by Dudley Pope
'Now for the next one. This, from another admiral, refers to the same episode and says you should have been condemned by a court martial for cowardice, and that the trial he'd ordered was interrupted.
'What am I to believe? Well, I take the word of Sir John, since he's the senior officer.
'Then we have the third report, again from Sir John, telling me how you captured a dismasted Spanish frigate while commanding the Kathleen cutter. As Sir John says, he admires your bravery but cannot possibly overlook that in making the capture you flatly disobeyed Commodore Nelson's orders.
'Well, all that seems clear enough—until I open the enclosure from Commodore Nelson which is full of praise and doesn't mention a word about disobedience.'
He put down the two pages and picked up the remaining ones.
'I received this shortly after the despatch describing the Battle of Cape St Vincent. Sir John gives due credit to your action but makes it quite clear that he's not sure whether it was due to bravery or foolhardiness, and that you acted without orders and, much worse, lost the Kathleen cutter, into the bargain.
'Now,' the First Lord said flatly, 'that's more than sufficient grounds for a court martial. However, since Lieutenant Lord Ramage is involved, it's not as simple as that. Do you know why?'
A puzzled Ramage shook his head.
'Because on the same day I received a private—and, I might say, quite irregular—letter from Commodore Nelson pointing out that had you not deliberately rammed the Spanish San Nicolas with the Kathleen cutter and slowed her down, he would never have been able to catch up and capture her and the San Josef, and he ends his letter with a request that I should "look after" you.'
'Well sir, I------'
'And as if that wasn't enough,' Spencer said with a show of anger, 'no sooner does Sir John receive an earldom for his splendid leadership in the battle than he tells me that if any occasion arises where a resourceful young officer is needed, I could make use of you—as long as I didn't expect you to pay any heed to my orders!'
'But, my Lord------'
'And another very senior officer present at the battle writes to a friend—who sent me a copy of the letter—saying that you and another officer ought to be brought to trial at once in case other captains take it into their head to ignore the Fighting Instructions and quit the line of battle.'
'But Captain Calder's known to be jealous of the Commodore------'
Spencer lifted a hand to silence him and said grimly, 'I didn't mention Captain Calder's name, and I recall that the Commodore received a knighthood and the nation's admiration for capturing two Spanish sail of the line.'
Numbed and resentful, Ramage stared down at the table, trying to guess the reason for Spencer's long recital. It sounded more like a prosecutor reading the charges. Warily he waited for the judgement since he obviously hadn't been summoned to see the First Lord for a social talk.
'How is the Marchesa?'
'Well enough, thank you, my Lord,' mumbled Ramage, taken completely by surprise and wondering if he'd murmured his thoughts aloud.
'She looked very lovely at Lady Spencer's ball the night before last. In fact we both remarked what a splendid pair you made. You're an appalling dancer, though.'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'I believe she's very grateful for the risks you took when rescuing her.'
'So I'm given to understand, sir,' Ramage said stiffly.
'And obviously prepared to run risks herself by dancing with you.'
Ramage remained silent.
Spencer suddenly slapped the table and laughed.
'Ramage, my boy, every other lieutenant in the Navy List would give ten years of his life to sit where you sit now with the First Lord. At every opportunity they'd say "Yes, my Lord", "No, my Lord". They'd laugh at my poorest jokes. They'd agree with everything I said. They certainly wouldn't sulk, because they know one word from me would put them on the beach for the rest of their lives.'
'Quite, my Lord.'
Every word was true and Ramage knew it; he was sulking like a schoolboy: like a child who kept crying long after he'd forgotten what caused the tears.
'There's a slight difference in my case, my Lord.'
'And that is ... ?'
'Since I knew before I came into this room I was going to be put on the beach for losing the Kathleen, sir, I've nothing to lose—or gain—by laughing, saying yes or saying no.'
