Ramage pointed to the after cabin. He’d have to find out if the captain’s steward was on board; but for the moment, until he was sure of the man’s loyalty, he didn’t want him rummaging around.
After putting down the trunk both Stafford and Fuller returned grinning, reminding Ramage of a pair of eager spaniels.
‘Well, you two, I’m glad to see you again.’
‘’Twas a surprise, sir,’ said Fuller; and Stafford’s cockney face showed he meant it when he said, ‘Never guessed we’d ’ave the ’onour o’ servin’ wiv you agin, sir!’
‘From what I hear,’ Ramage said dryly, ‘it’s an honour the rest of the ship’s company don’t wish to share.’
‘Well, sir…’ Stafford began, and Fuller’s bony hands clenched and unclenched with embarrassment, the few yellowed teeth he still possessed showing as he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
‘Very well,’ Ramage said, and grinned. ‘Carry on, Jackson, pass the word for Mr Southwick.’
‘He’s just coming, sir.’
Ramage heard shoes clattering on the ladder and as the three men left Southwick burst into the cabin.
‘Heavens, I’m glad to see you, sir!’ He shut the door. ‘What a mess it all is!’
Ramage nodded. ‘You’ve had an enjoyable leave?’
‘Fine – though I’m glad to be back afloat again. And you, sir?’
‘The same.’
‘The Marchesa?’
‘She’s very well and enjoying England. She asked me to give you her best wishes.’ He pointed at her portrait. ‘She’s still with us in a sense!’
Southwick grinned with obvious delight. ‘It was good of her to remember me, sir. And that’s a splendid likeness. Your father, sir?’
‘Very well. He enjoyed the tale of our scrap off Cape St Vincent.’
‘Thought he would – and wished he was there with us, no doubt.’
‘Now,’ Ramage said briskly. ‘Thanks for sending Jackson. How do we stand here?’
‘Jackson was the only one I could send who’d be any use. That’s how we stand…’
‘As bad as that?’
‘Well, that’s how we stood a’fore you came on board.’
‘How’s my arrival affected the situation?’
Southwick ruffled his hair, obviously choosing his words carefully.
‘Put it like this: the Tritons look to me like good lads who’ve just followed the rest of the Fleet, just as the Kathleens followed the
Lively
. What matters is that the thirty-six Tritons don’t know you, and the twenty-five Kathleens do. They’d be a poor lot if they ever forgot what you’ve done for ’em.’
‘I’ve merely tried to kill them from time to time.’
‘Now, now sir,’ Southwick chided, surprised at the bitterness in his captain’s voice. ‘You always take on so. In war some’s got to get killed, and the men know that. Still…’
‘Still what?’
‘Well, you’ll be wanting to know if the Kathleens will get this brig under way, even if the original Tritons won’t lift a finger.’
‘More than that: would the Tritons try to stop them?’
‘I’ve been trying to find out, and to be honest I’m not sure; nor is Jackson. The Kathleens are torn between loyalty to the mutineers – you can understand that, though I’d like to see all those dam’ delegates dangling from the foreyardarm – and their loyalty to you.’
‘And what happens when the strain comes on both loyalties at once?’
Southwick, looking at him directly, said in a flat voice: ‘It’s entirely up to you, sir. That’s Jackson’s opinion – and he’s a seaman among seamen – and it’s mine, too.’
Ramage had known that only too well, even without the First Lord saying it. But coming from Southwick so bluntly it jolted him.
It
’s
entirely up to you!
This was the loneliness of command. From the First Lord of the Admiralty to the old Master of the
Triton
came the same verdict.
‘Any idea what my attitude should be?’
‘None, sir, more’s the pity. I was talking half the night with Jackson on just that point.’
‘But you must have some idea: harsh and threatening, friendly and appealing to their loyalty, just laughing at the whole thing?’
‘I’m not backing and filling to avoid the responsibility of advising you, sir. I simply don’t know. None of us has
ever
seen open mutiny before!’
‘True… Jackson mentioned a ringleader among the Tritons?’
‘Well, not exactly a ringleader; there’s one of them who’s a sort of spokesman.’
‘What’s his name? An out-and-out mutineer?’
