by Dudley Pope
He might just as well have flung an inkwell into the First Lord's face.
'My God, Ramage! You realize what's at stake? You, of all people, now saying you can't do it when a minute or two ago you said...'
He began pushing his chair back, obviously intending to leave the room.
'Sir------'
Spencer paused. 'Well?'
'I'm afraid you misunderstood me: I meant I couldn't force a ship's company / didn't know to do what I wanted. But if I may ask a favour...'
'Go on, man!'
'Well sir, I was thinking of my Kathleens------'
1—But she's sunk! They're distributed among Lord Vincent's squadron.'
'No, sir, Twenty-five of them were sent to the Lively with me—she was short of men—and came back to England.'
'Good men?'
'The best, sir! I chose them myself.'
'But the Lively's at Portsmouth or Spithead; she's probably affected.'
'I know, sir,' Ramage persisted, 'but if half the Triton's present complement could be exchanged for the twenty-five ex-Kathleens in the Lively, at least I'd have halved the odds by having nearly half a ship's company who've—well, who've------'
'Followed you because you're you...' Spencer said with a grimace. 'Very well, a messenger will take the orders to Portsmouth within an hour. That'll give the men plenty of time to settle in before you arrive.'
'May I ask one more favour, sir.'
Spencer nodded.
'The Master, sir. I'm sure the Triton's present one is a good man, but the former Master of the Kathleen, Henry Southwick, might help me turn the trick with me men.'
'Very well Anything else?'
'No sir. The rest is up to me.'
'Good. But look here, Ramage, I must make one thing clear. You know as well as I do that until you reach the West Indies and come under Admiral Robinson's command, you'll be a private ship. But don't go chasing after prizes just because there's no admiral to take his eighth share.'
Ramage's resentment must have shown in his face much as he tried to control it, because Spencer said coolly:
'You're a deuced touchy youngster. I didn't mean you'd go after the money; just telling you the Admiralty can't and don't approve of your habit of going your own way. I'd be i poor friend of your family if I didn't warn you not to make a habit of it. It's like duelling. Someone challenges and wins a duel. Very well—perhaps it was a matter of honour. But sometimes a man develops a taste for duelling: before long he's constantly looking for an imagined insult to justify a challenge. By men he's no better than a murderer.'
'I understand, sir.'
'Good. Now, you'll leave for Portsmouth tonight. We'd better spend half an hour going over the details of what's been happening at Spithead and how the Admiralty and Parliament view it, so that you can answer any questions from the admirals. Here, pen and paper and ink: make notes as I talk.'
CHAPTER TWO
Dusty and weary after a night's journey in the post-chaise from London to Portsmouth, Ramage walked through the great dockyard after visiting the Admiral Superintendent's office with as much enthusiasm for the task ahead as a condemned man going to the wall to face a firing squad.
Normally there was more bustle in the streets of Portsmouth than in the City of London; normally the dockyard was busier than Billingsgate Fishmarket, and the language riper, and one had to keep a weather eye open for fear of being run down by an exuberant crowd of shipwrights' apprentices hurrying along with a handcart of wood.
There'd be the thudding of a hundred adzes biting into solid English oak, shaping futtocks and beams for new ships of war; the sharp clanking of blacksmiths' hammers shaping red-hot metal in the forges; the grating of two-handled saws cutting logs into planks in the sawyers' pits.
Groups of seamen from the various ships with a cheery 'One, two and heave!' would normally be hoisting sacks and barrels of provisions on to a cart, while the masts and yards sprouting from ships in the docks between the buildings would be alive with men bending on new sails and replacing worn-out rigging.
Marine sentries guarding the gates and the buildings would be saluting smartly, muskets clattering in a cloud of pipe-clay.
But today the dockyard was deserted as though abandoned before an approaching enemy army. Not one adze, blacksmith's hammer or saw was at work; not one forge had its furnace alight: the mutineers had frightened the craftsmen into staying at home. The masts and yards were bare—indeed, few yards were even squared.
