by Dudley Pope
He had been led from his room by the corporal, whose sheepish manner showed his own view, to find the Lieutenant with a dozen Marines. He read Ramage his warrant in a loud voice, with a crowd of gaping seamen for an audience.
Amid much stamping of feet, thumping of muskets and clouds of pipeclay they had marched to the jetty, where the Lion’s yawl waited. Her masts were not stepped, so Goddard intended that she should be rowed through the anchored ships. No one was to be deprived of the sight of Lieutenant Lord Ramage sitting in the stern sheets, with the citizens of Kingston protected from robbery, rape or arson by a dozen alert Marines with bayonets fixed while the provost marshal held Ramage’s surrendered sword across his knees.
The Arrogant, where the court martial would be held in the morning, was a seventy-four anchored half a mile to windward of the Lion. Her yards were perfectly square—her Master would have made sure of that within a few minutes of anchoring. The enormous fore- and main-yards projected several feet over the side of the ship.
There, within an area of a few square feet, his immediate future would be decided, for the trial would be held in the great cabin. If the five or so captains at a court martial decided on a death sentence it would be carried out just under the foreyard on the starboard side.
First, a yellow flag would be hoisted at the Arrogant’s mizen peak and a gun fired, signalling that an execution was to take place. A rope would be rove from a block near the outboard end of the yard. The end of the rope with a noose in it would come down vertically to where the prisoner was standing. The noose would be slipped round his neck, and they would be thoughtful enough to arrange the knot so it was comfortable—he had heard that executioners tended to be apologetic and excessively polite as they set about the preliminaries of their trade. A black hood would be put over the prisoner’s head, and there he would wait in the darkness and it would seem a lifetime before he reached eternity.
The other end of the rope would lead down at an angle from that block to a point almost abreast the mainmast. Twenty or so seamen would be holding onto the rope and facing aft. On the deck immediately below where the prisoner was standing a gun would be loaded with a blank charge. Finally the word would be passed to the Captain of the Arrogant that all was ready: the noose would be in position round the prisoner’s neck, and so would the hood. The seamen would have tailed on to the other end of the rope.
When the Arrogant’s Captain gave the word, the gunner would apply a steady pull to the trigger line of the gun; the flint would fly down to strike a spark which would ignite the fine powder in the pan. The intense flame would spurt through the touch-hole and in turn ignite the powder in the breech of the gun. In a fraction of a second two pounds of exploding gunpowder would vomit flame, smoke and noise from the muzzle.
At the same instant someone would signal to the men at the rope and they would suddenly run aft. In a moment the prisoner’s body would be jerked many feet up into the air by its neck, and it would all be over.
Hanging … it was better known to seamen as being “stabbed with a Bridport dagger,” a reference to the Devon town’s fame for the quality of rope it made. A great leveller. Many men had probably been hanged from the larboard fore yardarm of the Arrogant, but probably none from the starboard yardarm. Seamen were traditionally hanged on the larboard side; the starboard side was reserved for officers. Ramage shuddered. He was glad the trial was unlikely to develop quite as Goddard planned.
“Ramage!”
He looked up and realized that the yawl was alongside the Lion. He had been so lost in thought that he had not heard the orders to the men at the oars. Now the Lieutenant acting as provost marshal waited impatiently.
As Ramage moved across the boat to climb up the ship’s side he was reminded of a farmyard at home. If one of the hens had a cut or a sore, all the other hens pecked it. Human beings often behaved in the same way. As far as the Marine Lieutenant was concerned, Ramage was the hen with the wound. Peck, peck, peck.
He was taken directly to a cabin—some wretched lieutenant had been displaced on his behalf. The Marine officer reminded him pompously that he had been appointed provost marshal and was responsible for guarding him.
“Make a good job of it,” Ramage said, irritated by the man’s patronizing manner. “It’s worth four shillings a day to you.”
“I have my duty!”
