Copyright & Information

Ramage & The Freebooters

First published in 1969

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Dudley Pope to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

EAN	ISBN	Edition
0755113438	9780755113439	Print
0755124294	9780755124299	Pdf
0755124464	9780755124466	Kindle
0755124634	9780755124633	Epub

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

Dudley Bernard Egerton Pope was born in Ashford, Kent on 29 December 1925. When at the tender age of fourteen World War II broke out and Dudley attempted to join the Home Guard by concealing his age. At sixteen, once again using a ruse, he joined the merchant navy a year early, signing papers as a cadet with the Silver Line. They sailed between Liverpool and West Africa, carrying groundnut oil.

Before long, his ship was torpedoed in the Atlantic and a few survivors, including Dudley, spent two weeks in a lifeboat prior to being rescued. His injuries were severe and because of them he was invalided out of the merchant service and refused entry into the Royal Navy when officially called up for active service aged eighteen.

Turning to journalism, he set about ‘getting on with the rest of his life’, as the Naval Review Board had advised him. He graduated to being Naval and Defence correspondent with the London Evening News in 1944. The call of the sea, however, was never far away and by the late 1940’s he had managed to acquire his first boat. In it, he took part in cross-channel races and also sailed off to Denmark, where he created something of a stir, his being one of the first yachts to visit the country since the war.

In 1953 he met Kay, whom he married in 1954, and together they formed a lifelong partnership in pursuit of scholarly adventure on the sea. From 1959 they were based in Porto Santo Stefano in Italy for a few years, wintering on land and living aboard during the summer. They traded up boats wherever possible, so as to provide more living space, and Kay Pope states:

‘In September 1963, we returned to England where we had bought the 53 foot cutter Golden Dragon and moved on board where she lay on the east coast. In July 1965, we cruised down the coasts of Spain and Portugal, to Gibraltar, and then to the Canary Islands. Early November of the same year we then sailed across the Atlantic to Barbados and Grenada, where we stayed three years.

Our daughter, Victoria was 4 months old when we left the UK and 10 months when we arrived in Barbados. In April 1968, we moved on board ‘Ramage’ in St Thomas, US Virgin Islands and lost our mainmast off St Croix, when attempting to return to Grenada.’

The couple spent the next nine years cruising between the British Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico, before going to Antigua in 1977 and finally St.Martin in 1979.

The sea was clearly in Pope’s blood, his family having originated in Padstow, Cornwall and later owning a shipyard in Plymouth. His great-grandfather had actually preceded him to the West Indies when in 1823, after a spell in Canada, he went to St.Vincent as a Methodist missionary, before returning to the family business in Devon.

In later life, Dudley Pope was forced to move ashore because of vertigo and other difficulties caused by injuries sustained during the war. He died in St.Martin in 1997, where Kay now lives. Their daughter, Victoria, has in turn inherited a love of the sea and lives on a sloop, as well as practising her father’s initial profession of journalism.

As an experienced seaman, talented journalist and historian, it was a natural progression for Pope to write authoritative accounts of naval battles and his first book, Flag 4: The Battle of Coastal Forces in the Mediterranean, was published in 1954. This was followed in 1956 by the Battle of the River Plate, which remains the most accurate and meticulously researched account of this first turning point for Britain in World War II. Many more followed, including the biography of Sir Henry Morgan, (Harry Morgan’s Way) which has one won wide acclaim as being both scholarly and thoroughly readable. It portrays the history of Britain’s early Caribbean settlement and describes the Buccaneer’s bases and refuges, the way they lived, their ships and the raids they made on the coast of central America and the Spain Main, including the sack of Panama.

Recognising Pope’s talent and eye for detail, C.S. Forrester (the creator of the Hornblower Series) encouraged him to try his hand at fiction. The result, in 1965, was the appearance of the first of the Ramage novels, followed by a further seventeen culminating with Ramage and the Dido which was published in 1989. These follow the career and exploits of a young naval officer, Nicholas Ramage, who was clearly named after Pope’s yacht. He also published the ‘Ned Yorke’ series of novels, which commences as would be expected in the Caribbean, in the seventeenth century, but culminates in ‘Convoy’ and ‘Decoy’ with a Ned Yorke of the same family many generations on fighting the Battle of the Atlantic.

All of Dudley Pope’s works are renowned for their level of detail and accuracy, as well as managing to bring to the modern reader an authentic feeling of the atmosphere of the times in which they are set.

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

As Ramage’s carriage rattled along Whitehall he was surprised to see the long and wide street was almost deserted. A file of red-coated soldiers swaggered past the end of Downing Street with the white plumes of their shakos streaming in the wind, boots gleaming black and cross-belts white from carefully applied pipe-clay. A brewer’s dray drawn by two pairs of horses and heavily laden with hogsheads precariously balanced, pyramid fashion, approached the Admiralty from Charing Cross.