Although there were plenty of seamen about, they slouched, some of them insolently walking out of their way to pass dose to an officer without saluting.
For the first time in his life Ramage felt he didn't belong; neither to me dockyard nor the ships. All were alien, things of brick or wood through which malevolent ghosts walked.
And the Port Admiral... He'd cursed and sworn with well-nigh apoplectic vigour about the mutineers and the disrespect they'd shown him; but he'd been quite unable to tell Ramage what was going on. In fact Ramage ended the interview with the uncomfortable feeling the Admiral considered him an odd fellow for being so inquisitive and was far more concerned that, as a new Commanding officer joining his ship he took a copy—and signed a receipt for it—of me bulky 'Port Orders' which outlined in considerable detail how the port's daily routine was to be conducted.
Ramage seemed as he recalled the interview. When he'd asked whether the Triton was provisioned for the West Indies and ready for sea, the question had been brushed aside, the Admiral drawing his attention to me first of the Port Orders and reading it out—'The receipt of all Orders or Letters on Service is to be immediately acknowledged in writing...'
Like a naval Nero fiddling while the Fleet mutinied, the Admiral reacted by ignoring it, apart from i tirade against the men in the Royal George who'd dared to hoist a red flag —the 'bloody flag'.
However, he'd finally managed to discover that Southwick had already gone on board the Triton. That was something, even though the Admiral added with gloomy relish that the mutineers had by now probably put him in irons and would do me same to Ramage the moment he set foot on board.
Recalling Lord Spencer's reactions when he'd attempted to warn him that many captains felt some of the seamen's grievances were justified, Ramage suddenly understood why the First Lord showed so little interest: he relied on his admirals to advise him; men like the Port Admiral. Men who, when they went to sea, took their own provisions, own cook and own servants; who, by the very nature of their high position, had to remain remote from the seamen. Little wonder the First Lord showed little sympathy for the men.
And suddenly he guessed that the mutineers' leaders must have realized all this long ago; realized that open mutiny was the only chance of getting better conditions. Since the men had already announced their loyalty to the King and vowed they'd sail at once if the French Fleet put to sea, there was no question that the mutiny was fomented by revolutionaries.
But why, he mused, couldn't people of Spencer's calibre understand that conditions must be bad for thousands of men to risk hanging to secure a few pence more pay, another two ounces in a pound of provisions, occasional shore leave and better treatment for the sick and wounded? The only possible explanation was that the admirals, unwilling to be the bearers of unpalatable news, had forgotten they had a loyalty to their men and told the First Lord what they thought he'd want to hear...
Who on earth was waving from that doorway? Suddenly Ramage recognized the lanky figure of Thomas Jackson, an American seaman and his former coxswain in the Kathleen: the man who'd helped him rescue the Marchesa and helped him escape, using false papers, after being captured by the Spaniards. Each had saved the other's life more than once; between them was the bond of shared dangers, failures and successes.
Glancing round to make sure none of the seamen was watching, Ramage walked over to the building, with apparent casualness, noticing Jackson had disappeared through the open door.
The building was a coope
r's store, full of empty barrels and casks, with thousands of staves and hoops piled on top of each other in great stacks.
'Morning, sir: sorry to be waving like that but------'
'Good to see you, Jackson: you're mustered in the Triton?'
'Aye, sir: all the Kathleens exchanged into her from the Lively and Mr Southwick's joined. That's why I'm here.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, sir, us Kathleens didn't think anything about the exchange because the Lively's due for a refit soon; but when Mr Southwick arrived alongside one or two of us began to wonder. The original Tritons were all for keeping him off, but we got him on board. I tipped him the wink and as he knew you were due he thought I'd better stay on shore to keep a weather eye open.'
'Good. Now, how are things on board?'
'Bad, I'm afraid, sir.'
