Ramage's Prize (27 page)

Half an hour later Ramage was hustled below as the packet, flying the Tricolour, anchored off Trafaria, on the south side of the river and close to the quarantine station. After Kerguelen had dealt with the Customs and port authorities, the brig got under way again and Ramage was allowed on deck to pilot the ship for the last four miles up to the city itself, finally recommending an anchorage in front of the main square, almost in the shadow of São Jorge Castle.

Yorke, who had seen it before, commented, “One of the finest capitals that's also a port. Venice gets the prize, then Copenhagen. Lisbon comes third.”

Southwick grunted, “Stockholm?” When Yorke admitted he had not been there, Southwick said, “In summer it's pretty enough. No tide, of course; not like here.”

The three men went to the bulwarks, where they were joined by Wilson. The muddy water of the Tagus was swirling past at a good four knots. Then they watched several fregatas working their way out of the various docks.

“Loveliest working vessels I've ever seen,” Yorke said. “Just look at the fancy paintwork on the bow of that one!”

Lisbon's equivalent of the Thames barge was a graceful vessel with a heavily raked mast, a plump, apple-cheeked bow and a sweeping sheer. Almost the entire bow was covered in a gaily painted design, belying the sacks of grain with which she was laden. Two British frigates were anchored upstream of the
Arabella,
while a Post Office packet and a dozen more merchant ships, mostly British, were alongside the docks lining the city side of the river. Ramage was pointing out various landmarks in the city, which is built over the slopes of several hills, when Kerguelen came up to him.

“If you're ready to go on shore, I'll have the boat lowered. You and Yorke?”

Ramage nodded and grinned, “You have enough hostages to make sure we come back.”

Kerguelen, not realizing Ramage was joking, said simply, “I have your parole; that's enough for me.”

Half an hour later, during which time the eight privateersmen at the oars of the
Lady Arabella
's boat had had a hard struggle to reach the shore against the current, Ramage and Yorke were walking carefully up the slippery, weed-coated steps of one of the quays. At the top both of them stopped to get their bearings. As they turned away from the river, a green-painted carriage which was clattering over the cobblestones towards them suddenly stopped and a man, poking his head out of the window, called, “Are you gentlemen English, by any chance?”

“Yes,” Ramage said warily.

“From that Post Office packet?”

“From that former packet: she's prize to a French privateer.”

The man's attitude changed immediately. “What are you doing?” he demanded brusquely.

“What business is it of yours, pray?” Ramage asked icily.

“I am the Post Office Agent here,” the man announced pompously.

“Indeed? We've just come on shore to find you,” Ramage said, his voice deliberately neutral.

With that the man flung open the door, kicked down the steps and scrambled down, introducing himself as Henry Chamberlain, adding, “I couldn't believe it when word came from the signal station that they'd sighted a Post Office packet coming in with a Tricolour flying. I've been waiting here hours,” he complained pettishly.

Ramage looked up at the coachman, an unshaven and gaunt individual in a faded green livery who was leaning over as far as he dare, trying not to miss a word that was spoken. “Can we go to your office?”

Chamberlain gestured to the carriage door. “My house. It's not far.”

As the carriage rattled away, Ramage introduced himself and Yorke and tried to remember the details he had read in the
Royal Kalendar.
Four or five packets had been listed for Lisbon, but all he could recall was that Chamberlain was paid £150 a year. After heading towards Belém along quiet streets the carriage finally stopped outside a small house set back from the road within a walled garden. The coachman jumped down, opened the gate and walked the horse through.

Chamberlain led them into the house, and after introducing them to his wife—a woman with a shrewish face and wearing a dress that would have been unfashionable even a decade earlier, and who treated them with what she probably thought was suitable condescension—took them to his study.

Once he had ushered them to comfortable chairs and sat down behind his desk, Chamberlain became the man of affairs. Although he looked unprepossessing, with small eyes set far apart and a receding chin, his manner was brisk. He picked up a pen and dipped it in an inkwell, and was clearly going to take notes of their conversation until Ramage motioned to him to put the pen down, remembering the eavesdropping coachman, and asked, “First, Mr Chamberlain, when does the next packet sail for England?”

