Read Online Governor Ramage R. N. by Dudley Pope - Free Book Online

arrival at Kingston would be the signal for ships of war to lower their boats and send lieutenants and boarding parties off to the merchantmen to press as many seamen as possible.
    The masters would let their best men row for the shore, to hide until it was time to sail or until the ships of war left them in peace again. There was little chance of the men deserting—the masters ensured their return by keeping most of the pay due to them. Still, for the seamen, banging around the quayside was to risk being picked up by a roving press-gang or falling into the hands of a crimp who sold his victims to the highest bidder—a master short of men, a Navy captain desperate enough to buy men out of his own pocket rather than risk sailing dangerously shorthanded.
    A clattering of feet on the ladder outside the cabin was followed by the Marine sentry stamping to attention and calling, “Mr Southwick, sir!”
    At Ramage’s hail, the
Triton’s
Master came into the cabin, his mop of white hair plastered down with perspiration, his forehead marked with a band where his hat had been pressing the skin.
    â€œBoat just left the flagship and coming our way, sir.”
    â€œWho’s in it?”
    â€œA lieutenant, sir. Thought I’d better warn you.”
    Ramage glanced up. Gossip must travel fast—the old Master was obviously worried on his behalf.
    â€œThere’s no need to worry until you see our pendant and the signal for a captain!”
    â€œAye aye, sir. It’s just that with those two …”
    â€œNo disrespect to the flag, Mr Southwick.” The mock severity brought a grin from Southwick.
    â€œI’m not being disrespectful, sir,” the old man said with a sudden burst of anger, “just mutinous, seditious, treasonable, and anything else that’s forbidden by the Articles of War.”
    Ramage felt a great affection for Southwick. The Master had the chubby, pink, almost cherubic face of an amiable country parson—and the build of one. Once stocky, he was now verging on portly. His hair, grey and white, long and usually sticking out like a windblown halo, would have looked well on a bishop. But Southwick’s looks were deceptive. Apart from being an extremely competent seaman and a good navigator, he was a born fighter: the prospect of battle transformed the benevolent vicar into a malevolent butcher.
    Southwick was as old as Ramage’s father. For many men in late middle age, taking orders from a lieutenant just past his twenty-first birthday was hard to accept. They had to accept it, of course, because it was part of the system, backed by tradition and the Articles of War. On board a merchantman the master was the captain; in a ship of war the master was simply the sailing-master, the man responsible, under the captain’s orders, for the sailing of the ship. Masters held their jobs by virtue of a warrant; they did not even have the commission granted the lowliest lieutenant a day past being a midshipman or master’s mate.
    Ramage’s relationship with Southwick was unusual. In many ships with young captains, an elderly master just did his job: no omissions, no errors and no helping hand. If the captain made a mistake, the master pointed it out later but rarely in time for it to be avoided.
    Southwick understood—without ever having experienced it—that commanding and making decisions was a lonely occupation, and he made allowances. He treated all the seamen impartially as well-meaning but oft-erring scallywags; schoolboys to be taught patiently what they didn’t know and forever watched because of their capacity for mischief.
    Southwick looked at the convoy plan.
    â€œForty-nine ships and quite an escort,” he growled, as though suspicious.
    â€œIt’s a big convoy. The Admiral expected more frigates.”
    â€œNo admiral ever had enough frigates. Still, it’s a biggish convoy for inside the Caribbean,” Southwick