by Dudley Pope
He turned to Ramage.
“The presence of our military friend here makes me think you are probably the unfortunate fellow inscribed on my list as ‘Lieutenant Ramage, the prisoner.’”
Ramage grinned and gave a mock bow. “‘Lieutenant Ramagethe-Prisoner’ at your service.”
The Lieutenant marked his list and turned to the provost marshal.
“And you, my nimble friend, are probably the King’s bad bargain herein listed as ‘Lieutenant Ransom, acting provost marshal upon the occasion,’ and if you’ll but nod your head, I’ll bestow a tick against the name as a slight token of my approval.”
Ransom nodded dumbly, overwhelmed by the Lieutenant’s bantering manner.
“Well,” the Lieutenant continued, “you have committed the ultimate social solecism by arriving too early for the ball. Numerous brave and distinguished post captains must first board us—not to mention an admiral named God Ard, or should it be ‘ard God?—and dance the opening minuet before you’ll be allowed to blunder on to the floor and fall flat on your face because you’ve got your sword caught between your legs. Ah me,” he said, with a delicate yawn, “what pitfalls face an acting provost marshal. You’ll have earned your four shillings a day by the time the sun sets.”
He turned to Ramage: “If you’re planning to escape, be pleased to wait until after the end of my watch: t’would be a pity if my remarkably promising career was brought to an untimely end for failing to stop you. The Navy can’t afford to lose brilliant young men like me.”
“How could you possibly think I’d be so thoughtless?” Ramage said. “Only a bounder would escape before the forenoon watch.”
“I’m glad you see things my way,” the Lieutenant said, “such a pleasure to deal with a gentleman: we seem to be getting such a poor class of fellow these days, don’t you agree?”
“Indeed,” Ramage said gravely. “Very poor.”
“Yes, a sad business. What did you say your name was?” he asked the Marine suddenly.
“Alfred Ransom.”
The Lieutenant turned to Ramage in mock despair. “Alfred—you see what I mean? And where the devil did you get that surname? Was your grandfather a kidnapper? Or just a plain moneylender whose rates of interest made his unfortunate clients think of ransom?”
Before the Marine had time to answer the Lieutenant waved him away. “Go and walk round the belfry—here come some of Mr Ramage’s judges. Captain Ormsby, closely followed by Captain Robinson of the Valiant, are about to grace us with their presence.”
Ramage and Ransom walked the Arrogant’s deck for more than half an hour as the captains arrived from their ships. Rossi was acting as coxswain of La Perla’s little boat and brought over Southwick, Appleby, Jackson and Stafford. As the Italian called out orders for the boat to leave the Arrogant’s side he caught sight of Ramage and still looking ahead, said loudly in a broad Neapolitan accent, “Sta tranquille, comandante!”
Ramage smiled down at him, and then looked over at Jackson and Stafford. It was unlikely that they had ever been so smartly turned out before; Ramage had the feeling that everyone on board La Perla must have sorted through his wardrobe to find the best shirts and trousers for the two men.
The court martial was due to open in fifteen minutes, and Ramage saw the Lion’s launch coming from the shore. The fat figure in the stern sheets was unmistakable.
The Lieutenant at the gangway turned to Ramage and, waving at the launch with his list, said: “The last guest invited to your reception.”
Ramage nodded. “Thanks for your help. You have an invitation?”
“No, but I may drop in.”
“Do, it passes away an idle hour or so.”
With Rear-Admiral Goddard waddling aft and entering the great cabin, the court was within moments of assembling.
“Come on, Ramage, they’ve passed the word for us.”
The seven captains ordered to the trial had gone into the great cabin and read out the dates of their commissions. Captain Napier, commanding the Arrogant and appointed President of the court, had seated them round the table in order of seniority. Syme, the fussy little deputy judge advocate, would have all his papers sorted out, quills sharpened, inkwell full, spectacles polished and Bible and Crucifix ready for administering the oath. Rear-Admiral Goddard was in there, with his faithful Hobson, ready to act as prosecutor. Croucher was there too, among the witnesses.