A pieman pushing his handcart, corpulent from tasting his own wares and obviously tipsy from sampling those of a brewer, stopped outside the Banqueting House of Old Whitehall Palace and as he mopped his brow bellowed, ‘Buy my plum pudden!’ A pedlar, sitting astride his spavined horse and trying to persuade the occasional passers-by to look at the remarkable bargains in lace and brocade displayed in his large leather pack, glowered at the pieman and moved on another few yards.

On both sides of the street a few people dodging puddles left by a heavy shower of rain looked from a distance as if they were performing some complicated dance.

Ramage sat back, squashing the upholstery which exhaled a smell of mildew, picked up his cocked hat and jammed it on his head and – as the driver swore at the horses, swinging them over to the middle of the road for the sharp left turn under the narrow archway and into the forecourt of the Admiralty – wished he felt more like the naval officer he was than an errant schoolboy summoned before a wrathful headmaster.

The wheels chattered over the cobblestones before the carriage stopped in front of the four immense columns dominating the main entrance. The carriage door creaked open and a hand pulled the folding steps down. The doorman coming out of the entrance hall as Ramage alighted, stopped when he saw the visitor was a mere lieutenant and went back into the building.

Telling the coachman to wait, Ramage walked up the steps into the spacious entrance hall where a large, six-sided glass lantern hung from the ceiling and his footsteps echoed on the marble floor. On his left the large fireplace was still full of ashes from the night porter’s fire and on each side of it were the curious hooded black armchairs which always reminded him of a widow’s bonnet.

From one of them a liveried attendant rose with calculated languidness and, in a bored and condescending voice, asked: ‘Your business…sir?’

The ‘sir’ was not an afterthought; from constant practice it was carefully timed to indicate lieutenants were the lowliest of commission officers and that this was the Admiralty, of whose doors the speaker was the lawful guardian.

The man opened the drawer of a small table and, although the list was obviously the only thing in it, he scrabbled about for some time before taking out a sheet of paper. After glancing at it he looked at Ramage insolently before replacing it and closing the drawer. ‘You’ll have to–’

‘Quite…sir. I’ll try to arrange for you to see one of the secretaries. Maybe even this afternoon.’

‘I have an appointment with Lord Spencer at nine o’clock. Please tell him I’m here.’

‘Look,’ sneered the man, all pretence at politeness vanishing, ‘we get lieutenants in ’ere by the gross, captains by the score and admirals by the dozen, all claiming they’ve appointments with ‘is Lordship. There’s only one person on the list to see ‘is Lordship this morning and ’e ain’t you. You can wait in there’ – he pointed at the notorious waiting-room to the left of the main doors – ‘and I’ll see if I can find someone to see you.’

Ramage was rubbing the lower of the two scars on his right brow: an unconscious gesture which a few weeks earlier would have warned a whole ship’s company that their young captain was either thinking hard or getting angry.

Suddenly turning to the doorman – who was obviously enjoying the episode – Ramage snapped: ‘You! Go at once and tell the First Lord that Lord Ramage has arrived for his appointment.’

The man was scuttling for the corridor at the far end of the hall before Ramage turned back to the liveried attendant who, by now looking worried and rubbing his hands together like an ingratiating potman, said reproachfully: ‘Why, your Lordship, I didn’t realize… You didn’t tell me your name.’

‘You didn’t ask me and you couldn’t be bothered to see if I was the person on the list. You merely hinted that a guinea would help arrange for me to see a clerk. Now hold your tongue.’

The man was about to say something when he saw Ramage’s eyes: dark brown and deep-set under thick eyebrows, they now gleamed with such anger the man was frightened, noticing for the first time the two scars on the lieutenant’s brow. One was a white line showing clearly against the tanned skin; the other pink and slightly swollen, obviously the result of a recent wound.

But Ramage was still shaken – as was every other officer in the Royal Navy – by the latest news from Spithead and felt a bitter rage not with the man as an individual but as a spiteful personification of the attitude of many of the Admiralty and Navy Board civilian staff.

By now impatiently pacing up and down the hall, Ramage thought of the dozens of assistant, junior and senior clerks, and the assistant, junior and senior secretaries now working under this very roof, all too many of whom administered the Navy with an impersonal condescension and contempt for both seamen and sea officers amounting at times to callousness.

It was understandable because of the system; but it was also unforgivable. Many – in fact most – of these men owed their time-serving, well-pensioned jobs to the influence of some well-placed relative or friend. They filled in forms, checked and filed reports, and at the drop of a hat rattled off the wording of regulations parrot-fashion, unconcerned that the seaman they might be cheating out of a pension was illiterate and ignorant of his legal rights, or that the captain of a ship of war suddenly ordered to account for the loss of some paltry item might be almost at his wit’s end with exhaustion after weeks of keeping a close blockade on some God-forsaken, gale-swept French port.

