Ramage And The Rebels

CHAPTER ONE

'It's not exactly making war, sir,' Ramage said, putting as much disapproval in his voice as he dared. 'It seems to me to be half - way between poaching and gamekeeping. I've never understood why we allow it ourselves.' 'It dam' well isn't war,' the Admiral said angrily, 'it's coldblooded murder, and these orders - ' he tapped the sealed packet on the highly - polished table in front of him - 'tell you to put a stop to it all. These privateers are no better than pirates. Oh yes, they may have parchment commissions covered with big seals and signed by the king of this or the queen of that, but the fact is they're privateering just for plunder.' He tapped the packet again. 'I say in here and I repeat it now, Ramage: any privateer you find, French, Spanish or Dutch, whose captain can't produce a regular commission, then well take him before the Admiralty Court and charge him with piracy, and hell hang from a gibbet along the Palisades. So search well and warn each captain before you take him off his ship - I don't want any of 'em claiming afterwards they had no time to collect their papers. Commission, certificate of registry, charter party, muster list, log everything. And witnesses - I want witnesses. The privateer's mate and at least two of your officers. Seal up in a packet all the papers you're given and make the privateer captain sign his name beside the seal.'

'Yes, sir,' said Ramage patiently. 'Yes sir, yes sir,' the Admiral repeated angrily, 'but just make sure you understand, Ramage: if one of these damned pirates escapes judgement in court because of some technicality that can be attributed to an omission by you, then I'll bring you to trial too, for negligence.'

'Yes, sir,' Ramage said deliberately, and he saw a copy of the latest London Gazette tucked under a pile of papers on one side of the table. The new 'Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty's Ships and Vessels upon the Jamaica Station' was not going to give his newest and most junior captain the satisfac tion of knowing that he had just read half a page about him in the Gazette, detailing his latest exploits on the Leeward Islands Station, nearly a thousand miles to the eastward, at the windward end of the Caribbean. Yet William Foxe-Foote, Vice - Admiral of the Blue, one of the Members of Parliament for Bristol (it was said that bribing the voters to get the seat had cost him more than seventy - five thousand pounds), was by reputation one of the most sly flag officers in the Navy List. It was also said (and looking at the pink and perspiring face with its tiny eyes and bulbous nose, Ramage had no trouble believing it) that he had badgered the First Lord of the Admiralty into giving him the Jamaica Station - the richest in the service for prize money - so that he could recoup his purse after the Bristol election. Seventy - five thousand pounds a Foote - perhaps the Admiralty realized a fathom of him in London could prove too expensive and agreed to send him out to Jamaica.

'What do you find so funny?' the Admiral demanded.

'I was thinking of the shock these privateersmen are going to get, sir,' Ramage said, finding it easy to lie gracefully to a man who was so clearly a politician first and an admiral second, two roles which he combined to further his main ambition, which was to get rich. Ramage recalled some lampoon to the effect that the nation's taxpayers were lucky that there was only one Foote in Old Palace Yard, a neat reference to the space in front of the Houses of Parliament.

'So you are confident you can ferret them out?'

Ramage was thankful for the chance of repeating the one doubt he had, and which Foxe-Foote was trying to ignore. 'The coast of the Main, sir, from Maracaibo all the way round to Cartagena, Portobelo and then north to the Moskito Coast. It's all very shallow, with dozens of bays sheltered by reefs of coral.'

'Frightens you, eh? Don't be nervous, boy,' the Admiral said, riot troubling to hide the sneer in his voice. 'You've got a good master on board - leave the navigation to him, and always stand out to seaward at nightfall.'

Ramage flushed at the man's insulting crudeness and stupidity. 'I'm talking of bays lined with mangroves, littered with cays and almost closed off by coral reefs, sir, where there won't be a couple of fathoms of water. My ship draws sixteen feet. That means any privateer can escape me by getting into one of these bays. Few privateers draw more than ten feet.'

'Send the boats in to chase 'em; a dozen Marines to capture the ship and a dozen seamen and a midshipman to sail her out to join you - nothing to it Wish I was younger; just the sort of fighting orders I always enjoyed getting.'

'Of course, sir,' Ramage said admiringly, remembering the hundred men that most privateers carried - and a biographical sketch in a recent issue of the Naval Chronicle, the most interesting fact in it being that Vice - Admiral Foxe-Foote had, by design or the fortunes of war, reached flag rank without ever being in action. No man was braver than one who had never been shot at...

Ramage reached out for his packet of orders but then recalled one of the Admiral's remarks which he might later claim was an order. 'Standing out to seaward at night, sir .. .'

Hie Admiral raised his eyebrows questioningly.

'Out here it is more usual to stand in for the land at nightfall, sir,' Ramage said cautiously. 'If the privateers suspect one of the King's ships is in the offing they take the opportunity of creeping along the coast in the dark using the offshore breeze - '

'You have your orders,' the Admiral said abruptly, 'so carry 'em out And don't go burning privateers when you catch 'em: send 'em back here to be condemned. Prize money for everyone, eh, Ramage? No need to burn money or strand it on a reef, or scuttle it, you know, good market for that type of vessel here in Jamaica; prices are high, so the prize agents tell me. Think you'll have any luck along the Main? At least a prize a week, I should reckon, eh?'