It was supposed to be a big day for Goddard. As far as he was concerned it would be the end of a vendetta, the end of a very long-drawn-out act of revenge against Admiral the Earl of Blazey. The night before, Ramage had wondered how he would feel walking these last few feet into the cabin. What he felt was anger. Anger that had come in the past few moments when he reflected that Goddard was not attacking him but his father. By attacking the Earl’s son he was dealing the old man a blow against which he had no defence. Goddard was an assassin moving out silently in a dark Neapolitan street and striking with a stiletto … a cowardly blow, an unnecessary blow and perhaps a lethal blow. Goddard hoped that getting the son hanged for cowardice would shame the father into an early grave—the mother, too. Death before dishonour, or if not before then dam’ soon after. Every man’s weakest point, his Achilles’ heel, was his family. That was something Goddard had known all along.
Men like the Marine Lieutenant, trotting along behind now and puffed up with the importance of being “provost marshal upon the occasion,” were the jackals, content with snapping at the scraps. The Goddards of this world were the hyenas; bigger and more vicious, and although not brave, so greedy that occasionally they would leap on a badly wounded animal and drag it to the ground.
The sentry at the door of the great cabin snapped to attention and as Ramage removed his hat before going through the door Ransom pushed him aside, chest stuck out, shoulders back, Ramage’s sword tucked under his left arm like a telescope, and marched into the cabin. Exasperated, Ramage stopped outside the door and watched Ransom striding in, straight to the two empty chairs, one for the prisoner and one behind it for the provost marshal.
Eight captains, counting Croucher, an admiral, the deputy judge advocate, several lieutenants, Southwick, Appleby, Jackson, Stafford and various other witnesses, watched as Ransom marched. He halted, stamping his feet, and turned to direct his prisoner to the chair.
The Captain seated at the head of the table raised his eyebrows.
“Pray, what are you supposed to be doing, Lieutenant?” Ransom looked round wildly. “My prisoner!”
“You are acting as the provost marshal?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Well, your prisoner appears to have eluded you.”
“I—well, sir, he was … I have his sword!”
“We need the prisoner, Lieutenant,” the Captain said. “You are from the Lion, I assume?”
“Yes, sir,” Ransom stammered.
“I thought so,” Napier murmured. “Run along and fetch your prisoner.”
Ramage, standing just outside the door, was puzzled by Napier’s reference to the Lion—it seemed a calculated snub to Croucher…. He stepped into the cabin before Ransom was halfway to the door, gave a slight bow, and walked deliberately to the empty chair as if Ransom did not exist.
Syme, the deputy judge advocate, had stood up and half turned to watch him. Goddard was looking away, pretending complete indifference.
“Sit down,” Captain Napier said, “I want to sort out some papers—”
The President was giving Ramage a minute or two to get his bearings. A long table covered with a green baize cloth ran almost the width of the cabin, and eight men sat round it. At the head was Napier, with Syme opposite him at the foot. Three captains sat down one side and three the other, and Ramage knew they were sitting in order of seniority left and right of Napier, with the juniors at the bottom, next to Syme. Ramage’s chair was four feet from the table on Syme’s left An empty chair, for witnesses, was four feet from Syme’s right hand. Clear of the table a
nd over on Captain Napier’s left sat Rear-Admiral Goddard, as prosecutor, with Hobson in another chair just behind him.
Standing in a group behind Admiral Goddard were the witnesses: Croucher, Southwick, several lieutenants—presumably the Lion’s officers—and, not looking at all ill-at-ease, Jackson and Stafford.
Captain Napier took out his watch, put it down on the table in front of him, rapped with his knuckles and said in a clipped, incisive voice: “Gentlemen, it is half past eight o’clock: the court is in session. Admiral”—he turned to Goddard—”can you see that all the witnesses for the prosecution are here?”
Goddard nodded indifferently.