“Then guard me well: I’m a desperate man. Any moment I might jump over the side and elope with a mermaid.”
The Lieutenant looked at him blankly and left hurriedly. For a moment Ramage felt guilty about teasing him, but did the hen that pecked deserve any sympathy if the pecked hen suddenly pecked back?
An hour later Southwick arrived.
He had brought a uniform, fresh underwear, several pairs of silk stockings, a pair of highly polished boots and some carefully ironed stocks.
“If there’s anything else you want, sir, tell me. Your steward reckons that will do for a couple of days.”
“The trial will only last a day, and after that …”
“After that you’ll get a new ship, sir,” Southwick said stoutly. “I hope so,” Ramage said, realizing that the old Master was more in need of comfort than he was himself.
“I received your note, sir, and it’s all arranged. The timing is important, I take it?”
“To the minute.”
“Jackson’s timed the boat from La Perla to the Arrogant by a route with no prying eyes to spoil the effect!”
“Good.”
“I was worrying about the ballast, sir. Nothing laid down in the regulations, sir, Admiralty or Customs,” Southwick said euphemistically, looking round and frowning, to indicate he was worrying about eavesdroppers and pointing to the pocket of one of the jackets he had brought with him.
“Exactly, so we needn’t worry. With the charges I face, forgetting to fill in a form won’t matter!”
“I suppose not,” the Master said. “Will the ‘ballast’ help, sir?” Ramage shrugged his shoulders. This was something he hoped he would be able to decide tonight, lying in his cot. Most of the time so far he had been receiving Admiral Goddard’s broadsides; he needed the peace and quiet of his cot to decide where his own salvoes would be aimed. Did anyone get a share of the treasure trove, or did it all go to the Crown automatically? He could not find out without giving the game away.
Southwick said goodnight and Ramage sat at the tiny table to draft some headings for his defence. The trial was being brought on so quickly that he could demand a postponement to have more time. Obviously the charges against him had been prepared many days ago, when there seemed a chance that the Triton would limp in after the hurricane. That accounted for the speed with which the deputy judge advocate had produced the documents. A postponement would not help him, however, since it only increased the chances of Goddard discovering that Yorke and the French party were still alive. If he did, the charges would be changed.
He decided that he needed no notes, wiped the pen, folded the single sheet of paper and put it in his pocket, undressed and flopped down on the cot. He had eaten nothing since lunch, but felt too weary to try to get anything now. A moment later he was asleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RAMAGE woke with a steward standing beside his cot, a lantern in one hand and a tray in the other.
“Dawn, sir,” the steward said cheerfully. “Wind from the north at five knots, and no cloud. Plenty of mosquitoes, though.”
He hung the lantern from a hook in a beam overhead.
“I’ll put your breakfast here on the table, sir. There’s a jug of hot water for shaving and I’ll go and get you some more water for washing. My hands were full.”
Ramage grunted, rubbed his eyes and wondered why the officers for whom the steward worked had not trained him to bring washing and shaving water first, and breakfast later. He sat up and carefully swung himself out of the cot. The cabin was airless and hot, and his body felt greasy. His teeth seemed coated with wool, his mouth tasted
as though he had been sucking a penny and he had a headache.
The steward brought in a basin of water, soap and towel, and Ramage had a brisk wash, then lathered his face and shaved with great care, using a broken mirror held to the bulkhead by three bent nails. He rinsed his face, wiped it, and slowly dressed, smoothing the wrinkles from the silk stockings, pulling on his breeches and tucking the tail of the shirt in with as much deliberation as a dowager dressing for a court ball. By the time he had tied his stock, combed his hair and sat down to his breakfast he had succeeded in keeping his mind closed to the thought of the forthcoming trial.
He sipped the coffee, almost cold by now, nibbled at some bread and left the rest of the food. Finally, he put the tray down on the deck and took the pen and paper out of his pocket.