'No, sir,' Ramage said quietly. 'Ill probably sight one a day, but that'll be all. If I was commanding a privateer,' he added, 'I'd guarantee no frigate would catch me, nor would her boats get within a musket shot'

Admiral Foxe-Foote's face dropped. Now he reminded Ramage more of an unsuccessful haberdasher than a flag officer, with the skin of his long, thin and bony face tightening and slackening like a flag in a breeze to signal his reaction to everything going on round him. 'Not catch any privateers?' he almost whispered, as though unable to believe his ears. 'But . . . but I've just given you written orders!'

Yet Foxe-Foote was far from sure of himself: when brought up all standing by a chance remark, he was usually quick enough to realize he had made a mistake or forgotten something. Now he saw this young captain was standing up and tucking his orders into his pocket, and in a moment would be taking his leave and calling for his sword and hat.

'I hardly expected to hear this sort of talk from you, Ramage,' he said in a voice drenched with sorrow and disappointment 'From some of these other captains I've inherited on this station, men who've had it too easy for too long and who've grown fat and slothful, yes, I can understand a lack of enthusiasm; a lack of fighting spirit Understand but not condone, you understand. Their dilatory methods of patrolling in the past are the reason why the Caribbean is now swarming with enemy privateers. I was hoping you'd be an example to them. But now . . .' he shook his head sadly, the picture of a bishop who had just discovered that his wife lusted after a choirboy.

'I don't know about the other captains, sir,' Ramage said quietly, 'because I've only just arrived on this station. But for myself I can't take a ship drawing sixteen feet into ten feet of water without running aground, and you've already refused me a tender or some sort of shallow - draught vessel.'

Foxe-Foote was enough of a politician to know when it was time to change sides. 'If you had such a vessel with you - a schooner, say - do you guarantee to root out those privateers along the Main?'

'Only a braggart could guarantee something like that,' Ramage said easily, 'but I would not regard it as good news if I was a privateersman, sir.'

The schooner that came with you from the Leeward Islands, the Creole, is she suitable?'

'Yes, sir, absolutely ideal.'

Why are you so sure? Have you sailed in her?'

'I captured her, sir,' Ramage said. 'My former fourth lieutenant commands her.'

"Oh, yes,' Foxe-Foote said lamely, 'that action of yours off Diamond Rock. Very creditable, too.'

'May I take it she will be placed under my orders, sir?'

"Yes, I suppose so. But you young fellows seem to think that frigates and schooners and cutters grow on trees. Very well, I'll send orders to her commander, and you can have him on board to give him your instructions. I want both of you under way by tomorrow morning I'

Foxe-Foote watched Ramage give a slight bow and leave the room. There was nothing in Ramage's behaviour about which a flag officer could complain; in fact his manners were perfect. But Foxe-Foote had the uncomfortable feeling that this young frigate captain was contemptuous of him. Officers of aristocratic birth were frequently offhand with the less well born, and there was little doubt that few came from more aristocratic families than this fellow Ramage - his father's earldom was one of the oldest in the country - but it was more than that Admirals should not feel at a disadvantage when dealing with junior captains . . .

The Admiral reached out for the Gazette, opened it and began reading the small print It gave two dispatches to the Admiralty and written by Ramage, describing his last two operations. They were remarkable by anyone's standards, even though written in what was obviously a flat style. Either action could have won him a knighthood, although he hardly needed it because he bore one of his father's titles.

The prize money from those two actions alone . . . and the admiral's share had gone to the commander-in-chief at the Leeward Islands, that blockhead Henry Davis. If only Ramage had been sailing from Jamaica ... It must amount to thousands of pounds for both Ramage and Davis. Just think of prize money on that scale - and the young fellow never used his title either. He was Lord Ramage, and when his father died he'd be the Earl of Blazey. Yet few people knew it. Foxe-Foote picked up a pencil and scribbled on a piece of paper. 'Sir William Foxe-Foote,' he wrote, then added 'Kt'. He crossed that out and substituted 'Bt'. He would probably get a knighthood fairly soon - it was almost automatic when one became the commander-in-chief of a station like Jamaica. But a baronetcy tended to come to a naval officer only after a successful battle. That young upstart Horatio Nelson had received one after the Battle of Cape St Vincent. Wasn't this boy Ramage in that battle? Didn't he lose a ship, a cutter or something, while trying to prevent some Spanish three - deckers from escaping?

Foxe-Foote cursed the tropical heat, which made his uniform stick to him like dough on a baker's fingers, but smiled to himself and wrote, 'Lord Foote'. He'd have to watch the territorial part of the title, since he had had the misfortune to be born in a village with an odd name - one could hardly be 'Baron Foote of Piddleditch in the County of Essex'. But he'd get a barony if it took his last penny, and that was the advantage of entering politics. In the sea service you'd be lucky to get a baronetcy after a lifetime's work. A barony came only after a great victory, and then to the commander - in - chief. In either case it meant risking having a roundshot take your head off. That was the comforting thing about relying on a political title - the only risk was the party losing power, but a few votes for the party, a dozen entries into the 'Aye' lobby in Parliament, could earn you a baronetcy quicker than a dozen cutting - out expeditions, and without the slightest risk to wind or limb.

Yet. . . yet... it wasn't a title or the prize money or the handsome face that gave young Ramage that - well, what was it? Not an air of superiority, because obviously he didn't know he had it Assurance? Confidence? It was hard to define. Certainly it was built on a foundation of confidence, because the Gazette showed he had a natural courage, quite apart from his reputation in the Navy. Confidence could and did take him into action and brought him out alive and well. Yet he had sat there on the other side of the table, Foxe - Foote suddenly realized, quietly and modestly, and he had manoeuvred his admiral into giving him just what he wanted.