An inky-fingered clerk was, in his own estimation, far more important than a sea officer; ships and seamen were to him an annoyance he had to suffer. No one ever pointed out that he existed solely to keep the ships at sea, well-found, well-provisioned and manned by healthy and regularly paid seamen. No, to these damned quill-pushers a ship of war was a hole in a gigantic pile of forms and reports lined with wood and filled with convicts.

Most of this shameful business at Spithead was due to men like this, whether a junior clerk at £75 a year humbugging the distraught widow of a seaman killed in battle or a senior secretary at £800 a year ignoring the sea officers and telling ministers what they wanted to hear. The Devil take the –

The porter was trotting alongside him and had obviously been trying to attract Ramage’s attention for some moments.

A few moments later he was ushering Ramage through a door saying, ‘Would you wait in here, sir: His Lordship will be with you in a few minutes.’

As the door closed behind him Ramage realized he was in the Board Room: in here, under the ceiling decorated with heraldic roses picked out in white and gilt, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty sat and deliberated.

Their decisions, jotted down by the Board Secretary on scraps of paper as they were made, resulted in orders being sent out to despatch a fleet half-way round the world to the East Indies, or the 128th captain in the Navy List commanding a frigate off Brest receiving a reprimand for failing to use the prescribed wording when drawing up the report of a survey on a leaking cask of beer.

Large or small, right or wrong, it was here in this room that the decisions were made that governed the activities of more than six hundred of the King’s ships whether they were cruising the coast of India or the Spanish Main, blockading Cadiz or acting as guardship at Plymouth. If the ships were the fighting body of the Navy, he reflected, here was its brain, working in a long room which had three tall windows along one wall and was panelled with the same oak used to build the ships.

And Ramage saw it was an impressive room which had absorbed something of the drama and greatness of the decisions Their Lordships had made within its walls during the last five score years or more, sitting at the long, highly polished table occupying the middle of the room.

The high-backed chair with arms at the far end was obviously the First Lord’s, and the pile of paper, quill, silver paper-knife, inkwell and sandbox in front of it indicated he probably used the Board Room as his own office.

Ramage, intrigued by several long cylinders looking like rolled-up white blinds and fitted on to a large panel over the fireplace, walked over and pulled down one of the tassels. It was a chart of the North Sea. A convenient way of stowing them. Then he noticed the whole panel was surrounded by a frieze of very light wood covered with carvings of nautical and medical instruments and symbols of the sea.

The instruments were beautifully carved, standing out in such relief it seemed he could reach up and use any one of them. An azimuth overlapped an astrolabe; a set of shot gauges hung over a pelorus; a cross staff used by the earliest navigators was partly hidden by a miniature cannon. And, emphasizing the importance of good health in a ship, especially on long voyages of discovery, the snakes and winged staff symbol of Aesculapius and a globe of the world.

There was what seemed to be the face of an enormous clock on the wall opposite the First Lord’s chair, but instead of two hands it had a single pointer, like a compass needle. Instead of numbers round the edge, there were the points of the compass, while the map of Europe painted on its face had the axle of the pointer exactly where London was.

He saw the pointer was moving slightly, ranging between ‘SW’ and ‘SW by W’. It was the dial that his father had long ago described to him and which, by an ingenious arrangement of rods and wheels, showed the direction the wind vane on the Admiralty roof was pointing.

And it was very old – that much was clear from the map which showed the North Sea as ‘The British Ocean’. Calais appeared as ‘Calice’ while the Scilly Isles were simply labelled ‘Silly I’.

Each country was indicated by the arms of its royal family, and even a casual glance showed Ramage that some of them had long since vanished, removed from their thrones by death, intrigue, revolution or conquest.

As he reached for his watch he noticed the tall grandfather clock beside the door through which he’d entered. Ten minutes past nine. The figure ‘17’ showed in a small aperture carved in the face – the date, 17 April. Ingenious, yet the clock was obviously very old: the wood was mellow, the metal of the face – which was surrounded by elaborate gilt work – had a rich patina, the mirror on the door was dulled with age, like old men’s eyes.

Ramage remembered something his father had told him about the clock: it was made –

Ramage spun round to find Lord Spencer had come through a door at the far end of the room which had been indistinguishable against the panelling.

‘I guessed as much, though your father knew it well enough. Were you admiring the clock or bemoaning the unpunctuality of the King’s ministers?’ Spencer asked banteringly.

Ramage grinned. ‘Admiring, and trying to remember what my father told me about it. And admiring the whole room.’

‘I love it,’ Spencer said frankly. ‘I use it instead of my own office. I’ll be your guide before we sit down to settle your business.’

The words were spoken lightly, but for Ramage they had an ominous meaning. Certainly the First Lord was being affable enough, but the family had suffered enough at the hands of politicians for him to be wary.

