'I can't be for saying,' Rowlands said miserably, although not so upset that his favourite expression was forgotten. 'No, sir, I can't be for saying, seeing as how I'm not a drinking man.'
Rowlands had a knack of being able to phrase an apparently innocent remark so that it put the other person in the wrong. No casual listener would guess that Ramage rarely drank even three pints of wine in a year, and detested spirits. But the purser had the ability to irritate Ramage more than any other man in the ship. He was smug, money - grubbing, self - righteous and self - seeking, and Ramage had done nothing about having him replaced because he was also reasonably (if tediously) efficient and, Ramage never co-operating in any of his hinted schemes, just as honest as he had to be.
Ramage heard a hail on deck that showed Lacey was approaching, and in the meantime he had more important things to think about than Rowlands's discovery of two dozen butts of brandy stowed down below, posing as water.
'Copy all the marks painted on the butts and give them to Southwick so' we can enter it all in the log,' Ramage said.
'But, sir,' protested Rowlands, 'they're stowed bung up and bilge free, and some of the marks are on the under sides.'
'I should hope butts of brandy are stowed bung up and bilge free,' Ramage growled. 'I can just imagine the owners' joy on finding bungs popped out and butts sprung because they had been thumping against the ship's side in a heavy sea, and the bilges flowing with brandy, instead of milk and honey.'
'Milk and honey, sir?' the purser repeated, obviously puzzling over how two items never issued to the King's ships could have slipped into the bilge.
'Rowlands,' Ramage said heavily, 'get those figures for Southwick. Now, have you checked all the rest of the water casks'? The ship's company might think that brandy is a good substitute for water, but I doubt if the surgeon would agree. And tell the Marine officer that we need a sentry guarding those butts until we get them stowed in the spirit room.'
Rowlands scurried from the cabin, reassured now that he had something to do and the responsibility for the butts had been lifted from his shoulders. He had informed the captain and, as far as he was concerned, the butts rested on Captain Ramage's shoulders, like the world did on that man in the print he once saw, Atlas or some such name; a Greek fellow probably, perhaps the first man to publish maps.
As Ramage reached up to the rack over his head to find some charts he reflected that the paperwork concerning the brandy could cause more trouble than capturing the frigate from the French in the first place. In fact, before he started his examination of the coast of the Spanish Main, he had better finish dealing with the matter which had started in France.
Southwick arrived in response to the sentry's hail with an alacrity which told Ramage that the master had not strayed far from the top of the companionway.
'Rowlands's problem is sorted out, sir?' he asked with what, for him, passed as a subtle enquiry.
'It's not Rowlands's problem.' Ramage made no attempt to hide his exasperation. 'It's mine and yours and Rear - Admiral Davis's and all those fools at Antigua who took an inventory of this ship when we brought her in as a prize.'
'What did they miss?' Southwick asked shrewdly.
'Two dozen butts of brandy ...'
'Two dozen? Why, sir, that's three thousand gallons! Where is it?'
'Nestling down there with the water,' Ramage said sourly. 'And now you have the job of shifting it to the spirit room. It's a wonder it hasn't blown the ship up.'
Those damned Frogs - just a lot o' smugglers! Why, they must have been smuggling it into Martinique. Ill bet they never intended to declare it to the Customs! Just sell a few gallons at a time to the planters, who're probably sick and tired of rum. Makes you wonder what the Revolution's all about, doesn't it, sir? The officers might be full of liberty and equality and fraternity, or whatever it is they shout, but they're not above a bit o' smuggling, given the chance.'
'Nor are we, as far as the Customs in Antigua and Port Royal are concerned,' Ramage pointed out.
Southwick's face fell. 'Oh dear . . . Officially I suppose we smuggled it out of English Harbour and into Port Royal. But whose is it? Who pays the duty? And who gets it?' he added as an afterthought That can be decided later,' Ramage said. 'In the meantime well have to cany on smuggling, but Rowlands is going to give you the numbers on the casks. Make a full entry in the log for today stating how it was found, if the butts are full, and so on ... And note that it was removed to the spirit room. In the meantime I've passed the word for Rennick to put a sentry on it - we're lucky none of the seamen discovered it first: I can just imagine us finding half the ship's company one morning lying drunk among the casks.'
Those fools from the dockyard at English Harbour,' South - wick growled. They spent days on that inventory. They must have just made a quick count of water casks and assumed they held water. But anyone getting within a dozen feet should smell the brandy. Why, seepage alone I'
'Don't talk about it,' Ramage said. 'If anyone had walked round in the dark down there, using a lanthorn to count up water casks, the flame of the candle would have made the fumes explode, and the whole ship would have gone up.'
'By the time we've finished with all the extra paperwork this is going to create we might wish that it had,' Southwick said bitterly. 'Why, it affects the original inventory of the prize and the valuation; and that in turn affects the final valuation and the prize money paid. Which means our shares — everyone's, from Admiral Davis's down to the cook's mate's. Why, they could hold up payment for years - you know what prize agents are like. Any excuse to hold on to the money and draw interest.'
