Ramage's Trial

by Dudley Pope

  Shirley shook his head sorrowfully, and Ramage thought that being the possessor of such a sad, long face would make Shirley an excellent professional mourner: all he needed was a tall hat with a thick ribbon of black silk round it, and a pair of black silk gloves: he already had the long black coat.

  “Ah yes, a sad business. Died very suddenly – just off Barbados. We don’t know what it was, since we have no medical knowledge–” he permitted himself a slight smile, “–but we all agreed that it was something in the nature of a stroke. Yes, a stroke; that’s what we agreed to enter in the log and I put it in my journal. A moving funeral because he was a popular man. Not as well qualified medically as your fellow, I imagine, but widely experienced, especially in the diseases of the East. He had served in John Company ships as a surgeon’s mate, I think.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ramage leaned forward over his desk, finding his chair hard, and he was tired of the sound of his own voice. He looked round at Aitken, Bowen and Southwick and said: “There you have it. That was all the information that a morning’s work yielded us. I haven’t forgotten anything, have I?” he asked the first lieutenant.

  “No sir, except the strange feeling you had about Captain Shirley and the men.” When Ramage looked puzzled, Aitken reminded him: “You did mention about Voodoo, sir – some experience you had in Grenada?”

  “Voodoo?” Southwick exclaimed, startled. “Don’t say…”

  “Mr Southwick was with me at the time in Grenada,” Ramage explained to Aitken. “And so was Mr Bowen.”

  “Tell us about it, sir,” Bowen said anxiously. “Don’t say that Captain Shirley is mixed up with Voodoo!”

  “No, no, no!” Ramage said emphatically. “I was just describing its effect to explain to Aitken and Wagstaffe what the atmosphere reminded me of – there was no sign of Voodoo as such.”

  Southwick looked at Bowen and nodded his head. “The captain is right. When we talked to them on board the Jason yesterday I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but now I’ve got it. It’s the same as going down into a crypt – no reason why you should feel uneasy, but you do. You know about the coffins, you know the stonework makes the atmosphere cold, you expect the air to be stuffy because the door has been shut…but you can still get a strange feeling: the hair on the back of your neck wants to stand up. There’s no reason, but it just does.”

  “And talking to the witch doctor and his victims,” Bowen added, “you feel they’re hiding behind a pane of glass; you can see and hear them but if you reached out you’d never touch them.”

  Ramage tapped the desk top. “Now then, let’s not attach too much importance to that. I’m more interested in knowing how Captain Shirley makes his whole ship’s company deny everything.”

  “Well, they’re not exactly denying everything, sir,” Aitken said. “I noticed that more often than not they told us to ask Captain Shirley about it. They shifted the responsibility for an answer on to him.”

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Yes – which is the same as them dodging the responsibility.”

  “I’m more interested in the death of the surgeon,” Bowen said. “Most unfortunate that they don’t have a surgeon on board. His views would have been very significant.”

  Aitken waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t you believe it. If he knew anything of the slightest use, he’d have bleated about medical ethics. But he wouldn’t have noticed anything – he was one of those bleed-and-purge chaps. Started as a surgeon’s mate in a John Company ship.”

  “Probably knew some sovereign remedies for belly aches brought on by too much curry,” Southwick said, unable to resist teasing Bowen. “Anyway, as far as a court-martial in Plymouth is concerned,” he said, a practical note in his voice, “all we know is that the Jasons deny firing at us, and we heard the shot whistling over our heads, and we had some holes, since patched, in our sails and some rigging cut, all of it since replaced.”

  “That’s it,” Ramage said. “So it’s up to you now, Bowen.”

  “Don’t expect too much from my report, sir,” Bowen warned. “A walk across Parliament Square or down Whitehall is enough to prove that there are more madmen walking around than sane ones, simply because the mad are usually very cunning.”

  Sidney Yorke shook Ramage by the hand. “Alexis wanted to invite you to dinner again but I told her we must observe the formalities. Now, Jackson knows–” He watched as the cutter’s painter was led aft, so that the boat trailed astern like a dog on a lead. “Ah yes, he knows,” he said with a smile as the American led the boat’s crew forward. “I told the cook to make them up something with cold cuts.”

