Ramage's Mutiny (22 page)

“We'll go alongside the
Jocasta
just as we planned,” he told Aitken. “They're expecting us. I want us towed round so that our bow is to seaward, too. You give the orders to the boats; I want to come alongside as though an admiral was watching.”

“But, sir—but, brother Ramage: would they expect a gang of mutineers to do it perfectly?”

“The Spanish Captain of the
Jocasta
is very proud of his new ship. He's ready to sail. All the paintwork is new. We want him coming on board us with a welcoming smile, not screaming with rage because we've just ripped out channels and rigging or scored his paint!”

Aitken grinned sheepishly. “I don't have your knack o' imagining myself in the enemy's boots, sir!”

Ramage walked aft, giving orders as he went. Baker came hurrying up to supervise men preparing lines along the starboard side, ready for securing to the
Jocasta;
other seamen were placing loaded muskets out of sight under the carriages of the guns. All now had pistols stuck in their trousertops and cutlass belts over their shoulders, though the cutlasses were still scattered round the deck, apparently in random piles.

As soon as he reached the quarterdeck Ramage told Southwick: “Have the yards braced sharp up so we don't hook up in the
Jocasta;
then make sure the topmen don't move five yards from the ratlines.”

“Brother Ramage,” Jackson called from abaft the wheel. “I've a pair of pistols here ready for you, sir.”

“I'll get them in a minute or two.”

Hellfire, it was getting dark quickly now. He looked aft along the channel and was thankful to see that the
Santa Barbara
was just coming into the entrance, her two boats out ahead like water beetles, the brig little more than a black blob. There was no disturbance along the walls of San Antonio, no flashes of guns or muskets, so whatever that three-flag signal had meant, it obviously did not matter. The commandants of the forts must be relieved—the horse was in the stable and the door was bolted. What were they doing up there now? Toasting each other, no doubt; slapping themselves on the back and jeering at the English Navy and its mutinous men.

He could smell the plants and shrubs growing on shore: the faint hint of spices. They were only a few hundred yards from the mangroves and he thought he smelled charcoal—a charcoal-burner at work, or someone preparing to cook his supper? And the curious high-pitched rattling of frogs, blurred by distance. And above him the creak of the great yards as they were braced round so that the outboard ends should not foul those of the
Jocasta.
Let's hope the
Jocasta
's Captain remembers, too …

Looking forward again he was startled to find that the
Calypso
had finally reached the end of the channel and was now gliding into the lagoon. And over to the west, at the far end of the lagoon, were the dim lights of Santa Cruz itself. It would be hot in the houses; the small windows kept the sun out but the rooms trapped the heat of candles. Little pinpoints of light dancing on the water showed that fishermen were busy near the town, fishing with lanterns, and there were four dark shapes, merchant ships at anchor off the quay. Three were laden, one was high in the water. A peaceful scene, Ramage noted; over there, almost a mile away, people were going about their evening business. Wives would be preparing meals, old men would be supping wine. Some of them might notice a frigate being towed into the lagoon but few would be interested; curiosity counted for very little in the Spanish character.

Now the
Calypso
was beginning the slow turn across the eastern end of the lagoon, a long curve that would end, if Aitken directed the boats properly, with the frigate coming alongside the
Jocasta
perhaps ten minutes before it was dark. With the yards braced sharp up and the lines led ready to be passed to the
Jocasta,
there was nothing more to be done on board, and men stood silent, each alone with his thoughts. Aitken, on the fo'c's'le and now standing on the knightheads with a speaking-trumpet so he could shout down to the boats when necessary, was reminded of the lochs on the west coast of Scotland: long stretches of water, some surrounded by steep hills, others with hills in the distance. But of an evening they had the same tranquillity, the same atmosphere of time passed, of witnessing events that left no mark. When the Captain had described it all in the cabin earlier, Aitken had pictured Santa Cruz rather like a cave; he had expected to feel an overwhelming sense of being trapped—as indeed they were—but instead he was reminded of a peaceful evening's walk beside a loch.

