Ramage’s Prize r-5

by Dudley Pope

  "When are the passengers supposed to board?"

  "When do you propose she sails?" Smith asked, and the tone of his voice assured Ramage that the Postmaster now accepted his authority.

  "Would noon the day after tomorrow be normal?"

  "Quite normal. If you'd asked me, that's when I'd have suggested. It gives Captain Stevens enough time to provision the ship."

  "And give his men some shore leave," Ramage said casually.

  Smith grinned. "Yes - a few hours to dispose of their ventures."

  Ramage realized he should have remembered that that alone would have ensured the men came on shore.

  "Well now," Smith said affably, as a waiter set down a tea-pot and a coffee-pot, "can you and your people be on board by nine o'clock in the morning? Your baggage can be stowed and you'll be settled in before she sails."

  "Excellent," Ramage said. It would fit in perfectly with his timetable, and give him time to look over the packet and her crew before she sailed.

  "The packetsmen," Ramage added casually. "How is their leave arranged?"

  "Captain Stevens usually gives half of them a few hours the first day, and half get the night on shore."

  "A dozen men at a time - oh well, they have Protections, too, lucky fellows; they can enjoy themselves without worrying about a press gang picking them up!"

  Chapter Six

  His Majesty's packet brig Lady Arabella was on the special Post Office mooring right in front of Kingston itself, and the following evening four seamen were watching her from a waterfront bar. They had moved one of the two tables in the tawdry saloon to a spot where they could get the best view, tipped the potman lavishly and told him to stay away until they called him.

  The bar was otherwise empty; in fact it was unlikely that three dozen seamen could be found in all the bars within two hundred yards of Harbour Street and not ten more in all the brothels. The reason was simple - the same four men had visited a few of the bars earlier and mentioned that there would soon be a hot press out because one of the ships of the line had just received sailing orders. It took only a few minutes for the word to spread among the men who belonged to the few merchantmen in the anchorage, and they vanished like summer mist at sunrise.

  Now the only seamen in the city's bars were those with Protections tucked in their pockets or money belts. Some Protections, issued by the Admiralty, declared their holders to be protected from being pressed because of their jobs - ferrymen, for instance, who were often disabled seamen for whom a Protection was the nearest thing to a pension they were likely to get. Other Protections had been issued by the Government of the United States - or, rather, its Customs officers - and declared their bearers to be American citizens.

  Although the documents issued by the Admiralty were rare, the American Protections were comparatively common: the Customs officer in any American port readily issued one to any man who swore on oath that he was an American citizen. There was nothing to prevent a man collecting one in each of a dozen different ports, and then selling the other eleven at a handsome profit. British seamen considered a change of name a small price to pay for immunity from the press gangs.

  One of the four men sitting at the table owned a genuine American Protection which was probably unique in Kingston that day because it truly described its owner as an American citizen: Thomas Jackson, a lean man with a cadaverous face and receding sandy hair, had indeed been born in Charleston, South Carolina, forty years earlier, and thus became an American at the age of twenty. The document - with the American eagle printed right across the top and signed with a flourish by "James Bennett, Collector of Customs for Charleston" - was now yellowed and foxed by tropical heat, creased and stained at the edges with salt water.

  Thomas Jackson had carried it with him for more than three years, a genuine document which would stop a press gang hauling him on board a British warship or ensure that an American consul would subsequently secure his release. Yet for more than three years Thomas Jackson had served in the Royal Navy, and for most of that time he had been the captain's coxswain. For nearly two years his captain had been Lieutenant Ramage, and between the two men, so different in rank, age, temperament and background, existed that indefinable bond between men who have shared the same dangers and know that a French roundshot did not care whether it knocked the head off an earl's heir or the son of a Carolina woodsman.

  Two of the other men, Stafford and Rossi, had served with Lieutenant Ramage for the same length of time; only the fourth, a coloured seaman named William Maxton, who came from Grenada at the southern end of the Windward Islands, was a comparative newcomer.

