Ramage's Mutiny (14 page)

Jackson, Rossi and Stafford were on the fo'c's'le, squatting in the shade of the flying jib with their backs against the carriage of a six-pounder. Three other seamen sprawled on the deck near them and apparently asleep were in fact listening to the conversation.

Stafford, the Cockney locksmith swept up by the press-gang—“a good man lost to the burglin' profession” as he often boasted—had been comparing the beauty of Spanish and Italian women with the English, more especially those from London. Rossi had been putting forward the claims of the ladies of Genoa, while Thomas Jackson, the only American on board, delivered a verdict that the women of southern Europe were usually too fat while those from the north were too thin.

“The Marchesa's an exception,” he declared.

“She's the loveliest lady I ever saw,” Stafford admitted. “Don't know why the Captain don't marry ‘er.”

“Ah, it hardly seems yesterday when we rescued her,” Jackson said nostalgically.

One of the seamen sat up. “When you what?”

“Ah, you Invincibles, you don't know nothing,” Stafford jeered. “You mean to say you've never ‘eard ‘ow, Jacko rescued a queen from under the ‘ooves of Boney's cavalry?”

With that the other two sat up. “No,” said one of them, “a real queen? Don't believe it!”

“She's not called a queen but she rules her own country,” Jackson said. “Volterra's the place, in Italy. We were sent in a frigate to rescue her as Boney's troops marched south, only we were sunk and we ended up fetching her off in a boat.”

“And she and the Captain—he was only a lieutenant then—went and fell in love,” Stafford added.

“And very nice too,” said one of the new men from the
Invincible.
“But like you was saying, why ain't they got married?”

“Accidente!”
Rossi exclaimed indignantly. “If I marry all the women I love, I have a hundred wives!”

“Where's this lady now, then?” the seaman asked.

“Staying with the Captain's family,” Jackson explained. “His father's got a big estate down in Cornwall.”

“I pity her, then,” the seaman commented. “That Cornish lingo: I can't never understand what they'm saying.”

“Yorkshire, that's where you come from,” Stafford said accusingly. “An'
you
talk about a lingo!”

“Lancashire,” the man replied triumphantly. “Shows how much
you
know!”

“You'd better be learning Spanish,” Jackson said. “We'll need it soon, from what I hear.”

“Why we have to go an' chase out a lot o' murderin' mutineers I don't know,” Stafford grumbled.

“Aye, there's a lot you don't know,” the Lancashire seaman said. “There ain't a mutineer left on board the
Jocasta;
she's full of Spaniards. Three ‘oondred or more; that was the scuttlebutt when we left the
Invincible,
and a narrow entrance to Santa Cruz with three forts an ‘oondreds of guns.”

“You people measure everything by the … ‘‘oondred,'” Jackson said dryly. “Mr Ramage always divides the opposition by ten …”

“Your Mr Ramage is goin' to be the scapegoat; that's what I ‘eard,” another seaman said. “That there Captain Eames is the Admiral's favourite and he made a mess of it without even trying. But your chap is going to be the one that'll be put on the beach with half-pay when the Admiralty hears he's failed. Least-ways, that's what I heard,” he added hurriedly. “Seems unfair but there's no tellin' with officers.”

“Speakin' of officers,” one of the other seamen said, “the First Lieutenant seems all right.”

“One o' the best,” Stafford said emphatically. “Same goes for Wagstaffe and Baker. The new Fourth Lieutenant, Kenton—don't know about ‘im, ‘e's only been on board a few days.”

“This little midshipman—he's a foreigner, ain't he?”

“Foreigner?” Rossi exclaimed. “
Accidente,
he's Italian. And so am I!”

“I couldn't have guessed,” the seaman said with a grin.

“Mr Orsini—he's the Marchesa's nephew,” Jackson explained. “A good lad. We're proud of him,” he added, giving a gentle warning. “He's a proper terror when we go into action …”

“He'll need to be, and the rest of us.”

“Sounds to me as though you Invincibles are scared of Santa Cruz,” Stafford said.

“Aye—and rightly so. You'll see.”

