Ramage's Prize (43 page)

“Well, go and find it—here are the keys to the desk.”

Ramage could imagine the mutineers, at first elated at the thought of a French frigate rescuing them, now terrified at the picture of a British frigate hove-to to windward … a picture which included them eventually hanging by the neck from a noose at the yardarm. The grim warning contained in the Commission that Ramage read aloud at Lisbon might come to mind, and the reference to the Articles of War. Now the pressure was being slowly applied; pressure that—if everyone kept to the plan—would increase steadily over the next fifteen minutes …

The private signal was hoisted, a few Tritons near the forehatch speculated in bloodcurdling detail about the imminent fate of the mutineers below.

Ramage saw one of the Tritons suddenly go to the hatch, listen a few moments and then wave urgently to Much, who was standing a few feet away. The mate called something down to the mutineers, listened, then hurried aft.

“The mutineers, sir,” he reported to Ramage. “They're asking to see the Captain: they say it's urgent!”

“Tell them the Captain is coming, but their spokesman is to stay at the bottom of the ladder. If he got a chance to look round the horizon …”

Much went forward as Yorke came over to Ramage and asked, “They want to bargain?”

“Perhaps. They might offer to free Gianna now in return for their freedom and immunity from arrest. That's their best plan.”

“And we accept?”

Ramage nodded. “We accept anything that gets Gianna out of there safely.”

“Anything?”

“Look, we argued about the ethics of all this last night,” Ramage said quietly. “So go and hear what they have to say.”

Ramage followed Yorke and crouched down behind the gun, where he could hear one side of the dialogue. Yorke stood close to the hatch to make sure the mutineers' spokesman stayed at the foot of the ladder.

“Well, what d'you want?” he demanded in an uncompromising voice. “Bargain? You think I'm going to bargain with a bunch of mutineers when there's one of our frigates up to windward?”

Ramage peered round the breech of the gun. From the beginning he had known there was only one move the mutineers might make that would wreck his plan. He had tried to increase the odds against them thinking of it by pretending a French frigate was closing in, but he dared not keep that up for too long because of the danger that they would panic if the frigate's identity changed at the very last moment. Had he applied the pressure too soon? Given them a few extra minutes to recognize that they still had a weapon?

Yorke was tense as he stood listening; then he took a step forward, as though angry enough to want to seize the man at the foot of the ladder. He spoke slowly and distinctly, as though determined the mutineers should not misunderstand him.

“You are threatening cold-blooded murder. A completely pointless murder. A murder that can gain you nothing. The moment you committed such a foul act we would be down there and I swear that within thirty seconds not one of you would be left alive.”

And as Yorke listened to the mutineer's reply, Ramage knew he had lost the gamble: it had been a ten to one chance that they would think of it. Reasonable odds. But when you gambled you needed luck or a big purse, and his purse contained only Gianna's life. Yet perhaps he was wrong: perhaps they were demanding something else. Yorke's reply would—

“I can't stop that frigate coming down to us!” Yorke said angrily. “What do you expect me to do? Shout a couple of miles? For all I know the Admiralty has sent her out to escort us to England. What do I do then? Tell her Captain we don't need him? He'll want to know where Mr Ramage is. What do I say? How do I explain why I'm in command? Dammit,” Yorke exploded, “he'll probably think
I'm
a mutineer!”

He paused as the mutineer said something, then declared abruptly, “I'm going to talk it over with Mr Southwick. Stay there, the sentry up here has orders to shoot anyone who sticks his head over the coaming.”

Ramage got up and hurried aft, where Yorke joined him and asked wrathfully, “You heard all that?”

“Only your side of it.”

“They say they'll kill the Marchesa if I let the frigate approach.”

“What good do they think that'll do them?” Ramage asked quietly.

“They say if the frigate sends a boarding party they'll be shot or hanged anyway, so they've nothing more to lose if they kill the Marchesa as well. The scoundrel reminded me they couldn't be killed twice.”

Ramage nodded. “I hoped they'd be too scared to think of forcing us to keep the frigate away. Or if they did, they'd decide it would be impossible.”

