Ramage and the Freebooters r-3

by Dudley Pope

  Ramage flung down the axe and began walking aft, his face cold with a perspiration brought on by fear, not physical exertion. It was done now: the challenge had been flung at the mutineers' feet: obey the order to make sail or drown when the Triton hit the shoal and either heeled over and then filled on the rising tide or was lifted up and down by the waves until she pounded to pieces. There was only one flaw and he hoped they'd be too excited to spot it: boats from other ships in the Fleet might rescue them in time.

  The men began shouting at one another and gesticulating —not at Ramage but at the two boats stowed on deck between the two masts. Three or four men began hurrying towards the boats but Southwick was beside him holding out a musketoon, a musket with a very large bore and the muzzle belled out like a trumpet, Ramage took it and shouted: 'Still!'

  The sudden shout combined with the equally unexpected single word 'still'—which normally brought everyone on deck to attention—stopped every man and every tongue for five seconds, during which Ramage promptly cocked the musketoon, the click in the silence sounding as loud as a blacksmith's hammer hitting an anvil.

  'If anyone moves towards those boats I'll fire through the bottoms so they won't float anyway. Now, you've three minutes to make sail before we hit the shoal.'

  Touch and go: would they have the wit to rush him instead? There'd be plenty of confusion anyway because it'd been impossible to prepare a general quarter, watch and station bill which would have described every man's post for manoeuvre, including weighing anchor and making sail.

  But no one was moving. Frightened or still defiant? Hard to tell, but he must assume the former. Plenty of confusion gave anyone with definite ideas or orders an opportunity to get control.

  'Carry on, Southwick, this is our chance!' he said quietly. 'Walk aft—detail the first dozen you meet as foretopmen, second dozen maintopmen, then half a dozen afterguard and fo'c'slemen, and we'll sort the rest out as we go. Jackson and Stafford at the helm.'

  Southwick gave him back his sword and walked through the group, gesticulating as he went. Still holding the musketoon Ramage watched, his body rigid with tension.

  Yes! A dozen men were walking forward now, six of them going to the larboard side and six to the starboard— the foretopmen. A dozen more split up to go to the main shrouds as maintopmen. A small group headed aft and another turned to the fo'c'sle.

  Keep the initiative, he muttered to himself; but there's not much time. A glance over the larboard side at the wide area of waves breaking grey and white showed that even if he got through a crisis with the crew, another of his own making was looming close to leeward in the shape of the shoal.

  'Away aloft!' he shouted.

  At once two dozen men began scrambling up the ratlines of both masts.

  With that he began walking aft to the quarterdeck, the traditional centre of all orders and discipline where South-wick was waiting anxiously.

  'Going to be touch and go whether we can get into the Swatchway!' the Master muttered.

  'It'd better go—if we touch we'll never get off!'

  Southwick's laughter, louder because of the strain he was under, boomed across the deck. Men stopped for a moment and looked aft nervously. Ramage, realizing it might ease the tension, also began bellowing with laughter at his own joke. Then the men carried on, obviously puzzled but probably reassured. The shoal was a couple of hundred yards away: six ship-lengths. He'd just weather the western end if no one made a mistake.

  'Jackson, Stafford! Take the helm. Speaking trumpet, South wick.'

  Handing Southwick the musketoon, he put the black japanned trumpet to his lips and methodically began shouting the string of familiar orders which would get the Triton under way. Quickly the triangular-shaped jib snaked up as men hauled at the halyard, and the sheets were trimmed.

  Almost at the same moment the foretopsail was let fall from the yard, hanging down like an enormous curtain, followed by the maintopsail.

  He could see the men were working swiftly now: the instinct for self-preservation was swamping any mutinous ideas...

  Swiftly the yards were hoisted and braced round and the sheets hauled home so the sails caught every scrap of wind, but for many long moments the brig was dead in the water, the wind on her hull simply pushing her sideways down towards the end of the shoal.

