Ramage's Prize Read Online Free Page A

Pilcher Skinner, with—presumably—his plump wife on the wall to his right. Was the young woman on the other wall a daughter?
    All the artist’s skill with brush and pigments could not conceal the fact that Sir Pilcher’s legs and neck were too short for his plump body, nor disguise the fat and sagging cheeks eventually tapering and merging into several chins which sat on his lace stock like slices of wet bread. He was depicted standing foursquare on the quarterdeck, his uniform a splendid array of blue, white and gold, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword and right hand holding a telescope tucked under his arm. Few people, however, would think the pinkness of the cheeks came from the rays of a setting sun; that colour and texture of watered silk came only from owning a good cellar and employing a chef who took a pride in his work.
    Yet the face was curiously cheerful; Sir Pilcher looked like a man who could enjoy a good joke almost as much as a well-roasted saddle of lamb or a fine claret. The artist had been clever (and for Ramage it redeemed an otherwise undistinguished portrait) in catching the Admiral’s eyes.
    Although the eyes could be humorous on occasion, Ramage guessed that they could also be as shifty as a dishonest money-lender’s when Sir Pilcher was being forced into making a decision or taking responsibility. Yet with no fleet in the Caribbean, making minor and mostly administrative decisions was his only major task.
    Ramage touched the letter in his pocket, as if seeking some link between the paper and the portrait staring fixedly at him. If he accepted, his orders would be drawn up with extreme care by a man who wanted to get the most done while assuming the least responsibility. Sir Pilcher wanted a lowly lieutenant to find an answer (which had presumably eluded the resources of the Post Office and several ministers of state in Whitehall) but at the same time was giving him no authority. The Admiral was no fool, and Ramage guessed that the letter represented the first time he had ever given a mere lieutenant the option of backing out; of politely declining. If Sir Pilcher thought he was being magnanimous (which was unlikely) to the mere lieutenant it was rather like staring cross-eyed into the muzzle of a highwayman’s pistol on Blackheath and being given the option of “Your money or your life!”
    The rattan of the chair squeaked in protest as Ramage stretched back. The captain who had been the sole occupant of the waiting-room when Ramage arrived, was now with the Admiral, and since he commanded the
Hydra
frigate, which had arrived from England only a day or two ago and was about to sail again, Ramage was going to have a long wait.
    He wriggled his feet: the heat made them swell so that his long boots were tight and uncomfortable. He noticed the Royal Albion Hotel’s shoeblack had expended a lot of energy on them, but not much skill; the leather was lacklustre—the fellow had not learned to use the minimum of polish and a bit of spit.
    Let’s sit comfortably in Admiralty House and look at everything from Sir Pilcher’s point of view, Ramage thought to himself. Sir Pilcher owed absolutely nothing to Lieutenant Ramage; on the contrary. From Sir Pilcher’s point of view …
    â€œRamage,” a smooth voice said at the door, and he turned to see Henderson, a thin man wearing a clerical collar who seemed to combine the roles of Sir Pilcher’s chaplain and secretary. “The Admiral will see you now.”
    The chair creaked as if in relief as Ramage stood, straightened his stock, gave the scabbard of his sword a tug and wished he had drunk less coffee: it was swilling around in his stomach, now unpleasantly chilly and uncomfortable. He was nervous; there was no denying that. For all his offhand talk to Sidney Yorke, the fact remained that the word of a British admiral could end a young lieutenant’s career as effectively as a whole