‘Let’s start with the clock. Made by Langley Bradley, the man who made the one for St Paul’s Cathedral. It’s been telling the time and date for nearly a hundred years, so the mirror’ – he bent down to grimace at his own image – ‘has reflected every Board meeting since this place was built in 1725.

‘These carvings over the fireplace – pearwood, by Grinling Gibbons, as you’ve probably guessed. He did them in the 1690s and they were probably taken from Wallingford House, which was knocked down to make room for this building.

‘And how do you like our wind dial? I can glance up and see if a nice west wind is keeping the French shut up in Brest, or if there’s an east wind on which they might slip out. In fact until I became First Lord I never realized what danger an east wind brings to this country, giving every enemy fleet from the Texel to the Cadiz a chance of getting out of port. Or what an ally we have in a west wind, penning them in like sheep!’

Because of his father, Ramage had known the Spencer family since boyhood. Never very well, but enough to allow the First Lord to relax with a lowly lieutenant for a few minutes.

And now he was impressed with the older man’s obvious enthusiasm for his job as First Lord of the Admiralty. But for all that he was a politician; any day a government reshuffle might promote him to some other post or demote him to some well-paid sinecure like the President of the Council for Trade and Plantations. Or to complete eclipse if the government fell – which he guessed it might do over the Spithead affair. Yet since Spencer was appointed First Lord three years ago he’d become both popular and respected: an unusual combination.

If the Board Room was about seventy-five years old, Ramage reflected, it meant members sitting at that table had given the orders which sent Anson on his great voyage round the world in the Centurion. And Captain Cook on three voyages revealing the extent of the Pacific Ocean. And sent Admiral Byng – much too late and with a small and ill-equipped squadron – to defeat off Minorca. Then, as the resulting public outcry threatened to topple the government, had obeyed its order to make Byng the scapegoat and brought him to a mockery of a trial which led to him being shot by a firing squad on the quarterdeck of the St George at Portsmouth.

And, he realized with a shock, from here had gone the orders sending his own father to the West Indies in command of a similar squadron in similar circumstances. Following the inevitable defeat, similar orders for a court martial had been given and for similar reasons – though his father had been disgraced as the price of the government staying in power, not shot…

Spencer must have read his thoughts because, his face expressionless, he said casually: ‘Yes, some great and some shameful decisions have been made in this room. I can’t claim credit for any of the former nor undo any of the latter.’

Ramage nodded, since no answer was needed, but he felt a considerable relief because Spencer had said more than mere words. The trial of Admiral the Earl of Blazey had been a cold-blooded political manoeuvre, but it had also split the Navy.

That had been inevitable because many officers were active in politics or linked by family ties or patronage with leading political figures. They had been quick to strike at the government of the day through his father – and not a few took advantage of an opportunity to satisfy their jealousy of a young admiral already famous as one of the Navy’s leading tacticians. Although several of these men were now dead or superannuated, there were still many in high positions who carried on the vendetta against the Earl’s family – helped in turn by the younger officers who looked to them for promotion – and the vendetta had extended to the Earl’s son and heir, Ramage himself.

Arden, second senior of the Lords Commissioners, sat at the First Lord’s left hand.

As Spencer unlocked a drawer in the table, Ramage thought of the brief and peremptory letter in his pocket ordering him to report to the First Lord. It gave no reason, but as far as Ramage was concerned there could be only one.

Spencer put several papers on the table and, patting them with his hand, remarked: ‘Mercifully there are few lieutenants in the Navy List who’ve had so many contradictory reports on them forwarded to the First Lord.’

And here we go, Ramage thought bitterly. First the honeyed words: now the harsh judgement. Well, it wasn’t unexpected. He’d been back in England for several weeks since the Battle of Cape St Vincent. For the first three he had been recovering from the head wound, and as soon as he wrote to the Admiralty reporting himself fit he’d expected the summons to London or an order to report to some port for a court martial.

His father hadn’t tried to comfort him; in fact the old Admiral insisted he didn’t accept any reprimand and, if necessary, demanded a court martial. But the days had gone by without anything more than a bare acknowledgement of the letter. While it meant no reprimand it also meant no employment.

Turning the pile of papers over so the bottom one was uppermost, the First Lord said: ‘Let’s just run through these. Then you’ll see my predicament. Here’s one from Sir John Jervis – as he then was – dated last October and praising you for your bravery in taking command of the Sibella frigate after all the other officers had been killed, and going on to rescue the Marchesa di Volterra from Napoleon’s troops. He encloses one from Commodore Nelson – as he then was – which is even more fulsome, saying you literally carried the Marchesa off from beneath the feet of the French cavalry.

‘Now for the next one. This, from another admiral, refers to the same episode and says you should have been condemned by a court martial for cowardice, and that the trial he’d ordered was interrupted.

‘What am I to believe? Well, I take the word of Sir John, since he’s the senior officer.