The Tritons?'
'They support the mutiny, every one of them. There's no violence, though. They're good enough men at heart.'
'A particular leader?'
'One man—the rest follow him.'
'If he wasn't on board?'
'Don't know, sir, to be honest. Someone else might take his place.'
'Any likely candidates?'
'No, I don't think so. But I've only been on board a short while, sir: it's hard to be sure.'
'The Kathleens?'
Jackson looked embarrassed.
'Come on, speak out, Jackson. The whole damned Fleet's mutinied, so nothing else can surprise me!'
'It's difficult to explain, sir, because the men's claims __________'
'We're not discussing conditions in the Navy, Jackson, because I can't change them. Now, how do the Kathleens stand?'
'Well, sir...'
He understood only too well Jackson's dilemma: those twenty-five men were among the finest in the Navy: cheerful, loyal and well-disciplined. After the Kathleen had been sunk he'd hand-picked those sent to the Lively and it had been difficult to choose them.
And how ironical—here's Jackson, an American and in law neutral, explaining away the disloyalty of Britons to the Royal Navy!
'It's like this, sir,' Jackson finally began, running a hand through his thinning hair, then pinching his nose. 'The delegates from all the sail of the line have told the smaller ships to stay out of the mutiny, but they're being ignored, because all the men think the Fleet's claims are reasonable. So the Kathleens—well, in the Lively we were just a small group and with everyone else in favour—well, we agreed.
'Everything's being organized by the delegates in the big ships: they're doing all the running around, shouting and cheering, sending the officers on shore, and hoisting the "bloody flag". In the frigates it's different; it just means no one doing any work. Just playing cards and so on------'
Ramage interrupted: 'Stop backing and rilling! Get to the point!'
'Well, you couldn't have done anything with the Kathleens in the Lively because whatever they thought they were outnumbered five to one. In the Triton there's thirty-six originals and twenty-five Kathleens. It's a question of whether the Tritons threaten to stop the Kathleens doing anything.'
'You think they will.'
'Yes. At least, this fellow I was telling you about will.'
'And the Kathleens would obey him?'
'I'm not sure.' Jackson said frankly. 'Stafford, Fuller, Rossi, Maxton—all of them would do anything for you personally, sir. But—well, this mutiny's the only chance the Fleet has of getting an improvement.'
'What you mean is,' Ramage said bluntly, 'they think they've got to be loyal to the mutineers, and it'd be unfair to ask 'em to be loyal to me as well.'
'That's more or less it, sir,' Jackson admitted.
'I wonder if the mutineers realize that if the French Navy mutinied Bonaparte'd shoot every third man.'
'I know,' Jackson said soberly. 'That's why I'm...'
He didn't finish the sentence, and Ramage knew there was nothing more the American could tell him.
The task was simple enough; the execution was so complicated he doubted if anyone could do it. Who, with nothing to offer, could talk honest men into dividing their loyalty?
'Go back on board,' he told Jackson, 'and pass the word to Mr Southwick that I'll be out within the hour. But don't tell anyone else.'
*
The boatman at the tiller of the little cutter slicing its way through the choppy sea to take Ramage to the brig at anchor near the Spit Sand outside the harbour was as talkative and inquisitive as his mate was silent and uninterested.
'The Triton you said, sir?'
'Yes.'
'Nice little ship. Just finished refitting, they say.'
Ramage nodded.
'You'll be the new capting, I suppose, sir?'
Ramage dodged the question in case the man was in the pay of the mutineers, and asked: 'What happened to her present one?'
'Put on shore by the mutineers he was, like a lot of the officers from the ships of the line. An 'ard man, they do say.'
Ramage nodded.
'Took me new Master out to her last night.'
Ramage nodded again and, tapping the leather bag he held on his lap, said, 'I'm merely a messenger.'
The boatman eyed his trunk stowed under a tarpaulin to protect it from the spray.
