by Dudley Pope
Edwards took out his watch. “Twenty minutes to go. I trust you all have your commissions?” With that he led the way to his cabin and offered them tea.
Precisely at eight o’clock another gun fired in the Invincible to signal the beginning of the trial and Captain Edwards led the way to the Admiral’s great cabin. The long dining table had been put athwartships at the after end of the cabin with five chairs placed along one side, so that the captains would sit facing forwards, their backs to the big sternlights.
A rotund, bespectacled man already sat at a chair at one end, a pile of papers, inkwell, pen and several books in front of him. Edwards introduced the Invincible’s purser, Eric Gowers, who had been appointed deputy judge advocate.
There were two rows of chairs at the forward end of the cabin—Ramage guessed they came from the wardroom and that the ship’s officers would be eating their meals sitting on forms until the trial ended—with a single chair in front of the table ready for the witness. Between the table and the first row of chairs was an open space: there the prisoners would stand, guarded by Marines and with the provost marshal to one side.
As if to underline the fact that the Invincible was primarily a fighting ship, there were two guns on each side in the cabin, their train tackles neatly coiled, the barrels shining black and the carriages and trucks freshly painted. The gun ports were open to keep the cabin cool. Against the forward bulkhead there was a well-polished mahogany sideboard with a matching wine-cooler beside it, shaped like a Greek urn. Over the sideboard was an oil painting of a plump and pleasant-looking woman, probably the Admiral’s wife. She looked amiable enough, Ramage noted.
Edwards went to the centre chair at the after side of the table and sat down. In front of him was a small gavel, and he looked at the four captains. “We might as well begin. Please read your commissions—you start,” he said, gesturing to Marden.
Ramage saw that Gowers, the deputy judge advocate, noted down the date of the commission: Marden had been made post six years ago. As soon as all the commissions had been read, establishing their seniority, Edwards told them to take their seats. Marden, as the senior, sat on Edwards’s right, with Teal on his left, Banks beyond Marden and Ramage, as the junior, next to Teal, on Captain Edwards’s extreme left.
By now a Marine lieutenant had come into the cabin: he must be acting as the provost marshal (at an extra four shillings a day, Ramage thought inconsequentially).
Edwards gestured towards Gowers. “Very well, we will make a start.”
The deputy judge advocate turned to the provost marshal. “Bring in the prisoners and all the witnesses. The prisoners first.”
Two Marines with drawn cutlasses marched into the cabin, the white pipeclay on their crossbelts a startling contrast to their polished black boots. Behind them, shuffling in single file, came four seamen, unshaven, their faces shiny with perspiration and their wrists in irons. Two more Marines followed.
The Marine lieutenant walked round to line up the men in front of the table but Edwards, seeing the pistol in his hand, snapped: “We don’t need pistols. Leave that thing outside!”
As the provost marshal hurried out the seamen took up their positions and Ramage saw that none of them looked up at the five captains facing them. Mutineers? Perhaps, but they looked like any seamen chosen at random—or, for that matter, any four men picked off the streets of a country town on market day. The only difference was that they were frightened; awed and overwhelmed at finding themselves standing in an admiral’s cabin, facing five captains, flanked by armed Marines, and on trial for their lives.
Ramage rubbed a scar over his right eyebrow. He could imagine what each of the men was thinking. Each was trying to relate this moment with the time two years ago when a yelling horde of their shipmates seized the Jocasta and murdered the Captain and officers. Had these men been terrified onlookers, active mutineers, or the men who had actually committed murders? And how was the court to discover the truth?
Would one of the men stand as witness against the other three—turn “King’s evidence” as it was usually called? Captain Edwards had just explained, over their cups of tea, that there seemed some doubt whether an offer could be made to a prisoner before the trial began—that he would be allowed a free pardon if he gave evidence against the other accused men. Edwards had roundly cursed the fact that there was no judge advocate in the fleet. He and the purser had read through the only available books on naval courts martial, and there was a reference to a famous judge saying that if a man was promised a reward for giving his evidence before he actually gave it, this “disables his testimony.” All five captains knew of cases where one of the accused had “turned King’s evidence” but none of them had been a member of the court when it happened. And Edwards, anxious that there should be no mistakes, had decided to wait and see how the trial proceeded.
Finally the provost marshal was back, looking harassed but without his pistol, and followed by several officers, including Aitken. Only the Scot was a witness; the rest were onlookers. The moment they were all seated Edwards tapped the table gently with the gavel, obviously careful not to damage the polished wood.
“The court is in session. Gowers, read the orders.”
The purser selected several sheets of paper, stood up, adjusted his spectacles and read out the Admiral’s order for assembling the court martial.
Devon, Ramage thought to himself; the purser is a Devon man. Shrewd, alert, probably a very competent purser. But, like the rest of the court, his knowledge of law extended no further than the pages of the two or three reference books in front of him—and upon whose pages the lives of these four men might well depend. Not even that, because the facts and points of law the books contained were only as relevant as the court’s ability to find them …
Gowers finally read the warrant appointing him, put down the papers and picked up a Bible. He then walked round to the front of the table, stopping in front of Captain Edwards. He handed him a card as Edwards put his hand on the Bible. Edwards began reading the oath written on the card, and Ramage saw all four prisoners look up.