The Cockney shrugged his shoulders. “Would you attack a Spanish ship of the line wiv a cutter?”

“Course not!”

“We did,” Stafford said flatly. “Leastways, Mr Ramage did and we was on board.”

“You're joking!”

“I ain't—ask Jacko and Rosey.”

“What ‘appened?”

“We was sunk.”

“There you are! Must be barmy, your Mr Ramage.”

Stafford sighed, as if losing patience with men of such feeble understanding. “The Spaniard was captured—and another ship of the line, too. All because of us. Mr Ramage, rather.”

The seaman flopped back on the deck. “Maybe so, but your Mr Ramage is going to ‘ave to work miracles at Santa Cruz.”

“Look,” Jackson said sternly, “you can stop this ‘your Mr Ramage' talk. He's your Captain as well, now. Don't forget the Jocastas mutinied because their Captain flogged ‘em by the score. I've been with Mr Ramage since afore he got his first command, and he's only ever flogged two men …”

“All right, all right. Just wait until you see Santa Cruz, Jacko. It'll make yer blood run cold.”

The first sight of the Spanish Main was a distant view of the grey-blue hump of Punta Peñas, a hundred miles to the east of Santa Cruz and one of the entrances of the great Gulf of Paria, which separated the island of Trinidad from the mainland.

Southwick shut his telescope with a snap. “A long time since I last clapped eyes on the Dragon's Mouth,” he commented to Ramage. “A good name for it, too: the currents in there are bad, and you can lose the wind in the lee of the island.”

Ramage, preoccupied, said sourly: “Well, it doesn't concern us. I think we'll reverse our course until dusk—we don't want to be sighted yet.”

Southwick had long since given up trying to guess his Captain's plans: when he was good and ready Mr Ramage would tell him how he proposed cutting out the
Jocasta
and expect any criticisms or suggestions to be made without hesitation. As he turned away to give the orders to wear the ship and steer back towards Grenada, the Master suspected that at the moment Mr Ramage had no plan.

He bellowed orders that sent men running towards the sheets and braces controlling the great sails. A quick instruction to the quartermaster set the wheel spinning and soon the
Calypso
was steering north-east on the starboard tack, sailing along her original track.

Mr Ramage was thinking hard but he had no plan: that much was clear to Southwick, who watched him pacing up and down. Then he stopped and stared at the horizon, and rubbed the older of the two scars over his right eyebrow. That confirmed it as far as Southwick was concerned: he rubbed that scar only when he was angry or puzzled, and there was nothing to make him angry.

Southwick watched him as he began walking the quarterdeck again. He was beginning to look like his father: the same easy stride, the wide shoulders, the hands clasped behind his back. His face was maturing too; those brown eyes were more deep-set now and there were tiny wrinkles at the outboard ends of his eyebrows. He was a younger version of his father but with his own sense of humour. He had a disconcerting habit of saying something peculiar with a straight face. If you were not careful you found yourself agreeing before you hauled in what he had said. He had not joked much since the trial of the mutineers, however. It had changed him, but Southwick was hard put to know if it was permanent. He was just the same with the men, he watched all sail-handling with the same sharp eye, he was the same with the officers. Yet Southwick knew he had changed, even if he could not define the difference.

He was beginning to have a suspicion that Mr Ramage was in fact angry. Not with anything on board the
Calypso—
he was not a man to suffer in silence; if something had made him angry in the ship he would have been quick to say so. He had said very little about the trial, but he had mentioned Captain Wallis's behaviour and how free he had been with the cat. And that could be the reason for the change: Mr Ramage trying to keep control of a deep anger—a resentment, almost—against Wallis.

Mr Ramage had very firm ideas about flogging: he reckoned it ruined a good man and only made a bad man worse. In fact he went further: he was convinced that, except for incorrigible seamen (the kind of men who, on land, would spend a lifetime in and out of jail), if a captain had to resort to the cat-o'-nine-tails the captain was probably at fault.

He was not in a bad mood exactly: he had passed the word that the men could fish from the taffrail and four of them were perched there now, cussing and joking as they hooked and lost fish, all within a few feet of where Mr Ramage marched up and down as though trying to wear a furrow in the deck planking.

