Ramage’s Prize r-5

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Ramage’s Prize r-5 Page 17

by Dudley Pope


  "It would be more convenient to have him in here, wouldn't it?"

  Bowen saw Ramage wink and smiled: "Yes, sir. Much more. Do you want me to arrange it?"

  "I badly want to have a chat with our Mr Much. A suitablecollapse and a request to Kerguelen should do the job." Southwick was scratching his head and Ramage guessed that the locked door with an armed sentry outside was affecting the old Master, who asked, "What do you reckon our chances are of being recaptured, sir?"

  "Very slight, if these Frenchmen can handle her properly. Sounds as though they've finished the splicing. They'll have her under way soon."

  Breakfast next morning was a piece of bread - the Navy's euphemism for tough biscuit - and a bowl of thin watery onion soup whose only merit was its temperature. Yorke was the first to finish his bowl. "I wish I'd soaked this bread a lot more: I'm sure they've chosen the hardest for us."

  Ramage offered his bowl. "Pop it in there for a few minutes; that'll soften it."

  "I suppose what annoys me most is that we're paying for their food."

  There was a banging on the door and the key turned in the lock. "Here," Ramage said to Yorke, "grab your bread; they're probably collecting up the bowls."

  But it was Kerguelen, who came into the cabin and said to Bowen, "Go with the seaman outside: that Mate of yours has collapsed."

  As the surgeon left, Kerguelen sat down on the bunk.

  "You are comfortable?"

  Ramage smiled wryly. "Let's say we appreciate you asking the question!"

  Kerguelen was tired: his sallow skin had the grey waxiness of strain and weariness.

  Yorke asked conversationally, "You and your brother are having a successful cruise?"

  The Frenchman made a face. "My comrades in other privateers seem to have cleared the game from the fields. You are only our second prize in more than two weeks."

  "My condolences!" Yorke said ironically.

  The Frenchman gave a half bow and grinned. "Yes, and you were the more welcome."

  "Why?"

  "The first was small - little more than a drogher - and gave us bad news."

  "Might one ask...?" Ramage said.

  "Your Channel Fleet is at sea. There seems a possibility of an attack on Brest."

  Ramage felt there was more to it than that - at least as far as Kerguelen was concerned. "And so...?"

  "And so we are going to have to stay out of the Channel and the Bay of Biscay for a while."

  "You don't mean..."

  "No, don't worry, I won't spend a month lying-to in the Atlantic! We haven't enough provisions for that. No, I'm going to Lisbon. It'd be a pity to return to St Malo with empty holds, small as they are in this wretched little ship. Thanks to your blockade, France is very short of just about everything needed to fit out ships. You saw the new rope in the Rossignol? That's from our first prize. So a few tons of rope and canvas from Lisbon will be very welcome in St Malo. Fetch a high price, too."

  "Also thanks to the British blockade," Ramage said.

  "Ah, of course! But we won't sell all of it: we'll re-rig this ship, make a new suit of sails, and send her to sea privateering. She's just fast enough - and your frigates will recognize her as a packet brig and who knows, perhaps they won't be too inquisitive. Anyway, you'll be able to spend a month or so looking at Lisbon - from the anchorage, of course!"

  "Why a month or so?" Yorke asked.

  "Until we hear your Fleet has returned to Plymouth. How long do you think it will stay at sea, Mr Ramage?"

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine, since neither of us knows what the Commander-in-Chief's orders are."

  "Alors, we'll sample the hospitality of the Portuguese."

  Lisbon, Ramage thought; the capital of the only neutral country on the Atlantic coast. He could just imagine the face of the Post Office agent there when he saw not the Lisbon packet from Falmouth coming up the river with the latest mails but the Jamaica packet flying a French Tricolour. Would there be a chance to escape? He pictured himself climbing over the side in the darkness and swimming through the murky water of the Tagus...

  One of the guards came into the cabin and whispered to Kerguelen, who stood up and excused himself. "This Mate is apparently very ill - your surgeon wants to see me. I would like to stay and talk, but..."

  When he had gone and the door was again locked, Southwick said, "Coincidence, that, sir. Almost as though Much had heard what you were saying last night."

  "I'm just hoping he's not badly hurt. A broken skull could be fatal."