“I, James Edwards, do swear that I will duly administer justice according to the Articles of War and orders established by an act passed in the twenty-second year of the reign of His Majesty King George II … without partiality or favour or affection; and if any case shall arise which is not particularly mentioned in the said Articles and orders, I will duly administer justice according to my conscience, the best of my understanding, and the custom of the Navy in like cases …”
Gowers then administered the oath to the other captains in order of seniority, and then himself took an oath that he would never “disclose or discover the vote or opinion of any particular member of this court unless thereunto required by act of Parliament.”
Now the court was legally in existence, and Gowers sorted through his papers once more, found what he wanted and, when he glanced across at Captain Edwards, received an approving nod. He half turned towards the four prisoners and as if guessing what was coming, three of them stared down at the deck; the fourth, standing at the far end of the line and the oldest among them, almost bald with the round face of a village grocer, kept his eyes on the deputy judge advocate.
It was not the stare of defiance, Ramage was certain of that. The other three now seemed to be shrinking, as though fear was slowly wilting them, but the fourth man appeared to be gaining confidence as the others were losing it.
Gowers began reading out the charge. It was brief. After naming the four men and saying they had been part of the Jocasta’s ship’s company on the day of the mutiny, it first accused them of taking part in the mutiny and “aiding and assisting” in the murder of Captain Wallis, four lieutenants, Master, midshipman, Surgeon and the Lieutenant of Marines. It then went on to accuse them of “aiding and assisting” in running away with the ship and handing her over to the enemy, deserting, “holding intelligence with the enemy,” and “concealing mutinous designs.” All
, the charge concluded, in breach of the third, fifteenth, sixteenth, nineteenth, twenty-eighth and thirty-sixth Articles of War.
That death was the penalty in all but one case the men well knew, having heard the Articles read to them at least once a month. Ramage had watched the four closely while Gowers was reading, and the deputy judge advocate had, probably without realizing it, given a slight emphasis to each key word—mutiny, murder, deserting—like a carpenter hammering home the nails of a box. Three men had gone pale; perspiration was now running down their faces. The fourth man was calm, as though his conscience was clear or, perhaps, because he knew he had a cast-iron defence.
It was getting hot in the great cabin: the ship being moored with her stern towards the beach presented her broad transom to the east, and the sun was beating through the sternlights on to their backs. As soon as Gowers finished reading the charges, Captain Edwards signalled the provost marshal to have the curtains drawn. The material was thick—it had to stop light escaping at night when the Admiral was at sea and wanted lanterns in his cabin—and the cabin was soon only dimly lit by sunlight sparkling on the water and reflecting through the four gun ports.
Captain Edwards tapped the table with his gavel: “All witnesses save the first will withdraw.” He said it with a curious intonation which made Ramage glance up: as far as he knew Aitken was the only witness, yet three officers rose from the chairs behind the prisoners and left the cabin. They left noisily, scraping the chairs, and all the prisoners glanced behind them, alarmed and curious, obviously puzzled over who they could be.
Captain Edwards was obviously going to be a good president of the court: his voice was authoritative but not abrupt, his orders brief without being curt. “Call the first witness,” he said.
“Lieutenant James Aitken,” Gowers said, picking up the Bible and selecting a card, which he handed Aitken. “Place your right hand on the Bible and make the oath written here.”
Aitken took the oath and then went to the chair facing the president and only six or eight feet from Ramage.
“You are James Aitken, a lieutenant of the Royal Navy, and formerly the acting commanding officer of the Juno frigate on the fifth of June this year?”
“I am,” Aitken replied, only the broadness of his Scottish burr betraying his nervousness.
Edwards leaned forward, indicating that he was about to take over the questioning: “Relate to the court what happened on the fifth day of June.”
“The Juno was on passage from off Martinique to Antigua and we were four leagues west of the north-western tip of Guadeloupe. We sighted a brig to the east of us and gave chase.”
“What colours was she flying?”
“None at first, but she soon hoisted an American flag.”
“Did she try to avoid you?”
“No, sir. We came up to her and I ordered her to heave-to.”
“What was your purpose in doing that?”
“I wanted to see if she had any British subjects in her ship’s company, sir.”
“Very well, then what happened?”
“I boarded her with ten men. I was short of officers,” he explained. “I took the list of the Jocasta’s ship’s company and inspected the American brig’s papers.”
“Did you find any of the Jocasta’s men on board?”
“At first I found one name, Albert Summers. I told the American master that this man was a mutineer from the Jocasta and demanded that he be produced.”
“Was he produced?”
“Yes, sir, and at the same time—or, rather a few minutes before, because he was waiting nearby—another man came up to me and said he was from the Jocasta and wanted to give himself up.”
“What was his name?”
“He said it was George Weaver.”
“Did that name appear on your list?”
“No, sir.”
“Point him out.”
Aitken indicated the round-faced man at the other end of the line.
“What did you do then?”
“When Albert Summers was brought before me I accused him of being one of the Jocastas and told him I was putting him under an arrest.”
