Ramage’s Prize r-5

by Dudley Pope

  Yorke looked round the hall nonchalantly and said to Ramage in a bored voice, "Damned poor class of servants they have here, what?"

  "It's the war," Ramage said, with equal nonchalance. "All the men with any brains or ability are sent to sea. Just the dregs left. You notice it in the seaports, too; the only fellows lounging around are those even the press gangs turn down."

  The messenger in the chair straightened himself up; his colleague at the desk was now standing stiffly, his face a bright red. The porter left in the corner sniggered with embarrassment.

  The porter came scurrying back to say that Lord Spencer would see Lord Ramage at once.

  "Show these two gentlemen to the waiting-room," Ramage told the messenger at the desk, and followed the porter along the corridor and up two flights of narrow stairs. The porter knocked on the door of the Board Room, walked in and announced Ramage.

  Lord Spencer was at the far end of the long table, sitting in the only chair with arms: the other four chairs down each side and the single one at the other end, occupied by Their Lordships when the full Board was meeting, were straight-backed and uncomfortable.

  Ramage knew that the First Lord's habit of using the Board Room as his own office reflected the way the Admiralty functioned. Most people thought of the Lords Commissioners meeting formally, seated at this table, and listening solemnly to matters raised by Nepean, the Secretary - who usually sat on Lord Spencer's right, at the corner of the table - and then, even more solemnly, discussing and deciding what was to be done. Then orders or instructions would be sent out by Nepean, duly recording that "I am directed..." (or required or commanded - the theme had several variations) "... by my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty..."

  More usually, though, Nepean would come into the Board Room, with his pile of papers and letters just received, and sit comfortably at the table instead of being crowded in the corner. Next to him would be the second secretary, William Marsden, who would keep the rough minutes recording what questions had been raised and what had been decided. The First Lord would be present and perhaps one other. Much of the Board's business was dealt with by a single member, although as far as the recipient of an order was concerned it seemed that at least three or more of Their Lordships were involved. Ramage knew that Nepean's routine with letters was quite simple: the bottom left-hand corner of the letter was folded over and up, and the gist of the intended reply scribbled on the blank triangle.

  Three long windows overlooking a stable lit the room on the south side; beside the door on the north side was a large fireplace which still bore the arms of Charles II.

  "A moment, Ramage," the First Lord said without glancing up. He dipped his pen into a heavy silver inkwell, scribbled a signature on the document he had been reading, and put down the pen carefully before looking up.

  "I was expecting you tomorrow," he said, making it obvious his usual greeting, shaking hands, was going to be omitted.

  "I posted, sir," Ramage explained.

  "Don't expect the Admiralty to pay for it," Spencer said abruptly, waving Ramage to a chair on his left. It meant Ramage had to walk right round the long table, and seemed a piece of petty irritation suited to the First Lord's icy manner.

  "Well, what more have you to tell me that justifies you posting to London?"

  Lord Spencer's hostility was an anticlimax for Ramage. Up to that moment the information contained in the long and carefully written report in his canvas bag, with the corroboration of Yorke and Much, had seemed of great significance; worth risking his life to ensure its safe delivery. His discoveries were to put the Government, the Horse Guards, the Admiralty and Downing Street back in communication with the rest of the world.

  Certainly he had anticipated some trouble over his first guarded report to Lord Spencer from Lisbon, but his Lordship was not just chilly but downright frigid; not only uninterested in hearing more details but apparently anxious to get back to signing his letters.

  "You received my preliminary report from Lisbon, sir?" That was a damned silly remark, he realized, since the ransom had been paid.

  Lord Spencer nodded casually and gestured to a closed folder to his right. "Mr Nepean brought it in to refresh my memory."

  "Was there confirmation from the underwriters about insuring the ventures, sir?"

  "They have not been asked," Spencer said shortly.

  Ramage was too slow to hide his surprise, and the First Lord added sharply, "The Cabinet were not very pleased with your attempt to blame the Post Office men, Ramage."