Earlier that morning, before Ramage arrived, Foxe-Foote had been determined not to be impressed by this youngster who some men reckoned would either have been killed in a glorious battle or be the youngest admiral in the flag list by the time he was forty. He had quite deliberately given him orders more suited to some callow young frigate captain who owed his promotion to influence rather than experience. Chasing privateers was work that bad to be done, but it brought no glory and, for all his remarks, Foxe-Foote knew it could bring little or no prize money for anyone. A captured privateer was worth the price of its hull: it carried no cargo, which was where the profit was. The favoured few, the frigate captains who looked to him for patronage, were already patrolling where the real prizes were to be found - heavily laden Spanish merchantmen off Cartagena and Havana, San Juan in Puerto Rico and Santo Domingo, or Frenchmen making for Guadeloupe . . . Well, he had not asked for Ramage; the Admiralty had sent him to help sort out the mess left by the previous commander-in-chief.

The only job left, one without honour, money or glory, was chasing these damned privateers who, under a variety of flags, were seizing any British merchant ships they sighted, and taking them into - where? Mostly Curacao, it seemed; the little Dutch island off the Main with its splendid harbour appeared to have recently turned itself into a privateers' haven. A row of three islands, rather, the beginning of the alphabet - Aruba, Bonaire at each end and Curacao in the middle. Britain had no ally in the West Indies now: if an island or ship was not British, it was enemy. Spain, France, Netherlands - the only exception was Denmark, which had two or three tiny islands east of Puerto Rico.

The way this boy stared at you - it wasn't exactly insolence, but Foxe-Foote admitted it made him feel uncomfortable. The eyes were deep - set over those high cheekbones, and he tended to move his whole head rather than swivel his eyes so that when he turned to look at you it seemed he was turning his whole body, like training a gun, and this gave every look far more significance.

He certainly resembled his father, the old admiral. The same rather narrow face, beak - like nose and thick eyebrows. Two scars over his right eyebrow, one newer than the other, pinker, and possibly sword cuts. Or from falling out of trollops' beds, or tripping over while in drink. No, he was not a drinker; Foxe-Foote was sure of that, and thankful. There was none of the slight tremble in the hand, the slight but continuous perspiration, the shifty eyes, the excuse for a drink: indeed, Ramage had refused a rum punch, despite the heat of the day.

Foxe-Foote threw the Gazette on the top of the pile of papers. No, it had not been a satisfactory day so far. He'd been determined to send Ramage off in the Calypso frigate to clear out those privateers, and had vowed he'd neither listen to nor grant any requests; he was just going to tap the orders and say everything was written there and . . . And what had happened? The whippersnapper had calmly told him how to operate frigates in the Caribbean, virtually refused to catch a single privateer unless he was given a schooner as well, and - well, that had been all. And quite enough too. Just let him make one mistake, Foxe-Foote vowed to himself; no good ever came of giving young captains so many Gazettes; their heads became swollen, they expected all the pretty young girls to swoon over them, and they pat their prize money in the Funds or bought themselves large houses in the country and - well, it was all damnably unfair; not every flag officer could make a reputation in battle, and thank goodness the First Lord of the Admiralty realized it Just you send in the privateer prizes, Foxe-Foote muttered, or you might just as well send in your papers. He dismissed the tiny inner voice that murmured about jealousy; after all, Ramage was one of the most junior post captains in the Navy List while he, William Foxe-Foote, was one of the most senior of the vice - admirals of the blue. With luck and a few deaths among the flag officers above him, he'd be a vice - admiral of the white by next year and a vice - admiral of the red a couple of years later. By then he should have enough influence in the Commons to get the title that would assure him a seat in the Lords. They'd be listening to his speeches with respect long before that boy became the Earl of Blazey and took his seat Ramage acknowledged the salutes as he boarded the frigate and, glad to be under the shade of the awning once again, strode across the quarterdeck to go down the companionway to his cabin. He saw the master hesitating nearby, obviously with something to say but trying to guess the captain's mood after seeing the commander-in-chief. Ramage realized that his face probably looked angry, but the fault was more the sun than William Foxe-Foote, Vice - Admiral of the Blue: it wanted only a few minutes to noon, and with the sun vertically overhead the glare was fantastic, flashing up into his eyes from every ripple on the water. The humidity was so high that his uniform was sticking to him, while his hat seemed to weigh fifteen pounds and have shrunk. His head itched with the heat, his hair was soaked in perspiration, his feet seemed swollen and jammed into long boots far too small.

No, he was not angry; in fact apart from the heat he was in a fairly good mood. Foxey (as the commander-in-chief was generally known in the Navy by everyone from the cook's mate to fellow admirals) had lived up to his reputation, but Ramage was thankful he had seen that copy of the Gazette half hidden among the papers - that had been the due to Foxey's manner: he wasn't going to be impressed by some young junior captain who had two dispatches printed in the same Gazette . . . For all that, Foxey had given him the schooner, and at this very moment was, no doubt, doing what he should have done earlier - examining the charts of the Main and discussing the problems with his second - in - command, who had been out here a year or more, before drawing up orders.

'You want to see me, Southwick?' he asked the master.