‘Harris. No, not a real mutineer; in fact the sort of man I reckon you’d probably rate a petty officer after a couple of months. Just intelligent and literate. The rest of the men turn to him to read and write their letters and so on.’
Ramage grinned. ‘Very well, Southwick. Now, do you know anything about my orders from the Admiralty?’
The Master shook his head and Ramage quickly explained them, concluding: ‘We must get under way tomorrow moming: high water is six o’clock. I want to weigh an hour before and we’ll get the most out of the ebb. I’ll spend the rest of today wandering around. Make no attempt at enforcing discipline; just leave the men alone, so I can take a good look at them. How about the Marines?’
‘No sergeant: just a corporal and six men. They’re all right, but they can’t do anything even if they wanted to because they’ve no arms: the seamen have taken the keys to the arms lockers, though not for those in my cabin.’
After the Master left the cabin, Ramage went to the sleeping cabin, unlocked his trunk and took out a pair of half boots. He checked the right one, which had a sheath for a throwing knife sewn inside, and pulled them on in place of his shoes.
There was much to do: before sailing he should go through all the papers left by the previous captain. There were inventories to check and sign, letters and order books to read, a dozen and one other things a new captain had to deal with as soon as he took over command to satisfy the voracious appetites of the clerks at the Admiralty and the Navy Board.
And then, with Southwick, he’d have to check over the ship: masts, yards, sails, hull, stores, powder, shot and provisions …small wonder the poor old
Triton
was floating on her marks: she was carrying enough food and water to feed more than sixty men for half a year; enough powder and shot to fight a couple of dozen brisk engagements; enough spare sails and cordage to keep her at sea despite wear, tear and damage from battles with both Nature and the enemy.
He went to bed early that night. It was obvious, after a couple of hours spent on deck, that there was little to be done while the ship was still in sight of the rest of the Fleet. His steward was too terrified even to unpack his trunk and stow the contents; the Marines dare not resume their duties, so he slept without a sentry at the door. By nine o’clock, after half an hour spent giving instructions to Southwick, Ramage was lying in his cot going over his plan once again.
It was all or nothing. If it failed he’d be a laughing stock and, since he’d received his orders direct from the First Lord, he might just as well resign his commission since any chance of further promotion – or even employment – would be nil. He’d be the comic hero of the saga of Spit Sand shoal.
Southwick woke Ramage long before daylight. Holding a lantern in one hand and tapping the side of the cot with the other, the Master whispered, ‘It’s half-past three, sir. Wind’s fresh, north-west. Glass has fallen a bit, but nothing significant. Jackson’s bringing your shaving water and a hot drink. Everything you mentioned is hidden away ready.’
The old man’s cheerfulness was contagious, almost comforting, but, at this time of the morning, tiresome as well. His flowing hair and plump features lit by the lantern reminded Ramage of a genial Falstaff seeing if the Prince was still sober.
Scrambling out of his cot as the Master hooked the lantern on to the bulkhead, Ramage realized sleepily that the
Triton
was rolling quite heavily and the cot swung, catching the back of his knee joints so his legs almost jack-knifed.
‘Last of the flood, sir,’ Southwick said. ‘There’s quite a sea running.’
‘Good. Blast this cot. And a north-west wind…couldn’t be better.’
‘Let’s hope it holds, sir: don’t want it to back or veer for another hour.’
As Southwick left, Jackson came in with a jug of hot water and a large mug of tea.
‘How are things, Jackson?’
‘Our crowd were quiet, sir, but there was a lot o’ chattering among the Tritons. I daren’t seem too interested… If Harris suspected anything, I’d wake up with a knife in my ribs. You can count on Stafford, Evans and Fuller, sir: I’ve had a chat with them. Rossi, too, after what you did for the Marchesa. He told all the Tritons a long story last night about how you and I rescued her. Then he told ’em how we rammed the
San Nicolas
.’
‘How did they react?’
‘Impressed. Very impressed. I think that’s what started them all chattering. If you’ll excuse me saying it, sir, my feeling is – well, it all depends on you now, sir.’
With that Jackson was gone, leaving Ramage stropping his razor, the American’s sentence echoing again and again in time with the slap of steel against leather. He sipped the tea, poured water into the basin and lathered his face. Wiping the steam from the mirror he stretched the skin and was agreeably surprised that the reflection showed the hand holding the razor was trembling only slightly.