‘Then we have the third report, again from Sir John, telling me how you captured a dismasted Spanish frigate while commanding the Kathleen cutter. As Sir John says, he admires your bravery but cannot possibly overlook that in making the capture you flatly disobeyed Commodore Nelson’s orders.

‘Well, all that seems clear enough – until I open the enclosure from Commodore Nelson which is full of praise and doesn’t mention a word about disobedience.’

‘I received this shortly after the despatch describing the Battle of Cape St Vincent. Sir John gives due credit to your action but makes it quite clear that he’s not sure whether it was due to bravery or foolhardiness, and that you acted without orders and, much worse, lost the Kathleen cutter, into the bargain.

‘Now,’ the First Lord said flatly, ‘that’s more than sufficient grounds for a court martial. However, since Lieutenant Lord Ramage is involved, it’s not as simple as that. Do you know why?’

‘Because on the same day I received a private – and, I might say, quite irregular – letter from Commodore Nelson pointing out that had you not deliberately rammed the Spanish San Nicolas with the Kathleen cutter and slowed her down, he would never have been able to catch up and capture her and the San Josef, and he ends his letter with a request that I should “look after” you.’

‘And as if that wasn’t enough,’ Spencer said with a show of anger, ‘no sooner does Sir John receive an earldom for his splendid leadership in the battle than he tells me that if any occasion arises where a resourceful young officer is needed, I could make use of you – as long as I didn’t expect you to pay any heed to my orders!’

‘And another very senior officer present at the battle writes to a friend – who sent me a copy of the letter – saying that you and another officer ought to be brought to trial at once in case other captains take it into their head to ignore the Fighting Instructions and quit the line of battle.’

Spencer lifted a hand to silence him and said grimly, ‘I didn’t mention Captain Calder’s name, and I recall that the Commodore received a knighthood and the nation’s admiration for capturing two Spanish sail of the line.’

Numbed and resentful, Ramage stared down at the table, trying to guess the reason for Spencer’s long recital. It sounded more like a prosecutor reading the charges. Warily he waited for the judgement since he obviously hadn’t been summoned to see the First Lord for a social talk.

‘Well enough, thank you, my Lord,’ mumbled Ramage, taken completely by surprise and wondering if he’d murmured his thoughts aloud.

‘She looked very lovely at Lady Spencer’s ball the night before last. In fact we both remarked what a splendid pair you made. You’re an appalling dancer, though.’

‘Ramage, my boy, every other lieutenant in the Navy List would give ten years of his life to sit where you sit now with the First Lord. At every opportunity they’d say “Yes, my Lord”, “No, my Lord”. They’d laugh at my poorest jokes. They’d agree with everything I said. They certainly wouldn’t sulk, because they know one word from me would put them on the beach for the rest of their lives.’

Every word was true and Ramage knew it; he was sulking like a schoolboy: like a child who kept crying long after he’d forgotten what caused the tears.

‘Since I knew before I came into this room I was going to be put on the beach for losing the Kathleen, sir, I’ve nothing to lose – or gain – by laughing, saying yes or saying no.’

Even as he spoke he regretted the words: they were – discipline apart – unnecessarily offensive to a man who was clearly trying to do in the kindest, most tactful way, whatever the Board had decided. And Ramage suddenly realized he’d misunderstood Spencer’s earlier remark about the great and the shameful decisions made in this room. The Board must have outvoted Spencer, who’d probably spoken up for him. Spencer had been giving him advance warning, not apologizing for the orders given years ago to his father.

Yet the First Lord said nothing in reply to his outburst; no anger showed in his face; instead it was bland. He looked down and opened the drawer again, bringing out several flat packets, all sealed with red wax. He sorted them out and slid them along the table towards Ramage.

‘Rear Admiral Sir Roger Curtis, KB, off Brest… Admiral the Earl St Vincent, off Cadiz… Rear Admiral Henry Robinson, Windward Islands Station… Lieutenant the Lord Ramage, Blazey House, Palace Street, London… Lieutenant the Lord Ramage, Blazey House, Palace Street, London…’

‘You can open those addressed to you. Here–’ he pushed across the silver paper-knife.

Nervously Ramage slit open the first. He recognized the once-folded piece of parchment and his eyes immediately picked out the relevant word – ‘Lieutenant the Lord Ramage… His Majesty’s brig Triton…willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her… Hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril…’ It was signed, ‘Spencer, Arden, Jas. Gambier’ – three of the Lords Commissioners.

His commission! And what a command – a brig! Triton, Triton…? He searched his memory.

‘Ten guns, two years old, fresh out of the dockyard after a refit,’ Spencer said.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Ramage said humbly, holding up the commission. ‘I didn’t expect quite…’

‘I know. Keep your gratitude for a moment: you’ve another letter to read.’

