Foxe-Foote cursed the tropical heat, which made his uniform stick to him like dough on a baker's fingers, but smiled to himself and wrote, 'Lord Foote'. He'd have to watch the territorial part of the title, since he had had the misfortune to be born in a village with an odd name - one could hardly be 'Baron Foote of Piddleditch in the County of Essex'. But he'd get a barony if it took his last penny, and that was the advantage of entering politics. In the sea service you'd be lucky to get a baronetcy after a lifetime's work. A barony came only after a great victory, and then to the commander - in - chief. In either case it meant risking having a roundshot take your head off. That was the comforting thing about relying on a political title - the only risk was the party losing power, but a few votes for the party, a dozen entries into the 'Aye' lobby in Parliament, could earn you a baronetcy quicker than a dozen cutting - out expeditions, and without the slightest risk to wind or limb.
Yet. . . yet... it wasn't a title or the prize money or the handsome face that gave young Ramage that - well, what was it? Not an air of superiority, because obviously he didn't know he had it Assurance? Confidence? It was hard to define. Certainly it was built on a foundation of confidence, because the Gazette showed he had a natural courage, quite apart from his reputation in the Navy. Confidence could and did take him into action and brought him out alive and well. Yet he had sat there on the other side of the table, Foxe - Foote suddenly realized, quietly and modestly, and he had manoeuvred his admiral into giving him just what he wanted.
Earlier that morning, before Ramage arrived, Foxe-Foote had been determined not to be impressed by this youngster who some men reckoned would either have been killed in a glorious battle or be the youngest admiral in the flag list by the time he was forty. He had quite deliberately given him orders more suited to some callow young frigate captain who owed his promotion to influence rather than experience. Chasing privateers was work that bad to be done, but it brought no glory and, for all his remarks, Foxe-Foote knew it could bring little or no prize money for anyone. A captured privateer was worth the price of its hull: it carried no cargo, which was where the profit was. The favoured few, the frigate captains who looked to him for patronage, were already patrolling where the real prizes were to be found - heavily laden Spanish merchantmen off Cartagena and Havana, San Juan in Puerto Rico and Santo Domingo, or Frenchmen making for Guadeloupe . . . Well, he had not asked for Ramage; the Admiralty had sent him to help sort out the mess left by the previous commander-in-chief.
The only job left, one without honour, money or glory, was chasing these damned privateers who, under a variety of flags, were seizing any British merchant ships they sighted, and taking them into - where? Mostly Curacao, it seemed; the little Dutch island off the Main with its splendid harbour appeared to have recently turned itself into a privateers' haven. A row of three islands, rather, the beginning of the alphabet - Aruba, Bonaire at each end and Curacao in the middle. Britain had no ally in the West Indies now: if an island or ship was not British, it was enemy. Spain, France, Netherlands - the only exception was Denmark, which had two or three tiny islands east of Puerto Rico.
The way this boy stared at you - it wasn't exactly insolence, but Foxe-Foote admitted it made him feel uncomfortable. The eyes were deep - set over those high cheekbones, and he tended to move his whole head rather than swivel his eyes so that when he turned to look at you it seemed he was turning his whole body, like training a gun, and this gave every look far more significance.
He certainly resembled his father, the old admiral. The same rather narrow face, beak - like nose and thick eyebrows. Two scars over his right eyebrow, one newer than the other, pinker, and possibly sword cuts. Or from falling out of trollops' beds, or tripping over while in drink. No, he was not a drinker; Foxe-Foote was sure of that, and thankful. There was none of the slight tremble in the hand, the slight but continuous perspiration, the shifty eyes, the excuse for a drink: indeed, Ramage had refused a rum punch, despite the heat of the day.