'Not me, sir,' the old man said, 'it's the purser. He's been cast into debt, I think, and wants to talk to you about it.'

Ramage grimaced. 'Very well, send him down in five minutes' time. And make the signal to the Creole for Lacey to come on board.'

Southwick waited, hoping for some hint of what the Calypso was to do, but his curiosity remained unsatisfied because of his own efficiency: all the frigate's water casks were full, all but one boat were hoisted on board and stowed on the booms, all sail repairs had been completed and the old foretopsail, worn and chafed beyond repair, had been sent down and replaced with a new one. The ship could be under way in the time it took to hoist in the last boat and weigh the anchors.

Ramage clattered down the steps of the companionway, acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute, and ducked his head under the deck beams as he went into his cabin. He tossed his hat on to the settee, took off his sword and sat at his desk as he took Foxe-Foote's written orders from his pocket He broke the seal and smoothed the paper, his hands sticky with perspiration. There were the usual cliches, and then came the orders: the Jamaica committee of merchants were complaining that ships plying between Jamaica and the Windward and Leeward Islands (which meant from Antigua down to Barbados) were being attacked by increasing numbers of privateers holding Spanish, French and Dutch commissions. These privateers were apparently using the Dutch islands as the market place for the cargoes in the prizes they captured.

However, the Royal Navy frigates patrolling off Cuba, Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, and in the Mona Passage, reported sighting fewer privateers than usual. From this it was apparent that the privateers had retreated southwards right across the Caribbean to the coast of the Spanish Main, and Ramage was to patrol that coast for two months, paying particular attention to the island of Curacao, 'and remove the threat'.

Ramage sighed, folded the paper and dropped it into die top right - hand drawer of his desk and, after finding his key ring, locked it. They were not the sort of orders one would ever need to refer to again. The more cynical of his brother captains referred to such orders as an 'admiral's awning' because they were so worded that they sheltered him from any criticism by Their Lordships at the Admiralty should anything go wrong.

He wanted to look over the charts, such as they were, before Lacey came over from La Creole, but first there was the purser. Rowlands was an old woman, as quick as a lawyer to spot anything that might be to his disadvantage as the ship's businessman and prevent him balancing his books. This would 'cast him into debt', as all pursers described making a loss, forgetting that anyone in business was likely to make a loss at some time or another.

Ramage smiled to himself as he remembered Southwick's face at the head of the companionway. The old man's flowing white hair stuck out from under his hat like a new mop, and the order to make the signal for Lacey had obviously left him wondering what orders the Calypso had received. Ramage had decided to tantalize him for the time being, knowing that as soon as Lacey came on board Southwick would, with the ship's other officers, hear all about it.

The sentry announced the purser and Ramage called the man in. He was not carrying a handful of papers - that was a good sign. His plump face with bags under the eyes looked mournful (like a village grocer saying farewell to his best customers as he was marched off to the debtors' jail) but Rowlands always looked like that, the result of the Welshman's firmly held view that most people had a far too frivolous attitude towards money. To him it was not a means of enjoying life, Ramage realized; acquiring it was the whole object of life, as though dying a rich man was the ultimate satisfaction.

The man was nervous - that was only too obvious as he ducked his head like a pecking pigeon as he entered the cabin although he was only an inch or so taller than the five feet four inches of headroom. He was nervous and he had taken particular care in dressing himself to see the captain. Past experience had shown Ramage that this was a bad sign, the preliminary to announcing trouble. But trouble without a handful of papers, long lists and inventories, surveys and account books? Could it be personal? A confession of fraud? Or bigamy?

Ramage gestured to Rowlands to sit on the settee, and twisted his own chair round to face the man. 'Southwick said . . .' he began encouragingly.

' 'S the water,' Rowlands said hurriedly. 'I dunno what to do with it.'

Immediately Ramage pictured more than thirty tons of water carefully stowed below in casks (and intended to last the Calypso's men more than three months) suddenly going bad, or proving to be brackish. Now, within a few hours of sailing, the bungs would have to be started and the water run into the bilges and pumped out over the side. Then would come the tedious and laborious task of ferrying the empty casks over to Passage Fort with the boats and filling them and then swaying them back on board again and stowing them below . . . And all the time there would be the sneers (if nothing worse) of Admiral Foxe-Foote, who would see it as a ruse to delay sailing because to him all orders involving going into battle could only be unwelcome. Having never smelted powder, Foxe-Foote attached too much importance to the experience.

'It's only a few casks, sir,' Rowlands said eagerly. Two dozen butts, in fact.'

'Is that from here in Port Royal or did we take it on in Antigua?'

' Twas on board when we captured the ship, sir. I suppose the French loaded it in France. Must have, come to think of it; they couldn't get it anywhere else.'

What on earth was the man talking about? 'Is France the only place that supplies water, Rowlands? Or is this spa water, so good for the liver?'

'No, sir,' Rowlands said dolefully, ' 'tisn't spa water. Wish it was. Nor is it plain water. No, it's brandy, sir, twelve tuns of it, which is three thousand and twenty - four gallons, wine measure.'

Ramage was so relieved that he asked with mock seriousness: 'I trust it is good brandy, Rowlands? The French haven't fobbed some new, raw spirit on us, I hope? The sort of spirit more useful as liniment for rubbing into bruises than drinking?'

'I can't be for saying,' Rowlands said miserably, although not so upset that his favourite expression was forgotten. 'No, sir, I can't be for saying, seeing as how I'm not a drinking man.'

