"That means you'll accept?"
Yorke spoke so sharply that Ramage glanced up in surprise. "You think I should refuse?"
Ramage did not hide his disappointment when Yorke nodded. Despite the vagaries of the letter, he had hoped that somehow it would get him back to sea again. The heat and smell of Jamaica and the noise and bustle of Kingston were little to his liking. Moreover the heavy social pressures brought on eligible young officers by anxious mothers seeking matches for their dumpy daughters drove most young men to the rum bottle before long.
But now Yorke was grinning. "Refuse - and then wait. See what else the old boy has to offer!"
"Bargain?" Ramage exclaimed, obviously horrified.
"Now, now! Don't use those nasty tradesmen's words. There must be a good reason why Sir Pilcher wants you to undertake this job, when he has dozens of other officers to choose from. Once you know why he picked you instead of some post-captain, you'll be in a better position to make up your mind."
There was much in what Yorke said: he needed to know Sir Pilcher's motives. "But supposing he's being straightforward? It's unlikely, but what then?"
"Up to you," Yorke said banteringly. "It looks as though we're all stuck in Jamaica until the packets start getting through or a convoy assembles in a couple of months. If you want to go home in a packet you'd better solve the mystery!"
Ramage glanced at his watch and said as he slipped it back in his pocket, "I'd better get along to Admiralty House."
"Present him with an ultimatum," Yorke said.
"Force majeure" Ramage said, "it's quicker and more certain than negotiation."
Chapter Two
Ramage was thankful the large waiting-room at Admiralty House was cool and comfortably furnished; probably one of the coolest spots in Kingston since Jamaica was already sweltering in what promised to be the hurricane season's hottest day so far. There was hardly a breath of wind, and Ramage pitied any captain under orders to sail - it would be a case of out boats and tow...
The white-painted jalousies over the windows let in sufficient light while their slats threw striped shadows on the walls and kept out the sun's harsh glare. The floors were cool marble and four rattan armchairs were grouped in the middle of the room round a small, highly polished baywood table whose legs stood incongruously in shallow, metal trays of water: part of the constant war waged against white ants in the Tropics.
The ceiling was high, adding to the sense of coolness, and there was a large portrait in a wide, matching gilt frame, carefully hung in the precise centre of each of three walls. Ramage saw that the one opposite the window, like the centre panel of a triptych, was of Sir Pilcher Skinner, with - presumably - his plump wife on the wall to his right. Was the young woman on the other wall a daughter?
All the artist's skill with brush and pigments could not conceal the fact that Sir Pilcher's legs and neck were too short for his plump body, nor disguise the fat and sagging cheeks eventually tapering and merging into several chins which sat on his lace stock like slices of wet bread. He was depicted standing four-square on the quarterdeck, his uniform a splendid array of blue, white and gold, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword and right hand holding a telescope tucked under his arm. Few people, however, would think the pinkness of the cheeks came from the rays of a setting sun; that colour and texture of watered silk came only from owning a good cellar and employing a chef who took a pride in his work.
Yet the face was curiously cheerful; Sir Pilcher looked like a man who could enjoy a good joke almost as much as a well-roasted saddle of lamb or a fine claret. The artist had been clever (and for Ramage it redeemed an otherwise undistinguished portrait) in catching the Admiral's eyes.
Although the eyes could be humorous on occasion, Ramage guessed that they could also be as shifty as a dishonest moneylender's when Sir Pilcher was being forced into making a decision or taking responsibility. Yet with no fleet in the Caribbean, making minor and mostly administrative decisions was his only major task.
Ramage touched the letter in his pocket, as if seeking some link between the paper and the portrait staring fixedly at him. If he accepted, his orders would be drawn up with extreme care by a man who wanted to get the most done while assuming the least responsibility. Sir Pilcher wanted a lowly lieutenant to find an answer (which had presumably eluded the resources of the Post Office and several ministers of state in Whitehall) but at the same time was giving him no authority. The Admiral was no fool, and Ramage guessed that the letter represented the first time he had ever given a mere lieutenant the option of backing out; of politely declining. If Sir Pilcher thought he was being magnanimous (which was unlikely) to the mere lieutenant it was rather like staring cross-eyed into the muzzle of a highwayman's pistol on Blackheath and being given the option of "Your money or your life!"
The rattan of the chair squeaked in protest as Ramage stretched back. The captain, who had been the sole occupant of the waiting-room when Ramage arrived, was now with the Admiral, and since he commanded the Hydra frigate, which had arrived from England only a day or two ago and was about to sail again, Ramage was going to have a long wait.
He wriggled his feet: the heat made them swell so that his long boots were tight and uncomfortable. He noticed the Royal Albion Hotel's shoeblack had expended a lot of energy on them, but not much skill; the leather was lacklustre - the fellow had not learned to use the minimum of polish and a bit of spit.
Let's sit comfortably in Admiralty House and look at everything from Sir Pilcher's point of view, Ramage thought to himself. Sir Pilcher owed absolutely nothing to Lieutenant Ramage; on the contrary. From Sir Pilcher's point of view...
"Ramage," a smooth voice said at the door, and he turned to see Henderson, a thin man wearing a clerical collar who seemed to combine the roles of Sir Pilcher's chaplain and secretary. "The Admiral will see you now."
The chair creaked as if in relief as Ramage stood, straightened his stock, gave the scabbard of his sword a tug and wished he had drunk less coffee: it was swilling around in his stomach, now unpleasantly chilly and uncomfortable. He was nervous; there was no denying that. For all his offhand talk to Sidney Yorke, the fact remained that the word of a British admiral could end a young lieutenant's career as effectively as a whole broadside from a French ship of the line.
Clack, clack, clack - he found himself treading heavily on the marble floor. Whistling in the dark, Ramage? Trying to keep your spirits up? Don't forget, Sir Pilcher may simply be putting out an anchor to windward: he knows a great deal about the working of the collective mind of Their Lordships ...
The portrait was good: as he looked at the subject again Ramage realized that he had underrated the artist, who had been as subtle as he dare while still being sure of getting his fee. The Admiral rose from behind his desk in a movement halfway between the majestic and the ponderous, and pointed to rattan armchairs grouped round another small table, a replica of the arrangement in the waiting-room.
"Ah, my boy, let's sit here and be comfortable," he said affably.
He motioned Ramage to one side of the table and sat down opposite in a chair which groaned loudly in protest.
"I've been giving Captain Jeffries of the Hydra frigate his orders: he sails for Antigua in a couple of days, lucky fellow."
"Indeed, sir?" Ramage said politely. The Admiral's voice was curiously squeaky considering the bulk from which it emerged.
"Taking Admiralty orders and all the routine paperwork. Absurd not being able to entrust anything to the Post Office. There's talk of the Admiralty having to use the King's ships instead ... and I'm so short of frigates. Damnably short."