“Why do you want to know? The exact time is secret, of course.”

His tone was that of the squire questioning a couple of poachers, and Yorke looked at Ramage, who said, “I have to write an urgent despatch which must go to the First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr Chamberlain. As soon as I've written it I intend placing it in your custody, and it will then be your responsibility to have it delivered safely.”

“Oh by jingo, no!” Chamberlain exclaimed, putting his hands flat on the desk in front of him and pressing down, as though pushing away any responsibility. “Anything like that you'd better put on board a ship of war; I'm not responsible for the Navy's business.”

Ramage was beginning to dislike the man: he was revealing all the brisk bumptiousness of a jack-in-office; the kind of man who could spend two hours talking a string of clichés, quoting whole paragraphs of regulations, and taking enormous delight in thwarting other people without once taking any responsibility.

“Mr Chamberlain, this is Post Office business,” Ramage said quietly and patiently. “Before you decide what you will and won't do, wouldn't it be wiser to inquire why a naval officer and a shipowner land on the quay here from a French prize?”

“Very well,” Chamberlain said grudgingly, “tell me.”

He said nothing as Ramage briefly described the capture of the
Lady Arabella
and the offer he had made to Kerguelen. Ramage made no mention of Stevens' behaviour, nor of the information given him by Much. Originally he had intended to make a complete report to the Agent, but having met him he was less sure; his manner, the way he sat at his desk, the expression on his face implied automatic disbelief.

As he finished his account he suddenly noticed that Chamberlain's eyes were gleaming. The man was perhaps fifty years old and his thin face was a Gilray cartoon of someone who, bullied and nagged by his wife, in turn bullied and nagged any staff he might have.

Chamberlain smirked as he asked: “Well, Mr Ramage, how do you propose paying your—ah, debt—to this French scoundrel?”

“I hope the Post Office will provide the money.”

“And if not?”

“We shall have to raise it privately, although I hope it won't come to that.”

“Why not, pray?”

“Because for something like half what they would have to pay out to the commander for the loss, the Postmasters-General can get back a packet.” He suddenly remembered the rot in the transom.
Caveat Emptor!

“Do you and Mr Yorke fancy being hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn?” Chamberlain asked with a sneer.

“Not much.”

“Well, if you give that French scoundrel so much as a penny, you'll be guilty of high treason.”

Chamberlain had dealt his ace; his thin lips were pressed together in a chilly smile of triumph. Yorke glanced quickly at Ramage, who was rubbing the scar on his brow. There was no doubt Chamberlain was right, he could probably quote the regulation verbatim.

“Explain yourself, please,” Ramage said with a calm he did not feel.

Chamberlain stood up and sauntered over to a row of shelves which lined one side of the room. He shuffled through some folders, took out several pages and brought them back to the desk, sorted through them until he had the one he wanted at the top, then looked up at Ramage as a judge might glare at a murderer before he pronounced the death sentence. “I won't bother to give you all the references, but this is a copy of a recent Act of Parliament. The part that concerns you declares it to be treason for any British subject to remit money to anyone owing obedience to the French Government.”

He tapped the paper for emphasis as he added, “The phrase ‘owing obedience' does not mean just being a French citizen. It includes paying money to someone here, for example, who is acting as agent for the French, even though he might be a Portuguese.”

Ramage looked at Yorke, who said tactfully, “Perhaps Mr Chamberlain has some suggestion to make.”

The Agent shook his head. “I can have nothing to do with it: as a servant of the King I can have no cognizance of treason,” he said pompously, savouring every word.

Ramage flushed. “I suggest you choose your words more carefully.”

“Don't threaten me,” Chamberlain said loftily. “And I'd like to hear from the packet commander how much assistance he received from his passengers in trying to defend his ship against the privateer.”

