Ramage's Diamond (16 page)

“Yes, sir,” Ramage said. “A year or two ago, wasn't it?”

“Twenty months. Well, the mutineers took her into La Guaira and handed her over to the Spaniards. There's no work for 'em down there, and they're signing on in neutral merchantmen. We've caught a few of them, and some of the men who didn't mutiny have managed to escape. Anyway, there's a lot of loose talk going round, and we've got to be on our guard: mutiny can spread like wildfire—you remember the Nore and Spithead … So, be on your guard, and keep a sharp lookout for any former Jocastas in neutral ships.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Very well. Provision and water for three months. Any defects that stop you sailing? No? Good, I'll send your orders over in the morning.”

Back on board the
Juno,
Ramage waited in his cabin for Aitken and Southwick to join him. The steward came in, asking for instructions about supper, but was waved away: Ramage was too disappointed to have an appetite. Captain Eames and the
Alcmene
were to carry out the special operation, whatever it was, and the
Juno
was to be a terrier at a rabbit hole, according to the Admiral. Snapping at an island schooner here, chasing a lumbering little drogher there, tacking back and forth between Pointe des Salines and Pointe des Nègres, watching the current, wary of a calm … Capturing prizes—a few tons of sugar, some hogsheads of molasses, an occasional hundredweight of spices: so little that British privateers never bothered themselves.

When the First Lieutenant and Master came into the cabin Ramage gestured irritably towards the chairs and asked Southwick: “Do you know Fort Royal at all well?”

The Master nodded. “Aye, sir, I was in and out o' there dozens of times before the war.”

“Well, the pair of you will know it like the backs of your hands by Michaelmas,” Ramage said grimly, and went on to tell them of the news given him by Admiral Davis. “I'll get my written orders tomorrow, but we provision for three months. That'll keep the ship's company busy with the boats for a day or two.”

“What about water, sir?”

“Three months, but if we need more we can run down to St Lucia for it; Captain Eames says they have plenty at Castries. Some powder, too, but no provisions to spare.”

“We need a tender,” Southwick commented.

“The Admiral's already agreed to that, if we capture something suitable. Captain Eames took a small sloop and used it, but apparently he brought it back here and it's been sold as a prize.”

“Who is watching Fort Royal now, sir?” Aitken asked.

“The
Welcome
brig, but she's waiting to leave for Antigua the minute we relieve her.”

Southwick unrolled the chart and looked at it. “One thing about it, there are plenty of sheltered anchorages if it comes on to blow hard. Grande Anse d'Arlet and Petite Anse d'Arlet by Cap Salomon; Diamond Bay itself, off the village …”

“And if it blows a hurricane,” Ramage said with a grin, “we can either put to sea or join the French up in Fort Royal: they'll be in such a state they won't notice us sneaking in and anchoring in the Salée River!”

Aitken gave a shiver. “Let's hope we don't get any this year …”

Southwick rolled up the chart. “Always a hurricane somewhere during the season. The last one the Captain and I experienced,” he said nonchalantly, “started near here. About a hundred miles to the west, wasn't it, sir? Masts went by the board,” he told Aitken.

Ramage nodded and said cheerfully: “Let's hope hurricanes are like lightning, never strike in the same place twice. Anyway, let's go over the requirements for this ‘terrier at the rabbit hole' business. There'll be a deal of detached boat work—Aitken, I want you to check with the gunner that we have enough boat guns, and at least two spare ones, in case of accidents. Boarding from boats is something we haven't practised, but we'll make up for that as soon as we are off Martinique. Musketry—I'm sure the Marines need little practice, but the seamen?”

Aitken shook his head ruefully. “At the moment I'm afraid they're more of a danger to themselves than an enemy, sir.”

“Very well, give 'em plenty of exercise with small arms, and remember they'll be using both muskets and pistols at night, and one gun going off accidentally can raise the alarm. Exercise them at rowing with muffled oars—oh yes, you look surprised, but believe me, Aitken, it's harder than it sounds. It isn't just wrapping oars with bits of canvas, it's the whole attitude of the men in the boat—not to bellow an oath if they stub their toes, not to smuggle drink into the boat on the pretext of drinking it to keep warm …” he glanced at Southwick as the Master nodded vigorously.

