Ramage & the Rebels Read Free

boy Ramage in that battle? Didn’t he lose a ship, a cutter or something, while trying to prevent some Spanish three-deckers from escaping?
    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 baronetcy 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 baronetcy came only after a great victory, and then to the commander-in-chief. In either case it meant risking having a round shot 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 had 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 Curaçao, 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 Curaçao 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