by Dudley Pope
"Then it is now being extended with stations at Chalton, Wickham, Town Hill, Foot Hill, Bramshaw, Pistle Down, Charlbury, Blandford, Belchalwell, Nettlecoombe, High Stoy, Toller Down, Lambert's Castle, Dalwood Common, St Cyres, Rockbere, Haldon, Knighton, Marley, Lee, Saltram, and then over to Plymouth Dock . . . how about that!"
Yorke had been listening carefully. "Yes, that would make one of the finest rides in England. There are other parts of the country where it'd be more beautiful for, say, twenty miles, but for a two-hundred-mile ride you couldn't beat that."
"When might we expect Miss Yorke back again?" Wagstaffe asked Yorke, "assuming she will need a couple of days in London?"
"Five days up and five back, plus two, which is twelve days," Yorke said. "Which means she can't get back until a week after the trial is over, even allowing that she'll drive the coachmen hard and may well sleep in the coach, stopping only for meals and change of horses."
Southwick nodded his head in agreement. "I can't see that young lady wasting time."
"No, she has hardly any luggage. Mine host at the King's Arms tells me that Alexis hired a coach and four and set off with one piece of luggage and a brace of pistols."
"A brace of pistols?" exclaimed Ramage. "A good idea for a young lady travelling alone, but where did she get them?"
"Oh, we always carry a brace each when we take a voyage," Yorke said. "Who knows, the commanding officer might go mad, apart from the risk of pirates, Frenchmen, privateersmen -"
"- and descendants of buccaneers," Ramage teased.
"It's because of our forebear that we are always well prepared," Yorke admitted with a grin. "Our forebear became rich because the Dons were never prepared. Anyway, you might well feel sympathy for the footpad or ravisher that stops Alexis's coach."
Ramage gave a shiver. "I'd rather not. I've never grown accustomed to being shot with a pistol, and by such a beautiful markswoman would be too painful. However, to get back to the point: what can we do now?"
"Have you anything else to present to the court in your defence?" Yorke asked. "Anything else for next Monday?"
"Nothing. Shirley will make his closing statement for the prosecution and then I make a statement outlining my defence, and the court is cleared while Goddard and his twelve captains consider the verdict. Then, when they've decided, I'm marched in again escorted by the provost marshal - who, incidentally, turns out to be a nice young fellow - and all the witnesses and spectators who are interested follow me in."
"And we all wait for the verdict to be announced," Yorke said.
Ramage laughed. "No. You've forgotten the trial you attended in Port Royal. I'll know the verdict the moment I walk through the door. I just look at my sword on the table: the hilt towards me means not guilty, the point, guilty. I then have a few anxious minutes waiting to see under which Articles of War I'm found guilty. You don't know them like the rest of us, but some carry a mandatory death sentence."
"So if the court ... ?"
"If the court finds me guilty on any one of those, it has no choice but to sentence me to death."
Yorke looked grim. "I wonder if Alexis is thinking only of that?"
Aitken said quietly: "She asked me for a copy of the Articles of War, and I gave her one, sir. I hope I did the right thing. And I marked the ones under which you're charged."
"You were quite right," Ramage said, and remembered Alexis's question in court about the charges, when Goddard had dropped the question rather than read through all the relevant Articles of War. So Alexis had known all the time: she had started provoking Goddard from the moment she began giving evidence.
He had to admit that seeing her sitting in the row of spectators' chairs, he regarded her as a very elegant ornament, much as one might be proud of a fine portrait in oils on one's dining room walls. He had (he went hot at the thought) only called her as his last witness from fear that she would be offended if he left her out. Ye Gods: one day, when they were old and grey and reminiscing, he would tell her how close she came to never being a witness. But after being a lively witness she was now making a madcap dash to London in a coach and four with a brace of pistols close at hand. Gianna would have done that - and Gianna was at this moment probably dead, killed by one of Bonaparte's police agents. Sarah would have done it - but she had almost certainly died in the Murex. Would he always bring death to the women he loved?