Yorke, seeing Ramage had gone white and was once again rubbing the scar over his brow, said quickly, “Mr Chamberlain, it would be unwise of you to assume that
your
attitude towards us—particularly towards Lieutenant Ramage—might not eventually be construed as something close to treason. We knew nothing of this new Act and you know nothing of how the packet was captured. In the meantime, it is only fair to warn you that as Agent for the Post Office you, of all people, should be careful with the word ‘treason.'”

“He means,” Ramage said heavily, “that I have by no means told you the whole story.”

“Why not? Why not, I say? I have every right to know!”

“Because I don't trust you,” Ramage snapped. “My report is secret and for the First Lord's eyes only. He will pass on to Lord Auckland and the Cabinet what he sees fit. In the meantime I have told you all
you
need to know. Now, I must go and write my report. When does the next packet sail?”

“Tomorrow. It came in last night,” Chamberlain said truculently. “What are you going to say?”

Ramage stared unbelievingly at the man. “I've just said my report is secret. Are you an Agent of the Post Office or the French Government?” he asked, making little effort to hide the contempt in his voice.

“How dare you,” Chamberlain yelped. “Calling me a spy! Why, I'll—”

“I'm not calling you a spy: I am asking you.”

“I don't mind telling you I have been here for seven years, and I have been a faithful servant of the Post Office for nineteen altogether. I—”

“Please!” Ramage said wearily, “we'll accept your word for it that you are an honest clerk, and you'll have to take my word for it that I have special orders concerning the whole operation of the foreign mails. Just tell me, yes or no, whether you will make sure that when I send my report from the packet, it is forwarded directly to London.”

“From the packet? You mean the
Lady Arabella?
”

“Yes, of course.”

“You mean you are going back on board?”

“Naturally.”

“But she's a French prize! They'll—”

“We are on parole, Mr Chamberlain!”

“But no one would expect you—”

“
No
one, Mr Chamberlain? Neither Mr Yorke nor myself is interested in what other people expect. We've given our word.”

“But … I warn you, I shall make a full report to Lombard Street!”

“Please do,” Ramage said heavily, “it would help me if Lord Auckland could read your own description of your behaviour. Now, please make sure that when the reply comes from London it is sent out to me immediately. May we have the use of your carriage to return to the quay?”

Neither man spoke as the Agent's carriage took them to where the
Lady Arabella
's boat, with the privateer crew, was waiting.

Kerguelen met them as they climbed back on board.

“You had a successful visit?”

Ramage nodded. “The regular packet leaves for England tomorrow. I have to write a letter and have it delivered to the Post Office Agent. If I could have paper, pen and ink …”

“Of course.”

Kerguelen seemed about to say something else, and Ramage waited.

The Frenchman said, in a rush, “It seems silly to keep you on board while we are here at anchor waiting for the money. But”—he waved towards the skyline of Lisbon—”if you broke your parole …”

Ramage could see the man's dilemma: the Frenchman might well think he'd just arranged for a boat to hang around tonight to pick them up if they manage to escape and leap overboard! Kerguelen needed to be convinced. Ramage knew the Admiralty had no time for an officer-prisoner who escaped by breaking parole, but in this case they might be equally harsh with him for not breaking it to make sure the information now in his possession reached Whitehall as swiftly as possible.

Well, he thought to himself, the Admiralty will have to be satisfied that so far I've staved off a French prison. He had already given Kerguelen his word, and that was the end of it; whatever the Admiralty might say, keeping his word concerned no one but himself. But, having given his word, Ramage found himself getting impatient with a man who hesitated about how to treat it. So he grinned at the Frenchman and pointed to the two British frigates anchored farther up the Tagus.

“We could have arranged for boats to drop down on the ebb tonight and cut your anchor cable and board you as soon as you get out to sea.”

“But this is a neutral port,” Kerguelen protested.

“And who is to say your cable didn't chafe through? That it wasn't worn and parted with the strain?”