Ramage & the Rebels Read Free Page A

whole body, like training a gun, and this gave every look far more significance.
    He certainly resembled his father, the old Admiral. The same rather narrow face, beak-like nose and thick eyebrows. Two scars over his right eyebrow, one newer than the other, pinker, and possibly sword cuts. Or from falling out of trollops’ beds, or tripping over while in drink. No, he was not a drinker; Foxe-Foote was sure of that, and thankful. There was none of the slight tremble in the hand, the slight but continuous perspiration, the shifty eyes, the excuse for a drink: indeed, Ramage had refused a rum punch, despite the heat of the day.
    Foxe-Foote threw the
Gazette
on the top of the pile of papers. No, it had not been a satisfactory day so far. He’d been determined to send Ramage off in the
Calypso
frigate to clear out those privateers, and had vowed he’d neither listen to nor grant any requests; he was just going to tap the orders and say everything was written there and … And what had happened? The whip-persnapper had calmly told him how to operate frigates in the Caribbean, virtually refused to catch a single privateer unless he was given a schooner as well, and—well, that had been all. And quite enough too. Just let him make one mistake, Foxe-Foote vowed to himself; no good ever came of giving young captains so many
Gazettes;
their heads became swollen, they expected all the pretty young girls to swoon over them, and they put their prize-money in the Funds or bought themselves large houses in the country and—well, it was all damnably unfair; not every flag officer could make a reputation in battle, and thank goodness the First Lord of the Admiralty realized it. Just you send in the privateer prizes, Foxe-Foote muttered, or you might just as well send in your papers. He dismissed the tiny inner voice that murmured about jealousy; after all, Ramage was one of the most junior post captains in the Navy List while he, William Foxe-Foote, was one of the most senior of the vice-admirals of the blue. With luck and a few deaths among the flag officers above him, he’d be a vice-admiral of the white by next year and a vice-admiral of the red a couple of years later. By then he should have enough influence in the Commons to get the title that would assure him a seat in the Lords. They’d be listening to his speeches with respect long before that boy became the Earl of Blazey and took his seat.
    Ramage acknowledged the salutes as he boarded the frigate and, glad to be under the shade of the awning once again, strode across the quarterdeck to go down the companion-way to his cabin. He saw the Master hesitating nearby, obviously with something to say but trying to guess the Captain’s mood after seeing the commander-in-chief. Ramage realized that his face probably looked angry, but the fault was more the sun than William Foxe-Foote, Vice-Admiral of the Blue: it wanted only a few minutes to noon, and with the sun vertically overhead the glare was fantastic, flashing up into his eyes from every ripple on the water. The humidity was so high that his uniform was sticking to him, while his hat seemed to weigh fifteen pounds and have shrunk. His head itched with the heat, his hair was soaked in perspiration, his feet seemed swollen and jammed into long boots far too small.
    No, he was not angry; in fact apart from the heat he was in a fairly good mood. Foxey (as the commander-in-chief was generally known in the Navy by everyone from the cook’s mate to fellow admirals) had lived up to his reputation, but Ramage was thankful he had seen that copy of the
Gazette
half hidden among the papers—that had been the clue to Foxey’s manner: he wasn’t going to be impressed by some young junior captain who had two despatches printed in the same
Gazette
… For all that, Foxey had given him the schooner, and at this very moment was, no doubt, doing what he should have done earlier—examining the