“Mr Ramage—are your witnesses all here?”
“All the witnesses I was able to assemble in the time available, sir.”
“Very well: I shall ask that question again when the court is sworn and it can be noted in the minutes.”
Ramage looked at him and thought that Captain Napier had a real interest in administering justice. Admiral Goddard was staring at Napier with the look a man might give his wife at a reception if she suddenly announced that she had discovered certain of his defects. Ramage had a feeling that Captain Napier’s name must be near the top of the captains’ list, so near that he could soon expect his flag. Too senior and self-confident to be unduly impressed by Goddard.
Napier rapped the table again. “Carry on, Mr Syme.”
The deputy judge advocate stood up, adjusted his spectacles, picked up a single sheet of paper and, after looking round at all the captains, began reading Sir Pilcher Skinner’s order for the court martial. Then he read: “By Vice-Admiral Sir Pilcher Skinner … Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s ships … at Jamaica … a court martial to try Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, of his Majesty’s late ship the Triton, on various charges laid by Rear-Admiral Goddard … I do … hereby authorize you to execute the office of judge advocate upon the above occasion. For which this shall be your warrant.”
Syme looked round, as if he half expected someone to challenge it.
“This is addressed to Harold Syme, esquire,” he added pompously.
Napier nodded, and the man reached down for another page. Napier was a tall man with iron-grey hair, an aquiline nose and eyes revealing a shrewd sense of humour. He had an indefinable air of authority and Ramage guessed that he was a man who commanded without ever raising his voice.
Syme began reading again, this time the seven names, listed in seniority beginning with Napier, of the men forming the court. He glanced to the left or right as he reached each name; Captain Lockyer, a plump, fatherly man who reminded Ramage of Southwick, sat on the President’s left, and Captain Robinson, sandy-haired, red-faced and looking young despite his seniority sat on his right. Woodgate sat next to him and Hamilton sat next to Lockyer. Ramage looked at Hamilton again. He was a nondescript man except for his eyes. They were spaced wide apart and blue and they looked shifty. Ormsby, at the end of the table on the President’s left, was young and obviously flustered. The single epaulet on his right shoulder showed he had less than three years’ seniority. Innes opposite him, also had less than three years’ seniority and was a plump young man who looked as if he was more at home astride a horse on the hunting field than commanding a ship of war.
Now Syme picked up the Bible and walked round the table to Napier. Putting the Bible in front of him he said, his voice taking on a monotone in deference to the solemn occasion:
“Place your right hand on the Holy Evangelist and repeat your christian and surnames.”
Napier stood and said: “James Royston Napier.”
Syme then read out, phrase by phrase, the oath by which Napier swore “I will duly administer justice according to my conscience, the best of my understanding and the custom of the Navy in like cases …”
After Syme had administered the same oath to the other six captains, Napier administered an oath of secrecy to Syme, who then went back to his seat.
As Napier looked round the cabin, he had as much moral authority over its occupants as a judge.
“Read the charges, Mr Syme, slowly and audibly.”
Syme looked up indignantly, stung by the instruction, but he obeyed. As he read, Ramage looked across at Goddard. The man wiped his face once, then sat with his hands clasped, staring at the deck a few feet in front of him.
Ramage saw a squalid opportunist grasping plump hands together like an ingratiating undertaker. The man had risen quickly in the Navy and had enormous “interest.” One day he might well achieve the highest rank—providing he never had to lead a Fleet into action. He was not a man that lowly lieutenants would choose as an enemy … but, Ramage thought ruefully,
the choice had not been up to this lowly lieutenant; Goddard had chosen him.
Napier turned to Goddard as Syme finished his reading. “Your first witness, sir?”
Goddard pointed to Croucher.
“All other witnesses leave the court,” Napier said, waving to Syme.
Syme motioned Captain Croucher to the chair on his right as the rest of the witnesses left the cabin. A dozen other people, among them the Lieutenant whose breezy manner had so cheered Ramage at the gangway, sat at the back of the cabin.
