals would flay a captain who just sailed in and anchored without being told exactly where, usually on a certain bearing and at a particular distance from the flagship. What did Admiral Davis favour? He shrugged his shoulders. The two frigates – no, three, because another one was just showing clear of the point – seemed to be anchored ‘where convenient’.

  Southwick took the quadrant from his eyes. ‘That’s the distance, sir,’ he said, and he added quietly, ‘Either the watchtower hasn’t passed the word or – judging from where the others are – we just anchor…’

  Ramage nodded; there was no point in waiting. ‘Gunner,’ he called, ‘begin the salute!’ He turned to Southwick and added quietly, ‘It might wake ’em up!’

  The first gun thundered across the small peninsula forming Needham Point and as the smoke drifted away Ramage saw a flock of pelicans wheeling up in alarm. The second gun boomed and then the third. Aitken was watching the flagship with his telescope and said suddenly, ‘Three, no four, officers are watching. One’s a captain, and – yes, one’s an admiral. Definitely an admiral, sir.’

  ‘Her flag halyards!’ Ramage snapped. ‘Are men bending on flags?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Aitken said firmly.

  Ramage picked up the speaking trumpet, noting that the fourth gun of the salute had just fired. ‘The outermost frigate,’ he said to Aitken and Southwick. ‘We’ll anchor a hundred yards on his larboard quarter. Are there still eight fathoms that far out, Southwick?’

  ‘Aye, eight fathoms, sir,’ the Master answered. ‘I’ll go to the fo’c’sle.’

  Not having to anchor in a particular spot made it a lot easier. Several more guns to go; with luck the last of the salute should fire just before the anchor hit the water, but it would be close…

  He took a deep breath, lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips and shouted the orders that sent the topmen swarming aloft. On the deck other men were standing by, ready to haul or let go. The quartermaster leaned forward slightly waiting for the order that would bring the Juno up into the wind.

  Then he gave a stream of orders. As the Juno began to turn, the courses, topsails, and topgallants lost their swelling shapes as clew lines pulled the corners upwards and diagonally inwards towards the masts. Only the foretopsail remained, rippling as the wind came round on the frigate’s beam.

  Ramage was watching the other frigate, now on the Juno’s starboard bow. A quiet order to the quartermaster and the Juno turned into the wind, so that the foretopsail was pressed against the mast, slowing the ship down. The other frigate was dead ahead and the backed foretopsail had almost stopped the Juno.

  From the fo’c’sle Southwick signalled that all was ready; the bower anchor was hanging clear, the stock clear and below the bowsprit shrouds. The last gun of the salute fired and the smoke streamed aft. Jackson, perched by the mainchains, called that the way was off the ship and Ramage gave his prearranged signal to Southwick. A moment later the anchor splashed into the water and the cable thundered out through the hawse, the smell of singeing rope drifting back to the quarterdeck as friction scorched the thick manila cable. Now the back topsail was beginning to push the Juno astern, putting a strain on the cable and digging in the anchor. In the meantime the rest of the sails were being neatly furled. Then the foretopsail, its work done, was clewed and furled.

  As Aitken went forward to start hoisting out the cutters he reported to Ramage: ‘No signals yet from the flagship, sir, but there are five telescopes watching us!’

  Ramage looked at the other frigate and then walked to the forward end of the quarterdeck. He could just see the anchor buoy bobbing in the water. The Juno, more by luck than judgement, was where he wanted her. Aloft the sails were furled so tightly that the yards looked bare. Five telescopes, eh?

  There was an excited squeak from Orsini, who came rushing to Ramage, signal book in hand. ‘Signal from the flagship, sir. The captain of the ship signified to report on board the flagship.’ He paused, as though making sure that Ramage had grasped it, and then added: ‘The ship signified is 637, and that’s us, sir.’

  Ramage suppressed a grin at the enormous importance Paolo placed on every word. ‘Very well, acknowledge – and keep a sharp eye open for more signals.’

  Southwick came aft to report the amount of cable veered, and he took some bearings which he noted on the slate kept hooked on the binnacle box: they would show whether or not the anchor was dragging. Leaving the Master as officer of the deck, Ramage went down to his cabin and glanced in the mirror to make sure his stock had not creased in the hour since he had put on a fresh one. He put on his sword, wiped his face with a towel and picked up the canvas bag containing the dispatches for the Admiral, a copy of his own orders, the Juno’s log and the rest of the forms he had been bus
y filling in for the past few days. He took a second canvas bag, even bulkier: that was for Aitken to give to Wagstaffe. After Ramage was on board the flagship and reporting to the Admiral, Wagstaffe could take over the rest of the letters, newspapers and small packets. There were times, he thought crossly, when one of the King’s ships seemed to carry more private mail than a Post Office packet ship.