By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom and Ireland

Whereas by our Commission bearing date this day we have appointed Your Lordship to the command of His Majesty’s brig Triton, you are hereby required and directed to proceed without loss of time in His Majesty’s brig Triton under your command to Rendezvous Number Five off Brest and deliver to Admiral Sir Roger Curtis the packet with which you have already been entrusted. You will then, without loss of time, proceed to Rendezvous Number Eleven, off Cape St Vincent and having ascertained from whichever frigate is stationed there, the position of the squadron under the command of Admiral the Earl of St Vincent, you are to deliver to His Lordship the packet which has already been delivered to you, taking particular care that neither you nor any of your ship’s company shall inform any other person or persons in Lord St Vincent’s squadron of the state of affairs at Spithead.

Upon reporting to His Lordship, you will answer any questions put to you by His Lordship as freely and truthfully as is within your power.

As soon as His Lordship permits you will leave the squadron and proceed without loss of time to the Windward Islands Station and, immediately upon finding Rear-Admiral Henry Robinson or, should he be absent, the senior officer upon the station, and deliver to him the packet of which you are already possessed, and answer any questions put to you as freely and truthfully as lies within your power. You will take particular care that neither you nor your ship’s company shall inform any other person in Admiral Robinson’s squadron of the state of affairs at Spithead.

You will then place yourself under the command of Rear-Admiral Robinson, or if he is absent, the senior officer upon the station, for your further proceedings.

As he was reading the time-honoured phrases, Ramage knew there was a ‘but’. Giving him command of the Triton brig was obviously the Admiralty’s way of privately approving his recent behaviour and equally privately rewarding him for it; but there must be a special reason why he had been selected. The task seemed more appropriate to a frigate commanded by a post-captain.

But every ship of war at Spithead had mutinied: when Admiral Lord Bridport had made the signal to weigh anchor a few days ago, the seamen in some fifteen sail of the line had refused to obey, run up the shrouds and given three cheers. The officers had been sent on shore and ropes had been rove from the foreyardarms, warning that anyone who did not support the mutiny would be hanged.

At this moment, Ramage reflected, the Admiralty which administered the most powerful Fleet the world had ever seen couldn’t tell a dozen men to row a boat with any hope of its order being obeyed. He laughed involuntarily at the absurdity of it.

‘You find the fact His Majesty’s Fleet at Spithead is in a state of mutiny and complete anarchy a laughing matter, Ramage?’

‘No, sir!’ he added hastily. ‘It’s just that I seem doomed to get commands in – er, unusual – circumstances. The Sibella was under attack and sinking when I had to take command as the only surviving officer. My first task after being given my first official command, the Kathleen cutter, was to rescue the crew of a frigate aground and under enemy fire. Then I lost the Kathleen at the Battle of Cape St Vincent. Now – if you’ll forgive me for saying so, my Lord – my next command is a brig whose crew has mutinied!’

Spencer smiled and for a moment said nothing. Yes, the lad was like his father. Face on the thin side, high cheekbones, eyes deep-set under thick eyebrows, nose straight, not quite aquiline. By no means handsome but, as his wife had remarked a couple of evenings ago at the ball, there was something about the lad that made him stand out among the hundred or so men present. Hard to define why – he wasn’t tall; in fact he was quite average. Slim hips, wide shoulders and an arrogant walk. No, Spencer thought, not arrogant as much as confident. Habit of rubbing that old scar over his brow – as he was doing this very minute – when he was worried. Had trouble pronouncing the letter ‘r’ when he got excited – he’d just say ‘bwig’ for ‘brig’.

Spencer forgot the mutiny as he studied Ramage, realizing a lot would depend on the lad’s character over the next few weeks. Next few hours, in fact. No, it wasn’t the face or the stance, nor the physique or the voice… At that moment Ramage glanced up nervously and Spencer saw that part of it was the eyes. He realized they could express the same menace or defiance as the muzzles of a pair of pistols. And looking into them you could no more guess his thoughts than you could see the lead shot in the pistols’ barrels.

Yet you didn’t see those eyes across the length of a ballroom. What was it then? It was like glancing up at the night sky – a few stars out of the millions visible caught the eye, for no apparent reason. Spencer finally admitted he couldn’t define it, though it was clear why Ramage’s men were devoted to him: he combined a decisive manner with a dry sense of humour and, like his father, he combined a highly developed, even if arbitrary, sense of justice with an uncontrollable impatience with fools. Well, no harm in that – as long as he never became a member of the Board and had to persuade the rest to adopt some policy they were too stupid to understand.

Realizing he’d been staring at Ramage for some moments, Spencer smiled and asked: ‘Why do you think you were chosen to command the Triton and given these orders?’

‘Since you’ve already given the reason yourself without realizing it, I’ll tell you – and I’m speaking to the son of an old friend, not to a young lieutenant!