He wrote “Defence” across the top of the page and underlined it carefully. No thoughts came to him, so he wrote out from memory the tenth Article of War, pleased that he could even remember all the capital letters.
“Every Flag Officer, Captain, and Commander in the Fleet, who, upon Signal or Order of Fight, or sight of any Ship or Ships which it may be his Duty to engage, or who, upon Likelihood of Engagement, shall not make the necessary Preparations for Fight, and shall not in his own Person, and according to his Place, encourage the inferior Officers and Men to fight courageously, shall suffer Death, or such other punishment … a Court martial shall deem him to deserve; and if any Person in the Fleet shall treacherously or cowardly yield or cry for quarter, every Person so offending … shall suffer death.”
Good stirring stuff, Ramage thought bitterly, but what the devil had it to do with the fact that he had successfully beaten off the Peacock’s attack on the Topaz?
Of course, it had none; but the Admiral was accusing him of not engaging the Peacock. Everyone would have to admit that in the darkness they saw the Triton’s guns firing. By skilful questioning the Admiral could make the officers serving on board the Lion admit that they could not be sure how close the Triton was and that some of the flashes could have been from the Greyhound frigate. Did the Triton’s crew fight courageously? Only the Triton’s officers and men could answer that one, and who would believe their evidence? Obviously they would say that they had for fear they too would be charged under the past part of the same Article.
He began writing again, this time the twelfth Article of War.
“Every Person in the Fleet, who through Cowardice, Negligence, or Disaffection, shall in Time of Action withdraw or keep back, or not come into the Fight or Engagement, or shall not do his utmost to take or destroy every Ship which it shall be his Duty to engage, and to assist and relieve all and every of His Majesty’s Ships, or those of His Allies, which it shall be his Duty to assist and relieve, every such Person so offending … shall suffer death.”
Well, that was really the trump card. It was the one under which Admiral John Byng had been accused in 1756; the one under which he was shot on the St George’s quarterdeck.
The first Article was obviously intended to muzzle the Triton’s officers—to discredit their evidence, anyway. The second was the one with which Goddard planned to hang him. Ramage remembered they’d intended to hang Admiral Byng, until the old man protested at the indignity and traded the rope for a Marine firing squad….
It had been dark and the officers in the Lion could be made to say the Triton attacked the Peacock dangerously late and at long range. “Or keep back,” the Article said. Engaging from a safe range was “keeping back.” That was all Goddard had to prove, and without evidence from the Greyhound or the Topaz it wouldn’t be difficult.
If Ramage managed to slip through all those traps there was still the twenty-seventh Article. He wrote down:
“The Officers and Seamen of all ships, appointed for Convoy and Guard of Merchant Ships, or of any other, shall diligently attend to that Charge … and whosoever shall be faulty therein, and shall not faithfully perform their Duty, and defend the Ships and Goods in their Convoy, without diverting to other Parts or Occasions, or refusing or neglecting to fight in their Defence, if they be assailed, or running away cowardly, and submitting the Ships of their Convoy to Peril and Hazard … be punished criminally according to the Quality of their Offences, be it by Pains of Death, or other punishment, according as shall be adjudged fit by the Court martial.”
Having written the three Articles, Ramage took a fresh sheet, once again wrote “Defence” across the top and once again found himself staring at the single word on the page several minutes later.
He needed a walk round the deck in the fresh air. Perhaps a look up at the Arrogant’s starboard fore yardarm would sharpen his wits. He banged on the door, called the sentry and told him to pass the word for the marshal.
The Marine Lieutenant was there, opening the door, before the man had time to call.
“What do you want?”
“Good morning,” Ramage said politely.
“Oh—good morning. You …”
“Want some exercise.”
“You can’t—”
“Then send for the Surgeon.”
“Why, you’re not ill—are you?”
“I’ll want a certificate to postpone the trial.”
“What on earth are—”
“I have a splitting headache and I can’t work on my defence.”
“Your defence!” the man sneered. “It shouldn’t take very long to write that out!”