  Will Stafford was a true Cockney, having been born in Bridewell Lane. He was now twenty-seven years old and stockily built with a round and cheery face and curly brown hair. An observant onlooker might have been puzzled by his delicate hands (the skin now coarsened by hauling on ropes) and a habit of rubbing thumb and forefinger together, as though feeling material. Before being swept into the Navy's net Stafford had been a locksmith, not a tailor, and he made no secret of the fact that much of his work on locks had been done by his sensitive fingers at the dead of night, unrequested and unpaid, though rarely unrewarded.

  Alberto Rossi, nicknamed Rosey by his shipmates, was correctly described in muster books as having been born in Genoa and was twenty years old, plump and black-haired with flamboyant good looks. Like many Genovesi, Rossi spoke good English: hundreds of men from that great seaport had to seek employment in the ships of other nations because there were too few ships flying the flag of the Republic of Genoa, which had recently been occupied by the French and renamed the Ligurian Republic. Rossi maintained a bantering reticence about his reason for signing on in a British ship of war that happened to be in the harbour, although admitting it was the fastest and certainly the safest way of leaving the city without being asked embarrassing questions.

  Although the other three had formed a tightly knit group under Jackson's leadership, and many times had risked their lives with their captain, they had accepted Maxton when he joined the ship because of his cheerful intelligence. In turn, Ramage had come to realize that he could rely on the quartet. In common with most of the men of the Royal Navy they gave their loyalty not to a flag or a vague ideal, but to an individual they could respect. It was a spontaneous and natural loyalty; not the loyalty demanded by the harshly worded Articles of War.

  "Jacko," Stafford said suddenly, glancing round to make sure the potman was out of earshot, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand, "make sure I stay sober."

  "Don't worry."

  "But I do. I worry all the time. Just supposing these beggars don't come on shore from the packet. Say they don't get leave?"

  "They will," Jackson said reassuringly. "You saw the first half going back on board twenty minutes ago."

  "Aye, and three sheets in the wind, the lot o' them! Supposin' the captain decides he don't want the rest of his men blind drunk, and belays their leave?"

  "Then we'll go on board and pull 'em out like winkles. Got a bent pin?"

  Rossi tapped his mug of beer. "Seriously, Jacko, is a good question. Accidente - everything depends on it!"

  "It's a good question all right," the American said calmly, "but if they don't get leave and come on shore, we can't do anything: it's as simple as that. You saw the first half had their run on shore, just like Mr Ramage said, so why should anything stop the second half? There's plenty of time for them to get their twelve hours before the Arabella sails at noon tomorrow."

  "All right," Stafford conceded, "let's say they're here and we've got 'em all stupid drunk. Where's this bleedin' crimp supposed to meet us, so we can hand 'em over to him?"

  "Down the other end of Harbour Street. At the Sign of the Pelican. He owns it."

  "Can we trust him?"

  "Yes, he's got only half the money and doesn't get the rest until morning. And I swore Maxie would slit his throat if he tried any nonsense."


  "But a dozen drunken packetsmen," Stafford persisted. "Where the 'ell is he going to lock 'em up safe?"

  Jackson sighed. "He's got a small building out the back like a big cell. Has a mahogany door on it two inches thick and a padlock as big as a melon. They'll be half drunk by the time we invite them along to the Pelican, and there it's free drinks on us. As they pass out we pass them out to the crimp who locks 'em up in his cell. I had a good look at it - they can shout until their tongues wear out and no one'll hear them."

  "Like a purser's storeroom," Stafford commented, "only he sells seamen to shipmasters!"

  "And then?" Rossi prompted Jackson.

  "With all the packetsmen locked up for the night we sleep at the Pelican, and the other eight of our lads join us with their seabags. Then at nine o'clock tomorrow morning we lurk around the landing stage and wait for the word from Mr Ramage to go out to the Arabella and take the packetsmen's places."

  Stafford shook his head doubtfully. "I don't like the idea of trusting that crimp."

  "Don't worry about him," Jackson said contemptuously. "He'll do anything for money, and I've got it. He doesn't get the other half until we leave the Pelican to board the packet, and he's only to keep that cell door locked until he sees her sailing out past Fort Charles. Why, he's doing this sort of thing all the time, only usually he has to find the drunks to lock in his cell. Then he has to drag 'em off to a merchant ship that's short of men, get them signed on and collect his money from the captain before they've sobered up. I bet he's selling a couple of dozen men a day once a convoy starts forming up here."