‘The Board know full well that to get the Triton under way at Spithead is going to need ingenuity and quick thinking by her commanding officer; perhaps even highly irregular methods which might lead to violence and which, if it resulted in a public outcry, the Board would have to disown.’

He held up his hand to stop Ramage interrupting and continued: ‘The Board also know it’s easier to persuade fifty seamen than a couple of hundred, so they chose a brig rather than a frigate. Selecting a lieutenant to command her – well, there was only one man known to them who was the junior lieutenant of a frigate when he was rendered unconscious in battle and woke to find himself her commanding officer and behaved with great initiative and bravery; and only one lieutenant who was quick enough to spot that the only way to prevent several Spanish ships of the line from escaping capture was to ram the leading one with the tiny cutter he was commanding.

‘That the lieutenant happens to be you is a fortunate coincidence,’ Spencer added.

‘If anything went wrong at Spithead, then I’ll make a convenient scapegoat,’ he added bitterly. ‘And the son of “Old Blazeaway” into the bargain.’

‘Scapegoat, yes – if you fail,’ Spencer said blandly. ‘And no public credit if you succeed, because no one but the Admiralty knows the problems you’ll have overcome.’

‘You have a poor view of politicians, Ramage – and in view of your family’s experience, I can’t blame you. But you’d be wise to give the Board a little more credit. For a start, the Board chose the man they thought would succeed. That’s their prime interest. But the man they chose might fail and might become a scapegoat.’

He wagged a finger as he said slowly, emphasizing each word, ‘Don’t forget any public outcry brings the Navy into disrepute. Just suppose a public outcry forced us to bring you to trial. What better defence can the Admiralty have for their choice than citing your record so far – omitting your tendency to ignore orders? Who else could call witnesses to his character ranging from Lord St Vincent and Sir Horatio Nelson down to seamen who were on board the Kathleen when you rammed the San Nicolas?’

Ramage was almost persuaded and grateful to the First Lord for his frankness. He was just going to reply when Spencer said quietly: ‘We’re putting a lot of faith in you, Ramage. It’s vital that the three admirals are warned of what’s happening at Spithead. Supposing the mutiny spreads to Admiral Duncan’s Fleet watching the Dutch, or Sir Richard Curtis’ off Brest, or Lord St Vincent’s covering the Spanish off Cadiz, or Admiral Robinson’s covering the Windward and Leeward Islands, or Sir Hyde Parker’s at Jamaica…

‘The Royal Navy’s all that stands between us and defeat,’ he continued. ‘You realize that. The price of bread is rising, the people are restive with empty purses and often empty bellies, Parliament is more than restive with a government that can only announce defeats and the defection of one ally after another on the Continent. And every damned merchant in the City of London is screaming that he’s ruined. Sometimes, Ramage, I wonder where and how it will all end. I daren’t even think of when.’

Since his only knowledge of the mutinies came from the newspapers, Ramage asked: ‘What exactly are the men asking for, sir?’

‘More pay; leave to visit their families when in port; better provisions and issued at sixteen ounces to the pound, not fourteen; vegetables to be served with fresh beef instead of flour when in port; better conditions for the sick; wounded to be paid until they’re fit or pensioned… It’s a long list.’

Hard to judge Spencer’s attitude from his voice, but Ramage wondered if the First Lord knew the views of many of the junior captains. For sure he’d have heard the views of every admiral with enough wind left to express them; yet did he realize that quite a number of officers had for years felt the men’s conditions should be improved? Well, now was the time…

‘I think many officers feel some of the grievances are justified, sir,’ he said quietly.

‘I daresay,’ Spencer said, ‘but we can only spend the money Parliament votes us – and that’s already well over twelve million pounds a year. Why, the Secretary’s calculated that it’d cost over half a million a year to meet these demands.’

‘But granting the men leave after they’ve been at sea for a year or so–’

‘Not the good men,’ Ramage persisted. ‘They only desert because they desperately want to see their families.’

Then, seeing Spencer was tapping the table impatiently, he decided to make just one more point.

‘Purser’s measure, sir – I can guess that’s one of the men’s main grievances. Before they went to sea, these men always considered a pound weight consisted of sixteen ounces. Yet when a sixteen-ounce pound of meat is sent to a ship, only fourteen ounces are issued to the men and they’re called a pound–’

‘Ramage, you know as well as I do about wasting. Meat goes rotten, bread gets stale, beer leaks, weevils eat the flour. If the purser wasn’t allowed the difference between the two measures he’d never balance his books!’

Ramage then knew it was pointless to argue. Spencer was surrounded by clerks with their ledgers. He’d never seen a dishonest purser at work; never seen the wretched fellow altering his books the moment a seaman died, debiting him with clothes and tobacco he’d never had, so that there was nothing left of the man’s pay for the wretched widow…

‘No, sir,’ he answered, suddenly realizing this was his chance to lessen the odds. ‘I don’t think anyone could board a brig which had a mutinous crew and make them do anything, even if he had fifty Marines to back him up.’

