by Dudley Pope
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 the 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 paperwei
ghts 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 off shore 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.'
Ramage said nothing, puzzled at the shortness of the line the Admiral's finger had traced. The Admiral mistook his silence and said crossly: 'If it doesn't appeal to you, there's always convoy work.’
'Oh no, sir,' Ramage said hastily, rubbing one of the two scars on his right brow, 'it is just that -' he paused, wondering whether he was being indiscreet, and the Admiral said impatiently: 'Come on, out with it!'
Ramage pointed from Pointe des Nègres to Pointe des Salines. 'You made a point, sir, that I should be patrolling only between those two headlands, and I was -'
'You're wondering why I don't want you to patrol round the whole island? A good point, m'boy, since you don't know Martinique well. Luckily for us there's a deuce of a strong north-going current along the Caribbean side of the island, and when it's not going north it's going west.'
He ran his finger down the middle of the island. 'You can see it's mountainous: damned big peaks they are, too, and it means there's usually precious little wind on the west side. The island makes an enormous lee that often stretches twenty miles to the west. What does that tell you?'
'That with a light wind and a strong north-going current,' Ramage said, 'it must be almost impossible for merchant ships to come in from the Atlantic round the north end of the island and beat their way down to Fort Royal, sir.'
'Exactly. They never risk it, so it shuts one door. It forces 'em to come round the south end of the island, using the current to get 'em up to Fort Royal. But even then they're sometimes between the devil and the deep blue sea: if they stay offshore and there's any west in the current they get swept out into the Caribbean, and even when they get out to the lee they're too far to the west for merchantmen to stand a chance of beating back to Fort Royal. So they stay very close inshore, working the current and the offshore and onshore breezes, anchoring when necessary.'
He pointed to the Diamond Rock. 'They keep close to the coast and pass between the Rock and Diamond Hill, here on the mainland, through the Fours Channel. It acts as a funnel. That's where you catch 'em. Now' —he jabbed a finger on the coast north to Fort Royal - 'the only reason for patrolling as far north as Pointe des Nègres is to snap up anyone trying to use the current to give himself a lift to the north or west. You can go right into Fort Royal Bay often enough to see any ship preparing to sail.'
He took the weight off so the chart rolled up. 'Stop anything sailing by all means, but - and this will be in your orders - your main concern is to stop any ship arriving. Those Frenchmen are desperate for supplies: the Army is yelling out for powder and shot, tents and provisions; the Navy's desperate for masts, spars, canvas and cordage.'
He waved Ramage back to the chair and sat down again himself, picking up his drink. 'Watch out you don't get caught in that damned current yourself, though a frigate can beat back the minute she gets some wind.' He raised his glass as though in a toast. 'Diamond Rock and Diamond Hill - you may not find diamonds, but let's hope you find plenty of gold in the shape of prize money, eh? You can have a word with Captain Eames of the Alcmene: he's been patrolling the area for the past three months and has probably picked up a trick or two. I need the Alcmene for this special operation,' he added crossly, 'although I can ill spare him for such a long time.'
The Admiral stared at the rum in his glass, his brow furrowed and then glared at Ramage from under his bushy eyebrows. 'Your ship's company,' he said abruptly. ‘Any trouble with them?'
‘Why, no sir!' said a startled Ramage.
'No sign of disaffection, no troublemakers on board?'
'No sir, a happy ship's company.'
The Admiral nodded. 'Well, watch them. You know what happened to the Jocasta?’
'Yes, sir,' Ramage said, 'A year or two ago, wasn't it?'
‘Twenty months. Well, the mutineers took her into La Guaira and handed her over to the Spaniards. There's no work for 'em down there, and they're signing on in neutral merchantmen. We've caught a few of them, and some of the men who didn?t mutiny have managed to escape. Anyway, there's a lot of loose talk going round, and we've got to be on our guard: mutiny can spread like wildfire - you remember the Nore and Spithead ... So, be on your guard, and keep a sharp lookout for any former Jocastas in neutral ships.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Very well. Provision and water for three months. Any defects that stop you sailing? No? Good, I'll send your orders, over in the morning.'