The rest of the week passed slowly. The last days of autumn brought zephyrs which ruffled wavelets to make the sea look like hammered pewter. Each morning the Calypso's cutter under Jackson's command went to fetch Sidney Yorke from the North Corner of the dockyard - the name given to the part close to the Gun Wharf and where North Comer Street met the jetty.
Yorke enjoyed leaving the King's Arms and walking the road from Plymouth itself, passing between the barracks and squares named after famous generals and skirting the Post Office as he strode down Cumberland Street to the noisy Market Place, where most things from cabbages to penny nails were being sold from the stalls.
Along Catherine Street and turning left a few yards into Fore Street brought him to the Dock Gates which seemed, improbably, to be guarded by the chapel just inside. A few more yards along Queen Street in the shadow of the dockyard walls brought him to the landward end of North Corner Street, with the jetty and the Calypso's cutter at the bottom.
Walking along the streets, some cobbled, some surfaced with bricks, he passed men pushing laden carts and wheelbarrows, carrying baulks of timber, striding along with an adze over the shoulder or swinging a caulker's maul with, in the other hand, the wooden box of caulking cotton with its wide handle forming a seat.
A few sailors hurried along pulling a cart laden with coils of new rope intended for one of the ships anchored in the Hamoaze; a file of Marines marched to the sergeant's monotonous "leff. . .ri'. . . leff .. . ri'" - where were they going, he wondered?
He felt an air of unreality; everything seemed insubstantial, as though he was walking in a dream. The sun was still weak at this time of the morning but cast chill shadows across the narrower streets. The town of Plymouth Dock, he thought, comprised more angular buildings than any other place he knew, and every one of them caused a shadow.
Yet despite this strange remoteness affecting him, there was a sense of purpose about the dockyard area as a whole: workmen heading for the Dockyard gates, each man with his own tools and most of them with their midday meal wrapped in a bright bandanna; the seamen running with a cart, shouting and yelling, teasing each other and hurling well-meant abuse at men from other ships; the marching Marines, serious of face and giving the impression of a moving panel of white diagonal lines, a tribute to hours of pipeclaying. All had obvious links with the ships of war at anchor.
It all had a sense of purpose until he thought about the enormous Salvador del Mundo moored out there in the Hamoaze, and the Calypso riding at a single anchor. Could a man like Ramage, wounded several times, who had captured from the French the frigate he now commanded (apart from capturing the famous Diamond Rock, commanding the approach to Fort Royal the capital of Martinique), the hero of many attacks on the French in the Mediterranean, now be in desperate danger?
What was wrong with a system under which such a man could be tried for his life by his own people and, as far as Yorke could make out, be almost certain of being executed by them? Why was the Navy, no matter who represented it, about to do what Bonaparte most certainly would do, given the chance - kill Captain Ramage?
Ramage had written to his father, the Earl of Blazey, and told him not to attempt to interfere. Nicholas was obviously frightened that the old political vendetta which had made his father a scapegoat could somehow be renewed, so that the old man could be harmed. Could it? Yorke was far from sure. He only knew that any politician would always do unspeakable things to save his own political skin. Making a career out of murder, or prostitution, or burgling, or pimping, was against the law: society in its wisdom had decided that each was wrong. Politics came
into the same category, but since politicians were also lawmakers, there was no law regulating politics; the only limit placed upon them was the natural contempt of honest men. Yorke for a moment felt sorry for a man who had taken up politics. Possibly in the early flush of youth the man had intended to do great things: then, probably quite slowly, he found that men outside politics whom he respected did not exactly shun him, but kept him at a distance, as though shamefully hidden beneath tailored breeches and silk coat he had the scabs of some vile disease.
Byng was fifty years ago. And today? Certainly members of the present government were intellectually barely equipped to run some of the stalls he was now passing in the Market Place. Addington, for instance, the prime minister, was a man so weak and vacillating that no one in his right mind would leave him in charge of a greengrocery stall.