Rowlands had a knack of being able to phrase an apparently innocent remark so that it put the other person in the wrong. No casual listener would guess that Ramage rarely drank even three pints of wine in a year, and detested spirits. But the purser had the ability to irritate Ramage more than any other man in the ship. He was smug, money - grubbing, self - righteous and self - seeking, and Ramage had done nothing about having him replaced because he was also reasonably (if tediously) efficient and, Ramage never co-operating in any of his hinted schemes, just as honest as he had to be.

Ramage heard a hail on deck that showed Lacey was approaching, and in the meantime he had more important things to think about than Rowlands's discovery of two dozen butts of brandy stowed down below, posing as water.

'Copy all the marks painted on the butts and give them to Southwick so' we can enter it all in the log,' Ramage said.

'But, sir,' protested Rowlands, 'they're stowed bung up and bilge free, and some of the marks are on the under sides.'

'I should hope butts of brandy are stowed bung up and bilge free,' Ramage growled. 'I can just imagine the owners' joy on finding bungs popped out and butts sprung because they had been thumping against the ship's side in a heavy sea, and the bilges flowing with brandy, instead of milk and honey.'

'Milk and honey, sir?' the purser repeated, obviously puzzling over how two items never issued to the King's ships could have slipped into the bilge.

'Rowlands,' Ramage said heavily, 'get those figures for Southwick. Now, have you checked all the rest of the water casks'? The ship's company might think that brandy is a good substitute for water, but I doubt if the surgeon would agree. And tell the Marine officer that we need a sentry guarding those butts until we get them stowed in the spirit room.'

Rowlands scurried from the cabin, reassured now that he had something to do and the responsibility for the butts had been lifted from his shoulders. He had informed the captain and, as far as he was concerned, the butts rested on Captain Ramage's shoulders, like the world did on that man in the print he once saw, Atlas or some such name; a Greek fellow probably, perhaps the first man to publish maps.

As Ramage reached up to the rack over his head to find some charts he reflected that the paperwork concerning the brandy could cause more trouble than capturing the frigate from the French in the first place. In fact, before he started his examination of the coast of the Spanish Main, he had better finish dealing with the matter which had started in France.

Southwick arrived in response to the sentry's hail with an alacrity which told Ramage that the master had not strayed far from the top of the companionway.

'Rowlands's problem is sorted out, sir?' he asked with what, for him, passed as a subtle enquiry.

'It's not Rowlands's problem.' Ramage made no attempt to hide his exasperation. 'It's mine and yours and Rear - Admiral Davis's and all those fools at Antigua who took an inventory of this ship when we brought her in as a prize.'

'What did they miss?' Southwick asked shrewdly.

'Two dozen butts of brandy ...'

'Two dozen? Why, sir, that's three thousand gallons! Where is it?'

'Nestling down there with the water,' Ramage said sourly. 'And now you have the job of shifting it to the spirit room. It's a wonder it hasn't blown the ship up.'

Those damned Frogs - just a lot o' smugglers! Why, they must have been smuggling it into Martinique. Ill bet they never intended to declare it to the Customs! Just sell a few gallons at a time to the planters, who're probably sick and tired of rum. Makes you wonder what the Revolution's all about, doesn't it, sir? The officers might be full of liberty and equality and fraternity, or whatever it is they shout, but they're not above a bit o' smuggling, given the chance.'

'Nor are we, as far as the Customs in Antigua and Port Royal are concerned,' Ramage pointed out.

Southwick's face fell. 'Oh dear . . . Officially I suppose we smuggled it out of English Harbour and into Port Royal. But whose is it? Who pays the duty? And who gets it?' he added as an afterthought That can be decided later,' Ramage said. 'In the meantime well have to cany on smuggling, but Rowlands is going to give you the numbers on the casks. Make a full entry in the log for today stating how it was found, if the butts are full, and so on ... And note that it was removed to the spirit room. In the meantime I've passed the word for Rennick to put a sentry on it - we're lucky none of the seamen discovered it first: I can just imagine us finding half the ship's company one morning lying drunk among the casks.'

Those fools from the dockyard at English Harbour,' South - wick growled. They spent days on that inventory. They must have just made a quick count of water casks and assumed they held water. But anyone getting within a dozen feet should smell the brandy. Why, seepage alone I'

'Don't talk about it,' Ramage said. 'If anyone had walked round in the dark down there, using a lanthorn to count up water casks, the flame of the candle would have made the fumes explode, and the whole ship would have gone up.'

'By the time we've finished with all the extra paperwork this is going to create we might wish that it had,' Southwick said bitterly. 'Why, it affects the original inventory of the prize and the valuation; and that in turn affects the final valuation and the prize money paid. Which means our shares — everyone's, from Admiral Davis's down to the cook's mate's. Why, they could hold up payment for years - you know what prize agents are like. Any excuse to hold on to the money and draw interest.'

'Let's wait and see,' Ramage said. 'We can't be expected to bother Admiral Foxe-Foote with it now because he wants us to sail as soon as possible. We shan't be back for three months, and who knows what might have happened by then.'

Three months, sir?' Southwick said eagerly. 'Where's it to be - let me guess. The Gulf of Mexico? Cuba? Moskito Coast? Surely not back to Antigua, sir?'

'Wait for Lacey. Is that him coming on board now? Very well, pass the word for the rest of the officers - Rennick, too. He might as well know what we're supposed to be doing, to see if his Marines can help.'