  "I imagine not, sir," Ramage said bleakly. So they did not believe him. They had paid to have the packet released, and that was all. A good bargain, no doubt : they would have had to pay out £4,000 to Stevens if the ship was lost to the enemy; but by paying the ransom they had got it back with the ship's company for £2,500...

  "Am I to take it that my first report is not believed, sir?" Spencer nodded, glancing down impatiently at the papers awaiting his signature.

  Ramage looked at the wall to his left on which was something like an enormous clock with a circular map of Europe on its face and the points of the compass round the edge. A pointer with its axis where London was on the map was oscillating slightly, showing the wind direction and moved by a cunning system of rods and cams which linked it to a windvane on the Admiralty roof.

  "I have a second and very full report here, sir, giving all the details of insurance frauds and so on," Ramage said, indicating the canvas bag on the chair beside him.

  "You'd better leave it," Spencer said, picking up his pen, his voice still distant. "I take it the report doesn't indicate any change of mind on your part about what happened?"

  "No, sir."

  "All you lacked in your first report was proof, my dear Ramage - as Lord Auckland was quick to point out at a Cabinet meeting. And the only thing you aren't likely to get - as the Prime Minister was equally quick to point out - is proof."

  Ramage thought of the dead sentry, the kidnapping of Gianna, the Bosun pointing the pistol in the darkness, the boom of his own pistol going off in the Arabella's tiny cabin. And the mutineers in irons...

  The Port Admiral's report from Plymouth must have merely reported that Lieutenant Ramage was coming to London, and not mentioned that the Lady Arabella had arrived with a dozen packetsmen in irons ... The Port Admiral had wisely decided to keep his nose out of something he did not understand. Tiredness from the long journey up from Plymouth - and perhaps the strain of the past weeks - was fast catching up with Ramage. The few hours' rest snatched at the Star and Garter at Turnham Green had not been enough. It was not just physical tiredness either: he was tired of men who tried to dodge responsibility, starting with Sir Pilcher Skinner in Jamaica and including the Post Office Agent in Lisbon. He was tired, too, of cynical, worldly, yet utterly naive politicians who thought the world's axis was between the Ayes and Noes lobbies of Parliament, and regarded service to the country solely in terms of service to the party. They genuinely rewarded someone who manoeuvred a successful Parliamentary vote of confidence on a critical issue because they could recognize it as a valuable service which deserved recognition, but they were always puzzled about what to do with a general or admiral who won a great victory in battle: that was something beyond their real comprehension. They had to fall back on precedent - so and so received an earldom fifty years ago for a similar sort of thing ... no mention of hundreds or thousands of men who had lost limbs, eyes or life, who were buried in unmarked graves in some distant land or put over the side of ships, sewn up in hammocks with a shot at their feet, or condemned to spend the rest of their lives begging in the streets with sightless eyes or standing on crutches, their futures lost under piles of fruitless applications for pensions...

  Ramage lifted the canvas bag on to the table and, rather perversely, wished it had dried fish scales on it, or even white crusted salt from dried seawater: anything that would leave a temporary mark on this highly polished mahogany table to remind Their Lordships of
the broad oceans and fighting ships, and take their minds from the stuffy, almost incestuous, atmosphere of the Houses of Parliament.

  He unlaced the bag, removed his report and Much's, and put them both down on the table, then glanced over at the Langley Bradley clock in the corner by the door. A quarter past ten. That clock, he remembered Spencer telling him during a happier visit to the Board Room more than a year ago, had told Their Lordships the time for nearly three-quarters of a century, while the wind vane had told Their Lordships if the wind would serve to let the French Fleet escape from Brest. The mirror on the front of the clock had reflected Board meetings that had sent Vernon to Cartagena, and Anson on his great voyage round the world. And given Byng a tiny squadron and sent him too late to save the Balearic Islands from the Duc de Richelieu and Admiral Galisonniere. Port Mahon had fallen, Byng had been blamed for what was the Government's slowness and stupidity and unpreparedness, and as their scapegoat he had been shot.

  And out of that shameful episode had come a delight for gluttons - the new sauce the Duc de Richelieu's chef had created to celebrate the fall of Mahon and named mahonnaise, and which was becoming very popular these days...