“More boat operations have been wrecked by drink than anything else, sir,” Southwick said. “The men hoard their tot and take it with them. They don't realize when they've drunk too much and the officer doesn't see it going on, and then they get stupid or quarrelsome … Search every man a'fore they get into the boat, sir, 'tis the only way.”

“The boat guns,” Ramage said. “Loading, aiming and firing those little brutes is difficult work in anything of a sea. Spray all over the place, shot roll into the bilge, the lock gets wet, and the slow match goes out. Something else to exercise the men at, Aitken.”

“Hoisting out and recovering, sir,” Southwick prompted. “Oh yes,” Ramage said. “Easy enough to hoist out a boat with the stay tackle in harbour, and sometimes more difficult at Spit-head. But with a sea running …”

“I'll see the lieutenants are warned, and with your permission I'll exercise them at it as soon as we can,” said Aitken, his face getting longer and longer.

“Night work with boats means using a compass and knowing where the devil you are.” Ramage went on relentlessly, anxious to make sure that Aitken realized that the
Juno
would soon be engaged on a type of operation of which the First Lieutenant had no experience. “It means developing a sense of—well, of
position,
more than navigation. On a night when cloud hides the stars, most men completely lose their sense of position after a boat has rowed round in a circle a couple of times. I don't mean simply knowing you are still off a certain headland, that's obvious even to a blockhead. I'll give you an example: supposing you are leading three boats in a cutting-out expedition against a ship of war at anchor in Fort Royal Bay, and you run into some guard-boats and have to dodge. It's being able to keep in your mind the relative positions of the rest of the boats that matters. Like playing chess when you are blindfolded after the first four moves.”

Southwick looked startled. “Please don't say anything like that in front of Bowen, sir,” he said pleadingly. “That is just the sort of thing that would appeal to him, an' I'm glad to say he hasn't thought of it yet.”

“You must get Aitken interested in chess,” Ramage joked, knowing that the Surgeon was always after the Master for a game, but one look at the First Lieutenant told him that Bowen already had another victim.

“I said I knew the game before I knew what a good player he was,” Aitken admitted ruefully. “He caught Wagstaffe, too, and now he's busy teaching Baker and Lacey.”

“It's a good exercise for the brain,” Ramage said airily—he himself was now safe from being dragooned into games. “I'm sure you all benefit from playing with Bowen.”

Southwick caught his eye. “Oh, we do indeed, sir,” he said gravely. “I'll soon be walking the deck making the knight's move—two steps forward and one to the side.”

A
BRISK
easterly wind that probably started life off the African coast, three thousand miles away across the Atlantic, brought the
Juno
surging through the channel between the south end of Martinique and the north end of St Lucia, her bow wave creaming away and soon losing itself among the white-caps. Flying spray sparkling in the bright sun left salt drying like white dust over the decks and guns. The men were thankful for their sennet hats to keep the sun's direct glare out of their eyes.

From several miles out Ramage had identified Martinique with the three high peaks jutting up from the mountain chain running from one end of the island to the other. At the northern end and four thousand feet high, the volcano of Mont Pelée had its peak hidden in cloud, as though cooling off; Les Pitons du Carbet, a series of peaks, the highest of which was only five hundred feet lower than Pelée, had thin cloud streaming away to leeward like lancers' pennons. Only Vauclin, nine miles short of Pointe des Salines at the southern end of the island and 1650 feet high, was clear of cloud.

Southwick lowered his telescope. “That's Cabrit Island, the big rock off Pointe des Salines. The big hill in the distance almost in line with it, sir: that's Diamond Hill, and you'll see Diamond Rock in a moment.”

Ramage looked through his telescope to the north-west. “There!” Southwick said. “Like a big tooth sticking up out of the sea. More than five hundred feet high, and deep water nearly all round it!”