He rubbed the scars over his brow and saw Southwick shaking his head, occupied in his own thoughts. Then the old Master came over to him and said quietly, “Don't chance anything, sir; they're desperate men. I'd sooner go into Coruña and hand myself over to the Spanish than risk the Marchesa being harmed.”

“Me too,” Yorke said, “and the Devil take the report to the First Lord. Anyway, even if this horse won't start, you've still got another in the stable.”

“Aye,” Southwick said, “we can pretend the frigate is satisfied with the private signal and goes about her business. It gives us a bit more time. We can't risk calling their bluff, sir …”

And Ramage knew both men were right; his gamble had failed but, as Yorke had said, there was still one more chance. “Very well,” he told Yorke, “tell them you and Southwick will try to reassure the frigate. Say you can't make any promises—and remind ‘em we have the bosun and some mutineers up here in irons …”

“They've thought about that,” Yorke said. “The fellow said they were all in the same position, whether they were down on the messdeck or in irons. He's right, too,” he added ruefully.

Twenty minutes later, with the imaginary frigate dropping astern on its way to Lisbon, apparently reassured by the
Arabella
's private signal, Yorke came back after reporting the fact to the mutineers.

“They say that someone can talk to the Marchesa this afternoon,” he told Ramage. “They refused to agree to Rossi at first, but I said she might want some woman's things that she'd be too embarrassed to shout about in front of a lot of strangers, whereas speaking in her own language to Rossi …”

“Thanks,” Ramage said. “Let's go down to my cabin; I'm so damned depressed.”

Sitting in the same chairs, with the carpet still damp where a couple of seamen had tried to scrub away the stains of the bosun's blood, Yorke said, “It looks as though we've no choice but to head for Coruña.”

“You don't think the second plan will work?”

“I'm afraid not. They're really desperate down there. If you'd seen that bloody man's eyes …” He shuddered at the thought.

“But you realize that now we can't risk going into Coruña, don't you?” Ramage asked quietly.

“It's our only chance of saving her life,” Yorke said bluntly.

Ramage shook his head. “On the contrary, it's a sure way of having them kill her. Their reaction to our ‘frigate' shows that. Why do you suppose I said I was depressed? Look, the Navy's blockading both Coruña and Ferrol. There's probably a squadron of our 74-gun ships in the offing; certainly two or three of our frigates within a few miles. Their job is to prevent
any
vessel getting in or out, whether a ship of the line or a fishing boat. They'll see us trying to get in and we'll be boarded. There's no way we can prevent it. And we know the mutineers will kill Gianna the moment a British ship gets within hail. Signal to our hearts' content, send a boat over with a letter of explanation … the fact is no frigate captain would believe our story and certainly wouldn't let us go in to surrender the ship to the Dons.”

“Supposing you went over and spoke to him?”

“He'd probably put me under arrest because he'd think I was deserting to the enemy. Wouldn't you, in his position?”

“He could come on board and see for himself.”

Ramage stared at him. “That's the point! If you were one of those mutineers, what would you do the moment you knew the frigate captain had come on board?”

Yorke held his hands out, palms upwards, in a gesture of despair.

“What in God's name can we do then? They'll kill her if we don't go to Coruña; yet they'll kill her if we do and get intercepted. Are you absolutely sure our blockade is as close as that?” he asked.

“Certain. Ask Southwick. No,” he said when Yorke shook his head. “I'd be glad if you did, because I will if you don't. I want to be certain.”

“Very well,” Yorke said, and left the cabin, to return almost immediately. “He agrees with you. Close blockade, summer and winter. Says he hadn't realized the position we are in now. The old fellow is almost in tears. He worships her, you know.”

“I know,” Ramage said soberly,

“What the devil are we to do? We'll be off Cabo Finisterra by tomorrow. We daren't go into Coruña and we daren't stay out. It's almost unbelievable.”