  Baker knocked on the door of the cabin. ‘Captain, sir, your cutter is ready.’

  He went up on deck, gave the larger canvas bag to Aitken, listened to Southwick reporting that the anchor was not dragging, and walked to the gangway. The side-ropes, newly scrubbed, were rigged and the bos’n’s mates and side boys were waiting. A minute later he was sitting in the sternsheets of the cutter and clutching the bag, while Jackson was giving orders for the boat to shove off.

  Ramage looked up at the Juno’s curving sides. Yes, she looked smart enough and he was glad she had that yellow strake: it emphasized her sheer nicely. And the figurehead – the men had made a good job of painting Juno. The flesh tones had seemed rather lurid viewed from the fo’c’sle, but from a distance they seemed natural.

  The men bent at the oars, steady strokes that made the cutter leap across the chop kicked up by the wind. Ramage wondered for the hundredth time what Admiral Davis had in store for him. Just as he left the quarterdeck Southwick had muttered: ‘It’ll be convoys, sir,’ and looking round at the other three frigates at anchor Ramage was sure the Master was right. All three frigates were smartly turned out; all were glistening with more paint than the Navy Board allowed, with touches of gold leaf here and there, showing their captains had dipped into their own pockets to buy the extra to make their ships smart. They reeked of prize money, Ramage thought. Glistened with prize money, he corrected himself. These three frigates were obviously the Admiral’s favourites. One of them would carry out the sealed orders in the canvas bag he was holding on his knees.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Henry Davis, Rear-Admiral of the Red and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s ships and vessels upon the Windward and Leeward Islands station, was a short, round-faced man in late middle-age, with stiff black eyebrows that stuck out of his forehead like boot brushes, but he had an open, cheerful face and after greeting Ramage on the quarterdeck of the Invincible he led the way down to the great cabin. He had eyed the canvas pouch that Ramage was carrying and was obviously anxious to get his hands on the dispatches and orders it held, but he concealed his impatience.

  The cabin was enormous by comparison with the Juno’s and furnished as became an admiral in a ship of the line: half a dozen leather-covered armchairs, one of the largest wine-coolers Ramage had ever seen – made of mahogany and shaped like a fat Greek urn – and a sideboard with a rack in which half a dozen cut-glass decanters glittered in the sunlight reflecting through the sternlights. One of the two swords hung in racks in the forward bulkhead was an ornate ceremonial scimitar with a beautifully chased and gilded pommel, the other a curved fighting sword: obviously the Admiral favoured the cavalry type of sabre. The curtains drawn back on either side of the sternlights were a deep red damask woven with intricate patterns of silver thread – the same design, Ramage noted, as the ceremonial sword pommel. Probably bought in Persia, or presents from some Turkish potentate. Together they gave the cabin an atmosphere more suited to some bearded pasha.

  ‘A drink?’ the Admiral inquired, waving Ramage to one of the chairs. ‘The usual, or there is fresh lime or lemon juice. No ice I’m afraid; the damned schooner hasn’t arrived from Nova Scotia. The last consignment lasted only a week; the fools didn’t pack it properly. They said they were short of straw, so two thirds of it melted before they got here. Said they had to pump most of the way down.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Odd to think that a ship laden with ice blocks could sink itself with the ice melting…’

  It could not, since ice took up more cubic space than the water it produced, but only a callow midshipman would point that out to an admiral. ‘A lime juice, if I may, sir.’

  The Admiral stared suspiciously at Ramage from under his jutting eyebrows. ‘You do take a drink, though?’

  Ramage saw the mottled complexion and bulbous nose of a man who obviously enjoyed a good brandy and hurriedly nodded his head. ‘Indeed, sir; it’s just that I’m very thirsty. It’s hot here in the bay, after the Atlantic.’

  The Admiral grunted approvingly. ‘Hate this damned bay m’self, but at least it’s cooler on board than on shore. My wife – she took the coolest house we could find, but at night, when the wind drops…’ He shook a small silver bell vigorously and when a steward appeared ordered a rum punch for himself and a fresh lime juice for Ramage.

  Ramage opened the pouch and took out the papers, handing the top one, his orders, to the Admiral, who read through them quickly. ‘Hmm, I’m glad to have another frigate. Never have enough. Their Lordships don’t seem to appreciate the problem of running a station like this, covering dozens of islands with so few ships. Ramage, eh? Any relation to the Earl of Blazey?’

  ‘Son, sir.’