'Aye,' he said, with all the insolence of a man who carried a Protection in his pocket, exempting him from the attention of a press gang, 'I guessed you must be.'
With that he spat to leeward and, jamming his hip against the tiller, dug into his pocket for a knife and a quid of tobacco. He sliced off a piece, stuck it in his mouth and began chewing.
The Triton was at anchor off Fort Monckton and just dear of Spit Sand, the big shoal on the Gosport side which almost sealed off the V-shaped entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. The shoal left only a narrow channel for large ships and it ran close in along the Southsea and Portsmouth side. Ramage noted grimly, as an idea began to form in his mind, that at half-ebb and half-flood the tidal stream there was very strong.
At first the Gosport shore sheltered the harbour entrance from the brisk west wind, but as the cutter slipped across the shallow Hamilton Bank the waves were short and high and spray blew aft, and Ramage wrapped himself in his boat cloak.
As the cutter beat down parallel with the coast he could see the Triton more clearly. Finally, with the brig bearing north-west the boatman growled:
'Mind yer 'ead, sir: smartly with them sheets, Bert.'
He pushed the tiller over and the sail swung across, filled on the other tack, and the cutter sped directly towards the brig.
Outlined against fiat land to the south of Haslar Hospital the little brig looked trim and warlike. Her two masts were exactly me same height; her hull gleamed black with a broad white strake sweeping along a few inches below the top of her bulwarks and a little wider than her gun ports, which showed as five black squares. She was floating low on her marks—showing she'd been provisioned for several months —and her yards were hanging square.
Ramage realized the boatman was steering to go alongside on the larboard side, a deliberate insult since the other side was used for officers.
'Starboard side, dam' you,' Ramage growled without looking round. That's cost you your tip.'
'Sorry sir—no offence meant; just wasn't thinking:'
'Don't lie: d'you think I don't recognize a former man o' war's man?'
It was a long shot but, from the way the man lapsed into silence, an accurate one.
The mate went to the halyards and, as the boatman luffed up the cutter, let go the halyard. Both of them grabbed the sail and stifled it and a moment later the mate had hooked on alongside the brig.
After paying the boatman Ramage slung the strap of his leather bag over his left shoulder and climbed up the brig's side battens.
There'd been no hail from a sentry on board the Triton, but Ramage knew many pairs of eyes had been watching his approach.
A few moments later he was standing on deck just forwa
rd of the main mast. A score of seamen lounging around were doing nothing, but Southwick, his hat unsuccessful in its attempt to contain his flowing white hair, was standing there saluting, a broad grin on his red face.
'Welcome on board, sir!'
Ramage returned the salute and at once shook the old Master by the hand.
'Hello and thank you, Mr Southwick: I'm glad to see you again. Are there any other commission or warrant officers on board?'
Realizing the significance of Ramage's words, Southwick said quickly: 'No, sir, only myself.'
'Very well.'
Unhurriedly Ramage opened the leather bag, took out and unfolded a large sheet of paper and, turning so the men on the deck could hear, began reading it aloud, the wind snatching at his words.
'By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom and Ireland... to 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 accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said brig to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments, with all due respect to you, their said Captain... you will carry out the General Printed Instructions and any orders and instructions you may receive ... hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril...'
He folded me paper and put it back in the bag. By reading to the officers on board the commission appointing him captain, he had 'read himself in', lawfully establishing himself in command. In happier times me ship's company would also have been mustered to hear it and he would have concluded with a speech which would have given them all a chance to size him up.
Jackson, Stafford and Fuller were now standing by the gangway, and Ramage was thankful for the American's foresight which ensured that his first order, to be made through the Master, would be obeyed. First impressions ...
'Mr Southwick, would you have my trunk hoisted on board from the cutter—the boatman has been paid. Then join me in the cabin.'
With that he walked slowly aft to the taffrail, turned and looked forward along the whole length of the deck.