  Suddenly Ramage noticed that his Lordship had made no move to pick up the reports; in fact he had returned to reading and signing his letters. Was he indicating that the report was politically unacceptable? Was he telling Ramage not only that he had failed, but that he had earned everyone's contempt by trying to blame the poor defenceless packetsmen?

  It was one or the other, and Ramage no longer cared which, even though the mutiny in the Arabella had been the final proof he needed. He wanted to be with Gianna again: he wanted to see his mother and father and wander through Blazey Hall, see the portraits of his forebears watching him from the walls. Perhaps they would approve of what he had done. He would walk through the gardens and the fields and forget the Navy, the Post Office and politicians. He wanted to walk through the fields holding Gianna's hand like some rustic with a milkmaid.

  "This is my final report, sir: it contains all the proof you could want."

  Lord Spencer nodded without looking up. "I'll look at it when I have the time."

  "May I have leave, sir?"

  "You have no ship," Lord Spencer said, "so you're on half pay. Your time is your own..."

  It was true, of course; but the voice was still as friendly as cold steel. It said, without uttering the actual words, you are on half pay now, and that is how you will end your days, because you were given a splendid chance and your first report went all the way up to the Cabinet, and all along the way it was disbelieved.

  One grunt of disapproval from the Prime Minister over a lieutenant's activities, and the lieutenant might wish he had died nobly as an enemy shot knocked his head off. The alternative was rotting on the beach on half pay...

  "Thank you, sir," Ramage said and stood up. He moved the report so the bottoms of the two packets were parallel with the edge of the table.

  Spencer nodded curtly, still without looking up or saying any more, and Ramage, his now empty canvas bag tucked under his arm, left the Board Room and made his way down to the entrance hall. Yorke and Much sprang from their chairs in the waiting-room as he entered, but Ramage shook his head, indicating that he wanted to say nothing within hearing of the messengers, and gestured towards Whitehall.

  The two men followed him out of the waiting-room, across the entrance hall and out through the doors. They strode down the wide steps and across the cobbled courtyard. The two stone beasts over the top of the archway that Ramage had never been able to identify - they comprised the head, shoulders and wings of an eagle grafted to the tail of a sea serpent - seemed to ignore them, as usual, as they emerged into Whitehall.

  Ramage looked up and down the street for a carriage. On the opposite side a tinker was busy hammering at the bottom of a pot, while next to him an upholsterer patiently mended the padding of a chair. There were the usual carts and wagons - one laden high with cords of firewood was passing a brewer's dray loaded with a pyramid of puncheons, more than enough weight for a pair of horses to haul.

  "What happened?" Yorke finally asked.

  "He didn't believe the first report from Lisbon, and the Cabinet agreed with him. They all criticize me for putting the blame on the Post Office men. I gather it doesn't fit in with Government policy."

  "But what about the last report - the one you've just delivered?" Yorke asked incredulously.

  "I was told to leave it," Ramage said flatly.

  "He didn't read it?"

  "No."

  "But you told him-"

  "I told him it contained all the proof he needed."

  "So he doesn't know anything about the mutiny and the kidnapping of the Marchesa, then?"

  "I assume not; but it won't make any difference. The policy had already been laid down in Downing Street; that's obvious, even if it means they go on losing packets."

  "Perhaps it'll be different when Lord Spencer reads the report," Much commented hopefully.

  Ramage snorted, then said, "Anyway, here's a carriage."

  "Well, I'd better say goodbye, sir," Much said.

  "Why? Aren't you coming with us?" Ramage asked in surprise.

  "Where are you going, sir?"

  "My family have a house in Palace Street. It's about half a mile beyond the Houses of Parliament. You're coming, aren't you Yorke?"

  The young shipowner nodded. "Many thanks; I don't keep a town house and don't want to take another carriage down to Bexley for the time being; I've had enough of travelling..."

  By then the carriage had stopped. The coachman, leaping down to unfold the steps, was standing with the door open.

  Ramage motioned Much in, taking his acceptance of the invitation for granted, and followed Yorke. "Palace Street," he told the coachman. "Blazey House."

