Ramage's Mutiny (23 page)

Ramage sensed that at this moment he risked losing control of the situation. Because his plan for seizing the Spanish seamen had collapsed, the advantage could easily swing to the Spanish Captain without the man realizing it. Surprise, he thought to himself; I must get this fellow off balance. He walked over to him and said insolently: “Sir, the men have not had their dinner yet.”

“They must wait.”

“But, sir, the committee agreed that all meals should be piped on time and—”

“The committee!
Caramba,
I command now! Tell your committee that! I want all the men paraded here, now. Give the order!”

If one part of a plan goes adrift, Ramage thought bitterly, another soon follows. The men must stay where they are; that was vital. The problem was that the Spaniard was too confident: Ramage had underestimated him. He should have sent his men swarming on board to take control the moment the
Calypso
came alongside, but instead he was walking round making a leisurely inspection by lantern light. And all the time the
Santa Barbara
was getting into position in the darkness and waiting; Wagstaffe was watching for the signal.

Aitken was close and the Spanish Captain was striding away towards the quarterdeck ladder, the gold lace on his uniform glinting in the light of Rossi's lantern. The three Spanish seamen remained on guard at the gangway.

“Can you see the brig?” Ramage hissed at Aitken.

“I just caught sight of her five minutes ago coming clear of the channel, but I haven't seen her since. These damned lanterns …”

Aitken was tense—Ramage could detect that from his clipped voice. The young Scot knew that the success of the whole venture was at this very moment in the balance: one wrong word to the Spanish Captain and it would fail; instead of losing the
Jocasta,
the Spanish would gain the
Calypso.

“Captain!” Ramage called.

Ramage braced himself. Insolent self-assurance, that was what he had to convey in the dim light thrown by the lanterns, and he had only a dozen paces in which to achieve it. Just enough to provoke the man, to cause sufficient anger to cloud his judgement and make him act pettishly.

Now he was standing in front of him on the quarterdeck, staring him straight in the eye: “Me and my mates want dinner.”

Ramage deliberately slurred the words and the Spaniard, provoked by the tone although he could not fully understand what was said, snapped his finger to attract one of the lieutenants as he said: “Speak slowly. What did you say?”

“Me—and—my—mates—want—our—dinner. Now.”

The lieutenant hurried up the ladder and stood waiting. “Send the men to quarters,” the Captain said in Spanish, careful to keep his voice casual. “Load and run out all the guns on the larboard side. We might have trouble with these men.”

“Brother Ramage,” Aitken said urgently in the darkness. “Brother Ramage—brother Wagstaffe says he's ready for dinner.”

Like the tumblers of a lock clicking as the key turned, Ramage assessed the significance of the Captain's brief order to the Spanish lieutenant: the Captain was not confident, and he was stupid; he had boarded the
Calypso
with only two lieutenants and three seamen—because he had not considered there was any danger—and left the
Jocasta
completely unprepared: until the lieutenant shouted the Captain's order the frigate was defenceless, the men gossiping on deck like idlers in a town
plaza,
not a gun loaded nor a pistol ready.

“Brother Jackson and you, Staff and Rosey,” Ramage said conversationally, making the lieutenant pause for a moment, “stop our brothers here from shouting.”

Two lanterns were put down on the deck and suddenly there was a blur of movement. The lieutenant gave a great gasp, struggling for air, and the Captain suddenly collapsed like a rag doll dropped by a child. A moment later the lieutenant fell beside him, seeming curiously bulky. Then Ramage saw that Jackson had knocked out the Captain with the butt of a pistol while Rossi had seized the lieutenant from behind, an arm round his neck and throttling him. Both men had fallen to the deck and Stafford had knelt down, seized the lieutenant's head and banged it on the deck. In the silence that followed the other lieutenant down at the gangway began calling plaintively:
“Que pasa?”

There was no shout from the
Jocasta,
nor did the three Spanish seamen, out of sight at the gangway, raise any alarm.

“Both of ‘em unconscious, sir,” Jackson reported. “Here, Staff, quick, get some rope and cloths to gag them. Or did you want ‘em slung over the side, sir?”