Jackson, walking from one side of the ship to the other to keep an eye on the edges of the channel, now mercifully disappearing astern as the ship came out into the lagoon, was reminded of Italy, not by the water but by the hills. They were smoothly rounded and rose higher and higher as they moved inland. This was, he thought, like southern Tuscany: that big peak could be Monte Amiata. The land on either side of the channel was covered with the same tough scrub of the macchia, like the countryside where they had found the Marchesa. He wondered if it had jogged the Captain's memory. At times like this he always seemed busy, working out angles and distances, ranges and trajectories, or what the enemy might be planning, but afterwards—perhaps long afterwards—he'd make some comment that showed he had missed nothing.

Stafford, squatting on the breech of one of the aftermost of the quarterdeck guns with Rossi, felt uncomfortable. The long channel back to the sea, with the fort on each side, reminded him of a heavy door. He had never been in the Bridewell, but he knew plenty of men who had, and they all commented on the jail doors slamming behind them as they entered, then the long walk to the cells. The long walk was what they remembered, down a corridor that seemed to go on for miles.

“Be glad to get out o' here,” he commented to Rossi.

The Italian turned to look at him. “Oh? Is not so bad, you know; the French build a good ship.”

“I don't mean the
Calypso,
” he said impatiently. “I mean this place, Santa Cruz.”

“Is quiet enough now, Staff,” Rossi said complacently. “Just like the Captain said.”

“He didn't say it'd be quiet going out, though. I'll take my oath on that!”

“We'll soon know. Remember when we were in Cartagena?”

“Aye, that's what I'm saying. Trapped. Same sort of place—Spanish, mountains, narrow entrance …”

“We sailed out of Cartagena all right!”

“But he'll chance ‘is arm once too orfen, mark my words.” Rossi spread both arms, palms upwards. “Always you get like this, Staff. For ten minutes you think of ways we can all get killed. Then you forget all about it.”

“‘Ere!” Stafford exclaimed, jumping from the gun, “that bleedin'
Jocasta
's gettin' close. Come on, Rosey, time we got ready to invite the Dons on board.”

Ramage watched the
Jocasta:
she was a hundred yards ahead, fine on the starboard bow, but the men at the oars were getting tired now and the
Calypso
was slowing down, yet he wanted some way on her so that the rudder would have a bite on the water for the final slight turn that would bring the
Calypso
alongside.

Suddenly he swung round: “Jackson, the signal lanterns: have you checked that they're ready?”

“Just done it, sir. Slow matches too; I've got three of them going.”

“Very well.” And keep control of your voice, he told himself; that all sounded rather agitated. A glance back at the channel: they were too far into the lagoon to see along it now, but he could not distinguish the
Santa Barbara
's masts across the land. What's delaying Wagstaffe? Don't say he's put the brig aground!

Southwick was standing beside him muttering: “Not much breeze, sir. From the south, a soldier's wind for getting out of here down the channel.”

“We'll need it,” Ramage said briefly. “Jackson! Four spokes to larboard!”

It was hardly a standard helm order but it should be just enough, a quarter of a turn of the wheel. The
Jocasta
's stern was showing up black, like the end of a barn, with the Spanish name picked out in white paint (and probably a lot of gilt, too, but it was too dark to see that). And the masts, spars and rigging made a complicated but beautiful web of lace against the sky, like a Spanish mantilla.

Ramage saw that dozens of men were lining the
Jocasta
's bulwarks, waiting for lines to be thrown. Dozens—a hundred or more and others streaming up from below. Many were running, but they were spurred on more by curiosity than orders.

“Two more spokes!” he snapped. The
Calypso
's bow was abreast the
Jocasta
's stern; now level with her mizen. Men were shouting in Spanish from her quarterdeck. Now abreast her mainmast, and the ship was moving a little too fast.

“Wheel hard a'starboard!”

That would stop her; at low speeds the rudder put hard over acted as a good brake. And now the
Calypso
was precisely alongside the
Jocasta,
bow to bow, stern to stern, and he tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“Bowline, brothers; pass a bowline! Aft there, get a sternline over. You there amidships—pass the after spring! Come on, brothers, look alive and get the fore spring across!”

Every Spaniard on board the
Jocasta
seemed to be yelling at once and at least two men were bellowing through speaking-trumpets. There must be a hundred voices within fifty feet, all shouting orders, advice and encouragement on how to get the
Calypso
safely alongside, and all ignoring the fact that she was already there.