When Lacey came into the cabin he was embarrassed because the last time he came through that door he had been the Calypso's fourth lieutenant and therefore the most junior commission officer on board. The frigate had just been brought into the King's service after having been captured by Mr Ramage's previous command, the frigate Juno. And, Lacey remembered almost with a start, he had been fourth lieutenant in her, too.

Now, he thought to himself, he was twenty - five years old and the strides from his home in Somerset in the shadow of the Quantocks were beginning to show: he had not seen Nether Stowey for four years, not since he passed for lieutenant. And in those four years, thanks almost entirely to Mr Ramage, he had progressed from the most junior officer in the Juno's gunroom to the most junior officer in the Calypso's gunroom and then, after that last wild voyage, command of La Creole schooner.

His own command. Magic words and they could be as heady as a strong rum punch. He was still a lieutenant, of course; orders came to him addressed to Lieutenant William Lacey. But on board La Creole he was 'the captain', with two commissioned officers under him, second master instead of a master, and a sergeant of Marines.

La Creole was a witch of a ship. The French could build fast vessels, and it was fitting that he should be commanding one that he had helped to capture. And he was thankful that Admiral Davis had finally left her with her original French name, instead of calling her 'Diamond' after the Diamond Rock, off Martinique, where she had been captured. That had been the original intention.

'Creole' came off the tongue nicely. Most of the Creole women he had met so far had been extraordinarily beautiful; slim and sleek like the schooner, with jutting breasts under bright dresses. "Your ship?' 'Oh, I command the Creole, that black schooner over there.' 'Weren't you at the capture of Diamond Rock, and then the cutting out of the Jocasta?' And he would admit - with becoming modesty, of course - that he was. At that moment he glanced up and saw Mr Ramage was watching him, and he flushed because the captain's deep - set eyes seemed to bore right into him, revealing his thoughts and fears - and perhaps his hopes, too.

When Ramage asked him if all was going well with La Creole he was thankful he could answer honestly that there were no problems.

'How many men are you mustering?'

'Fifty - one, sir, and ten Marines and a sergeant.'

'And you have ten 6 - pounders?'

'And the two 12 - pounder carronades they fitted at Antigua.'

'She handles well?'

'Like a witch, sir. Clean bottom, coppered - just the vessel for privateering!'

'Which she was doing up to the time we captured her.'

'Was she, sir?' Lacey was surprised. 'I thought she was a French national ship.'

'No, she was a privateer out of Fort Royal, but the French Navy took her over, and a sister ship, the day before they attacked us.'

Lacey would never forget the night those two schooners attacked the frigate in the darkness, trying to board. But - well, although it happened only a few weeks ago, it seemed part of another life: the nervous young lieutenant who had been hard put to keep his head amid all the cracking of muskets and pistols, the yelling and screaming and the clash of cutlasses - yes, and the screams of wounded men: that had surprised him. Now that frightened young lieutenant commanded his own ship, one of the two schooners that made the attack, and he wasn't frightened: at least, not in sailing her. It may be different when I take her into battle, he admitted to himself; but I haven't run away when going into action with Mr Ramage these several times, and maybe I've learned something from him. But keeping a clear head in the middle of a battle and never being frightened - that's what made Mr Ramage unique.

Suddenly Lacey felt cheerful because he thought he could see why he had been called on board the Calypso: the Admiral was sending the frigate on some operation or other and La Creole was to go with her . . . Perhaps Mr Ramage had even asked for him . . .

'You are up to establishment, then?'

'Yes, sir, Admiral Davis was very good at English Harbour: he gave me a full complement of men and Marines, and there's no one on the sick list'

'And your officers?'

'Both lieutenants are excellent, sir. Young but good. The second master is steady enough - could be Southwick's younger brother. And the Marine sergeant is one of the best I wouldn't change a man, sir.'