  Then, at first almost imperceptibly, the Triton gathered way and Ramage began passing orders to Jackson and Stafford at the helm. Once she was making a couple of knots or more the rudder would get a bite on the water; until then she'd continue moving crabwise to leeward.

  Ramage watched the buildings on the shore at Gilkicker Point and saw the Triton's bowsprit gradually stop swinging towards them, then begin to head up to starboard. Steerage-way at last!

  A glance over the larboard side showed the end of the shoal was less than forty yards to leeward; but even as he watched the flurry of waves breaking over it began to draw aft. Another glance round to get his bearings and see where the Swatchway Channel began.

  Now the brig was beginning to heel in stronger gusts of wind and slowly Ramage managed to work her up until, with the entrance of the channel broad on the larboard bow, it was safe to ease sheets and braces and bear away to pass through it.

  Leaving Southwick to give the final orders to trim each sail to perfection, Ramage watched the bulky line of battle ships anchored to the south at Spithead, beyond the Spit Sand. The Port Admiral had been sure they'd open fire as the Triton passed, but Ramage hoped he'd taken them by surprise, unexpectedly cutting through the Swatchway instead of using the main channel and then, by hugging the shore under Gilkicker Point, keep out of the arcs of fire even if they could get the guns loaded and run out in time.

  There was no sign of the alarm being raised; no flags being hoisted or a gun fired to draw attention to them.

  'There's a little cutter flying our pennant numbers and trying to catch up, sir,' called Southwick.

  Fresh orders? Or the surgeon, midshipman, bo'sun and sergeant of Marines me Triton lacked and the Port Admiral had been trying to find for him? Well, they'd have to chase for a few more minutes, until he could wait out of range of the Fleet's guns. Finally he said:

  'Heave-to and wait for 'em, Mr Southwick; 'I'll be in the cabin.'

  As he went down the companionway to his cabin it was broad daylight but the thick, grey rolling cloud coming over the Porchester hills would hide the sunrise in a few minutes.

  Well, he'd won every trick so far—although, he told himself bitterly, he'd had to do it by force: he'd failed to persuade the men to obey his orders from the beginning. Still, the effect was the same.

  But winning the final trick depended on the cards held by the seaman Harris, waiting in his cabin. That one man might have it in his power during the next few hours to stop the Triton delivering the despatches to Admirals Curtis and St Vincent and then crossing the Western Ocean to warn Admiral Robinson in the Caribbean.

  It was a crazy situation, he reflected, that the success of the First Lord's orders, the intentions of the Board of Admiralty, the desperate need to warn these admirals at sea without a moment's delay that the Fleet at Spithead had mutinied, probably depended at this particular moment not on storms in the Western Ocean, good navigation or Lieutenant Ramage, but on a man called Harris, rated able seaman in the Triton's muster book.

  He was standing by the table as Ramage entered the cabin and he stood to attention. Ramage nodded and hung his sword on a hook beside the desk. Pulling the chair round he then sat down and took the muster book out of the drawer.

  The daylight shining down through the skylight was cold and grew, stronger now than the yellow, warm light of the lantern whose wick gave the cabin a stuffy, sooty smell.

  Turning to Harris, Ramage asked quietly:

  'When did you join the ship?'

  'July last year, sir.'

  Ramage turned back a few pages and found the entry.

  Alfred Harris, age thirty-one, born at Basingstoke, Hampshi
re, volunteer, three years in me Navy.

  Ramage chose his words carefully, Harris had been down here in the cabin for some time: he knew only that the Triton was under way, and that the whole ship's company had apparently obeyed Ramage's orders. Any reference to mutiny must, therefore, be in the past tense.

  'Harris—were you the ringleader of the mutiny in this ship, or Just the men's spokesman?'

  'Spokesman, sir.'

  'Who was the ringleader?'

  He knew Harris would never reveal a name; but he might reveal something much more important There wasn't a ringleader, sir. You see, after the sail o' the line refused to obey the Admiral's signal for the Fleet to get under way, the delegates came on board and told us the Fleet had mutinied. We could see that anyway—men cheering, the bloody flag flying, an' all that.'