Even as he spoke he regretted the words: they were—discipline apart—unnecessarily offensive to a man who was clearly trying to do in the kindest, most tactful way, whatever the Board had decided. And Ramage suddenly realized he'd misunderstood Spencer's earlier remark about the great and the shameful decisions made in this room. The Board must have outvoted Spencer, who'd probably spoken up for him Spencer had been giving him advance warning, not apologizing for the orders given years ago to his father.
Yet the First Lord said nothing in reply to his outburst; no anger showed in his face; instead it was bland. He looked down and opened the drawer again, bringing out several flat packets, all sealed with red wax. He sorted them out and slid them along the table towards Ramage.
'Read out the superscriptions.'
'Rear Admiral Sir Roger Curtis, K.B., off Brest...Admiral the Earl St Vincent, off Cadiz... Rear Admiral Henry Robinson, Windward Islands Station... Lieutenant the Lord Ramage, Blazey House, Palace Street, London... Lieutenant the Lord Ramage, Blazey House, Palace Street, London...'
Ramage glanced up to see Spencer's sardonic smile.
'You can open those addressed to you. Here------' he pushed across the silver paper-knife.
Nervously Ramage slit open the first He recognized the once-folded piece of parchment and his eyes immediately picked out the relevant word—'Lieutenant the Lord Ramage ... His Majesty's brig Triton... willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her... Hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril...' It was signed, 'Spencer, Arden, Jas. Gambier'— three of the Lords Commissioners.
His commission! And what a command—a brig! Triton, Triton... ? He searched his memory.
'Ten guns, two years old, fresh out of the dockyard after a refit,' Spencer said.
'Thank you, sir,' Ramage said humbly, holding up the commission. 'I didn't expect quite...'
'I know. Keep your gratitude for a moment: you've another letter to read.'
Unpleasant orders, no doubt He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom & Ireland
Whereas by our Commission bearing date this day we have appointed your Lordship to the command of His Majesty's brig Triton, you are hereby required and directed to proceed without loss of time in His Majesty's brig Triton under your command to Rendezvous Number Five off Brest and deliver to Admiral Sir Roger Curtis the packet with which you have already been entrusted. You will men, without loss of time, proceed to Rendezvous Number Eleven, off Cape St Vincent and having ascertained from whichever frigate is stationed there, the posi tion of the squadron under the command of Admiral the Earl of St Vincent, you are to deliver to His Lordship the packet which has already been delivered to you, taking particular care that neither you nor any of your ships company shall inform any other person or persons in Lord St Vincent's squadron of the state of affairs at Spithead.
Upon reporting to His Lordship, you will answer any questions put to you by His Lordship as freely and truthfully as is within your power.
As soon as His Lordship permits you will leave the squadron and proceed without loss of time to the Windward Islands Station and, immediately upon finding Rear-Admiral Henry Robinson or, should he be absent, the senior officer upon the station, and deliver to him the packet of which you are already possessed, and answer any questions put to you as freely and truthfully as lies within your power. You will take particular care that neither you nor your ship's compa
ny shall inform any other person in Admiral Robinson's squadron of the state of affairs at Spithead.
You will then place yourself under the command of Rear-Admiral Robinson, or if he is absent, the senior officer upon the station, for your further proceedings.
Given the 16th day of April 1797.
Spencer, Arden, Jas. Gambler.
As he was reading the time-honoured phrases, Ramage knew mere was a 'but'. Giving him command of the Triton brig was obviously the Admiralty's way of privately approving his recent behaviour and equally privately rewarding him for it; but there must be a special reason why he had been selected. The task seemed more appropriate to a frigate commanded by a post-captain.
'Well?' demanded Spencer.
'Seems straightforward, sir.'
'The Triton's at Spithead.'
But every ship of war at Spithead had mutinied: when Admiral Lord Bridport had made the signal to weigh anchor a few days ago, the seamen in some fifteen sail of the line had refused to obey, run up the shrouds and given three cheers. The officers had been sent on shore and ropes had been rove from the foreyardanns, warning that anyone who did not support the mutiny would be hanged.
