Ramage's Prize Read Online Free Page B

broadside from a French ship of the line.
    Clack, clack, clack—he found himself treading heavily on the marble floor. Whistling in the dark, Ramage? Trying to keep your spirits up? Don’t forget, Sir Pilcher may simply be putting out an anchor to windward: he knows a great deal about the working of the collective mind of Their Lordships …
    The portrait was good: as he looked at the subject again Ramage realized that he had underrated the artist, who had been as subtle as he dare while still being sure of getting his fee. The Admiral rose from behind his desk in a movement halfway between the majestic and the ponderous, and pointed to rattan armchairs grouped round another small table, a replica of the arrangement in the waiting-room.
    â€œAh, my boy, let’s sit here and be comfortable,” he said affably.
    He motioned Ramage to one side of the table and sat down opposite in a chair which groaned loudly in protest.
    â€œI’ve been giving Captain Jeffries of the
Hydra
frigate his orders: he sails for Antigua in a couple of days, lucky fellow.”
    â€œIndeed, sir?” Ramage said politely. The Admiral’s voice was curiously squeaky considering the bulk from which it emerged.
    â€œTaking Admiralty orders and all the routine paperwork. Absurd not being able to entrust anything to the Post Office. There’s talk of the Admiralty having to use the King’s ships instead … and I’m so short of frigates. Damnably short.”
    Ramage nodded, guessing that most of Sir Pilcher’s frigates were out cruising, combining the hunt for privateers with the hunt for prizes, to bring a double profit to Sir Pilcher: a tactical profit of fewer enemy ships, and a cash profit since he received an eighth of all prize-money. Jamaica was the biggest money prize the Admiralty had to offer: two years in command of the station in wartime made an admiral as rich as a nabob who had spent a lifetime in India.
    â€œMr Dundas,” Sir Pilcher said, as though thinking aloud. “An impetuous man.”
    But a powerful one, a startled Ramage thought to himself. As His Majesty’s Secretary of State for the War Department and one of Mr Pitt’s closest friends, Henry Dundas can afford to be impetuous since his drinking partner is the Prime Minister.
    â€œYes, an impetuous man. He has just ordered all his general officers out here to send duplicate and triplicate—
triplicate—
copies of despatches and routine reports by merchantmen sailing home in different convoys. He passed a duplicate of this order to the Prime Minister, who sent copies to both Lord Auckland and Lord Gower. Never could understand why they have Joint Postmasters-General,” he sniffed. “
And
a copy to the First Lord of the Admiralty. Most uncalled for, in my opinion.”
    But most effective, Ramage noted, guessing that Sir Pilcher’s soliloquy was an oblique way of leading up to the letter. After staring at the empty chair next to Ramage for a minute or two without speaking, Sir Pilcher focused his shifty eyes on him.
    â€œWell,” he asked, “you’ve read my letter?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Ramage realized that he still had not finally made up his mind how to answer the inevitable question: now he was facing the Admiral the decision that he thought he had reached with Yorke at breakfast seemed wrong.
    â€œThink you stand a good chance of finding out what’s happening?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Ramage said lamely.
    Sir Pilcher’s jaw dropped into the folds of his many chins. “No?”
    Obviously it was not the answer Sir Pilcher had expected, and he groped in his pocket as he recovered from his surprise. Eventually he extricated a blue-enamelled snuffbox and snapped open the lid.
    â€œWhy not?” the Admiral demanded, glowering at the brown powder in the box, a podgy finger and thumb poised ready to take a pinch.
    â€œThere’s not enough information to