  ‘Mmm, then you are the young fellow I’ve been reading about in the Gazette from time to time. Well, you are going to find it a lot quieter out here. No excitement. Convoys up and down the islands, an occasional chase after a privateer…’

  Ramage pictured Southwick’s face and did not notice the Admiral watching him closely. ‘You look disappointed.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Ramage said hurriedly, careful not to add that it was what he had feared.

  ‘I don’t remember seeing your name on the latest List I have. When were you made post?’

  ‘A month ago,’ Ramage answered and knew what the Admiral was going to say next.

  ‘Hmm, most junior on the station – by a couple of years or so.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘That’ll be a relief for some of my young firebrands: when they saw the Juno I expect they thought she was still commanded by your predecessor, who has more seniority than the rest o’ them put together. Now, you have dispatches for me?’

  Ramage took five packets and gave them to the Admiral, who looked at the rest of the papers Ramage was holding. ‘What are those – weekly accounts and that sort of thing – list of defects as long as your arm?’ When Ramage nodded, the Admiral rang the bell, which he had put down beside his chair. ‘Give ’em to my secretary,’ he said, bellowing to the sentry to pass the word for Mr Henshaw. When Henshaw arrived, as thin and nervous a secretary as Ramage had ever seen and obviously also the ship’s chaplain, the Admiral did not bother with introductions, merely telling him to take the Juno’s weekly accounts and start dealing with them.

  As Ramage stood, intending to leave the Admiral to read his letters from the Admiralty, he glanced up. ‘You haven’t finished your drink yet,’ he said impatiently. ‘Just sit down while I read through this. When were you last at the Admiralty?’

  ‘The beginning of last month, sir, when I was made post.’

  ‘Who did you see?’

  ‘The First Lord, sir.’

  Again the Admiral stared at him. ‘And how was Lord St Vincent, eh?’

  ‘In good health,’ Ramage said lamely, guessing at the questions that must be passing through the Admiral’s mind, since it was rare for a young post captain to see the First Lord, and he must have realized that Ramage was still a lieutenant when he entered the First Lord’s office.

  The Admiral ripped open the first letter – all of them, heavily sealed, were numbered, Ramage had noticed; presumably they were marked in order of importance. As the Admiral read, Ramage twisted slightly in his chair and looked round the cabin again. The Admiral was certainly a man who liked comfort – and who could blame him? The two gimballed lanterns were silver; four other lanthorns clipped to the bulkheads were inlaid with silver wire which was worked in the horn in the same pattern as the sword hilt.

  The Admiral grunted and Ramage heard him ripping open a second packet. The canvas covering the cabin sole was new, and it would take several more coats of th
e pale green paint before the material was smooth. Ramage shifted his position: the armchairs were comfortable enough but leather was hardly a suitable covering for the heat of the Tropics: he could feel perspiration making his breeches stick to the material.

  Again the Admiral grunted. ‘His Lordship mention any forthcoming operations to you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Again the eyebrows lifted and then lowered, and the Admiral opened the next letter, glanced through it quickly and went on to the fourth, which produced a snort of disgust. The fifth hardly appeared to interest him and he gathered them all up again and looked at Ramage.

  ‘Know Martinique at all?’

  ‘A little, sir. I know most of the other islands.’

  The Admiral stood up, putting the papers down on his chair and walking over to his desk. There were a dozen or more charts rolled up and stowed in a rack to one side and he looked through them, finally pulling one out. He spread it out and put paperweights on the sides to prevent it rolling up again. Then he beckoned to Ramage, who saw it was a chart of Martinique and realized for the first time how similar it was to the foot of Italy.

  The Admiral jabbed a blunt forefinger on Fort Royal, and then moved it to include the great Fort Royal Bay. ‘Bane of my existence, that damned place,’ he said sourly. ‘I have to watch the French there like a terrier at a rabbit hole. That’s going to be your job for the next few weeks – months, probably. Sorry for it, my boy, because you are going to get heartily sick of the sight of the Pointe des Salines,’ he jabbed a finger on the southernmost tip of the island, ‘and Diamond Rock – that’s this one here, sticks up a mile offshore like a great tooth – and Cap Salomon.’ He pointed to the headland on the south side of Fort Royal Bay. ‘Aye, and as far up as Pointe des Nègres.’ He gestured at the headland on the north side of the Bay.

  With his finger he traced a line from Pointe des Nègres to the southern end of the island. ‘Up and down, my lad, twenty-five miles. You’ll be the terrier at the rabbit hole, and I don’t want a French rabbit to get in or out without you taking him and sending him here with a prize crew on board.’