Yorke recalled bitterly that Alexis might in fact be calling on the wretched man in three or four days, trying to persuade him to do something. Yorke was far from sure what Alexis had in mind, and he was beginning to realize that Nicholas and his officers were just being polite.
Yes, they were deeply touched that Alexis had impulsively hired a coach and four and was at this very moment hurrying to London; they were very grateful for her spirited appearance in court. They appreciated that Yorke was waiting to give what evidence he could to help.
Yorke now realized that the "but" was that nothing Alexis could do would be in time. She would hardly have arrived in London by the time the court sat again next Monday; by Monday evening, or Tuesday morning at the latest, the court would have returned its verdict and Nicholas would have been found guilty or not guilty. And that would be that.
Yorke had the feeling that they thought Ramage would be found guilty and sentenced to death, but that the Admiralty would order a reprieve. Poor Alexis. Yorke knew by now that his sister loved Ramage but, more important, had during the long voyage home from the West Indies, when she had seen a good deal of him as a guest on board the Emerald or when they were dining on board the Calypso, accepted that she had lost him before she found him, because he was married to another woman. Alexis had come to know that woman through the occasional remarks of Ramage and his officers, and as she had learned of the circumstances of the two of them meeting at some island off Brazil, and the honeymoon cut short by Bonaparte's police, she had come to admire her.
At the moment she was trying to save him because he was a friend of the Yorkes who needed help; but she was also trying to save him for Sarah, whom she had never met. Perhaps - who really ever knew all the details of a person's motives? - she had wild hopes that if anything had happened to Sarah (which seemed highly probable) she could take her place. Whatever Alexis was about now, though, she did not know (fortunately, he thought) that on board the Calypso brave men had in fact finally given up.
And there was the Calypso's cutter, with Jackson standing at the top of the slippery steps ready to help him down. What did Jackson think? And Stafford and Rossi and all those other men who had fought beside Ramage and who never cared whether he was right or wrong, but only that he was their captain?
If their captain was in danger of his life in a French prison, they would be ready to follow Aitken and Southwick and the others in whatever desperate rescue attempt they decided to make. Now their captain was in deadly danger from his own people: from the very senior officers whom these seamen were supposed to respect.
As he said good morning to Jackson, and commented on the fine weather, the sun and the calm sea, he felt he wanted to do something violent: words had failed them all. He realized that he could watch Goddard fall into the sea and flounder around and drown, and his only emotions would be contempt and relief, in that order.
When Yorke arrived on board the Calypso and was met at the entryport by Ramage he was startled to find him grinning and obviously in high spirits, even though today was Sunday and tomorrow the trial was due to open again on board the Salvador del Mundo. There was one thing he had long ago learned about Nicholas, going back to those days when they were together on board the Post Office packet (which was when he first got to know and appreciate men like Southwick and Jackson). When a situation became what most men would regard as desperate, Ramage was likely to become ribald. Danger seemed to rouse him so that he brought zest to even the most routine activities. Loading a pistol, laying a sword blade on the wheel of a grindstone, all these became for Ramage not the prelude to some desperate adventure likely to put a term to his life but the bouquet which would bring a contented smile to a wine connoisseur. His modesty was not false: when he did something brave it genuinely embarrassed him to be congratulated because an action that seemed normal to him would be heroic for most other men.
"You have that contented look, mixed with excitement, of the cat that has stolen all the fish from the pantry and still has some left!" Yorke said.
"If she'll forgive the expression, our cat seems to have arrived!"
Yorke looked puzzled and Ramage led him below to the cabin, sat him down in the battered armchair, and gave him the letter which had been lying opened on the desk.
Yorke saw from the superscription that it was from the commander-in-chief, dated and timed earlier that morning, and telling Ramage:
I have received instructions from my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to postpone your trial for one week, and you are hereby informed that your trial will therefore be resumed seven days later at the same time in the morning . . .
"What do you think that means?"