“No, tie them up. Make sure you're not seen from the
Jocasta.
Where the devil's a speaking-trumpet? Oh, thank you, Aitken. We seem to be getting short of time, so let's be quick now.” He put the speaking-trumpet to his lips and turned forward to bellow: “Do you hear, there! Calypsos! There's a change of plan! Now then—board the
Jocasta!
”

Immediately the whole starboard side of the frigate seemed to give a convulsive twitch in the darkness as more than a hundred seamen leapt on top of the bulwark, cutlasses waving and all shouting “Calypso!” and swarmed on board the
Jocasta.

As Ramage made for the bulwark Jackson grabbed his arm. “Your pistols, sir!”

Ramage took them and paused to jam the barrels into his belt, picturing for a moment what would happen if one of them fired accidentally. Then he was scrambling up on to the bulwark and leaping across the gap of black water between the two ships—a gap at the bottom of which a man was already splashing and screaming in Spanish.

“Calypso!”
Ramage began shouting as he landed on the
Jocasta
's quarterdeck, followed a moment later by Jackson and several other men. But the quarterdeck was deserted; all the shouting was amidships, the bellows of
“Calypso”
punctuated by the sharp clash of cutlass against cutlass.

Ramage plunged forward down the ladder to the main deck and found two Spaniards on the steps climbing backwards as they tried to fight off seamen attacking them from below. A slash of the cutlass sent the nearest man collapsing on top of the one below and as he scrambled over the bodies Ramage remembered to keep on shouting “Calypso,” the prearranged call so that the men could distinguish friend from foe.

By now Ramage's eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. He was conscious of a dim, yellow glow from the
Calypso
's quarterdeck where lanterns still guttered in the light breeze, and he could see the
Jocasta
's main deck packed with men fighting in isolated groups, a dozen Calypsos against a dozen Spaniards.

And there were many more Spaniards than he expected: with the three hundred soldiers away in the hills he had assumed only a hundred or so Spanish seamen would remain on board the frigate; little more than a “care and maintenance” party. He paused a moment to have a good look round, conscious that Jackson and some men immediately closed up like a bodyguard.

How many Spaniards? More than a hundred, but the Calypsos had the advantage of surprise. Yet the Spanish were quickly recovering themselves; they had found cutlasses and grabbed boarding-pikes from the racks round the masts, and they were fighting with the desperation of men who knew their lives depended on it.

Ramage found himself breathing fast, fighting back the excitement that crowded out logical thought. Group against group, man against man: this was useless; he needed his men concentrated, not spread out all over the ship. He took a deep breath.

“To me! To me!” he bellowed. “Calypsos, to me!”

In the darkness he sensed rather than saw the mass of men give a spasm of movement as the Calypsos disengaged themselves from their opponents; then a black wall seemed to move round him. “Calypsos! To me! Let's drive them forward and trap ‘em. Southwick—get back to the quarterdeck with a dozen men. Now then, the rest of you, follow me!”

With that he ran towards the Spaniards who, finding the enemy had left them, were hurriedly grouping themselves. He kicked a coil of rope and staggered a few paces as he recovered his balance, but in that instant a dozen screaming Calypsos had passed him and began hacking and slashing at the Spaniards.

Now only instinct kept a man alive: a cutlass glinted and Ramage managed to deflect the blade sideways and then stab at the frenzied Spaniard wielding it. As the man collapsed Ramage turned to fight off two more Spaniards armed with pikes. There was so little room that they could not wield them properly; they seemed to Ramage like women trying to sweep with brooms. He jabbed at the nearest man and as soon as the point of his cutlass drove home he wrenched it away and swung the blade sideways at the shadowy figure of the other man, who saw it coming but could not parry with his pike nor duck out of the way.