  "Is just kidnapping," Rossi exclaimed angrily, his accent becoming more pronounced. "Is a crook, this crimp!"

  "Sure it's kidnapping," Jackson said calmly, "and it goes on in every port in the world. It's selling seamen to shipmasters, just like a chandler sells rope and candles. But every seaman knows the minute he sets foot in a bar that if he gets drunk the ladies of the town will get his money and the crimps or a press gang will get his body. It's the same in Genoa, isn't it?"

  "No, is worse," Rossi said soberly. "Too many seamen and not enough ships, so you lose your money after getting a knife between the ribs."

  "I'd sooner take me chance with a crimp," Stafford said complacently. "But Jacko, ain't what we're doing a bit sort of - well, irregular? We must be careful not to do nothin' that'd get Mr Ramage into trouble."

  "Don't worry," Jackson said soothingly, "I've got my orders from Mr Ramage himself, and the money to pay off the crimp and buy some beer. Just remember that, as far as the packetsmen are concerned, we've just been paid some prize money and want to enjoy ourselves."

  "Yus, but wot 'appens when we get on board the packet? Are we supposed to sign on?"

  "Mama mia!" exclaimed an exasperated Rossi. "Is not bright today, eh Staff?"

  The Cockney looked shamefaced. "It's the heat. I'd sort of worked it out like that, I just wanted confirmeration."

  "Confirmation," Jackson corrected out of habit.

  "An' I got it. 'Ow much drinkin' money did Mr Ramage give us, Jacko?"

  "Officially, he hasn't given us any, and if anything goes wrong just remember we haven't even seen him: we've just got shore leave from the Arrogant and that's that."

  "Is a boat," Rossi said, suddenly pointing towards the Lady Arabella. Alocal boat was leaving her, crowded with men, and the heavily patched lugsail was being hoisted. Soon the boat was reaching quickly towards the jetty.

  "Come on, Jacko!"

  "Sit.down, Staff: we aren't going to welcome them at the jetty and give 'em the freedom of the city; we'll find them in a bar in fifteen minutes or so."

  "Supposing they split up?"

  "We'll keep an eye on them."

  But an hour later four very worried seamen came back to the same table in the saloon, their shirts soaked in perspiration, and ordered themselves drinks.

  "We're in trouble now," Stafford muttered gloomily. "What'll Mr Ramage say?"

  "They vanish - poof!" Rossi said, disbelief in his voice, "and is getting dark."

  "Why were they all carrying bags?" Jackson mused. "Large bags. Not their seabags, though; bags with something special inside. Listen, you three, I'm going to report to Mr Ramage; he's waiting at the Royal Albion."

  He was back within ten minutes, walking jauntily.

  "Ventures!" he said contemptuously. "Seems all these packetsmen are really budding merchants. They bring out goods to sell here - boots, shoes, wines and cheeses - I ask you, cheeses - and take back things that are difficult to get in England, and sell them in Falmouth."

  In the cardroom at the Royal Albion next morning Southwick and Bowen were having a leisurely game of chess, the Master now regretting that he had refused the surgeons offer of an advantage of two bishops.

  Bowen shook his head reprovingly. "The centre of the board, Southwick; always try to dominate the centre of the board."

  "I know," Southwick snapped, "you've told me enough times, but all I can say is it's easier said than done."

  "Are you looking forward to our cruise?"

  "Not much," Southwick said. "Don't like sitting round idle, especially on board a ship."

  "Let someone else worry about sailing the ship for a change. I'm looking forward to the company of you and Mr Ramage without one or other of you constantly bobbing off on watch!"

  "Aye, it'll be a nice enough voyage in that sense."

  "But not in the other sense, though."

  "No," Southwick said. "Trouble is, we don't know what we're looking for."

  "Getting the dozen former Tritons on board the packet - Mr Ramage's method seems a trifle - er - unorthodox."