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "It could mean that Goddard has been taken ill with the colic, or the commander-in-chief wants to prepare the great cabin of the Salvador del Mundo so that his wife can give a vast first-of-the-season ball in my honour ..."
"It could," Yorke agreed, "or perhaps the dockyard has run out of quills and ink so that Jenkins cannot delete evidence from his minutes, but I think there might be some other explanation. When did you get this?" he asked, waving the letter.
"The provost marshal brought it out an hour ago."
"Well, tell me; I'll never guess what it's all about."
"Alexis," Ramage said. "Obviously she's arrived in London."
"Alexis? What on earth has she got to do with this letter? She'll be in London in a day or so, yes, but this letter was written here in Plymouth."
"Ah, you're probably not the first brother who underestimated his sister. But let me tell you what I know, then we can speculate about the rest. The provost marshal (you met him, that young Lieutenant Hill) has been sitting behind me for the whole trial and he realized what Goddard is trying to do, so although officially he is my jailer, Hill is secretly on my side.
"Early this morning he was ordered by flag signal hoisted on Mount Wise to report to the commander-in-chief. He hurried on shore and was given this letter to deliver to me.
"Being an enterprising young fellow, he had a gossip with the commander-in-chief's secretary, who was somewhat ruffled and only too glad of a chance to describe how he had been called from his bed shortly after dawn - on a Sunday, too! - by a messenger who had ridden with an urgent signal from Portsmouth for the admiral.
"Apparently the Admiralty had sent a signal to Portsmouth by the telegraph - taking a matter of minutes - with orders that a messenger should immediately ride with it to Plymouth and deliver it to the commander-in-chief. The poor fellow has been riding for hours and has had a devil of a job getting fresh horses. Luckily there has been a moon, so that he could keep to the road at night.
"When the secretary - roused out when the messenger arrived - saw the instructions on the outside of the letter, signed and sealed by the port admiral at Portsmouth, he called his lord and master from his bed. The admiral read the signal, expressed his displeasure, and dictated that -" Ramage pointed at the letter, "- to the secretary, giving him precise instructions for getting it delivered to me. They're all the facts I know."
"So now we speculate, eh?" Yorke grinned cheerfully. "You start, because you kn
ow more about the bureaucracy than I."
"Well, why should the trial be postponed for another week? Goddard has already delayed things for a few days, because of the Coronation anniversary, and he wanted to square his own yards with the captains forming the court, and perhaps he also wanted to have a quiet chat with the commander-in-chief."
"Then, why the delay?" Yorke asked.
"I'm asking the question, not answering it! The question is whether or not the delay ordered by the Admiralty is the result of something done by Goddard or by ..."
"Alexis?"
"Yes. I'm putting my money on Alexis and the Admiralty. I think she reached London earlier than we expected, and has been harrying authority on my behalf."
Yorke nodded his head slowly. "Yes... but why a week's delay? What happens at the end of that week?"
Ramage laughed. "One thing, for sure: Alexis will have arrived back here with her brace of pistols!"
"Yes," Yorke said seriously, "but surely the Admiralty wouldn't delay anything for even seven seconds because of Alexis. I love my sister and have great faith in her abilities, but let's be realistic!"
"They may not be delaying anything for her but perhaps they're delaying the trial because of something she's done."
"Like seeing Lord St Vincent, or perhaps even Addington?"
"Or blowing up Parliament or attending a levee and complaining to the King,"
Yorke gave a dry laugh. "You can joke about it, but I can see her doing one of those things. All of them, even."
"I wasn't really joking, either," Ramage said. "I can see her, prodding with her parasol. I seem to attract women who can flatten mountains by pointing at them."
"When you get women under your spell, they're inspired to do wild things."
"Oh, that's it, is it? Pity I can't do the same to admirals."
"Ask Alexis to point at Goddard: perhaps she can flatten him too."
"Why the delay, though?" Ramage mused. "A week. Seven days. What can happen a week from tomorrow that can't happen tomorrow?"