No sign of the
Santa Barbara,
although she was so small and the channel was in such deep shadow that her masts might not show up. The shouting on board the
Jocasta
seemed to be reaching a crescendo amidships, as though the Captain was demanding to be allowed through.

“Brother Southwick,” Ramage said, “I think we'd better join brother Aitken at the gangway, and form a welcoming committee. Brother Stafford, bring up some lanterns!”

T
HREE SPANISH sailors carrying cutlasses leapt on to the
Calypso
's bulwarks, scrambled down to the deck and then stood round in a half-circle, looking rather sheepish as Ramage led a round of cheering. A moment later three officers followed them, led by a tall and gaunt man in the uniform of a Captain.

As soon as he was standing on the
Calypso
's deck the captain squared his hat, gave his sword-belt a twitch and looked around him. It was a slow, calculating stare, and although the last of the light had almost gone, Ramage sensed that the Spaniard had not missed much, the dirty, gritty decks, the untidy ropes, the dark stains on the planks … At the moment he was obviously trying to determine which of the dozens of men standing round was the leader of the mutineers.

“Que pasa?”
he demanded.

Ramage stepped forward and gave a clumsy salute which the Spaniard did not bother to acknowledge. “You speak English, sir?”

“A little.”

“Well, sir, me and my mates you see, we took the ship and—”

Ramage stopped as Stafford and Rossi came up from below with lanterns, one in each hand.

“Where j'yer want ‘em, brother?” Stafford asked the Spaniard, the complete mutineer addressing everyone as his equal.

The Spanish Captain gestured towards the quarterdeck. “Aye, aye, sir!” Ramage said quickly, leading the way aft to the ladder. “Bring them up here, brothers.”

Rossi put one lantern on the binnacle and another on top of the capstan; Stafford put a third on the binnacle and continued to hold the fourth.

“Now, sir,” Ramage said in an ingratiating voice, “may I present the committee—”

“Committee?”

“Yes, sir. When we took the ship the men elected a committee. Three of us to run the ship. Make decisions, and things like that.”

“I understand. You are the leader?”

“No, sir, there are three of us. Me—Nicholas Ramage, sir. And this here is brother Southwick, and here is brother Aitken.”

“This ‘brother,' I do not understand it. You have different names; how can you be brothers?”

“It's a sort of … well, sir,” Ramage said, careful to keep the ingratiating note in his voice, “a greeting, like ‘mister,' only it—”

“I do not care for this ‘brothers,'” the Captain interrupted. “I have taken command of this ship. What is her name?”

“The
Calypso,
sir; she's French-built and—”

“I want the ship's documents. Signal book, log …”

Ramage held up his hands. “I'm sorry, sir, we couldn't save the papers—”

“What happened to them?”

“The officers, sir. You see, before we could take control, the officers—the First Lieutenant it was—threw the bag over the side.”

“What bag?”

“The bag—a bag with a lead weight in it. The one they kept all the papers in. Sunk it, he did, before—”

“Your men,” the Spaniard interrupted. “How many?”

“Two hundred and four left, sir.”

“Show me round the ship.”

With that he gestured to Rossi and Stafford to pick up lanterns and began to walk round the quarterdeck. He inspected the binnacle, the capstan, the wheel and then the guns. He paused from time to time and Ramage saw how the sharp eyes noted the pieces of food in the scuppers, the grease spots on the deck, and then the barrel of rum and the mugs beside it. The Spaniard stopped by a bloodstain and told Rossi to hold the lantern lower, but he made no comment.

Ramage cursed the lanterns: the light had destroyed his night vision, yet he had to know where the
Santa Barbara
was. The Spaniard had been on board about ten minutes—and already part of the plan was breaking down: apart from the three Spanish seamen and the two lieutenants, the Captain had not brought more men on board. Ramage had expected that all the Spanish seamen from the
Jocasta
would stream on board the
Calypso,
where everyone was ready to seize them. The groups of British seamen apparently lounging around on the main deck were in fact all near piles of cutlasses; most of them had pistols and loaded muskets ready. But the Spanish seamen were still on board the
Jocasta;
it had not yet occurred to the Spanish Captain that he must take control of the
Calypso
and the
Jocasta
's men were—judging by those now idly spitting over the side and walking away from the bulwark—rapidly losing interest in the proceedings.