Croucher gave his name and took the oath without once glancing at Goddard.
Syme looked severely at both Goddard and Croucher, as though they had never attended a court martial before, and said: “You must give me time to write down each question before it is answered. And then give me time to write down the answer.”
Goddard gestured to Hobson, who was holding several sheets of paper in his hand.
“The first questions are written down.”
Goddard and his cronies seemed to have prepared the case well. If the prosecutor had the questions written on slips of paper which were passed to the deputy judge advocate to read aloud, the accused had to answer at once. If the prosecutor spoke the question so the deputy judge advocate could write it down and then address it to the accused, it gave the prisoner time to think about his answer. With the question already written down, the deputy judge advocate need only number it, make a note of the number in his minute of the trial, and ask the question at once.
Hobson went over to stand by Syme, handing him a page with the first question. Before the deputy judge advocate had time to read it, Captain Napier said: “Has the accused all his witnesses available?”
“No, I have only those immediately available.”
Ramage had already thought through the probable sequence of question and answer, and now that the court was sitting there was little Goddard could do even if he suspected that there was some sort of a trap behind Ramage’s carefully chosen words.
“What do you mean by ‘immediately available?’” Napier asked.
“Only those that could attend the court when it opened, sir.” Syme jammed his spectacles back on his nose. “All those on the list you gave me are present,” he said angrily.
“Quite,” Ramage said.
“What do you mean by that?” Napier asked.
“In view of the gravity of the charges I face, sir—all of them are capital—and my present lack of witnesses, I hope that the court will be indulgent should any other witnesses become available.”
Would Napier just leave it at that or demand more details? Ramage tried to look nonchalant.
“Very well. Carry on, Mr Syme.”
“I haven’t noted all that down yet,” Syme said sourly, and Ramage guessed that the deputy judge advocate had been so absorbed in what was being said that he had forgotten to write.
Hobson handed him the first page.
“Were you,” he asked Croucher, “commanding the Lion on the eighteenth day of July last when, during an attack upon a ship of the convoy, His Majesty’s ship Triton did—”
“Stop!” Napier snapped. “Strike that from the record.” He looked directly at the Admiral. “The prosecution is no doubt aware of the meaning of the phrase ‘leading question?’”
&n
bsp; When Goddard said nothing, Napier said quietly: “The court requires an answer. First,” he said to Syme, “note my question in the minutes.”
When he saw Syme had written it, he motioned to Goddard. “The prosecution understands,” the Admiral said grudgingly. “Very well. The deputy judge advocate will read written questions carefully before speaking them aloud. Carry on.”
For a moment or two Ramage wondered why Napier was on his side and then realized that he was not. He was just conducting the trial impartially. Ramage’s only previous experience of a court martial was the one staged—and “staged” was the right word—by Croucher, in Bastia. There the President had used his position to twist everything in favour of the prosecution.
Goddard decided to abandon the written questions, frame new ones, and speak them aloud.
“What were you doing on the eighteenth day of July?”
“I was commanding His Majesty’s ship Lion.”
“What were your duties?”
“Flying the flag of the Rear-Admiral and escorting a convoy from Barbados to Jamaica.”
“Was there any unusual occurrence that night?”
“Yes, a French privateer attacked one of the ships.”
“What was that ship’s position in the convoy?”
“Leading the starboard column.”
“Where was the Lion at this time?”
“In her proper position ahead of the centre column of the convoy.”
“Which of the King’s ships was closest to the merchantman that was attacked?”
“The Triton brig.”
“Who commanded the Triton?”
“The accused.”
“How was the attack made on the merchant ship, and what was the merchantman’s name?”
“The ship was the Topaz. The privateer came up from astern, following the line of ships, and went alongside the Topaz and attacked her.”
“Was there any chance,” Goddard asked, “of the privateer being seen from the Lion?”
“None,” Croucher said. “It was a dark night and she was a mile or so away, and hidden against all the ships on the northern side of the convoy.”