  'Yet you were the spokesman for the mutineers in the Triton: 'Not quite like that, sir.'

  'Like what, men? The men had mutinied and they regarded you as their leader.'

  'Well, sir, we hadn't really mutinied. We'd been—well, doing nothing, like the rest of the small ships of the Fleet, for several days. The delegates were all from the sail of me line: they told us in the small ships to leave it to them. Then when Mr Southwick suddenly came on board the men just left it to me to explain how—well, how things stood.'

  'And before Mr Southwick came on board?'

  'I was just one of the men, sir.'

  Deciding bluff might help, Ramage asked:

  'Why did they choose you? There must be a reason. In fact I heard you made yourself the leader.'

  'No, sir!' Harris exclaimed. 'Whoever told you dial's a liar!'

  'Have you any enemies on board?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Then why would anyone tell lies about you?'

  'I don't know, sir. All I------'

  'Well?'

  '—All I do is write the letters for them that can't write, sir, and read letters from home. The men—well, they sort of rely on me.'

  It was so simple and so obviously true. To the men Harris would be 'educated'; an obvious choice as a spokesman. They hadn't so much chosen him as left it to him. Yet if the Admiralty acted harshly, interpreted the Articles of War literally, it could----- 'You realize you can be hanged for what you've done?'

  'Hanged, sir? Me, sir? Why, I...'

  The man was stockily built, with a round and cheerful face, md fair hair that refused to grow at any normal angle from his head. He was the man in the shop helping the butcher, the baker or the grocer serve the customers: quietly-spoken, honest, well-meaning... And now the cheerful face was frightened: perspiration forming on the upper lip, hands clasped tightly behind the back, a slight sagging in at me chest, the shoulders coming forward, as if half-expecting a blow. And Ramage knew me man was hurriedly recalling the dozens of times he'd heard the Articles of War read aloud by the captain—at least once a month all the time he was it sea.

  Ramage let him dunk for a full couple of minutes, then said quietly:

  'I'll refresh your memory. Article Three, for instance: anyone who "shall give, hold or entertain intelligence to or with any Enemy or Rebel...'—punishable by death. Article four: failing to tell a superior officer about any letter or message from an enemy or rebel within twelve hours—death or such punishment as the court awards. Article Five: endeavouring to corrupt—same punishment. Article Nineteen: making a mutinous assembly, contempt to a superior officer —same punishment. (Then there are numbers Twenty, concealing "any traitorous or mutinous practice or design"; Twenty-one, any complaints about victuals to be made quietly to a superior officer, not used to create a disturbance; Twenty-two, disobeying the lawful command of a superior officer; Twenty-three, using reproachful or provoking speeches or gestures------'

  'But sir, all I------'

  'The delegates are rebels, Harris: they are rebels against their officers, captains, admirals and King... You "entertained intelligence" from them: you listened to what they said and obeyed them by joining the mutiny. You didn't tell a superior officer within twelve hours. By talking about the mutiny with the rest of the men you "took part in a mutinous assembly". You told the twenty-five men who joined from the Lively that the Triton had mutinied, and you and your shipmates scared them into joining you... Harris you can be hanged under half a dozen of the Articles of War: you've done things where the Articles don't even give a court an option—it would have to condemn you to death...'

  'But I only told Mr Southwick------'

  'And the men from the Lively.' '—Well, yes, I just sort of told them—they knew already, though.'

  'Knew what?'

  'That me Fleet had mutinied.'

  'They didn't know the Triton had: you told them. Article Nineteen—you're guilty under both parts, and death the penalty for each. Twenty, Twenty-one ...'

  'But I just told 'em, sir. I didn't make 'em join in. Anyone could have told 'em: it just happened to be me.'

  'Harris,' Ramage said quietly, 'on the table beside you: the mahogany box.'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'Open it.'

  Warily the man opened the lid.

  'What do you see?'

  'Pair o' pistols, sir. Bag o' shot, powder flask an' all that'

  'Take out a pistol and load it."

