Ramage looked round at his guests, Yorke and Much. "Has anyone an appetite left?" When both men shook their heads, he said to the innkeeper, "That was an excellent breakfast: now, if you'll bring me the bill..."
Fifteen minutes later the door of the carriage slammed shut, the coachman cracked his whip and yelled, "Hup, hup, hup now!" and in the darkness before dawn the coach clattered along the cobbled street in Briton Side heading for the Exeter Road. They had, Ramage thought gloomily, another 250 miles to travel before they reached the Admiralty: they would change horses a couple of dozen times, and stop to pay the toll at twice as many turnpikes.
They reached the turnpike at Ivybridge by daybreak and Much gave a sigh of relief. "Always wanted to see the road to London," he said cheerfully.
"You've never been to London?" Yorke asked incredulously.
"Never farther than Plymouth," he said. "And then only once, when an uncle was took ill. My wife's father's brother, it was. Had a small tavern in North Corner Street, in Plymouth Dock. Just by the Gun Wharf. Took ill and died, and I had to go and bury him and settle everything with the lawyers. A pack of rascals they were," he said crossly.
Chapter Twenty-one
As the carriage clattered over the cobbles of Sloane Street with the London air still crisply fresh and the rising sun sparkling off the dew drops clinging to the last of the autumn leaves, Ramage was thankful that Yorke had suggested they stay the night at the Star and Garter at Turnham Green. All three of them were now freshly shaven; their clothes were newly pressed, and by the time they arrived at the Admiralty they would still look reasonably presentable. Equally important, they would arrive at the Admiralty early enough to make sure the First Lord would be in his office.
Yorke continued to act as Much's unofficial guide - a task begun shortly after leaving Plymouth - by pointing out buildings and streets of interest. The Mate badly wanted to see St James's Palace. It seemed that the high point of Much's visit to London would not be a visit to the Admiralty and perhaps an interview with the First Lord or a visit to Lombard Street: Much simply wanted to walk down the Mall and see where the King lived.
"Hyde Park Corner," Yorke announced for Much's benefit. "More than two hundred and fifty miles from Falmouth - according to the coachman's tariff."
Much was impressed: he had sailed from Falmouth for the West Indies more than a couple of dozen times in his life, and each time had left on a voyage of thousands of miles with less excitement than setting off for London from Plymouth.
The coach swung right at Hyde Park and then along the edge of St James's Park, and Yorke told the coachman to stop for a moment as they arrived in Parliament Square. He motioned to Much to get out and followed him to point out the Houses of Parliament. But this time Much was unimpressed, and Ramage guessed he did not appreciate the power that Members of Parliament wielded over his life - and over the whole country. He could see no connection between decisions made in that grey-stone building and, say, a fleet carrying a small army to capture Martinique.
Much climbed back into the carriage with Yorke, and the coachman whipped up the horses, which were still fresh since they had come only from Turnham Green. The carriage turned into Whitehall. "Downing Street," Yorke said unenthusiastically, pointing to the narrow, short road to their left. "The Prime Minister lives there."
"Doesn't pay any rent, I'll be bound," Much commented.
A little farther on Yorke said, "That's the Horse Guards - the headquarters of the Army."
"Does the Duke of York live there?" Much asked.
"No, he works there," Yorke said, wearying of his role as guide.
Ramage said, "The Admiralty is just ahead..." Because the Admiralty building stood back from the street behind a high screen wall, the carriage swung into the middle of the road to make the sharp turn through the archway in the centre, and a moment later the clatter of the horses' hooves echoed across the cobbled courtyard. As the carriage stopped in front of the four thick columns at the entrance door, two porters hurried out. They opened the door and swung down the hinged steps, already warned by the carriage's travel-stained appearance that it had come a long way.
He climbed out, careful that his sword did not catch in the steps, and the look of interest in the porters' faces faded: they were expecting an admiral and found a lieutenant accompanied by someone who was not even a naval officer and a person who was clearly the mate of some merchantman. Without a word they retreated up the steps and into the large entrance hall.
After telling the coachman where to deliver their luggage, Ramage strode into the hall. Even though it was only late autumn, there was a big fire burning in the large fireplace on his left; the great six-sided glass lantern hanging from the ceiling had not been cleaned after its night's work and the glass was sooty. A messenger - the term used to describe the attendants - was lounging in one of the big, black-leather armchairs which had a canopy over the top, like a poke bonnet. Another messenger was standing at the table, glancing at a newspaper, while the two porters gossiped in a corner.
Ramage knew that, clasping the crudely sewn canvas bag containing his reports, he looked an unprepossessing figure as far as the messengers were concerned. And he had no appointment. Dozens of naval officers came into this hall in the course of a week, all trying to see one of the Board members or someone else who might have sufficient interest or influence to get them appointments. Admirals were kept waiting in this hall, and Ramage knew only too well that mere lieutenants without appointments might well die of old age in the waiting-room on his left.
He knew from past experience that if the messenger tried the usual blackmail of knowing nothing and doing nothing until a guinea had changed hands he would get angry, and he knew equally well that he was likely to need all the patience he could muster if the First Lord did not believe his report.
It was time, he decided, to make use of his title.
"Lieutenant Lord Ramage to see the First Lord. I have no appointment for a particular time but his Lordship ordered me to come to London and report to him as soon as possible."
The messenger - probably out of habit - picked up a list and read it. "Your name isn't on the list of appointments, my Lord."
"I said I had no appointment. I've posted from Plymouth. I am under orders from the First Lord."
The messenger, without his guinea, was unimpressed: he had obviously waved away too many impoverished captains and outmanoeuvred too many junior admirals to be intimidated by mere lieutenants, however urgent they might proclaim their business to be.
The messenger snapped his fingers at one of the porters. "Tell the First Lord's secretary there is a Lieutenant Lord Damage asking to see him."
Ramage tapped the table with his fingers. " 'Ramage', and to see the First Lord, not his secretary."
"If you'd care to state your business, sir, I might be able..."
"Pass the word to the First Lord's secretary," Ramage said icily, "otherwise I'll go up to Lord Spencer's office unannounced."
The man gestured to the porter, who went out of the hall along the corridor leading off to the left.
Yorke looked round the hall nonchalantly and said to Ramage in a bored voice, "Damned poor class of servants they have here, what?"
"It's the war," Ramage said, with equal nonchalance. "All the men with any brains or ability are sent to sea. Just the dregs left. You notice it in the seaports, too; the only fellows lounging around are those even the press gangs turn down."
The messenger in the chair straightened himself up; his colleague at the desk was now standing stiffly, his face a bright red. The porter left in the corner sniggered with embarrassment.