Ramage's Devil r-13

by Dudley Pope

  Up, up, up... cling to the battens with your fingers, keep your feet flat against the side of the ship to prevent the soles of your shoes from slipping ... Yes, that gouge in the wood there was so familiar and that scarph in the plank there ... He could remember the actions in which the hull had been damaged.

  Suddenly his head came level with the deck and a moment later he was through the entryport, standing on the deck itself and staring into the muzzle of a pistol held by a man he had never seen before but who was wearing the uniform of a post-captain. He had a single epaulet, showing he had less than three years' seniority, Ramage noticed inconsequentially.

  'Stop!' the man bellowed. He was young, stocky, with a round face mottled with - was it anger? The pistol in his right hand was beautifully made, the barrel damascened, the silver and gold tracery of inlaid patterns catching the sun. The silver tankard in his left hand also had an intricate design worked all round it. And the man, who seemed too excited to string together a coherent sentence, took a pace forward as Swan stepped on deck.

  'Stop, both of you!' He gestured with both hands as though shooing a hen back into her coop, and an amber liquid spilled from the tankard.

  'You see, pirates! Look at him, a sans-culotte!A Republican pirate. And the other one ...' he paused, catching his breath and then unexpectedly took a long drink from the tankard. '... He's wearing the ... the King's uniform ..."

  Ramage saw that the speech was becoming more slurred and the man's eyes were glazing. The man - Ramage guessed it must be Bullivant - turned and pointed. Ramage recognized the lieutenant in Marine's uniform as Renwick, now white-faced, fear showing in the way the lips were drawn back. Ramage had seen Renwick facing broadsides, muskets fired at close range, pistols from a few feet, dodging the slash of cutlasses, but the Marine officer always grinned because he loved battle. Fear? A moment later he realized why.

  'Shoot these men!' Bullivant screamed. 'Come on, you have your file of Marines ready! The devil's work... that's what these French swine are doing...' His speech was slowing and Ramage glanced round.

  There they all were, in a circle of men with fear on their faces: Aitken, the Scots first lieutenant, Wagstaffe, the red-haired and freckle-faced Kenton, his face red and peeling from the effect of wind and sun, young Martin, the fourth lieutenant, and old Southwick, his white mop of hair as usual trying to escape his hat and suddenly reminding Ramage of straw sticking out from under a nesting hen. And Paolo, his normally sallow face now white, his hooked nose bloodless, as though he was some young Italian model for a Botticelli painting.

  Then Ramage saw that every one of the men on deck, seamen and Marines, was watching him, horrified by Bullivant's words. Renwick was making no move. The sergeant of Marines stood firm. Yes, they must be thinking, their old captain has by some magic come back, dressed as a French fisherman, and their new captain has just given orders to shoot him.

  Now the signal for the physician of the fleet made sense: Bullivant had been driven mad by drink and presumably Aitken had hoisted that signal at a time when Bullivant could not see it - when he was below.

  Where was the surgeon, Bowen? Even as Ramage glanced round once again, he saw the surgeon coming up the companionway, carrying a big flask. Now everyone was watching Bowen, and Bullivant was smiling: it was the vapid smile of an idiot, ingratiating and welcoming.

  'Ah, Mr Bowen ... Welcome, you bring me sustenance ... you see the demons I face.' He waved both pistol and tankard towards Ramage and Swan. 'Here, you are just in time. ' He held out the tankard and Bowen poured liquid from the flask. Bullivant took a sip, swallowed and then gulped like a calf at a cow's udders.

  Swan, pressing with his elbow, caused Ramage to look down. The Murex's first lieutenant had a Sea Service pistol tucked in the waistband of his breeches and was trying to draw Ramage's attention to it while Bullivant, head back and tankard to his lips, had his eyes closed.

  This situation was what every officer dreaded. Relieving a captain of his command was juggling with the risk of being charged with treason. What was madness on the high seas could appear to be perfectly sane behaviour when the captain soberly described it to a row of hard-faced officers forming a court-martial in the peace and quiet of a guardship's cabin in Plymouth or Portsmouth. The whole edifice of discipline was built on the authority of a senior officer - a seaman obeyed a bosun's mate who obeyed the bosun who obeyed a lieutenant who obeyed the captain who obeyed a captain senior to him or an admiral who obeyed the Admiralty: it was all in the Articles of War... Many covered every aspect for maintaining command - numbers XIX, XXII (carrying the death penalty for anyone even lifting a weapon against a superior), and XXXIV ... and of course, XXXVI, the so-called captain's cloak, covering 'all other crimes' not covered by the Act. None provided the means of depriving a man of command...