Back on board the Juno, Ramage waited in his cabin for Aitken and Southwick to join him. The steward came in, asking for instructions about supper, but was waved away: Ramage was too disappointed to have an appetite. Captain Eames and the Alcmene were to carry out the special operation, whatever it was, and the Juno was to be a terrier at a rabbit hole, according to the Admiral. Snapping at an island schooner here, chasing a lumbering little drogher there, tacking back and forth between Pointe des Salines and Pointe des Nègres, watching the current, wary of a calm . . . Capturing prizes - a few tons of sugar, some hogsheads of molasses, an occasional hundredweight of spices: so little that British privateers never bothered themselves.
When the First Lieutenant and Master came into the cabin Ramage gestured irritably towards the chairs and asked Southwick: 'Do you know Fort Royal at all well?'
The Master nodded. 'Aye, sir, I was in and out o' there dozens of times before the war.'
'Well, the pair of you will know it like the backs of your hands by Michaelmas,' Ramage said grimly, and went on to tell them of the news given him by Admiral Davis. 'I'll get my written orders tomorrow, but we provision for three months. That'll keep the ship's company busy with the boats for a day or two.'
'What about water, sir?’
'Three months, but if we need more we can run down to St Lucia for it; Captain Eames says they have plenty at Castries. Some powder, too, but no provisions to spare.’
'We need a tender,' Southwick commented.
‘The Admiral's already agreed to that, if we capture something suitable. Captain Eames took a small sloop and used it, but apparently he brought it back here and it's been sold as a prize.'
'Who is watching Fort Royal now, sir?' Aitken asked.
'The Welcome brig, but she's waiting to leave for Antigua the minute we relieve her.'
Southwick unrolled the chart and looked at it. 'One thing about it, there are plenty of sheltered anchorages if it comes on to blow hard. Grande Anse d'Arlet and Petite Anse d'Arlet by Cap Salomon; Diamond bay itself, off the village . . .'
'And if it blows a hurricane,' Ramage said with a grin, ‘we can either put to sea or join the French up in Fort Royal: they'll be in such a state they won't notice us sneaking in and anchoring in the Salée River!'
Aitken gave a shiver. 'Let's hope we don't get any this year...'
Southwick rolled up the chart. 'Always a hurricane somewhere during the season. The last one the Captain and I expe
rienced,' he said nonchalantly, 'started near here. About a hundred miles to the west, wasn't it, sir? Masts went by the board,' he told Aitken.
Ramage nodded and said cheerfully: 'Let's hope hurricanes are like lightning, never strike in the same place twice. Anyway, let's go over the requirements for this "terrier at the rabbit hole" business. There'll be a deal of detached boat work - Aitken, I want you to check with the gunner that we have enough boat guns, and at least two spare ones, in case of accidents. Boarding from boats is something we haven't practised, but we'll make up for that as soon as we are off Martinique. Musketry - I'm sure the Marines need little practice, but the seamen?'
Aitken shook his head ruefully. 'At the moment I'm afraid they're more of a danger to themselves than an enemy, sir.'
'Very well, give 'em plenty of exercise with small arms, and remember they'll be using both muskets and pistols at night, and one gun going off accidentally can raise the alarm. Exercise them at rowing with muffled oars - oh yes, you look surprised, but believe me, Aitken, it's harder than it sounds. It isn't just frapping oars with bits of canvas, it's the whole attitude of the men in the boat - not to bellow an oath if they stub their toes, not to smuggle drink into the boat on the pretext of drinking it to keep warm . . .’he glanced at Southwick as the Master nodded vigorously.
'More boat operations have been wrecked by drink than anything else, sir,' Southwick said. 'The men hoard their tot and take it with them. They don't realize when they've drunk too much and the officer doesn't see it going on, and then they get stupid or quarrelsome . . . Search every man a'fore they get into the boat, sir, 'tis the only way.'
‘The boat guns,' Ramage said. 'Loading, aiming and firing those little brutes is difficult work in anything of a sea. Spray all over the place, shot roll into the bilge, the lock gets wet, and the slow match goes out. Something else to exercise the men at, Aitken.'