At this moment, Ramage reflected, the Admiralty which administered the most powerful fleet the world had ever seen couldn't tell a dozen men to row a boat with any hope of its order being obeyed. He laughed involuntarily at the absurdity of it.
Immediately Spencer's hands clenched, the knuckles white.
'You find the fact His Majesty's Fleet at Spithead is in a state of mutiny and complete anarchy a laughing matter, Ramage?'
'No, sir I' he added hastily. 'It's just that I seem doomed to get commands in—er, unusual—circumstances. The Sibella was under attack and sinking when I had to take command as the only surviving officer. My first task after being given my first official command, the Kathleen cutter, was to rescue the crew of a frigate aground and under enemy fire. Then I lost the Kathleen at the Battle of Cape St Vincent. Now—if you'll forgive me for saving so, my Lord—my next command is a brig whose crew has mutinied!'
Spencer smiled and for a moment said nothing. Yes, the lad was like his father. Face on the thin side, high cheekbones, eyes deep-set under thick eyebrows, nose straight, not quite aquiline. By no means handsome but, as his wife had remarked a couple of evenings ago at the ball, there was something about the lad that made him stand out among the hundred or so men present Hard to define why—he wasn't tall; in fact he was quite average. Slim hips, wide shoulders and an arrogant walk. No, Spencer thought, not arrogant as much as confident. Habit of rubbing that old scar over his brow—as he was doing this very minute—when he was worried, find trouble pronouncing the letter V when he got excited—he'd just say 'bwig' for 'brig'.
Spencer forgot the mutiny as he studied Ramage, realizing a lot would depend on the lad's character over the next few weeks. Next few hours, in fact. No, it wasn't the face or the stance, nor the physique or the voice... At that moment Ramage glanced up nervously and Spencer saw that part of it was the eyes. He realized they could express the same menace or defiance as the muzzles of a pair of pistols. And looking into them you could no more guess his thoughts than you could see the lead shot in the pistols' barrels. Yet you didn't see those eyes across the length of a ballroom. What was it then? It was like glancing up at the night sky—a few stars out of the millions visible caught the eye, for no apparent reason. Spencer finally admitted he couldn't define it, though it was clear why Ramage's men were devoted to him: he combined a decisive manner with a dry sense of humour and, like his father, he combined a highly developed, even if arbitrary, sense of justice with an uncontrollable impatience with fools. Well, no harm in that—as long as be never became a member of the Board and had to persuade the rest to adopt some policy they were too stupid to understand.
Realizing he'd been staring at Ramage for some moments, Spencer smiled and asked:
'Why do you think you were chosen to command the Triton and given these orders?'
'I've no idea, sir,' Ramage said frankly.
'Since you've already given the reason yourself without realizing it, I'll tell you—and I'm speaking to the son of an old friend, not to a young lieutenant!
'The Board know full well that to get the Triton under way at Spithead is going to need ingenuity and quick thinking by her commanding officer; perhaps even highly irregular methods which might lead to violence and which, if it resulted in a public outcry, the Board would have to disown.'
He held up his hand to stop Ramage interrupting and continued:
'The Board also know it's easier to persuade fifty seamen than a couple of hundred, so they chose a brig rather than a frigate. Selecting a lieutenant to command her—well, there was only one man known to them who was the junior lieutenant of a frigate when he was rendered unconscious in battle and woke to find himself her commanding officer and behaved with great initiative and bravery; and only one lieutenant who was quick enough to spot that the only way to prevent several Spanish ships of the line from escaping capture was to ram me leading one with the tiny cutter he was commanding.
'That the lieutenant happens to be you is a fortunate coincidence,' Spencer added.
But Ramage had already spotted the potential trap.
'If anything went wrong at Spithead, then 'I'll make a convenient scapegoat,' he added bitterly. 'And the son of "Old Blazeaway" into the bargain.'
'Scapegoat, yes—if you fail,' Spencer said blandly. 'And no public credit if you succeed, because no one but the Admiralty knows the problems you'll have overcome.'