  Bullivant was not just senior to all the officers and men of the Calypso; his commission appointing him to command the Calypso, signed by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, and which he would have read out aloud to the ship's company when he first came on board ('reading himself in'), would have enjoined everyone to obey him, and given warning that they failed to do so 'at their peril'.

  Only one thing could save them all from a crazed captain, and that was a more senior officer. There was no signal in the book that Aitken (as the second-in-command) could make to warn the admiral; he could only, Ramage realized, ask for the physician of the fleet and rely on him to declare the captain unfit to command.

  That was the only thing unless a senior officer came on board ... and that was why Admiral Clinton had made sure Ramage was higher up the Captains' List than Bullivant. Ramage was senior. A higher link in the chain of command...

  Ramage pulled the pistol clear and held it out of sight behind him. All this might be of significance at a court-martial charging that Bullivant was first threatening an unarmed senior officer with a pistol. To this, Ramage realized, Bullivant at the moment had the perfect defence: he did not know Ramage, who was not in uniform, and genuinely mistook him for a Frenchman.

  The hell with courts-martial and niggling points of law; this was the Calypso and Renwick had just been told by his captain to order his Marines to shoot Ramage. Now was the time to act, while everyone was paralysed by the outrageousness of the order.

  Ramage waited until Bullivant lowered the tankard and then stepped forward.

  'Captain Bullivant, I believe?'

  'Yes, I am. Listen, Bowen, this dam' fellow speaks passable English!'

  'I am Captain Ramage, and I have been ordered by Admiral Clinton to board your ship and satisfy myself on certain matters.'

  'Captain Ramage? Absurd. Ramage is on the Continent. Prisoner of Bonaparte. With his new wife. Ramage's, not Bonaparte's. Spy, that's what you are. Rich, Ramage is dam' rich; he wouldn't wear fisherman's clothes. That brig - I ask you, where has she come from, eh? Shoot you and sink her, doing my duty. Says he is Captain Ramage, Bowen, what do you think of that, eh?'

  'He is Captain Ramage, sir,' Bowen said loudly and clearly. 'I have served with him for several years, and so have all the ship's officers, and they recognize him too.'

  'Well, I don't. I command this ship. Admiralty orders. Have m'commission. I read it out loud when I first came on board. Death, that's what happens if you disobey me -'

  Ramage said crisply: 'I have identified myself to you and been recognized by all your officers. Now, I relieve you of your command, Captain Bullivant. You are a sick man. You will go to your cabin and place yourself in the surgeon's care while I take this ship to the admiral.'

  Bullivant flung the tankard at Ramage. It spun through the air, spilling a tail of liquor, and crashed against the bulwark. He then lifted the pistol and, his face creasing with the effort of concentration, said carefully: 'You are the Devil dressed ... as a French fisherman ... You want me ... to surrender this ship, Satan ... but I shall shoot first...'

  He tried to pull back the hammer with his thumb to cock the pistol but, gla
ssy-eyed, it was obvious that he could probably see at least two, perhaps more, flints. And Ramage, although holding a pistol behind his back, was helpless: he could not shoot a besotted man.

  It might work, Ramage thought. Suddenly he realized it was exactly the hint that Bowen was trying to give. He cursed himself for being so slow and turned and said casually to a seaman: 'Jackson, pick up that tankard and give it back to Captain Bullivant.'

  Yes, Bowen had the idea; Bowen, of all people, the man who regularly drank himself senseless until Ramage and Southwick cured him by using a ruthlessness neither had thought the other capable of: Bowen would know. Bowen knew - or could guess - what was going on in Bullivant's befuddled mind, and Bowen had already removed the cap of the flask ...

  Jackson, holding out the tankard, approached Bullivant, whose face was streaming with perspiration, and said as though unaware that the man was wrestling with a pistol: 'Your tankard, sir.'