‘My God, Ramage! You realize what’s at stake? You, of all people, now saying you can’t do it when a minute or two ago you said…’

‘I’m afraid you misunderstood me: I meant I couldn’t force a ship’s company I didn’t know to do what I wanted. But if I may ask a favour…’

‘–but she’s sunk! They’re distributed among Lord Vincent’s squadron.’

‘No, sir, twenty-five of them were sent to the Lively with me – she was short of men – and came back to England.’

‘I know, sir,’ Ramage persisted, ‘but if half the Triton’s present complement could be exchanged for the twenty-five ex-Kathleens in the Lively, at least I’d have halved the odds by having nearly half a ship’s company who’ve – well, who’ve–’

‘Followed you because you’re you…’ Spencer said with a grimace. ‘Very well, a messenger will take the orders to Portsmouth within an hour. That’ll give the men plenty of time to settle in before you arrive.’

‘The Master, sir. I’m sure the Triton’s present one is a good man, but the former Master of the Kathleen, Henry Southwick, might help me turn the trick with the men.’

‘Good. But look here, Ramage, I must make one thing clear. You know as well as I do that until you reach the West Indies and come under Admiral Robinson’s command, you’ll be a private ship. But don’t go chasing after prizes just because there’s no admiral to take his eighth share.’

Ramage’s resentment must have shown in his face much as he tried to control it, because Spencer said coolly: ‘You’re a deuced touchy youngster. I didn’t mean you’d go after the money; just telling you the Admiralty can’t and don’t approve of your habit of going your own way. I’d be a poor friend of your family if I didn’t warn you not to make a habit of it. It’s like duelling. Someone challenges and wins a duel. Very well – perhaps it was a matter of honour. But sometimes a man develops a taste for duelling: before long he’s constantly looking for an imagined insult to justify a challenge. By then he’s no better than a murderer.’

‘Good. Now, you’ll leave for Portsmouth tonight. We’d better spend half an hour going over the details of what’s been happening at Spithead and how the Admiralty and Parliament view it, so that you can answer any questions from the admirals. Here, pen and paper and ink: make notes as I talk.’

CHAPTER TWO

Dusty and weary after a night’s journey in the post-chaise from London to Portsmouth, Ramage walked through the great dockyard after visiting the Admiral Superintendent’s office with as much enthusiasm for the task ahead as a condemned man going to the wall to face a firing squad.

Normally there was more bustle in the streets of Portsmouth than in the City of London; normally the dockyard was busier than Billingsgate Fishmarket, and the language riper, and one had to keep a weather eye open for fear of being run down by an exuberant crowd of shipwrights’ apprentices hurrying along with a handcart of wood.

There’d be the thudding of a hundred adzes biting into solid English oak, shaping futtocks and beams for new ships of war; the sharp clanking of blacksmiths’ hammers shaping red-hot metal in the forges; the grating of two-handled saws cutting logs into planks in the sawyers’ pits.

Groups of seamen from the various ships with a cheery ‘One, two and heave!’ would normally be hoisting sacks and barrels of provisions on to a can, while the masts and yards sprouting from ships in the docks between the buildings would be alive with men bending on new sails and replacing worn-out rigging.

Marine sentries guarding the gates and the buildings would be saluting smartly, muskets clattering in a cloud of pipe-clay.

But today the dockyard was deserted as though abandoned before an approaching enemy army. Not one adze, blacksmith’s hammer or saw was at work; not one forge had its furnace alight: the mutineers had frightened the craftsmen into staying at home. The masts and yards were bare – indeed, few yards were even squared.

Although there were plenty of seamen about, they slouched, some of them insolently walking out of their way to pass close to an officer without saluting.

For the first time in his life Ramage felt he didn’t belong; neither to the dockyard nor the ships. All were alien, things of brick or wood through which malevolent ghosts walked.

And the Port Admiral… He’d cursed and sworn with well-nigh apoplectic vigour about the mutineers and the disrespect they’d shown him; but he’d been quite unable to tell Ramage what was going on. In fact Ramage ended the interview with the uncomfortable feeling the Admiral considered him an odd fellow for being so inquisitive and was far more concerned that, as a new commanding officer joining his ship he took a copy – and signed a receipt for it – of the bulky ‘Port Orders’ which outlined in considerable detail how the port’s daily routine was to be conducted.

Ramage seethed as he recalled the interview. When he’d asked whether the Triton was provisioned for the West Indies and ready for sea, the question had been brushed aside, the Admiral drawing his attention to the first of the Port Orders and reading it out – ‘the receipt of all Orders or Letters on Service is to be immediately acknowledged in writing…’

Like a naval Nero fiddling while the Fleet mutinied, the Admiral reacted by ignoring it, apart from a tirade against the men in the Royal George