Ramage's Mutiny (24 page)

He was far from sure how many of his own men had been killed or badly wounded: there were many bodies lying round the deck. Just then the light of a lantern reflected on his cutlass blade and showed the stain on the metal, and he knew he wanted no more killing if he could avoid it.

He called to Southwick, who came trotting aft: “Take over here for a moment. Don't go down the hatch.”

As he walked to the main hatch Ramage called to Aitken, telling him to stand fast. Like the after hatch, the main hatch was a regular black pit; twelve-pounder shot gleamed round the coamings, sitting in semi-circular depressions cut in the wood, like large black oranges on display.

Anyone standing at the edge of the hatchway and shouting at the Spaniards below was lit up by the lanterns, a perfect target, towering over them like a figurehead. Well, he had already decided the Spaniards would not have had time to pick up muskets or pistols; in a minute or two he would know if he had been wrong. The possibility of a shot coming upwards out of the hatch reminded him of the dull pain gripping his stomach, but there was still no blood.

Yet
would
the Spaniards be crouching round the main hatch? Would they bunch themselves amidships where they could be trapped by parties coming down the fore and after hatches? No, he realized; they would be right forward, waiting for their enemy to come down the fore hatch.

He walked the few more paces that brought him to the small fore hatch where Aitken waited with his men, obviously uncertain what Ramage intended to do. But Ramage knew that while he was prepared to lead men in a wild dash down the ladder, he had little appetite for perching on the coaming like the target in a shooting contest. It had to be done though, and he found himself standing at the edge and taking a deep breath.

“Below there!” he called in Spanish. “Your ship is captured. Throw away your weapons and come up on deck unarmed.”

“Let our Captain speak to us,” someone answered.

“Your Captain is dead,” Ramage said harshly, for the moment less concerned with the truth than persuading the Spaniards to make up their minds quickly. “And so are your officers. You must surrender!”

“No! Help will soon arrive! The soldiers are back in Santa Cruz—they will come on board in the morning.”

“By then you will all be dead,” Ramage said, speaking slowly and evenly. “You have only two choices: to live by surrendering, or to die when we come down there after you.”

He paused for several moments, letting the Spaniards absorb his words. “If you want to live, you must come up on deck without your arms. If you want to die—well, the moment I give the order, two hundred men will come down there and slaughter you. You saw what happened up here.”

A dozen voices began talking; more joined in and several men began shouting to make themselves heard. Ramage listened carefully. There seemed to be no quarrelling; although he could not distinguish the words he was sure they were all agreeing with some decision. Suddenly there was a silence broken by the same Spanish voice.

“You will kill us if we surrender?”

“Of course not. You will be prisoners.”

“How can we be sure you will not kill us?”

“You cannot be sure,” Ramage said, “but we have just been saving the lives of some of your shipmates by pulling them out of the water. Do you want to talk to them?”

There was a clatter of cutlass blades. Were they fighting or tossing away their weapons?

“We surrender,” the voice said, “and I will lead the men up.”

Ramage turned to Aitken and said quietly: “They've surrendered and are coming up in a moment. Have the men with muskets stand by.” With that he walked aft to tell Southwick, and then went up to the quarterdeck to collect his thoughts. Three shadowy figures followed him, and as he paused by the binnacle Ramage, startled for a moment, recognized them as Jackson, Rossi and Stafford, who had obviously appointed themselves his bodyguards. It was a sensible precaution; half a dozen desperate Spaniards could be lurking anywhere in the ship, and by now they would have recognized which of the disreputable-looking men was the leader.

Gradually his night vision returned. The lanterns on the main deck were throwing a lot of light, but by facing aft he found he could first pick out the great black peak of Santa Fé, then the hills on either side of the entrance channel. Then he saw a grey patch, moving very slowly if it was moving at all. Gradually the patch became an outline, and he recognized the
Santa Barbara
lying hove-to.

Wagstaffe was in position, the
Jocasta
had been captured, and the first half of the plan had succeeded. But it was the easier half; many a schoolboy had found to his cost that it was easier to climb up a tree than down.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES later Ramage settled himself comfortably at the desk in the captain's cabin of the
Jocasta
and grinned at Aitken and Southwick, who were sitting on the settee sipping cups of coffee.