  'Wha'? Wha's that? Oh, tankard, eh? I've got a set like that. No good empty.'

  But Bullivant's attention was now on the tankard; he had lowered the pistol but being right-handed was obviously wondering how he could take the tankard. By then Bowen was beside him, holding up the flask.

  'I'll fill it for you, sir. Now, Jackson, hold it steady.'

  Ramage heard the suck and gurgle of the liquid as it ran from the flask and Bullivant watched with the fascination of a rabbit cornered by a stoat.

  'There we are, sir, almost full. I'll have to refill this flask, though. Now, if I take the pistol you'll have a hand free for the tankard, sir...'

  In a moment Bullivant was sucking greedily at the tankard while Bowen tucked the pistol inside his coat. He motioned to Ramage and Jackson to keep still.

  It was then Ramage realized that every man in the ship seemed to be staring at Bullivant and holding his breath: it was as though there had been complete silence for an hour. Instead, Ramage knew he had been on board only a very few minutes and a frigate lying hove-to made a good deal of noise: canvas slatted, the waves slopped against the hull, the backed foretopsail yard creaked its protest at being pressed hard against the mast. It seemed that all these noises started again when Bullivant began drinking.

  But what was Bowen waiting for? There was nothing to stop Ramage ordering Renwick to detail a file of Marines to take Captain Bullivant down to his cabin: he had the authority by virtue of his seniority and, much more important, the confidence of knowing that at the court-martial that was bound to follow, each one of these officers would give evidence of precisely what happened: none would back and fill to save his own skin from possible reprisals from Bullivant's cronies or people over whom Bullivant's father had influence. Aitken, Wagstaffe, Kenton, Southwick, Renwick, Martin, every seaman - they would be only too anxious to tell a court on oath exactly what had happened in these few minutes - and what had happened in the preceding few days. He had led these men in and out of action, he had been wounded several times alongside them, he had saved Jackson's life more than once and Jackson had saved his twice as many times.

  Yet why were they all standing there? It was a curious scene, unreal, yet he thought he would never forget it. Bullivant, cocked hat now awry, breeches and white silk stockings stained - from urine rather than brandy, it seemed - and face streaming with perspiration. The eyes closed now, even when he lowered the tankard and took a few breaths ... Bowen quite calm, looking as if he was just waiting for a patient to don an overcoat, Jackson with his sandy and thinning hair tidy as usual, shaven yesterday if not today, and wearing a blue jersey and white duck trousers, Southwick like a jovial bishop unable to avoid listening to a stream of blasphemy, Aitken with colour back in his face and watching Ramage like a hawk, waiting for orders, Paolo the same - in fact Ramage realized the boy was holding a long and narrow dagger which he must have drawn while Bullivant was fumbling with the pistol: Paolo's complexion was once again sallow, and although the boy was still balanced on the balls of his feet ready to move quickly, it was clear from his expression he knew he would not now be using the dagger and Ramage knew him well enough to gauge the boy's disappointment. Wagstaffe, Kenton, Martin ... and the seamen, Stafford and Rossi, who were closer than he realized, and he guessed that somehow they had closed in stealthily once they recognized their old captain.

  Then nearly two hundred men groaned. No, not a groan, it was a sigh, everyone breathing out after holding their breath, and a startled Ramage looked back at Bullivant in time to see him sitting on the deck and then slowly bending backwards, like a carpet unrolling, until he was sprawled flat, his cocked hat lying to one side, the tankard still clasped in one hand and the remains of the brandy spreading a slow stain across the planks of the deck.

  Bowen gestured to the Marines, but before he could say anything Ramage had stepped forward. It would matter at a trial who gave the next orders, and although Ramage knew he did not give a damn for himself, the future of the officers could be damaged unless he was careful.

  'Bowen, Captain Bullivant seems to have lost consciousness...'

  The surgeon knelt beside the man, rolled back an eyelid, loosened the badly-tied stock and stood up again. 'He is unconscious, sir,' he said formally, 'and in my opinion -'

  'In your opinion,' Ramage interrupted, 'is he capable of carrying out his duties as captain of this ship?'

  'No, sir, under no circumstances. Nor will he be for several -'

  'Days?'