'You're lucky,' Ramage said soberly, looking back at some of the ships he had commanded. 'A captain's only as good as his ship's company. When you're considering whether or not to weed out a particular man it's worth remembering that One rotten apple, you know. "When in doubt, weed him out!'" Lacey sensed Ramage was waiting for something, and after a few minutes of small talk he heard several people coming down the companionway and the sentry's hoarse call: The officers, sir.' And suddenly they were all in the cabin - Aitken the first lieutenant, Wagstaffe the second, Baker the third, and young Peter Kenton, the small and red - haired youngster who had taken his place as fourth lieutenant, and Southwick, white hair flowing and looking even younger, his skin taut, as though years of salt spray had never given wrinkles a chance to get a grip. And Rennick, still looking as though he had been levered into his uniform with a shoe - horn, still red - faced and still with the cheery exuberance of a fairground barker. This is what he missed when he sat in the captain's cabin of La Creole. It was hardly bigger than his old cabin in the Juno (from which he could talk to the other officers without bothering to open the door), but it was solitary. The lieutenants and warrant officers ate in their gunroom; he had his meals in his own cabin. On deck the officers walked the lee side and left him the weather side, the captain's privilege. But there was no one to whom he could chat; no one spoke to him unless first spoken to because he was the captain. And even now he sensed it: there was a friendly smile from Aitken, who was way above him in seniority on the lieutenants' list, but the Scotsman's smile had that slight remoteness about it; the remoteness he sensed always existed with his lieutenants in La Creole, as though command had slipped a pane of glass between them. And the same from Wagstaffe and Baker, while young Kenton glanced at him with something approaching awe. He sensed it and now he understood it: these men were lieutenants in the Calypso, and in the case of Aitken likely to get command of his own frigate before long. But at this particular moment they did not command their own ships while he did: he alone among them was referred to in his own ship as 'the captain'. Of course, he did not have the rank of post captain, like Mr Ramage, allowing him to command a fifth - rate ship or bigger; he was still only a lieutenant, but officers in other ships would describe him as 'the captain' of La Creole, referring to the job he carried out, not the actual rank he held in the Navy List The captain'. Those were the two words making that difference; they put that pane of glass between a man and those who had been his friends. Yet it had to be; this was what discipline entailed, a remoteness. A captain who tried to remain intimate with his officers or friendly with his seamen was, quite invariably, a bad officer, even though he might be a pleasant enough man. Mr Ramage never courted popularity; he was by turns surly, witty, bitter, silent, chatty - but he set the pace; he laid out the terms, as it were. The quarterdeck could be a chilly place on the hottest day if Mr Ramage was in a surly mood or angry over some incident They weren't frequent, but be could remember them well enough. And, for that matter, he suddenly realized there were days when he too was surly; days when La Creole's quarterdeck must seem chilly, and now he thought about it he realized they were more frequent than they should be, but he was still finding his way, sometimes irritated by mistakes he made and sometimes irritated by the mistakes of others; particularly when he had deliberately left them on their own to do something, determined not to nag and interfere - and then he had found he should have interfered; that few officers and petty officers had enough confidence to work on their own. And of course his own standards were rising, the more he learned about command.

In response to Ramage's wave, the men sat or stood where they wanted. Southwick subsided at his usual place, the single armchair; Rennick stood by the door, head bent because of the low beams, as if his uniform was too tight for sitting. Kenton, attending his first such meeting, stood looking lost until Ramage pointed to a chair.

Kenton was five feet four inches tall, exactly the height under the deck beams. Whereas Aitken's face was pale but slightly tanned, Kenton's was pink and peeling, and heavily freckled. Kenton loved the Tropics but the sun scorched him, making him pay a high price for his red hair. The son of a half - pay captain, Kenton was twenty - one years old and had passed for lieutenant within three months of reaching his twentieth birthday, the earliest that he could be promoted.

Southwick, who had served with Ramage for several years and was old enough to be the father of anyone in the cabin, guessed cheerfully: 'The Gulf of Mexico - patrol off Veracruz to look for the Spanish treasure fleet...' 'Of course,' Ramage said. 'You can have six men and the jolly boat, and start at dusk.' The other officers grinned: Southwicks's bloodthirsty attitude was well known. His round and cheerful face and white hair gave him the appearance of a gentle bishop or a benign village butcher a man in his early sixties who could inspire confidence in old ladies and who would sit back in an armchair with a favourite grandchild on each knee. As the austere Aitken later admitted, this had been his first impression of Southwick, and one which lasted until the first time they had gone into action, when he saw the old man transformed into a formidable fighter wielding a sword of incredible size, a two - handed sword that might have come straight from a Viking legend. It was then that Aitken had christened him the benevolent butcher'. The Admiral could have sent us to Veracruz,' Ramage said, 'but no doubt he thought mat because we have all done very well with prize money in the past few months, he'd better send us somewhere else.' The officers all smiled, realizing that Ramage was tantalizing them. 'He's given us an interesting operation for the Calypso - just a comfortable cruise. Lacey and the Creole will be doing all the work - and getting all the glory.' Everyone turned to look at Lacey. most of them more than a little envious, like members of a family at the reading of a rich uncle's will and wondering why their youngest cousin had been given all the sugarplums. Southwick gave one of his famous sniffs, a great intake of air which signalled disapproval without actually putting it into words. Ramage had heard such sniffs scores of times in the past, when the old master had disapproved of something Ramage was planning. There were in fact various grades. A loud but brief sniff meant that Southwick would not have done it that way, although it might not be entirely wrong. If he thought something was wrong, the sniff was loud and long. If it was followed by a drawn - out 'Weeelll, sir', by the rules of the game Ramage would raise his eyebrows questioningly, which Southwick men interpreted as permission to disagree, and he would speak his thoughts. It had taken Aitken some time to realize it was in fact a code which had evolved between the master and Mr Ramage over a long period; they had served together from the very day that Mr Ramage received his first command as a young lieutenant Since then the pair of mem had gone into battle a dozen times or more, been dismasted in a hurricane, lost their ship on a reef, been marooned on an island, found buried treasure ... It took a stranger a long while to understand the significance of the sniffs, and from the look of it only Aitken had suddenly realized that Southwick had in effect made a statement Aitken reckoned that Mr Ramage was ignoring it because Southwick's sniff was based on too little information. The fact that La Creole was going to do the work and get any glory meant that the task was one which could not be carried out by the Calypso. That much was obvious to Aitken, who was content to wait patiently.

'While we were in Antigua you heard about the increasing privateer activity, and bow they are snapping up merchant ships sailing to or from Jamaica,' Ramage said. 'Well, it's worse than we thought and, more important, the frigates patrolling the coasts of Puerto Rico, Hispaniola and Cuba are all reporting fewer French, Spanish and Dutch privateers at the big ports.'

Southwick ran his hand through his hair and growled: They need to keep a sharper lookout.'