“The Surgeon,” Ramage said and sat down abruptly.
“Oh, very well! Half an hour’s walk, then.”
Up on deck it promised to be a fine day; with luck the Trade winds would set in early and keep a breeze blowing through the great cabin. As Ramage paced up and down, with the marshal following a few steps behind, he looked round at the anchored ships.
At least five captains would be cursing at the thought of having to spend the day sitting at his trial—a minimum of five were necessary to form a court martial—but the thought gave him no satisfaction and he paced up and down. He watched seamen go to the flag locker, secure two sequences of flags to the signal halyards, and then hoist them smartly after tying them into neat bundles.
Ramage watched idly as the first bundle reached the block and one of the seamen gave a sharp tug on the halyard to break it out.
Automatically Ramage read the signal. Number 223. He couldn’t remember the exact wording, but it was to the effect that flag officers, captains, commanders and anyone else concerned in the court martial that had been ordered were to report on board the ship whose name would be pointed out. A few minutes later the signal was hauled down and another one run up. The flags breaking out gave the Arrogant’s pendant number.
Then, showing they had been ready, the Union flag streamed out from the Arrogant’s mizen peak, indicating that a court martial was to be held on board.
His own court martial! It seemed unreal, remote and so distant from its cause, that wild night when the Triton’s carronades were cutting swathes through the boarders covering the Peacock’s deck, and Jackson was blazing away at her helmsmen with a musketoon. In reality the court-martial flag now flying from the Arrogant had its origins in the trial of his father. Linking that trial and this was one man, Jebediah Arbuthnot Goddard, then a captain and now Rear-Admiral of the White.
He pulled out his watch. A minute past seven. The trial began in an hour and a half.
Ransom, the provost marshal, who had been standing against the taffrail, came up to Ramage.
“Come on, back to your cell.”
“Cell?”
“Cabin, then.”
“Do you have to be so obviously crude and unpleasant? I’ve not been found guilty yet.”
“You will be,” Ransom sneered.
“If I’m not, you’d better watch yourself,” Ramage said angrily. “You’re behaving more like a jackal than a gentleman. Just make sure the body’s dead before you get to work.”
“Carrion,” Ransom said viciously, “all carrion!”
At that moment someone called Ransom’s name. The voice was contemptuous, and it sounded familiar. Ramage looked round to see Captain Croucher standing watching, his eyes glittering like a lizard’s under the jutting eyebrows. He looked angry and Ramage turned away so that neither man should think he was trying to eavesdrop. Croucher made no particular attempt to keep his voice low, however, and Ramage heard a few words here and there.
“… think you’re doing … ? you can at least try … gentleman … only accused … even if condemned … might … your turn one day …”
A chastened Ransom came back. Croucher had frightened him.
“My lord,” he said, “we’d better go below.”
“I don’t use my title,” Ramage snapped. “You know that!”
“Er—yes, as you please.”
Ramage went down to the cabin puzzled by Croucher’s behaviour. Clearly the man had overheard Ramage’s exchange with Ransom, but why was Croucher, of all people, concerned about the way Ramage was being treated by the acting provost marshal? He was not a man to do another a good turn unless he had a reason. Had Goddard’s behaviour in the hurricane brought about a change of heart?
An hour later the Lion’s yawl was alongside the Arrogant and Ramage climbed up the side and stood watching as Ransom scrambled after him, carrying both their swords. When he finally managed to get on board without falling, Ramage could not resist saying: “Next time you’re appointed a provost marshal, don’t let the prisoner surrender his sword until you’re both on board the ship where the trial’s being held. You might drop it and find yourself being sued for a hundred guineas for a new one.”
The Marine Lieutenant flushed, and one of the Arrogant’s lieutenants, obviously the officer of the day, said unsympathetically, “He’s right, you know; only a fool goes up a ship’s side with two swords, and you seem to be clumsier than most!”