  The man was trembling now but fascinated by handling the most beautifully made pistol he'd probably ever seen. He poured a measure of powder down the muzzle, took a wad from a fitted box and rammed it home, then put in a round lead shot and rammed that home.

  'The priming powder is in the smaller flask.'

  Harris poured a measure from the flask on to me pan and closed the steel.

  'Now load the other one.'

  He'd gained more confidence and loaded it faster. Just as he finished and before he had time to put it down Ramage, still speaking quietly, said:

  'Now pick up me other one.'

  The man stood there, slightly hunched, a pistol in each hand.

  'Cock them.'

  A click from the right hand; a click from the left.

  'Now, Harris, as you've probably guessed, those duelling pistols have hair triggers. The most accurate pistols ever made.'

  'Yes, sir,' Harris said, bemused and puzzled by what was happening.

  'Now raise your right hand — higher — point the pistol at me, Harris. Come on!'

  The man's hand was shaking so much Ramage hoped he'd remember the warning about the hair triggers.

  'Now Harris — you can shoot me, and use the other pistol on Mr Southwick. Then you can take over command of the Triton. You could sail her over to Boulogne or Calais — or Cherbourg, even Havre de Grace. Bonaparte'd pay you prize money for the ship — you'd all get a share : enough to live in comfort in France for the rest of your lives. Providing Bonaparte wins the war, of course.'

  'But, sir,' Harris wailed, the pistols dropping to his side. 'Sir, none of us want anything like that.'

  'But Harris,' Ramage said coldly, motioning him to put the pistols down on the table, 'if you shot me and Mr Southwick you'd be no guiltier than you are already. You can't be hanged more than once. Mutiny, intelligence with rebels, treason — a couple of murders won't make matters much worse.'

  Even in the chilly light Ramage could see the man was almost fainting.

  'Sit down!'

  Harris sagged on the edge of the settee behind him, head between his hands, his whole body trembling.

  Ramage was sickened by what he'd been forced to do; but now the most intelligent of the original Tritons fully understood the significance of the Fleet's action. And Harris sat mere realizing, for the first time, how close his neck was to the noose at one end of a rope rove from a block at the fore Even now Harris was probably imagining the coarse rasping of the rope on his skin, the knot jammed against one side of his neck; imagining a shouted order and the sudden crash of a gun firing on the deck below where he'd been standing. Then the garrotting while his body soared straight up in the air as men ran with the other end .
. .

  Ramage said: "Harris, my precise orders are known to very few people: me First Lord of the Admiralty, the Port Admiral and Mr Southwick. But I'll tell you this much: this is going to be a long voyage. You already know nearly half the ship's company have served with me before. Only a few weeks ago I had to give them orders which they knew should have resulted in them being killed by the Spaniards. Even before that several of them risked death many times at my side. They've never flinched and they've never refused. In fact they carried out those orders cheerfully. You know all this?'

  Tartly, sir; they was telling us last night.'

  'Well, I command a different ship now. More than half the crew haven't served with me. The point is, Harris, I may have to give similar orders again ...'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'Those orders will have to be obeyed.'

  'And they will be, sir, if it's up to me!'

  'Yet my first order—to weigh anchor—was not. Hardly a good start.'

  'But sir------'

  'That's all, Harris: carry on.'

  The man wanted to say something but Ramage waved him through the door.

  How many such men were there in the Fleet, in those great sail of the line, each with a ship's company of seven or eight hundred? Perhaps barely one in a hundred was a real trouble-maker, which left ninety-nine Harrises, all equally guilty in law but in fact guilty only of putting their trust in hot-heads; of being led astray; of believing they had a just cause of complaint and that once the Admiralty knew of it, they'd put it right...

  Ramage took off his coat. It was a chilly morning but the coat was sodden with perspiration. And watching his own hands trembling he knew he wasn't a born gambler. He could sit back and plan the gamble, work out the odds and place his bet. But he lost his nerve just before the card turned face up and, more important, there was no thrill, no pleasure in it; just fear.