For a few minutes, before its outline was lost against the high land beyond it, Ramage stared at the magnified picture in the lens. A tooth, yes; the tooth of an old horse, vertical sided and slightly rounded on top, sticking up out of the sea as though Nature had accidentally dropped it, for there were no other islands anywhere near. It was going to be very useful as a navigational mark: as useful for the
Juno
as Mr Eddystone's remarkable lighthouse was for ships approaching Plymouth. Southwick's chart, admittedly copied from some other master, showed a five-fathom patch on the north side where it might be possible to anchor. Otherwise the rock was surrounded by depths of fifty fathoms or more.

He put down the telescope. His immediate task was to find the
Welcome
brig, hand over her orders from the Admiral and send her on her way. He squared his shoulders and began striding up and down the starboard side of the quarterdeck, hardly noticing that everyone else moved away, for traditionally that was where the captain of a ship could walk alone with his thoughts, be they of battle or nagging wives, duty or doxies.

Yes, there were many advantages in being a post captain, even though at the bottom of a list, and a frigate was a nice command. He ran a hand along his jaw and felt the skin smooth. The captain's steward provided hot shaving water, while poor lieutenants had only cold in which to work up a lather. A clean shirt every day and he could change his stock as often as he wanted, knowing that the steward had several more ready, laundered and ironed. If the whim took him he could call for his steward, even though it wanted a couple of hours to noon, and demand his supper. He could insist that the officers wear their hats back to front. At a snap of his fingers he could have every alternate man flogged—or allow them to laze in their hammocks for the rest of the day.

He was king of all he surveyed, as far as the
Juno
was concerned, and he enjoyed it. Not because of the power he wielded, for that was only comparative (Rear-Admiral Davis had taken only seconds to decide that Captain Ramage should spend the next few weeks watching for rabbits off Martinique), but because it gave him the chance of handling a much larger ship and moulding the men. The
Jocasta
business seemed to have worried the Admiral, and if he had asked the question about the loyalty of the ship's company off the Lizard, Ramage would have had to give a different answer. Now the Junos were cheerful; many an evening the fiddler was in demand on the foredeck so the men could dance and skylark.

Being made post mattered in small things and in large. The large of running your own ship in your own way, the small of having hot shaving water. When they met the
Welcome,
the brig would have to heave-to and the Lieutenant commanding her would have to report to Captain Ramage on board the
Juno.
A small thing, but he was damned glad that for once it was someone else who had to scramble down into a boat and get soaked with spray … The
Welcome
brig's Lieutenant would not know he was the first commanding officer that Captain Ramage had ordered to report on board. And he was going to be lucky in one respect: Ramage had suffered from overbearing, condescending or pompous captains when he had been a lieutenant and had vowed he would never be guilty of those particular attitudes, unless provoked … He found himself humming as he reached the taffrail and turned to begin his walk forward again. The deck was confoundedly hot; the warmth seeped through his shoes and both his brow and cheek muscles ached from squinting against the glare off the sea. With luck all the mosquitoes that had swarmed on board in Carlisle Bay had been blown away now they were at sea again.

One thing to be said for the Admiral packing them off after the rabbits was that they had escaped the perils of Bridgetown's social life. A sheaf of invitations had arrived on board from hostesses who obviously relished the idea of hearing London's latest gossip retailed by an earl's son, but he had been spared the worst of it. He had accepted dinner with the Admiral and his wife (it had been surprisingly enjoyable: the Admiral had a lively sense of humour) and pleaded urgent work to avoid the rest. Still, the lieutenants had enjoyed themselves, finding Southwick only too willing to stand an anchor watch. They would have been startled if they knew that on one of the two evenings, while they were wined and dined on shore, the Captain had relieved the Master for a couple of hours so that Bowen could have his game of chess.

All the weeks of training the ship's company, the days of having the ship reek of fresh paint, the days of thrashing to windward out of the Channel and across Biscay, were worth it for a morning like this. Tomorrow, when they went after the rabbits, it might be a different story, but now he was happy and satisfied.