Foxe-Foote threw the Gazette on the top of the pile of papers. No, it had not been a satisfactory day so far. He'd been determined to send Ramage off in the Calypso frigate to clear out those privateers, and had vowed he'd neither listen to nor grant any requests; he was just going to tap the orders and say everything was written there and . . . And what had happened? The whippersnapper had calmly told him how to operate frigates in the Caribbean, virtually refused to catch a single privateer unless he was given a schooner as well, and - well, that had been all. And quite enough too. Just let him make one mistake, Foxe-Foote vowed to himself; no good ever came of giving young captains so many Gazettes; their heads became swollen, they expected all the pretty young girls to swoon over them, and they pat their prize money in the Funds or bought themselves large houses in the country and - well, it was all damnably unfair; not every flag officer could make a reputation in battle, and thank goodness the First Lord of the Admiralty realized it Just you send in the privateer prizes, Foxe-Foote muttered, or you might just as well send in your papers. He dismissed the tiny inner voice that murmured about jealousy; after all, Ramage was one of the most junior post captains in the Navy List while he, William Foxe-Foote, was one of the most senior of the vice - admirals of the blue. With luck and a few deaths among the flag officers above him, he'd be a vice - admiral of the white by next year and a vice - admiral of the red a couple of years later. By then he should have enough influence in the Commons to get the title that would assure him a seat in the Lords. They'd be listening to his speeches with respect long before that boy became the Earl of Blazey and took his seat Ramage acknowledged the salutes as he boarded the frigate and, glad to be under the shade of the awning once again, strode across the quarterdeck to go down the companionway to his cabin. He saw the master hesitating nearby, obviously with something to say but trying to guess the captain's mood after seeing the commander-in-chief. Ramage realized that his face probably looked angry, but the fault was more the sun than William Foxe-Foote, Vice - Admiral of the Blue: it wanted only a few minutes to noon, and with the sun vertically overhead the glare was fantastic, flashing up into his eyes from every ripple on the water. The humidity was so high that his uniform was sticking to him, while his hat seemed to weigh fifteen pounds and have shrunk. His head itched with the heat, his hair was soaked in perspiration, his feet seemed swollen and jammed into long boots far too small.
No, he was not angry; in fact apart from the heat he was in a fairly good mood. Foxey (as the commander-in-chief was generally known in the Navy by everyone from the cook's mate to fellow admirals) had lived up to his reputation, but Ramage was thankful he had seen that copy of the Gazette half hidden among the papers - that had been the due to Foxey's manner: he wasn't going to be impressed by some young junior captain who had two dispatches printed in the same Gazette . . . For all that, Foxey had given him the schooner, and at this very moment was, no doubt, doing what he should have done earlier - examining the charts of the Main and discussing the problems with his second - in - command, who had been out here a year or more, before drawing up orders.
'You want to see me, Southwick?' he asked the master.
'Not me, sir,' the old man said, 'it's the purser. He's been cast into debt, I think, and wants to talk to you about it.'
Ramage grimaced. 'Very well, send him down in five minutes' time. And make the signal to the Creole for Lacey to come on board.'
Southwick waited, hoping for some hint of what the Calypso was to do, but his curiosity remained unsatisfied because of his own efficiency: all the frigate's water casks were full, all but one boat were hoisted on board and stowed on the booms, all sail repairs had been completed and the old foretopsail, worn and chafed beyond repair, had been sent down and replaced with a new one. The ship could be under way in the time it took to hoist in the last boat and weigh the anchors.
Ramage clattered down the steps of the companionway, acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute, and ducked his head under the deck beams as he went into his cabin. He tossed his hat on to the settee, took off his sword and sat at his desk as he took Foxe-Foote's written orders from his pocket He broke the seal and smoothed the paper, his hands sticky with perspiration. There were the usual cliches, and then came the orders: the Jamaica committee of merchants were complaining that ships plying between Jamaica and the Windward and Leeward Islands (which meant from Antigua down to Barbados) were being attacked by increasing numbers of privateers holding Spanish, French and Dutch commissions. These privateers were apparently using the Dutch islands as the market place for the cargoes in the prizes they captured.