'Or look elsewhere for them,' Ramage said quietly, and everyone glanced up, realizing that those five words were not a chance remark but a clue.

The Main,' Southwick speculated. 'Shallow water, dozens of likely bays lined with mangrove swamps - and swarming with mosquitoes, of course. Maracaibo, the Gulf of Venezuela, Riotacha, Santa Marta, Baranquilla, all the way round to Portobelo . . . Most of 'em too shallow for us, but not for the privateers, or for the Creole ...' Ramage nodded and turned towards Rennick. There's going to be plenty of boatwork for us, backing up the Creole. I shall want those Marines of yours getting in and out of boats as though they were born under the thwarts. And your men, Lacey. When a privateer escapes into water too shallow for La Creole, then you send boats in, and ours will follow when possible. I want you to exercise your men in hoisting out boats, rowing with muffled oars, using a compass in the dark.

handling a boat gun, carrying pistols without them going off accidentally . . . And don't anyone expect we shall be doing this only in calm weather. You know the Trades blow half a gale out of a dear blue sky, with lumpy sea . . .'

'Which end of the Main do we start, sir?' Aitken asked.

It was a good question because the coast ran east and west, and the Trade winds Mew regularly from east to west Beginning at the eastern end meant that the Calypso and La Creole started up to windward, in effect starting at the top of the hill, and with luck would be able to chase the privateers to leeward, like wolves pursuing sheep downhill across a meadow, providing they did not make a bolt sideways for the shelter of the bays.

'We start well to windward of Maracaibo," Ramage said. "With the Dutch islands, in fact, because the Admiral has been told that the privateers are using Curacao as a main base.'

'Could be, could be,' Southwick muttered, half to himself. The capital, Amsterdam, is a secure anchorage with a narrow entrance easy to defend, plenty of warehouses to store the loot, and well placed to intercept our merchant ships. Good market for prize ships and prize goods - those damned Hollanders are good businessmen, and wealthy, too. And a good rendezvous for all enemy privateers - the French from Guadeloupe, Martinique and Hispaniola, the Spanish from the Main only a few miles away, and from Puerto Rico and Hispaniola to the north. And of course the Dutch.'

Wagstaffe said diffidently: There's an advantage there for us, too: Jamaica is to leeward, so our prize crews will have a soldier's wind sailing back to Port Royal.'

Southwick sniffed yet again, and Ramage guessed what was coming: 'And every boarding party we send away with a prize well never see again: none of the King's ships in Port Royal will be coming to Curacao; they'll just press our men. Well end up with only fifty men left, having supplied the ships in Port Royal with two hundred well - trained men . . .'

It was a problem Ramage had already considered but put off any decision because that would only arise when they actually captured prizes, and remembering the sandbanks and cays and coral reefs littering the coast, he felt it unlikely to make him lose sleep.

He unrolled the chart on the top of his desk and weighted it down to stop it curling up again. 'Gather round,' he said, 'I want you all to refresh your memories of this coast How we carry out my instructions - which are simply to get rid of the privateers, and yours, Lacey, will put you under my orders - will depend on what we find among the islands.'

He jabbed a finger down at the lower half of the chart. There you have the island of Curacao, the middle of the three lying just off the Main. There's Bonaire to one side and Aruba the other, but Curacao is the only one that matters. Notice how Curacao is like the centre of a clock - the islands Of St Lucia and Martinique at three o'clock, Guadeloupe, Antigua, St Barts and St Kitts at one o'clock, Puerto Rico and Hispaniola at noon, and Jamaica here way over to the north - west at ten o'clock. And the Main to the south. All British merchant ships sailing between Jamaica to the west and the Windward and Leeward Islands to the east, have to cross these lines radiating from Curacao . . .'

He took a pair of dividers from the rack and opened them up until they measured seven degrees, equal to 420 miles, against the latitude scale. Then he put one point on Curacao and slowly swept the second leg across the chart until the other point finally rested on Grenada, the island at the southern end of the chain. 'You see, only 420 miles to Grenada and the rest of them, Martinique, Antigua, Nevis, St Kitts, no more than 500 miles because of the way they curve round. Puerto Rico, most of Hispaniola - all inside the 420 miles.'

He shut the dividers with a snap. 'Our merchant ships, whether sailing alone or in convoy, are passing east or west no more than four hundred miles north of Curacao. Four hundred miles - that's probably no more than three days' saying for the dullest sailor. Sail on Sunday morning, find a prize on Wednesday, and be back in Curacao unloading the prize by Saturday night. A prize a week at least, and no reason why one privateer should not take three prizes in a day. A hundred men on board to provide boarding parties and prize crews . . . All on a shares - of - the - spoils basis.'

'Aye,' Southwick rumbled, 'making bigger profits than commanders - in - chief.'

Taking more risks, too,' Wagstaffe said, and then glanced nervously at Ramage, who began taking the weights off the chart.

'Lacey - you have a copy of this chart? In fact you'd better go through our chart outfit with Southwick, so you can make copies of anything you don't have. And the French signal book - you have a copy? The one we captured at Martinique, I mean.'

'No, I don't have a copy, sir.'

Ramage turned to Kenton. 'You can help Lacey by making a copy. And Lacey, you treat it like our own signal book: always locked up when not being used, and always in the weighted bag ready to be thrown over the side . . .' He took out his watch. 'Sunset in five hours. Very well, we weigh in three hours - get busy with pencils and paper, gentlemen.'