Ramage was conscious that the Spanish were being driven back; the yelling Calypsos were slowly moving forward, step by step in a deadly saraband where the music was shouts and the crash of steel against steel. As Ramage half turned, looking for his next opponent, a cutlass blade suddenly flashed horizontally out of the darkness and he could not parry in time. It sliced into his stomach and he thought the wound must be fatal. A sharp pain made him gasp but he could still move and he slashed down at the dark figure who staggered off-balance. The man went down and Ramage, registering that he was still alive, fought on: hack, parry, step over a body, jab, parry yet again. No pistols were firing; there was just the clashing of cutlass against cutlass, blade against ash pikestave, the screams of men mortally wounded, the convulsive movements underfoot of wounded bodies.

Suddenly he found he was close to the breech of a gun and the Spanish were vanishing: the man he was just going to attack leapt on to the barrel, flung away his cutlass and vaulted over the side into the sea with a curious, despairing wail. A dozen more figures on either side followed him, and Ramage realized that the only men now left on the main deck were a wildly dancing group still shouting “Calypso!”

He shouted: “Stand fast, Calypsos!” but his voice came out as a scream which rasped his throat. “Stand fast!” he repeated but it was still too shrill. He took a deep breath but he was panting too hard to be able to hold it for a moment. He knew he was on the edge of losing consciousness and the pain in his stomach made him pause. His hand came away dry, but the pain seemed to be worsening.

The immediate fighting was over but the ship had not been secured: not all the Spaniards had leapt over the side—the majority of them feared water more than a cutlass blade. There had been more than a hundred on board—perhaps even double that number. Some were probably hiding down on the lower deck.

Now Aitken was reporting the fo'c's'le clear of Spaniards; Southwick was waiting for orders, wiping the blade of his sword on his sleeve. Time was racing past and he tried to guess whether the alarm would have been raised in the town across the water. There had been no shots—an indication of how unprepared the Spanish had been. The ring of steel against steel would not carry far, but a fisherman out there in the darkness sitting in his boat, tending net or line, would have heard and even now might be rowing to raise the alarm.

A mile to row in the darkness, ten minutes to persuade anyone in authority in Santa Cruz to listen to him, and another ten minutes to rouse out armed men and get them into boats, then a mile to row to the anchorage … there was no direct danger from the town. But a galloping horseman could warn the forts … Yet there was nothing to be gained from rushing; he had to risk an alert fisherman, or a suspicious sentry on the walls of Santa Fé. Wagstaffe could be relied on to wait in position, and all would be quiet in the town; at least, that was what Ramage hoped. The fox had managed to get into the hen run and was now swallowing the fattest bird, but he still had to finish the meal and then get out again. He had to keep calm and work methodically. First, clear the lower decks of Spaniards, and for that lanterns were needed. Then muskets to guard them—there was no time to send prisoners on shore.

He sent a dozen seamen across to the
Calypso
to fetch lanterns; a couple of dozen went over for muskets but were warned that they were to do nothing until all the Spaniards had been captured. As guards they were to fire only as a last resort, because the sound of musket shots would carry across the water and raise the alarm …

By the time the lanterns arrived Ramage had divided his men into three groups, one under Aitken to get to the lower deck down the fore hatch, another which he would lead himself down the after hatch, and a smaller group under Southwick to cover the main hatch to prevent the Spaniards scrambling up the ladder to the main deck.

A look over the starboard side revealed a couple of dozen Spaniards swimming close to the ship and shouting for help. Ramage ordered some seamen to throw them ropes and take them to the fo'c's'le under guard as soon as they were hauled on board. They had leapt overboard to avoid being spitted by British cutlasses; now the same British seamen were saving them from drowning.

The parties of men were now waiting ready at the three hatches, each with half a dozen lanterns whose light threw strange and conflicting shadows. Those weird angles were the shadow of the cranked pump handle, and that broad band came from the mainmast. Aloft the light caught the underside of the yards and the furled sails, with the shrouds and ratlines looking like nets reaching up to the stars.

Ramage stared down the after hatch. The lower deck was a dark, silent pit. The lanterns lit the ladder but beyond that he pictured frightened men in the darkness clutching their cutlasses—there had been no time for them to grab muskets or pistols—and staring up at the pools of light in the hatchways. How much fight was there left in the Spaniards? Knowing they were trapped, would they be desperate or resigned? Was there a leader down there to rally them? Or, he thought for a moment, a leader who could speak for them all and negotiate?