  The coach smelled dusty and gave the impression there was heavy mildew under the cushions, but the springs had been greased and the coachman controlled the horses without the usual noisy flourishes that they seemed to think necessary to increase the size of the tip.

  The three men sat in silence as they passed the Houses of Parliament: Ramage felt that Yorke was not going to try to get Much interested in them again.

  "The Abbey," Yorke said suddenly. "That's Westminster Abbey."

  Much nodded, but was not impressed, and Yorke sat back in his seat.

  Suddenly there was the clatter of a horse's hooves right beside them and a hand was banging on the window. Much jumped up with a warning yell of "Highwaymen, by God!" and, banging his head on the roof, sank back to his seat glassy-eyed and almost stupefied.

  Yorke, sitting in the forward seat and looking back, said to Ramage quickly, "It's one of those messengers from the Admiralty!"

  The carriage stopped before they could call out to the coachman, and, as he opened the door, Ramage heard the urgent call, "Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"

  Ramage stared at the messenger on horseback. As far as he was concerned he had made his last visit to the Admiralty; in the brief carriage drive he had decided to resign his commission and ask Gianna to marry him...

  "What do you want?"

  "Lieutenant Ramage, sir! Will you return to the Admiralty at once, sir? First Lord's orders, sir, at once sir, it's urgent sir, no delay his Lordship said, it's urgent-"

  "Belay it," Ramage snapped, although the last "urgent" would have been the final one for a few moments since the man was now taking a painful gasp of breath.

  Yorke muttered, "He's just read your report!"

  "Yes, you'd both better come back with me."

  He called to the coachman to return to the Admiralty, and a small group of passers-by, peddlars and hucksters who had stopped to watch, moved out of the way as the coachman reined the horses round with a flourish.

  Fifteen minutes later Ramage was sitting in the same chair in the Board Room.

  "Are you trying to make a fool of me?" Lord Spencer asked furiously. .

  "N
o, sir! Why?" Ramage exclaimed.

  "Your report! Why the devil didn't you mention the mutiny, the attempt to murder you and the kidnapping of the Marchesa di Volterra - though God knows what she was doing on board?"

  Ramage decided that, for all the anger, nothing had really changed. "I referred to it in my report, sir."

  "I know that! But why the devil didn't you mention it when you were sitting there?"

  "I said the report contained all the proof you needed, sir - although I didn't think it would make much difference..."

  "Difference to what?"

  "Difference to the Government's decision."

  "What Government decision?" Lord Spencer asked angrily.

  "That the packetsmen aren't to be blamed for anything, sir."

  "Well - that wasn't exactly a decision," the First Lord said, obviously taken aback.

  "You said that my first report was not believed, sir - by the Postmaster-General or the Prime Minister."

  "Well, yes; but that was before this mutiny, which is just the proof we needed."

  "I had all the proof I needed long before we reached Lisbon. Still, I suppose the fact that they tried to murder me and kidnapped the Marchesa does prove I'm not a liar!"

  The bitter comment was spoken before Ramage realized he had even thought it, and he waited, red-faced and angry, for the First Lord's wrath.

  Instead Lord Spencer said calmly, "It proves you're not a politician."

  Ramage sat staring in front of him, determined to guard his tongue.

  "Lord Auckland will be here in a few minutes," Spencer said. "Fortunately he hasn't gone down to his place in Bromley."

  "The underwriters," Ramage said. "There are three men from the Lady Arabella for instance: the Commander, the Surgeon and the Bosun's mate. We need to know how many times they have collected insurance on total loss claims. And how many times they've been captured and exchanged, too. Sir," he added as an afterthought.

  The First Lord picked up a small silver bell and rang it violently. Almost immediately a secretary hurried into the room. "Ah, Jeffries," the First Lord said, "Take a list of packetsmen that Lieutenant Ramage will give you. Check with the Navy Board to see who deals with the exchange of Post Office prisoners, and then find out how often these men have been captured and exchanged. And at the same time - at the same time, mind you, because we're in a hurry - ask the Committee of Lloyds to find out what policies these same Post Office packetsmen have taken out since the beginning of the war, and what claims they've made - all on personal freight between Falmouth and the West Indies."