  Yorke said, "This fellow Kerguelen: he's a cut above what I'd expected."

  "Several cuts above," Ramage said. "But his men..."

  "Sweepings of the jails," Southwick said. "I'd-"

  The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Kerguelen waved Southwick to one side and two seamen carried Much into the cabin and put him in one of the bunks.

  "You change places," Kerguelen told Southwick as Bowen entered the cabin, clutching a bag of surgical instruments and his chessboard. "You go to the Mate's cabin next door, and he stays here: then the surgeon is with him all the time."

  The Master left the cabin and Kerguelen said, "It is best, eh?"

  "Pity he was hit."

  "Pity? He's lucky to be alive. Usually we take very few prisoners. But your captain surrendered so swiftly, you can thank him for your lives."

  "Are you always so generous?" Ramage asked curiously.

  Kerguelen shrugged his shoulders. "Yes - if a ship surrenders without firing a shot. But usually only these Post Office vessels do, so we can afford to be generous."

  "You speak good English," Yorke said as Ramage digested the fact that the packets had a reputation among the privateers.

  "My mother even better."

  Yorke nodded. Only an English parent or long residence in England could give an accent such polish. Kerguelen looked at Yorke and Ramage, and said coolly, as if warning them against attempts to recapture the ship, "I also understand the English character quite well."

  Bowen said, "If you'll excuse me," and Kerguelen moved to let him bend over Much, who was lying inert on the bunk, his head and brow swathed in bandages.

  "Tell the sentry if you want anything." With that Kerguelen left the cabin and the door was locked once again.

  "How was that?" Bowen whispered. "No sooner said than done!"

  "What happened?"

  "Much had the same idea or, rather, he wanted to pass the word that he had to talk to you."

  "Is he badly hurt?"

  As Bowen began to reply Ramage saw Much open one eye and wink.

  "Yes," Bowen said loudly. "It was a savage attack. The patient will be unconscious for several hours, I fear. I suggest a game of chess while we wait."

  Ramage looked startled but Bowen pointed to the door and mimed a sentry listening at a keyhole. Yes, an hour's chess would probably be enough to lull even the most ardent eavesdropper. Bowen took out the board and box of pieces, explaining they were among the few items the privateersmen had left behind in his cabin, and held out both fists. When Ramage touched the left, Bowen opened his hand to show a white pawn.

  "You start," he said. As soon as they had set the pieces out on the board, Ramage gingerly moved the king's pawn.

  "That move is a great comfort to you and Southwick, sir," Bowen said, "and I can guess your next will be to advance the queen's pawn two squares."

  Ramage nodded. "What's wrong with that?"

  "Nothing, nothing at all," Bowen said cheerfully. "Only chess is a game of the unexpected; of bluff and attack, long-term trap and quickly exploited opportunity. It's truly the game for you, sir, but you play it like the vicar's wife sipping something she half fears will turn out to be a devil's brew!"

  "I have an advantage over the vicar's wife," Ramage said heavily. "I know it's a devil's brew!"

  An hour later, with the game only a third played, Yorke was sitting with Ramage and they both struggled to defend against Bowen,
who seemed possessed of a dozen each of bishops, rooks and knights, most of which had the gift of becoming invisible until the last moment.

  Ramage pointed at Much, and signalled to Yorke and Bowen to make conversation. He went to the Mate and bent over him, whispering, "Well, Mr Much?"

  "I'm sorry to impose myself on you gentlemen-"

  "Don't worry about that," Ramage said. "We were trying to arrange something like this."

  "Oh?" Much was startled. "Why, sir?"

  "I wanted to talk to you."

  "What about, sir?"

  "Probably what you want to talk to me about," Ramage grinned reassuringly.

  "Ah - yes, well, it's complicated."

  "You didn't agree with the way Stevens handled the ship?"

  "Indeed I did not!"

  "And we weren't really trying to get away?"

  "Certainly not! We-"

  Ramage held his fingers to his lips: Much's voice was rising in proportion to his indignation.

  "-we could have got away, but the Captain's mind was made up long ago to surrender if a Frenchman's topsails lifted over the horizon. If not this voyage, then the next."

