Free Governor Ramage R. N. by Dudley Pope

ropes, scrubbing decks, polishing brightwork with brick-dust and a dozen other tasks, they were delicately shaped, and he was very proud of the fact that before he was pressed into the Navy they had been deliberately kept soft. His original trade was locksmith but he was not afraid to admit that he had not always worked in daylight, nor invariably at the request of the owner of the lock. Working at night was more risky but a lot more profitable.
    â€œNah,” Stafford said, waving a hand at the merchantmen, “never did like all this work wiv a fleet.”
    â€œHardly a fleet!”
    â€œWell, there’s an admiral, ain’t there? Anyway, I didn’t mean it literalilly.” He paused a moment, cocking his head to one side, then corrected himself. “I mean literalally.”
    â€œIf your tongue was a key, you’d never get a door open.”
    â€œNot a lock yet made …” Stafford said airily. “What I’m tryin’ ter say, Jacko, is that I like it better when we’re on our own. None of these admirals waving flags so’s we run rahnd like kids at a Michaelmas fair.”
    â€œCount yourself lucky you’re not like me and responsible for reading the blasted signals,” Jackson said.
    â€œCan’t read nor write proper. Keeps me off jobs like that.”
    â€œYou really can’t read?” Jackson did not hide his disbelief.
    â€œWell, I can akshly, but I don’t let on.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWhere I was born, mate, it don’t always pay ter let on. ‘Ere, Jacko, ever bin ter Jamaica afore?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAin’t it near where you comes from?”
    â€œYes—as near as Gibraltar from where you come from.”
    Stafford sniffed. “Hm. Ever thought of going back? Ter Charleystown, I mean. After all, yer got a Protection; they’d ‘ave ter let yer go. Or y’could run.”
    â€œNothing in Charleston for me.”
    â€œWot, no family?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOnly us lot, eh?” Stafford commented. “Mr Ramage an’ Mr Southwick, an’ me an’ Rosey … ?”
    Jackson nodded, and the moment Stafford realized the American was serious he said quietly: “‘Ere, Jacko, I was only jokin’ about runnin’; never could see you desertin’. But yer mean it, about no family an’ no friends?”
    â€œYes. The ship’s my home. Gives me a big family, too,” Jackson added dryly.
    â€œCor, well, s’funny you should say that, Jacko; that’s ‘ow I feel. In uvver ships I’ve always looked rahnd fer a chansk ter run. Now it’d be like leavin’ ‘ome.”
    â€œEver thought why?”
    â€œWell, got a good bunch o’ messmates, fer once.”
    â€œWrong,” Jackson said. “Half wrong, anyway. You’ve got a good bunch o’ messmates because Mr Ramage picked ‘em. Trained ‘em, anyway.”
    â€œI know that!” Stafford said scornfully. “That’s wot I meant. It always depends on the capting whether or not a ship’s ‘appy. Speshly a small ship.”
    Jackson ran his hand through his hair, which was beginning to recede.
    â€œBetter stop that; you’ll be bald soon enough,” Stafford warned amiably.
    Jackson laughed, and suddenly Stafford asked suspiciously: “‘Ere, wotcher keep lookin’ at that ship for? Any women on deck?”
    The American, watching the
Peacock,
said: “That’s the one that’s just joined the convoy. Her sails have got an odd cut—just look at the roach. And she’s floating so high: can’t be above half laden.”
    â€œWhere’d she come from? ‘Ere, you sure there ain’t any women?”
    â€œYes. From the Atlantic, as far as I could see.”
    â€œMight be a light cargo. Bulky and light. Clorth, silk, that sort o’ thing.”
    â€œMaybe she’s a runner. But her