“This is poor stuff, sir,” Southwick said, squinting in the lantern light. “These foreigners don't have the right quality beans to start with.”

“Aye, there's no body to it,” Aitken commented. “Still, we shouldn't be complaining, I suppose.”

“It'll make a tale to tell your grandchildren,” Ramage said. “We shan't be able to tell the Admiral because he would not believe it.”

“I wouldn't blame him,” Southwick said after draining his cup and putting it down on the deck beside him. “‘What did you all do after sailing into Santa Cruz with the
Calypso
and seizing the
Jocasta?
' Well, sir, Captain Ramage found the
Jocasta
's galley fire was still alight, so he ordered hot soup for the men and coffee for the officers.”

“‘And pray, Mr Southwick,'” the Master added, giving a good imitation of Admiral Davis's voice, “‘how did Mr Ramage justify wasting so much time, with two of the King's ships lying in a heavily defended enemy harbour?' ‘Well, sir, Mr Ramage said it was much too dark for gentlemen to be blundering around the lagoon in frigates, so he scrapped his plans and sat down sipping his coffee.' How does it sound, sir?”

“Well enough,” Ramage admitted. “All we lack is the Marchesa serving us thin slices of cake!”

“Aye, she'd enjoy all this.”

“However,” Ramage said, “I trust you'll tell the rest of the story!”

“Oh yes, sir,” Southwick said airily, “but sticking too closely to the facts does wreck a good tale, you know. ‘Well,' I shall tell the Admiral (if he asks me), ‘we'd seized the
Jocasta
without raising the alarm on shore, so Mr Ramage changed his mind: instead of sailing out with a fanfare of trumpets and bonfires lit along the sides of the channel to show us the way, we'd wait half an hour for the moon so that we could sneak out like guilty lovers.'”

As Aitken sipped his coffee he watched Ramage. He was unshaven, his seaman's shirt bloodstained, his trousers torn and grubby, but there was no mistaking that he was the Captain. Put him in a line with a couple of hundred seamen, and you would know he was in command. Quite why it was, Aitken was far from sure. Eyes deep-set, cheekbones high, nose narrow and slightly hooked, mouth firm but quick to twist into a smile. You would pick him out on appearances, even though the stubble on his face and the tangled hair were great levellers and at least temporarily counteracted the hint of aristocratic lineage. Aitken liked the word “lineage” and was proud of his own, even though it contained no titles. Thomas Jackson, seaman, had as much lineage as Nicholas Ramage, heir to the Earldom of Blazey. The reason for the curious relationship between Captain and coxswain was probably that both men knew and acknowledged this without ever giving it any thought.

The Captain sat in his chair, not exactly sprawling, but not sitting bolt upright either. Sitting comfortably—confidently was the word. Some captains needed well-pressed uniforms, formality, remoteness, the backing of the Articles of War, to create an atmosphere of authority round them, but most of them, however carefully they cultivated it, could not achieve what Mr Ramage did without realizing it, sitting back grubby and cheerful, a grin on his face as he teased Southwick.

Aitken heard a faint call, answered from the gangway.

“The boat's come back, sir. I'll make sure that Kenton found Wagstaffe and delivered your orders.”

Southwick looked at his watch as the First Lieutenant left the cabin. “Another fifteen minutes, sir. I do wish you'd let me land with Rennick and the Marines. There's no telling—”

“Not again,” Ramage interrupted. “Rennick is competent and agile. He knows what to do. There'll be enough work for you on the way out. Anyway, you're no mountain goat, and you need to be one for the job I've given him.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“But you don't feel comfortable because the escape of two frigates probably depends on one lieutenant of Marines!”

“Aye, sir,” Southwick said stubbornly. “That's the long and short of it.”

Ramage looked up as Aitken came back to report that Kenton had found the
Santa Barbara
and handed Wagstaffe his orders. He had waited until they had been read and reported that there was no message from Wagstaffe, who had understood everything perfectly.

Aitken then waited a moment and said: “I wish you'd let me take half the prisoners in the
Calypso,
sir; I'm afraid they'll rise on you. You have fewer than a hundred men to work the ship and guard them.”