'Exactly, my Lord.'
'You have a poor view of politicians, Ramage—and in view of your family's experience, I can't blame you. But you'd be wise to give the Board a little more credit For a start, the Board chose the man they thought would succeed. That's their prime interest. But the man they chose might fail and might become a scapegoat.'
He wagged a finger as he said slowly, emphasizing each word, 'Don't forget any public outcry brings the Navy into disrepute. Just suppose a public outcry forced us to bring you to trial. What better defence can the Admiralty have for their choice than citing your record so far—omitting your tendency to ignore orders? Who else could call witnesses to his character ranging from Lord St Vincent and Sir Horatio Nelson down to seamen who were on board the Kathleen when you rammed the San Nicolas'}' Ramage was almost persuaded and grateful to the First Lord for his frankness. He was just going to reply when Spencer said quietly:
'We're putting a lot of faith in you, Ramage. It's vital that the three admirals are warned of what's happening at Spit-head. Supposing the mutiny spreads to Admiral Duncan's fleet watching the Dutch, or Sir Richard Curtis's off Brest, or Lord St Vincent's covering the Spanish off Cadiz, or Admiral Robinson's covering the Windward and Leeward Islands, or Sir Hyde Parker's at Jamaica...
'The Royal Navy's all that stands between us and defeat,' he continued. 'You realize that. The price of bread is rising, the people are restive with empty purses and often empty bellies, Parliament is more than restive with a Government that can only announce defeats and the defection of one ally after another on the Continent. And every damned merchant in the City of London is screaming that he's ruined. Sometimes, Ramage, I wonder where and how it will all end. I daren't even think of when.' Since his only knowledge of the mutinies came from the newspapers, Ramage asked: 'What exactly are the men asking for, sir?'
'More pay; leave to visit their families when in port; better provisions and issued at sixteen ounces to the pound, not fourteen; vegetables to be served with fresh beef instead of flour when in port; better conditions for the sick; wounded to be paid until they're fit or pensioned... It's a long list.'
Hard to judge Spencer's attitude from his voice, but Ramage wondered if the First Lord knew the views of many of the junior captains. For sure he'd have heard the views of every admiral with enough wind left to express them; yet did he realize that quite a number of officers had for years felt the
men's conditions should be improved? Well, now was me time...
'I think many officers feel some of me grievances are justified, sir,' he said quietly.
'I daresay,' Spencer said, 'but we can only spend the money Parliament votes us—and that's already well over twelve million pounds a year. Why, the Secretary's calculated that it'd cost over half a million a year to meet these demands.'
'But granting the men leave after they've been at sea for a year or so------'
'Out of the question!' Spencer snapped. 'They'd desert in droves!'
'Not the good men,' Ramage persisted. 'They only desert because they desperately want to see their families.'
Then, seeing Spencer was tapping the table impatiently, he decided to make just one more point.
'Purser's measure, sir—I can guess that's one of the men's main grievances. Before they went to sea, these men always considered a pound weight consisted of sixteen ounces. Yet when a sixteen-ounce pound of meat is sent to a ship, only fourteen ounces are issued to the men and they're called a pound------'
'Ramage, you know as well as I do about wasting. Meat goes rotten, bread gets stale, beer leaks, weevils eat the flour. & the purser wasn't allowed the difference between the two measures he'd never balance his books!'
Ramage then knew it was pointless to argue. Spencer was surrounded by clerks with their ledgers. He'd never seen a dishonest purser at work; never seen the wretched fellow altering his books the moment a seaman died, debiting him with clothes and tobacco he'd never had, so that there was nothing left of the man's pay for the wretched widow...
Spencer's next question caught him unawares.
'Do you think you can make sixty mutineers get the Triton under way?'
'No, sir,' he answered, suddenly realizing this was his chance to lessen the odds. 'I don't think anyone could board a brig which had a mutinous crew and make them do anything, even if he had fifty Marines to back him up.'