  "Why?" Ramage gestured to Yorke and Bowen, who had stopped talking, fascinated by what Much was saying. As soon as they began talking again, discussing the game, Much said, "It's all insurance. On the ship and on the ventures. You know what ventures are, sir?"

  Ramage nodded.

  "Well, everyone carries them. Captain, surgeon, seamen, the two boys. You really do know what ventures are?"

  "Leather goods, cheeses, lace, French wines..."

  "Yes, things like that outward-bound. And mostly tobacco, spices and rum for Falmouth. Well, they insure their ventures for the round voyage, out to Jamaica and back."

  "And back? Why - they sell them out there, don't they?"

  "They sell them out there, yes; but nearly all the packets are captured on the way back, aren't they, sir?"

  Again Ramage nodded. "I still don't understand, though. Presumably they buy more ventures out there to bring back, so they've lost if the packet is captured."

  Much shook his head violently and then winced. "Phew, that hurts! No, sir, let's take an example, Seaman Brown buys £100 of ventures in Falmouth. He insures them out to Jamaica and back, because - so he says, anyway - he may not be able to sell them in the West Indies and would have to bring them back. But he insures them for £400.

  "Right, his costs before leaving Falmouth are £100, plus the insurance premium. He gets to Jamaica, and sells the ventures for maybe £200. That's a profit of £100. He gets a draft for £100 and gives it to someone in a merchantman to bring back: a merchantman sailing in convoy. So he knows the £100 profit will get to Falmouth safely."

  Much reached up and gingerly pushed up the bandage a fraction of an inch.

  "Then he can use the remaining £100 to buy more ventures in Jamaica to sell in Falmouth for £200, which means another £100 profit. Once his draft arrives from Jamaica he has a profit of £200, less the insurance premium."

  "Yes, and a one hundred per cent profit is excellent," Ramage said patiently, "but supposing the packet is captured?"

  "Ah," said Much, "I was describing what used to happen - up to a year or two ago, just so's you understand the system. But nowadays our Seaman Brown is a lot smarter. Let's start again in Jamaica, Mr Ramage. Our seaman has just sold his ventures for £200. He can do one of two things: either send all the money back in a merchantman, or keep some of it - say £25 - for more ventures. Can you guess which he'll do?"

  Ramage shook his head, excitement creeping over him as he realized that at last he was on the verge of discovering -

  The key grated and the door swung open without warning and Kerguelen came in. Ramage, bending forward to hear Much, sat up abruptly and was so startled he snapped at Kerguelen, "What do you want?"

  It was Kerguelen's turn to be surprised. "I just came to see if Mr Much has recovered. I see he has."

  "Just enough to tell me what happened," Ramage said indignantly. "Barbarism, M. Kerguelen, sheer barbarism!"

  "You're all alive," Kerguelen said briefly. "Most privateersmen would regard that as barbaric: dead men tell no tales - and cause no problems."

  "It can work both ways," Ramage pointed out. "Privateersmen get captured, too."

  "True. How is this fellow?" He waved to Much.

  "Time," Bowen interrupted. "The patient needs time."

  "Well, he has two or three days before we get into Lisbon. After that - who knows?"

  "Will you let us go in Lisbon?" Yorke asked hopefully.

  Kerguelen shook his head. "Alas, no; I wish I could. Unfortunately I need you with me all the way to France."

  "Why?"

  "As my insurance," Kerguelen said with a disarmingly frank smile. "Privateersmen are always a little sensitive about their necks. If I was unfortunate enough to be captured, having you with me..."

  "Oh quite," Yorke said breezily, tapping the table with one of his pawns. "It's just that the thought of being locked up in a French prison is..."

  "Not very agreeable," Kerguelen agreed. "Quite so - I spent a few months as a guest of the British in the prison at Norman's Cross. You know it?"

  "I don't know a soul in Huntingdonshire," Yorke said airily, bringing a smile to Kerguelen's face, "although I'm told the hunting is good."

  Ramage knew the largest prisoner-of-war camp was now at Norman's Cross, although there was talk of building a great new stone place at Princeton, in the middle of Dartmoor. "The hunting could not have been very good if M. Kerguelen escaped!"