Ramage suddenly stood up, thumping his forehead with the back of his hand. “We're damn fools!” he exclaimed. “We can go into a Spanish port that isn't blockaded. Some fishing village, or even an open anchorage.” He began walking up and down the cabin, picturing the coastline to the northwards. “Yes, there's Corcubion, right in the lee of Cabo Finisterra. Difficult entrance without a chart, though. Camarinas Bay—that's it! Ten miles or so beyond the Cape, and we can get in easily. No patrolling frigates—it's our one hope!”

Yorke looked doubtful. “Don't risk it without the mutineers agreeing,” he advised.

“Why?”

“Because these men don't know the Spanish coast. They've picked on Coruña because they've heard of it. If you go in somewhere else they might suspect a trick.”

“Go and talk to them,” Ramage said impatiently. “Point out Camarinas is nearer and—hellfire, what difference does it make to them? It's Spanish—they get what they want and we're made prisoner!”

Yorke got up. “I'll try it,” he said, leaving the cabin. “I'll tell ‘em about the blockade, eh?”

“Yes, warn them we're certain to be intercepted and boarded. A squadron of seventy-fours, frigate patrols—even Spanish ships.”

“You stay here,” Yorke said. “You make me nervous, crouching behind that damned gun, listening to every word I say.”

But when he returned to the cabin five minutes later Ramage knew as he came through the door that he had failed to persuade them of the advantages of landfall at Camarina.

“They won't hear of it. Coruña or Ferrol, or else …”

“You explained about the blockade?”

“Of course I did,” Yorke said impatiently. “They say it's up to me to keep frigates away. They said I did it once less than an hour ago, and I can do it again.”

“But why not Camarinas?”

Yorke shook his head wearily. “They've a good enough reason, and I suppose we should have thought of it. They say how are they to know I won't take the
Arabella
into a Portuguese port and tell them it's Spanish. They know Cabo Finisterra isn't far north of the border between Portugal and Spain.”

“How will they know it is Coruña or Ferrol, then?”

“I asked them that. Apparently one of the men has been to both: says he'll recognize them at once.”

Ramage sprawled on the settee, drained of all energy and hope. “So we've no choice,” he said, almost to himself. “We have to try the second plan.”

“It puts the very devil of a responsibility on the Marchesa,” Yorke protested.

“Of course it does,” Ramage said harshly, “and if she'd gone home in the other packet as I asked her this would never have happened.”

He buried his head in his hands. “I suppose I don't really mean it like that.”

“It's true, but you tried to persuade her,” Yorke said sympathetically. “It's helping no one to blame yourself, though. It's happened, and we've got to sort it out.”

Ramage sat up straight in the chair and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “I'll give Rossi his orders. He can give Gianna her new instructions this afternoon. We'll time it for breakfast tomorrow—when the food is passed down the hatch. It'll mean a couple of the mutineers are at the foot of the ladder, and we have a good reason why a couple of our fellows are at the top.”

Yorke nodded slowly. “It's going to be a damned long night.”

“If only they'd got me as a hostage, instead of Gianna,” Ramage said miserably.

“Don't be absurd,” Yorke snapped. “It wasn't your fault the frigate business failed. I'd never have thought of anything as ingenious. Better they'd taken me, or Bowen, or Wilson. Or all three of us. Stop blaming yourself, for God's sake!”

He paused for a moment and then said savagely, “I blame myself for one thing, though.”

When Ramage raised his eyebrows, Yorke said, “Harris thought of all this. I should have ignored you and shot him dead as he stood here. I'll regret that for the rest of my days.”

That evening Ramage sat at his desk and wrote up his journal. He had never before filled it in with so much detail. Although he knew there was a chance it would never be sent on to the Admiralty, just putting all the events on paper helped pass the time.

As he described how he—as the future commanding officer of the
Lady Arabella
—met the Marchesa di Volterra at the British Embassy in Lisbon, and how she had subsequently taken passage for England in the packet brig, he thought bitterly how the bare words, true as they were, bore no resemblance to what actually happened. Not, he admitted, that he was anxious to try to explain it in detail! But fortunately captains' journals were by tradition written in a sparse, impersonal style. Courses, speeds, distances, positions, wind strengths and direction when at sea; when in port a notation of official visitors and official visits made, weather, anchorage position, how the ship's company was employed …