Whatever Mr Ramage finally decided to do at Santa Cruz—and there was plenty of time, because for the present he was keeping the
Calypso
a hundred miles to windward of it—the ship's company was ready. Gunnery drill and sail-handling showed that Captain Edwards had sent over good men from the
Invincible.
Southwick had expected him to take the opportunity to get rid of his worst men, but he had been fair.

So the
Calypso
was ready for anything; as ready as training and preparation could make her. Down in his cabin was a large-scale chart of Santa Cruz which he had drawn up from various sources. Ironically the best information came from one of the mutineers, who would have been hanged by now: that man had drawn a chart from memory—and it was better than anything available in English Harbour. It showed Southwick that, although he had been guilty of murdering his Captain, the man had not been disloyal to his country as he faced the noose. He must have guessed that the information he had about Santa Cruz was vital, but he had not attempted to bargain with it by trying to get his death sentence reduced to transportation, for instance. According to Mr Ramage, the man had been only too glad to help, as though to make amends …

“Deck there! Sail-ho, on the larboard quarter!”

Ramage and Southwick reached the rail at the same time and put telescopes to their eyes. They could see nothing: the distant ship was below the curvature of the earth but just visible to the lookout perched high up in the mainmast.

Ramage turned to the quartermaster: “Pass the word for my coxswain.”

A hail forward brought Jackson running aft to the quarter-deck, where Ramage handed him a telescope taken from the binnacle drawer. “Get aloft and see what you make of her.”

Three minutes later, after Jackson had spent a long time balancing himself against the reverse-pendulum movement of the masts as the
Calypso
rolled, he hailed: “Deck there. She looks like a schooner. She's steering up to the nor'-east on the same course as us. Could be a Jonathan, sir.”

Ramage turned to Southwick: “Bear away and run down to her.”

A ninety-mile line of scattered and tiny islands, reefs and cays ran parallel to the Main and up to sixty miles north of it. A prudent master leaving La Guaira, Barcelona and Cumaná would steer north-west to pass safely to the westward; but if he left Santa Cruz he would instead sail out to the north-east, making sure that the west-going current did not sweep him down to the Testigos, the islands marking the eastern end of the line. He would, Ramage knew, steer for Grenada until, sixty miles or so out from the Main, he could risk bearing away for his destination, but even then he would keep a sharp lookout. Many of the shoals west of Testigos barely showed above water; some of the cays were only a few feet high.

Ramage took off his hat and mopped his face and neck: the heat seemed solid; the breeze filled the sails but seemed to ignore the men on deck. Above him the great yards creaked as they were braced round; the men at the wheel hauled on the spokes as Southwick gave them a course which should intercept the ship they still could not see from the deck.

Southwick put a speaking-trumpet to his lips and hailed Jackson: “Masthead there! How is the sail bearing from us now?”

“Two points on our larboard bow, sir.”

The Master nodded to himself. The schooner with her fore-and-aft rig would be fast on the wind.

The hailing had brought Aitken on deck, blinking in the harsh sunlight, and as soon as Southwick had told him of the sighting the First Lieutenant said to Ramage: “Could she have come from Santa Cruz, sir?”

“She could, and be clawing up to clear the Testigos.”

“She might have some more Jocastas on board.”

The idea obviously had not occurred to Ramage, and his eyes narrowed. “I'm more concerned with finding out what's happening in Santa Cruz than providing fodder for courts martial.”

“Quite, sir.” Aitken understood his Captain well enough not to be offended by the remark: he too imagined vividly the thunder of the
Invincible
's guns and the hanging figures emerging from the smoke.

Ramage had the telescope to his eye. “I can just make out her mastheads. Have a boat ready for lowering, Mr Aitken. You'll be boarding her. Take six Marines. Mr Southwick, we'll beat to quarters in fifteen minutes' time.”

Half an hour later the
Calypso
was hove-to a hundred yards to windward of the schooner, which had hoisted the American flag, and Ramage watched through his telescope as Aitken and her master talked on deck. After a few minutes the two men went below. The Marines were standing where Aitken had obviously placed them, so the American must be cooperating.