However, the Royal Navy frigates patrolling off Cuba, Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, and in the Mona Passage, reported sighting fewer privateers than usual. From this it was apparent that the privateers had retreated southwards right across the Caribbean to the coast of the Spanish Main, and Ramage was to patrol that coast for two months, paying particular attention to the island of Curacao, 'and remove the threat'.
Ramage sighed, folded the paper and dropped it into die top right - hand drawer of his desk and, after finding his key ring, locked it. They were not the sort of orders one would ever need to refer to again. The more cynical of his brother captains referred to such orders as an 'admiral's awning' because they were so worded that they sheltered him from any criticism by Their Lordships at the Admiralty should anything go wrong.
He wanted to look over the charts, such as they were, before Lacey came over from La Creole, but first there was the purser. Rowlands was an old woman, as quick as a lawyer to spot anything that might be to his disadvantage as the ship's businessman and prevent him balancing his books. This would 'cast him into debt', as all pursers described making a loss, forgetting that anyone in business was likely to make a loss at some time or another.
Ramage smiled to himself as he remembered Southwick's face at the head of the companionway. The old man's flowing white hair stuck out from under his hat like a new mop, and the order to make the signal for Lacey had obviously left him wondering what orders the Calypso had received. Ramage had decided to tantalize him for the time being, knowing that as soon as Lacey came on board Southwick would, with the ship's other officers, hear all about it.
The sentry announced the purser and Ramage called the man in. He was not carrying a handful of papers - that was a good sign. His plump face with bags under the eyes looked mournful (like a village grocer saying farewell to his best customers as he was marched off to the debtors' jail) but Rowlands always looked like that, the result of the Welshman's firmly held view that most people had a far too frivolous attitude towards money. To him it was not a means of enjoying life, Ramage realized; acquiring it was the whole object of life, as though dying a rich man was the ultimate satisfaction.
The man was nervous - that was only too obvious as he ducked his head like a pecking pigeon as he entered the cabin although he was only an inch or so taller than the five feet four inches of headroom. He was nervous and he had taken particular care in dressing himself to see the captain. Past experience had shown Ramage that this was a bad sign, the preliminary to announcing trouble. But trouble without a handful of papers, long lists and inventories, surveys and account books? Could it be personal? A confession of fraud? Or bigamy?
Ramage gestured to Rowlands to sit on the settee, and twisted his own chair round to face the man. 'Southwick said . . .' he began encouragingly.
' 'S the water,' Rowlands said hurriedly. 'I dunno what to do with it.'
Immediately Ramage pictured more than thirty tons of water carefully stowed below in casks (and intended to last the Calypso's men more than three months) suddenly going bad, or proving to be brackish. Now, within a few hours of sailing, the bungs would have to be started and the water run into the bilges and pumped out over the side. Then would come the tedious and laborious task of ferrying the empty casks over to Passage Fort with the boats and filling them and then swaying them back on board again and stowing them below . . . And all the time there would be the sneers (if nothing worse) of Admiral Foxe-Foote, who would see it as a ruse to delay sailing because to him all orders involving going into battle could only be unwelcome. Having never smelted powder, Foxe-Foote attached too much importance to the experience.
'It's only a few casks, sir,' Rowlands said eagerly. Two dozen butts, in fact.'
'Is that from here in Port Royal or did we take it on in Antigua?'
' Twas on board when we captured the ship, sir. I suppose the French loaded it in France. Must have, come to think of it; they couldn't get it anywhere else.'
What on earth was the man talking about? 'Is France the only place that supplies water, Rowlands? Or is this spa water, so good for the liver?'
'No, sir,' Rowlands said dolefully, ' 'tisn't spa water. Wish it was. Nor is it plain water. No, it's brandy, sir, twelve tuns of it, which is three thousand and twenty - four gallons, wine measure.'
Ramage was so relieved that he asked with mock seriousness: 'I trust it is good brandy, Rowlands? The French haven't fobbed some new, raw spirit on us, I hope? The sort of spirit more useful as liniment for rubbing into bruises than drinking?'