  “That’s why they like coming over,” Ramage said. “All the food is boiled in the King’s ships. You look well. How is Alexis?”

  “Come below now and see her or she’ll get impatient. Is everything arranged to your satisfaction?” he inquired ironically, waving towards the Calypso, which was now stretching along a couple of cables to windward of the Emerald. “It’s a good idea of yours to take a turn round the convoy occasionally: I’ve never seen such good station-keeping. You scared them at the convoy conference!”

  Alexis, wearing a high-waisted morning dress of white cambric, sprigged muslin and yellow morocco slippers, was sitting in Yorke’s day cabin, and when Ramage kissed her hand she smiled up from the settee. “I thought you’d decided to leave us when you suddenly headed for Africa! And then that frigate began shooting at you, although she seems to be on our side!”

  “We needed the exercise,” Ramage said teasingly. “I for one was feeling quite jaded.”

  “You should come over and see us, then,” Yorke said, “and bring any of your officers who can be spared.”

  He pushed forward an armchair for Ramage. “It’s a hot day. Rum punch or lemonade – or lime, or orange?”

  “Lemonade, please,” Ramage said and Alexis commented: “I thought you’d prefer a rum punch.”

  She blushed as first Yorke and then Ramage laughed, and Ramage quickly explained: “It’s an old joke between your brother and me: he knows I hate rum.”

  “Alexis hates it too,” Yorke said. “She nearly faints away when a planter leers at her and then whispers sweet nothings through a smokescreen of rum fumes.”

  “You certainly know how to put our guests at ease,” Alexis told him crossly. “Now the poor man is worried in case I don’t like the smell of lemons!”

  “I doubt it,” Yorke said. “He’s not about to give you a planter’s leer.”

  Seeing Ramage’s eyebrows raised questioningly, Alexis laughed and explained: “And that’s an old joke between Sidney and myself. The ladies out in the islands – wives of the planters, merchants and soldiers – tend to have shrivelled up minds and figures, so that…”

  She broke off in embarrassment, having started off on an explanation without considering where it might lead her.

  Yorke rang a small silver bell for the steward as he finished her sentence. “So that the husbands, bored and boring, flock round a beautiful woman like moths round a candle and singe their wings with what they think is wit but is simply bawdy, almost barrack-room humour.”

  “Actually the wives are worse,” Alexis said unexpectedly. “You men never notice it but they’re so jealous they’re very, very polite, yet everything they say has hidden implications.”

  “Implications?” Yorke exclaimed. “What implications? Most of them are so stupid they couldn’t distinguish an implication from an imprecation!”

  “Oh, they imply that I’m trying to run off with their husband or have come out to the islands looking for a husband.”

  “Wasn’t that the idea?” Yorke asked with feigned innocence. “A handsome husband, ten thousand a year and 20,000 acres no further north than the Trent?”

  “It might have been your idea, so that you could get rid of me, but it wasn’t mine. I must admit,” she added sharply, “I was looking for a wife for you: it’s high time you married. Nicholas–”

&
nbsp; She broke off, her face flushed with embarrassment as she realized what she was about to say.

  “You are quite right,” Ramage said quickly, “it’s high time he married. I have just the sort of woman in mind. I can recommend some names.”

  Alexis was clearly intrigued. “What sort of woman?”

  Yorke shook his head: he had known Ramage too many years to have much doubt about the well-cushioned little trap into which Alexis was walking.

  “Well, first one has to assess what Sidney has to offer. He’s wealthy, and even if he proves an incompetent shipowner, you’ll be there to keep an eye on him. He’s not very handsome – but his fortune compensates for what his features lack. A poor card player– that’s a great advantage because wives can get very resentful if their husbands constantly beat them at quadrille. He’s hopeless at backgammon, which makes him an even better prospect. He has good taste – he’s always in the company of one beautiful woman, his sister…”

  “Oh, do go on,” Alexis urged, laughing at Sidney.