“Then what happened?” Edwards asked quietly.
“He became very excited. He admitted he had served in the Jocasta but said he wasn’t the only one.”
“What did you understand by that?”
“It was a slip of the tongue but I assumed from his manner and gestures that there were others on board the brig using false names. I told him to identify them, but he refused.”
“How did you discover them?”
“I asked the American master where his men had been signed on. Weaver and Summers were among the last names in the ship’s articles, so I suspected they had been signed on while the ship had been in La Guaira or Barcelona—the log showed they were her last ports.”
“What did you do then?”
“I instructed the American master to muster all the men he had signed on in any port on the Main.”
“And he did so?”
“He did not agree readily,” Aitken said dryly, “but Weaver offered to point them out—the former Jocastas.”
“Did he do so?”
“After a few minutes. He was most savagely attacked by Summers, who tried to strangle him and called him a traitor.”
“Point out the prisoner Summers.”
Aitken indicated the man nearest to him. Ramage had been speculating which of the men he was, and had finally guessed he was this man who had an air of evil and viciousness about him. Thin-faced with thinning black hair, his eyes too close together and his nose long and thin, the skin over the bridge stretched tight, he was the man that any officer would watch. Shifty, lazy, troublesome, he was typically the worst in a press-gang’s harvest. Indeed, Ramage thought, he was probably a jailbird, released from prison into the custody of the press-gang.
Edwards nodded and Aitken resumed his evidence. “We secured Summers and tended Weaver. He then pointed out two more men—the other prisoners,” he said, gesturing to the two standing in the middle of the line. “I asked the American master if he had signed those men on in La Guaira, and he admitted taking on two there and two at Barcelona. That agreed with what was written in the ship’s articles.”
“Only these four, then?”
“So he said, and Weaver confirmed it, sir. The master signed a document to that effect, and his mate witnessed the signature.”
As Aitken produced a paper from his pocket Gowers interrupted: “The witness must speak more slowly. I have to write down every word, and …”
The paper was handed over the table to the president, who read it and passed it to Gowers. “This is an exhibit, so keep it safely.” Gowers gave a sniff, as though the instruction was a slur on his competence.
“What did you do then?” Edwards asked Aitken.
“I took the four men in custody. The American master demanded a receipt for them, saying he would protest to the American government. I gave him one—and warned him of the dangers of signing on mutineers.”
“Very sound advice,” Edwards commented dryly. “That completes your evidence?” When Aitken nodded, Edwards looked up at the prisoners. “Have you any questions to ask this witness?”
Weaver shuffled forward a pace—a move which made one of the Marine sentries swing round to watch him.
“By your leave, sir, I do.”
“Carry on, then, but speak slowly so the deputy judge advocate can write it all down.”
“I came up to you the moment you boarded, didn’t I, sir?” Weaver asked Aitken.
“I think you did,” Aitken answered. “I can’t be sure because I was looking for the master. But you were waiting to speak to me, that was obvious.”
“Was my name on your list, sir?”
“The name George Weaver was not.”
“Did you—” the man paused. The careful way that the president, Gowers and Aitken had been speaking, lapsing from time to time into the jargon
of courts martial, was obviously bothering him, and the president said quickly: “Just phrase your questions clearly, as though you were talking to a shipmate.”
“Aye, thank’ee, sir. Did you ask any of the others—these three here—who I was?”
“Yes, they all said they knew you only as George Weaver, and you were the Captain’s steward.”
“Did you ask them when I joined the ship, sir?”
Aitken nodded. “Yes I did, because of your claim.” Edwards leaned forward and looked directly at Aitken. “What claim was this?”
“Well, sir, he claimed he had nothing to do with the mutiny and that no one else—no one not serving in the Jocasta at the time that is—could have known he was on board.”
“That’s it, sir,” Weaver said excitedly, taking another step forward and being pushed back by a Marine.
Ramage guessed that Edwards knew all about the claim, but what he knew from Aitken’s original report was not evidence: the truth of the affair was, legally, what appeared in the court martial minutes that Gowers was keeping, and this laborious question-and-answer procedure was the only way of recording it.
“Wait a moment, Weaver; I am questioning Mr Aitken,” Edwards said. “Now, tell the court about this matter, and remember the rule about hearsay evidence: what Weaver told you is evidence, but what Weaver said someone else told him is not.”
“Quite, sir. Well, Weaver said that after the Jocasta sailed from Jamaica, and before the mutiny, she fell in with a British merchant ship and pressed five men. Among them was Weaver.”
Aitken paused as Gowers waved his quill frantically, warning him to speak slowly, and Ramage suddenly realized the point Weaver was trying to make. As far as the Admiralty was concerned, Weaver did not exist—at least, not as a Jocasta.
“Weaver claimed that because the mutineers destroyed the Jocasta’s latest muster book, the Navy did not know that he was on board. The Navy only knew the men who were on board when the ship was in Jamaica, when the previous muster book was sent in.”
The five captains understood exactly what Weaver meant, but it had to be explained more fully for the minutes. “Did Weaver know that muster books are sent to the Admiralty from time to time?” the president asked.