  "I had an advantage with my English," Kerguelen said. "I travelled by coach. No one hearing me speak thought I was a 'bloody Frog'."

  "No," Yorke said with a grin. "You might almost pass for an Englishman!"

  "Almost?"

  "Almost," Yorke said firmly. "We're your prisoners, don't forget."

  "For the last few minutes I did," Kerguelen said gracefully. "However, if you'll excuse me..."

  With that he left the cabin and they heard the key turn in the lock.

  "We were in Jamaica with Seaman Brown's £200," Ramage reminded Much, "and deciding whether he'd send it all back in a merchantman or send back £175 and risk the privateers by spending £25 on more ventures."

  "Well, you've probably guessed that he'd spend £25 and send the rest home. But you can't guess why?"

  "No," Ramage said. "I was trying while Kerguelen was here."

  "He gave you a clue," Much said cryptically.

  Ramage wrinkled his brow. "Kerguelen only said he couldn't free us in Lisbon because we were his insurance..."

  "That's it, sir, insurance! Don't forget that before Seaman Brown left Falmouth he'd insured his £100 worth of ventures for £400 for the outward and return voyage. So his £25 worth of new Jamaica ventures are still insured for £400. Of course, the underwriters don't know he's already sold the ventures he brought out and that his draft for £175 is safely on board a merchantman."

  At last Ramage saw what was happening. "And when the homeward-bound packet is captured Seaman Brown loses his £25-worth of new ventures but claims for and collects the whole £400 from the underwriters because he says he was bringing back the original ventures."

  "Exactly! As soon as he's exchanged, Seaman Brown goes back to Falmouth to find the £175 draft from Jamaica and collect £400 from the underwriters. He deducts the £25 spent on lost ventures and the original £100 investment, and finds he has a profit of £450..."

  "All for six or eight weeks in a French prison."

  "Yes, and Seaman Brown can comfortably manage at least two such voyages a year. One voyage out lasts forty-five days and thirty-five days back, plus about twenty days' waiting. That's one hundred days, plus six weeks as a prisoner. So Seaman Brown makes the round voyage, is captured and back in Falmouth before six months is up. Time enough to do it again so that by Christmas - if he's captured a second time - he's made a clear profit of £900 on the year at no
risk."

  "And at all times his ventures were insured..." Yorke commented quietly. "Where would he get the original £100?"

  "That's not difficult. He'd have started as a boy, taking out goods for some Falmouth merchant on commission. Ventures have been carried for many years, Mr Yorke..."

  "How can he be sure the packet will be captured?"

  "He can't be absolutely sure," Much said, "but he can be sure - unless he's sailing with one of the very few commanders who'll have nothing to do with it - that his packet will surrender if a privateer is so much as sighted. It's not only seamen involved, Mr Yorke: mates, masters and commanders, too."

  "Supposing the packet isn't captured," Ramage asked.

  "Well, his £25 venture will still make him £50, and he has the £175 draft from Jamaica."

  "And if the ship's taken on the way out?"

  "Seaman Brown loses £100-worth of ventures and collects £400 from the underwriters as soon as he's exchanged. That's a profit of £300 in less than three months. Believe me, Mr Ramage, Seaman Brown can't lose!"

  "I can see that," Ramage said ruefully. "But why has all this spread so quickly in the last year or so? The war's been on a long time!"

  "It took a couple of years for the men to be certain the French would always exchange them without long delays."

  "Yes, that also puzzles me: seamen - whether merchant or from the King's ships - usually wait years."

  "The French - I'm ashamed to say this, Mr Ramage - the French exchange packetsmen quickly because they know they won't fight: they want the men back at Falmouth and off in another packet to surrender again. That way the French Government knows it's disrupting the mails, and it makes sure of a regular supply of prize packets," Much said bitterly. "They like the ships to use as privateers - fast, well built, most of them new, and captured without damage; no shot holes in the hull."

  "Yes, the packetsmen, privateersmen and the French Government all get handsome profits. It just chafes across the back of any honest Briton posting a letter," Ramage said bitterly, "not to mention Government business. Downing Street, the Admiralty and the War Office all cut off from governors, ships and troops because of the greed and treason of a few score men. A few score Englishmen who've done what the whole French Fleet have failed to do..."

 

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