  “Well, this woman should be a widow, because while a widow understands marriage, I’m not at all sure that Sidney does. A mature widow, and preferably the late husband should have been a dull fellow who left her verging on debt, so that Sidney dazzles her with his wealth. You see,” Ramage explained to Alexis, hard put to keep a straight face because she was concentrating on every word, “his money can make up for some of his shortcomings.”

  Alexis was nodding in agreement. “Yes, but did you see anyone suitable in Barbados, for instance?”

  “No, I didn’t go on shore. But London – I know of several in London. The advantage there is that their tipple is likely to be gin, not rum, so their breath won’t trouble you.”

  At that she glanced up warily, saw Yorke grinning and told Ramage crossly: “You are an unfeeling brute: I thought for a moment that you really cared about Sidney’s happiness.”

  “I do,” Ramage assured her. “I care enough not to interfere. One day he’ll meet the right person and he’ll recognize her, and it won’t be someone we’ve discreetly introduced into the family circle.”

  “You seem very certain. Anyway, it won’t be anyone we approve,” she said, with a trace of bitterness in her voice. “But it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Sidney and I are the same age,” Ramage said gently. “I married only a few months ago and I met my wife on board a John Company ship anchored off a tiny island in the South Atlantic that few charts even show. Until fairly recently, everyone expected me to marry a woman I met in Italy.”

  “The beautiful Marchesa whom you rescued?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, la bella marchesa. But I finally met my wife a quarter of a world away.”

  Yorke said: “I’m flattered at the attention of two such experienced marriage-brokers, but when are you going to tell us what happened yesterday, Nicholas?”

  “Yes,” Alexis said. “What did you do to make that poor frigate fire at you?”

  “That ‘poor frigate’ should not have fired at us,” Ramage said mildly, “so have a care where you scatter your sympathy!”

  For several moments both Yorkes were silent: both knew enough of ships and the sea to know that something had gone dreadfully wrong.

  “From here it seemed that she fired her starboard broadside at you,” Yorke said. “We saw the smoke between you.”

  “The frigate is the Jason. The smoke you saw was from her starboard broadside: she suddenly cut across our bow and raked us. Fortunately without doing much harm.”

  “But why?” Alexis exclaimed. “She’s British, and you must have been flying all the right flags.”

  “We were, but I don’t know why she did it.” Ramage stopped talking while the steward came into the cabin and set down the glasses, putting the jug and sugar bowl in front of Alexis. “Shall I pour, madam?” Alexis shook her head, obviously preoccupied with what Ramage had just said, and the steward left the cabin.

  “Sidney always tells me I mustn’t interfere in men’s business – but can you tell us any more? It is most intriguing. No, alarming. I have visions of a British frigate suddenly sailing across our bow and raking us. Surely, if one rakes you, then another might attack us?”

  Ramage gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I have a hundred questions of my own, but no answers. In fact,” he admitted, “I’m here as a refugee. I’ve discussed it so much on board the Calypso that my brain is overflowing. I was hoping you two might have some fresh ideas.”

  “It is sweet of you to include me,” Alexis said, “but what can a woman know about naval matters?”

  “This doesn’t concern naval matters,” Ramage said grimly, sipping his lemonade. “It concerns a madman, and I think we all know as much as each other about madmen. This one seems to be straight out of Bedlam, although who unlocked the door and gave him the King’s commission I don’t know.”

  “It’s the captain, is it?” Yorke asked.

  Ramage nodded. “This is what happened,” he began, and finished half an hour later, during which time Sidney Yorke and Alexis listened with all the concentration of children hearing a thrilling fairy story, asking only an occasional question.

  At the end of it Yorke said promptly: “I don’t know for sure about this man Shirley, but I’m certain you are crazy!”

  Alexis, now white-faced and almost in tears, looked at her brother as though he had suddenly hit Ramage, and instinctively reached out to touch his wrist, as if wanting to reassure him.