'Let's wait and see,' Ramage said. 'We can't be expected to bother Admiral Foxe-Foote with it now because he wants us to sail as soon as possible. We shan't be back for three months, and who knows what might have happened by then.'
Three months, sir?' Southwick said eagerly. 'Where's it to be - let me guess. The Gulf of Mexico? Cuba? Moskito Coast? Surely not back to Antigua, sir?'
'Wait for Lacey. Is that him coming on board now? Very well, pass the word for the rest of the officers - Rennick, too. He might as well know what we're supposed to be doing, to see if his Marines can help.'
When Lacey came into the cabin he was embarrassed because the last time he came through that door he had been the Calypso's fourth lieutenant and therefore the most junior commission officer on board. The frigate had just been brought into the King's service after having been captured by Mr Ramage's previous command, the frigate Juno. And, Lacey remembered almost with a start, he had been fourth lieutenant in her, too.
Now, he thought to himself, he was twenty - five years old and the strides from his home in Somerset in the shadow of the Quantocks were beginning to show: he had not seen Nether Stowey for four years, not since he passed for lieutenant. And in those four years, thanks almost entirely to Mr Ramage, he had progressed from the most junior officer in the Juno's gunroom to the most junior officer in the Calypso's gunroom and then, after that last wild voyage, command of La Creole schooner.
His own command. Magic words and they could be as heady as a strong rum punch. He was still a lieutenant, of course; orders came to him addressed to Lieutenant William Lacey. But on board La Creole he was 'the captain', with two commissioned officers under him, second master instead of a master, and a sergeant of Marines.
La Creole was a witch of a ship. The French could build fast vessels, and it was fitting that he should be commanding one that he had helped to capture. And he was thankful that Admiral Davis had finally left her with her original French name, instead of calling her 'Diamond' after the Diamond Rock, off Martinique, where she had been captured. That had been the original intention.
'Creole' came off the tongue nicely. Most of the Creole women he had met so far had been extraordinarily beautiful; slim and sleek like the schooner, with jutting breasts under bright dresses. 'Your ship?' 'Oh, I command the Creole, that black schooner over there.' 'Weren't you at the capture of Diamond Rock, and then the cutting out of the Jocasta?' And he would admit - with becoming modesty, of course - that he was. At that moment he glanced up and saw Mr Ramage was watching him, and he flushed because the captain's deep - set eyes seemed to bore right into him, revealing his thoughts and fears - and perhaps his hopes, too.
When Ramage asked him if all was going well with La Creole he was thankful he could answer honestly that there were no problems.
'How many men are you mustering?'
'Fifty - one, sir, and ten Marines and a sergeant.'
'And you have ten 6 - pounders?'
'And the two 12 - pounder carronades they fitted at Antigua.'
'She handles well?'
'Like a witch, sir. Clean bottom, coppered - just the vessel for privateering!'
'Which she was doing up to the time we captured her.'
'Was she, sir?' Lacey was surprised. 'I thought she was a French national ship.'
'No, she was a privateer out of Fort Royal, but the French Navy took her over, and a sister ship, the day before they attacked us.'
Lacey would never forget the night those two schooners attacked the frigate in the darkness, trying to board. But - well, although it happened only a few weeks ago, it seemed part of another life: the nervous young lieutenant who had been hard put to keep his head amid all the cracking of muskets and pistols, the yelling and screaming and the clash of cutlasses - yes, and the screams of wounded men: that had surprised him. Now that frightened young lieutenant commanded his own ship, one of the two schooners that made the attack, and he wasn't frightened: at least, not in sailing her. It may be different when I take her into battle, he admitted to himself; but I haven't run away when going into action with Mr Ramage these several times, and maybe I've learned something from him. But keeping a clear head in the middle of a battle and never being frightened - that's what made Mr Ramage unique.
Suddenly Lacey felt cheerful because he thought he could see why he had been called on board the Calypso: the Admiral was sending the frigate on some operation or other and La Creole was to go with her . . . Perhaps Mr Ramage had even asked for him . . .
'You are up to establishment, then?'
'Yes, sir, Admiral Davis was very good at English Harbour: he gave me a full complement of men and Marines, and there's no one on the sick list'
'And your officers?'
'Both lieutenants are excellent, sir. Young but good. The second master is steady enough - could be Southwick's younger brother. And the Marine sergeant is one of the best I wouldn't change a man, sir.'
'You're lucky,' Ramage said soberly, looking back at some of the ships he had commanded. 'A captain's only as good as his ship's company. When you're considering whether or not to weed out a particular man it's worth remembering that One rotten apple, you know. 'When in doubt, weed him out!'' Lacey sensed Ramage was waiting for something, and after a few minutes of small talk he heard several people coming down the companionway and the sentry's hoarse call: The officers, sir.' And suddenly they were all in the cabin - Aitken the first lieutenant, Wagstaffe the second, Baker the third, and young Peter Kenton, the small and red - haired youngster who had taken his place as fourth lieutenant, and Southwick, white hair flowing and looking even younger, his skin taut, as though years of salt spray had never given wrinkles a chance to get a grip. And Rennick, still looking as though he had been levered into his uniform with a shoe - horn, still red - faced and still