  '- for several days, sir.'

  'Have him taken below to his cabin for treatment,' Ramage said.

  Now the formalities were over and, while Bowen called over some Marines, Ramage turned first to Southwick. As a warrant officer, the master was junior to the lieutenants, but he was old enough to be the father, even the grandfather, of any of them, and the bond between him and Ramage could not be measured by normal standards.

  As Ramage reached out to shake the old man's hand he was startled to see tears running down the weathered cheeks, although the kindly mouth was smiling. 'Sir... sir... when your head came up the ladder I thought I was dreaming ... where were -'

  'We'll exchange news later; now we have work to do!' He shook hands with the lieutenants, Paolo and several of the seamen who rushed up, still hard put to believe their own eyes and anxious to touch him, as though that would make everything a reality. Then he beckoned to Swan, and together they walked aft.

  'What a five minutes, sir!' Swan exclaimed. 'You look down the muzzle of a pistol like a man looking in a window. My blood ran cold even though he wasn't aiming at me!'

  'He saw five or six of me and wasn't sure which one to shoot at.'

  'Even so,' Swan said, 'five to one are not good odds!'

  'Well, it's over now. If I hand over the Murex to you and give you orders to rejoin the flagship, can you manage? No one will ever know if you don't feel up to it, so don't be afraid to say.'

  'No, sir, thanks but I'll be all right. If you'll just give me the latitude and longitude of the rendezvous.'

  'You can sail in company with us. I have to take this ship to the admiral. Do you want some more men?'

  Swan shook his head. 'No, sir, so I'll get back to the Murex. What about her Ladyship? Shall I send the cutter back with her?'

  'No, we can't spare the time, but as long as you make sure no one else overhears, you can tell her what you saw.'

  'Any other message for her Ladyship, sir?'

  'Tell her that Southwick, Stafford, Jackson and Aitken - no, just tell her that all the officers and ship's company of the Calypso send her their regards.'

  Swan looked puzzled. Ramage could see that the lieutenant was wondering how on earth a captain's new wife could know all the men in his previous ship. 'They saved her life once, Swan. If you have time and if she's agreeable, get her to tell you about it: it'll help you pass the time as we beat back to the Fleet.'

  Ramage stood on the fore side of the quarterdeck with Aitken as they watched the Murex brace up the foretopsail yard and then bear away to the rendezvou
s, the clewed-up courses soon set and drawing.

  'Handsome little ships, those brigs,' Aitken said. 'Any nostalgia, sir?' he asked, knowing Ramage had commanded the Triton.

  'Yes and no. "Yes" because they are handy - we tacked that one out of the Gullet with only a dozen men, and looking back on it we could probably have made do with eight. "No" because I found it strange being in that particular one, where most of the men had mutinied and handed over the ship (and their loyal shipmates) to the enemy. It's as though treachery rubs off like soot, marking everything and leaving a distinctive smell.'

  'Aye, evil has a distinct smell, and all of us can recognize it. In our case it's the smell of brandy.

  'It has been bad, eh?'

  'Almost beyond belief, sir. We could see no end to it. There's nothing in the Articles of War or the Regulations and Instructions about it. Bowen reckoned medical reasons were the only safe way, but for the first day or so, when the drink wasn't in him, he was bright enough. Cunning and fawning, but shrewd. It seemed to me, sir, that if we took away his command and then he was cunning enough to keep off the liquor for a few weeks before the court-martial, at the trial he could make it all look very different...'

  'Yes, that's the danger. When you look at something from different directions, you get different views.'

  'And Bowen knew all about the effects of drink. That's how we came -'

  Ramage held up a hand to stop him. 'I'm sure the ship's officers didn't conspire against the captain, Aitken, because that's forbidden. As you know, Article XX specifies death as the only punishment for anyone "concealing any traitorous or mutinous practice or design". So don't mention anything resembling conspiracy - the listener immediately becomes guilty as well.'

  Aitken grinned. 'I understand that, sir. Well, it's wonderful to have you on board again.'

  Ramage nodded and looked across at the Murex, now a couple of miles away. 'I think we can get under way now and rejoin the admiral with the brig. Admiral Clinton is a very puzzled man.'