It all depends on you now, sir.
Blast Jackson for the reminder at this time of the morning. Did anyone ever feel brave before dawn – apart from Southwick? He’d said almost the same thing –
it
’s
entirely up to you
. Jackson, Southwick and the First Lord…
He began shaving and found himself glowering into the mirror as the features emerged from the anonymity of the lather. As he wiped steam from the mirror again, he realized that in the next half an hour everything would depend on the impression that face made on the thirty-six Tritons.
He wasn’t worried about the former Kathleens because, as Jackson had made clear, each of them had to sleep with a
Triton
in the next hammock. Each was realistic enough to know his captain couldn’t save him from being knifed in the dark.
So, he told himself mockingly, it all depends – he pushed up the tip of his nose to shave the upper lip – on his face and his tongue. He stuck it out for a moment like a rude urchin, then cursed as he tasted soap in his mouth.
Ten minutes later, shaved, dressed and with the rest of the tea warm inside him, he pulled on his boots, making sure the strap over the throwing knife was clear. Then he took a mahogany box containing a pair of pistols, powder, shot and wads from his trunk and put it on the table. Leave the lid open or closed? Closed – it musn’t be too obvious.
He looked at his watch: fifteen minutes to four o’clock. Fifteen minutes to waste. Well, he might as well start writing his new log and journal, which should have been done yesterday. He took a large, thin book from the bottom drawer, unscrewed the cap of the inkwell, and wrote boldly across the front cover in letters a couple of inches high, ‘HMS
Triton
’ and in smaller letters underneath, ‘
Captain
’s
Log 18 April 1797–17 June 1797
’.
Under the Admiralty’s
Regulations and Instructions
the log had to be sent to the Admiralty after two months and a new one started. If he kept his command that long.
Opening the book and glancing idly at the first page, which was divided vertically under several headings, he began by filling in the blank spaces in the lines of print across the top of the page:
‘Log of the Proceedings of His Majesty’s Ship
Triton
, Nicholas Ramage, Lieutenant and Commander, between the 18th Day of April and the 19th Day of April.’
Since the nautical day was measured from noon one day to noon the next, the Navy afloat was always half a day ahead of the folk on land, and as far as the log was concerned, it was still the same day that he had joined the
Triton
and would be for another eight hours. He inserted the date and wind direction in the appropriate columns and, under ‘Remarks’ wrote: ‘Joined ship as per Commission. Read Commission on quarterdeck. Ship’s company apparently in state of mutiny.’
He shut the log impatiently, reflecting this would be a daily task for many months ahead, and took out a similar volume, writing on the front ‘
Captain
’s
Journal
,
HM brig
Triton’ and the same two-month period. On the first page he filled in the blank columns under the ‘Date’, and ‘Wind’, and drew a line under such headings as ‘Course’, ‘Miles’, ‘Latitude’ and ‘Longitude’.
In the end column, headed ‘Remarkable Observations and Accidents’, he wrote:
On first boarding ship, read commission. Master reported to captain that ship’s company in state of non-violent mutiny. Captain’s only order, to hoist his trunk on board, obeyed by three men transferred to brig the previous day from the
Lively
frigate. During evening captain gave certain instructions to Master concerning getting the ship under way next morning. No Marines on duty but their basic loyalty reported to be not in doubt. Appears they (six in number and corporal) and the twenty-five men transferred from the
Lively
frigate fear reprisals from the original ship’s company.
As he wiped the pen and closed the inkwell, Ramage glanced at what he’d written. If anything went wrong and his plan failed, the paragraphs he’d written in the log and in the journal would be chewed over by a court martial as carefully as a hungry dog chewed over a fresh bone.
Every word, every comma, would be questioned; every possible construction put on every phrase. It’d be no excuse to say they’d been written before dawn, before he was fully awake. And his plan – well, even though it seemed the only one that had a chance of success, it’d be treated as madness, because six captains sitting in judgement on him would never understand it.
Whereas they would expect him to wave the Articles of War and breathe fire and brimstone, he was going to gamble on men – on the intelligence of one in particular, Harris, the
Triton’s
spokesman whom he did not know, and on the sentiment of the former Kathleens, all of whom he did.