  "No choice," Southwick said, lifting a bishop carefully, and then hastily putting it back. "Has to be a little unorthodox when they give him these rum jobs. I tell you this, Bowen: I'm dam' sure the Admiralty couldn't make up its mind whether to give the job to an admiral with a squadron or a junior officer..."

  "Or Mr Ramage," Bowen said cheerfully. "He makes a nice compromise."

  "Check," Southwick said triumphantly.

  Bowen glanced at the board, moved his knight, and looked up again. "Best choice they - you see what you did, don't you? Good - they ever made."

  Bowen rolled a pawn along the table-top. "You know, Southwick, potentially Mr Ramage is a fine chess player. Curious, he makes brilliant moves when he's using his own life - and other people's. Yet sit him behind a chessboard and he gets lost..."

  "It's a matter of concentration," Southwick said. "Nothing concentrates your thoughts better than knowing you'll get killed if you don't do the right thing. But sitting behind a chessboard - well, he's probably thinking of a dozen different things while his opponent decides on a move."

  "I suppose so," Bowen said. "For me, I can think only with a chessboard in front of me." He moved his queen. "Check, I think; possibly even checkmate. You see, Southwick, you don't concentrate either."

  "How can I, when you're jabbering all the time," an exasperated Southwick exclaimed. "Anyway, it's not 'mate'."

  Bowen pointed to his knight.

  "Oh blast it," Southwick said. "I hate knights. I like straightforward moves; none of this hoppity dodging about business." He looked at his watch. "Hmm, time we began moving."

  Ramage was in his room and finding it strange to be out of uniform. He was thankful that he and Yorke were the same build - more or less, anyway. A tightness across his shoulders warned him to be careful lest a seam split, and that Yorke was narrower-chested. But he had excellent taste and a good tailor, so borrowing his clothes for the first day or so on board the Lady Arabella was a pleasure.

  Yorke reached over and gave the stock a slight twitch. "You're listing to starboard a trifle."

  "It's your damned tailor," Ramage grumbled, "he's sewn in a list."

  "When we get on board," Yorke said, "we are - well, ourselves as it were?"

  "Completely. We all know each other. The only thing is you don't know any of the ex-Tritons -
Jackson, Stafford and the rest of them."

  Yorke grinned. "I'm glad we'll have those rascals with us. They're reassuring. Wish we had all the rest of them."

  After rapping on the door Southwick called from the corridor: "Bowen and I are just leaving, sir. Your carriage will be ready in a couple of minutes - they're putting up your baggage now."

  Chapter Seven

  Yorke and Ramage climbed on board His Majesty's packet Lady Arabella to find Southwick and Bowen on deck talking to a sombre and lanky man with a thin, cadaverous face who immediately came over and introduced himself.

  "Gideon Stevens, gentlemen, owner and commander of the Lady Arabella: welcome on board."

  Ramage, realizing Stevens had been expecting him to be in uniform and now could not distinguish them, introduced himself and Yorke.

  Stevens' voice was soft, almost ingratiating. "The steward will show you to your cabin, gentlemen. Your baggage will be hoisted on board in a moment or so. I hope you'll be comfortable."

  The small cabin that Yorke and Ramage were to share was panelled in dark mahogany and smelled stuffy; at least one of the previous occupants had smoked cigars and the stale, cloying aroma still clung to the furnishings. The covers on the berths, the cushions on the two chairs and the carpet were all a dull, deep red.

  "This plum colour - it just doesn't go with polished mahogany," Yorke grumbled.

  "Doesn't show the dirt either," Ramage pointed out. "Don't forget Captain Stevens has to safeguard his profit."

  "Ninety-nine per cent of the fare, I should think," Yorke said acidly. "And why the devil didn't the steward open the skylight to air the cabin?"

  The saloon was large, combining a dining-room and drawing-room in one, and the passengers would spend much of their time in it when they reached the colder weather to the north. It was also panelled in dark mahogany, matching the long dining-table. A heavy oil-lamp hung in gimbals at each end of the cabin; a big brass stove at the forward end warned them that once they were through the Windward Passage it would get a degree colder every day.