Again the First Lieutenant saw the teasing smile. “Don't disturb those poor Spaniards, my dear Aitken: they're crowded together under the watchful eye of four boat guns loaded with grape. If one prisoner so much as sneezes he risks having them all wiped out. Now, is everything ready on board the
Calypso?
Baker and Kenton have their orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you remember your own orders?”

Aitken looked puzzled. “Well, sir, just to follow you out but to pass you and get clear of the entrance if you go aground.”

“Good. I just wanted to make sure you understood that you don't take any ships in tow.”

Aitken grinned cheerfully. “I understand, sir.”

At that moment the sentry reported that Mr Bowen was waiting to see the Captain, and the Surgeon came into the cabin, bloodstained and weary and holding a folded sheet of paper. Ramage saw him and stiffened, knowing that the Surgeon came to report the casualties.

Bowen held out the paper but Ramage said as he took it: “Tell me how bad it is.”

“We were lucky,” Bowen said. “It could have been much worse. Five Calypsos dead and nineteen wounded.”

That, Ramage thought to himself, is the price of the
Jocasta
so far. Admiral Davis would regard it as cheap—almost unbelievably cheap. But Admiral Davis would read Bowen's list in a different way: to him the names of the dead would mean nothing. He would not recall faces and accents, habits and problems. Obviously the captain of a ship knew each man in his crew; obviously admirals were concerned only with totals—but it did not make it any easier to bear the fact that you have just been responsible for the death of five of your men, with others possibly maimed for life. And there was the enemy, too.

“How did the Spaniards get on?” he asked.

Bowen shook his head. “You'll hardly believe it, sir.

Twenty-three dead and forty-one wounded. I don't know how many will see the dawn. And if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll get below again. The only thing is there are no gunshot or splinter wounds.”

Ramage nodded as the Surgeon turned away. Sixty-four Spanish dead and wounded—nearly a third of her complement. Ramage had discovered from the Spanish captain that there had been 181 men on board. Another third were missing—they had jumped overboard—and a third, seventy or so men, were prisoners, along with the twenty from the
Santa Barbara.

Tomorrow there would be funerals. Five British and twenty-three Spaniards would “go over the standing part of the main sheet.” Twenty-eight times the bodies of men, sewn up in hammocks and with a round shot at their feet, would be put on a wide plank hinged on the bulwark in way of the main sheet where the standing part was secured to the ship's side; twenty-eight times Ramage would have to read the appropriate passage from the funeral service, and the plank would be hinged up to allow the body to slide off into the sea. Twenty-eight times—providing the
Jocasta
managed to get past the forts without being fired on.

Twenty-eight men dead because a seaman called Summers talked his shipmates into mutiny—although one should include the captain and officers who were murdered, and the various mutineers later executed. Twenty-eight men dead, the ghost of Summers might argue, because Captain Nicholas Ramage saw fit to attempt a cutting out which another captain had already said was impossible. Yet, blaming himself, Summers, Admiral Davis or Eames didn't bring anyone back to life; he knew he should be thankful to Bowen, because without even looking he knew that several of the wounded were alive only because of the Surgeon's skill.

Southwick pulled out his watch. “Five minutes to moonrise, sir, then we'll have to wait another ten minutes or so before it gets up clear of the hills.”

“Very well, you and Aitken had better make sure that we are all ready.”

When the two men had gone Ramage took the four books which had been sitting on top of the desk, slid them into a drawer and turned the key. The Spanish order book, letter book, captain's journal and the signal book for the
Jocasta—La Perla,
rather. The first two would make interesting reading; it was a pity there was no time to go through them now.

The muscles of his stomach gave a spasm of protest as he began to get up. That he was lucky to be alive was plain from the damaged pistol now in the second drawer of the desk and the cut in the front flap of his trousers. The horizontal slash from that Spaniard's cutlass had hit him in the stomach, but the blow had been taken by one of the pistols tucked in his belt. The blade had hit the side of the butt and been deflected, sliding down an inch or two before coming hard up against the steel and pan cover, which had absorbed most of the impact. Sea Service pistols were clumsy and heavy, but he would never again complain about them; the sturdy construction and sheer bulk had saved his life. Nevertheless it would be a few days before he would be able to sit or walk comfortably; he felt as if he had been kicked by a horse. Apart from the pain, he did not want to think about it. His imagination ran riot when he thought of dying from a stomach wound.