  “You’re crazy because you’ve got yourself involved. The Jason was bound for England. Very well, her captain is mad and opens fire on you – but without doing much damage and not killing or wounding anyone. If you had any sense you’d have sheered off, left her alone to carry on to England. All right, you didn’t know she was bound for England, but she obviously wasn’t coming to reinforce you. At that point you’d have been simply (in lay terms) the injured party, and when you got to England you’d have reported to the Admiralty all you knew – that the Jason had raked you without cause and then sailed off over the horizon.

  “That is what a sensible man would have done. But what did you do? Since you obviously haven’t noticed yet, I’ll tell you what you’ve done – and remember I speak as a layman: I know nothing of Admiralty rules and regulations. You have in effect captured one of the King’s ships, removed the captain from his command and put one of your officers in his place, and discovered that not a man on board the Jason will back up your story that she opened fire on you – oh yes, yes, I believe you, but I am trying to see it through the eyes of the president of the court of inquiry, or court-martial, or whatever it is.

  “The masters in the convoy would back you if they knew what had happened. Both Alexis and I will – if our word matters a damn. But why did you get involved with the damned ship?”

  Alexis, now in tears and trembling from her brother’s harsh words, stood up and without realizing what she was doing put her hands on Ramage’s shoulders in a gesture partly to protect, partly to comfort him.

  “Sidney’s wrong, oh so wrong,” she said, the words tumbling over each other, tripped by sobs. “You had to take command, otherwise who knows what other mischief that madman will do. He’s terrified his officers. He’s a mad dog!” she exclaimed, turning to her brother. “Don’t you realize that? You shoot mad dogs, you don’t let them run off to attack the neighbour’s children!”

  Yorke held out both hands despairingly. “I’m sorry, Nicholas, you seem to have run into more trouble on board the Emerald than you had in the Calypso.”

  Ramage reached up and held Alexis’ hands. “No, I wanted to hear what both of you thought. You’ve put your finger on it, Sidney: you’ve seen the choice I had, and you think I made the wrong one. You, Alexis, think I made the right one. But so far you’re the only people who see clearly that there were only two choices. The rest of them – Aitken, Southwick and probably Bowen, although I haven’t seen his report yet – are too close to the problem
and,” he gave a grim laugh, “too loyal to me to consider that I might be wrong.”

  Yorke held up a warning hand. “No, both you and Alexis have misunderstood me. I say you made the wrong choice in getting involved. I repeat, you made the wrong choice. But knowing you and considering what’s at stake, the choice you made is the only honourable one for a naval officer. It’s just not the sensible one. But if I’d been in your place I hope I’d have done the same thing, although I’m a coward and doubt it. But it frightens me to think of the trouble this man Shirley could cause you in England if he can convince people he is sane.”

  “I’m not so much bothered by that as wondering what patronage he has,” Ramage said. “His patrons can cause the trouble. A court of inquiry might clear him and then pressure on the Admiralty from his patrons could get me brought to trial on some trumped-up charge.”

  “Why don’t you send him off to England?” Alexis said impetuously. “Let him go on and say nothing more about it. Don’t report to the Admiralty or anything. Just act as though it never happened.”

  “There are about two hundred men on board the Calypso and two hundred more in the Jason. All of them know what happened, even if Shirley has cast a spell on his men. There are seventy or so ships in the convoy and two other frigates, L’Espoir and La Robuste. Up to a couple of thousand men, in other words, who will gossip. Oh yes, I’m sure if I asked them the Calypsos would keep their mouths shut, but is it a thing that a captain should – or can – ask of his men? No. Apart from anything Shirley might do, there will be gossip and rumour and speculation and exaggeration…the story will be around Plymouth within hours of our arrival; the Admiralty will soon know about it.”

  Yorke poured himself more lemonade with sufficient deliberation to make Ramage watch him.

  “When you chased after the Jason and went alongside her,” Yorke asked, “you had guns run out, and all that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, in fact we boarded her. Just managed to stop the men firing in time. As I told you, we thought she had been captured by the French.”