Ramage's Mutiny (35 page)

“It'll take us about five hours to get down to her,” Ramage said. “If she can set any sail naturally we'll meet her sooner. We should sight her before it's dark.”

“If she's still afloat. Do you think she's likely to have capsized, sir?”

Ramage shook his head. “No, I think she was so close in to the shore that it might have saved her when it first started blowing. It was only during the first few minutes that we nearly capsized, until we could run off before it.”

“It seemed like hours,” Southwick commented.

“Yes. Well, her cables couldn't take the strain and eventually they parted and she began drifting out to sea. They knew what to expect, and I think they might have been able to keep her under control. I hope so, anyway.”

“I'm doubtful about our estimates of the speed at which she's drifting.”

“I agree. I think she'll be slower. So we're likely to see her more to the south-west. But the visibility is good and the lookouts have telescopes.”

The first hail from the mainmasthead three hours later warned that there was a small boat on the starboard bow, and the
Jocasta
bore up to find it was empty. The second hail, half an hour after that, told of three boats on the starboard bow, and they too were empty and nearly sunk.

Southwick plotted their positions and then came up to report to Ramage. “They drifted in the direction we expected, sir. A lot slower, but o' course they're half-full of water and don't have the windage of a merchant ship.”

The next hail revealed a drogher drifting along, her mainsail in shreds and floating low in the water. The two men on board, taken off by one of the
Jocasta
's boats, reported that the other three men in the crew had been washed overboard. More important, they told Ramage that while the
caldereta
was blowing they had seen the merchant ship drifting past them apparently undamaged.

This news had cheered Southwick. “We'll soon sight her beating up towards us,” he told Aitken, but the young Scot was gloomy: “If she could set any canvas, she'd be in sight by now. Her topsails, anyway.”

The First Lieutenant was echoing Ramage's thoughts. The men from the drogher—now below under guard, thankful at having been rescued but depressed at being prisoners—had been far from sure when they had seen the merchant ship: they could not say whether it was three minutes after the wind parted their anchor cable or thirty; they explained that they had been fighting to stifle the mainsail, which parted the gaskets, and then busy pumping to save the vessel.

“You think she's gone?” Southwick asked Aitken.

“Aye—probably capsized just to spite us. We must have used up all our luck at Santa Cruz.”

Ramage feared that Aitken's view was shared by most of the ship's company, who had been full of zest as they left La Guaira. Now, four hours later, the laughing and teasing had gone; they were cheerful enough, but no longer excited.

If he was honest, he had to admit he was losing hope; it had been something of a gamble from the start. It was satisfying to know that if the merchant ship had been in La Guaira there would have been no difficulty in capturing her and towing her out. No one could anticipate Nature playing such a trick; one which robbed both the Spanish and the British with the same savage impartiality.

“Deck there!”

The hail was from the lookout at the foremasthead, and Ramage listened as Aitken answered: “Deck here!”

“Masts, sir, looks like three masts one point on the larboard bow.”

“No sails set?”

“No, sir; leastways, not uppers.”

“Can you make out the hull?”

“No, sir, only the topmasts. Lying north and south, they are.” It could be her, Ramage thought. The position was about right, and apart from a neutral ship which had unluckily strayed into the path of the
caldereta,
there was no other ship it was likely to be.

Aitken was looking at him, waiting for orders.

“We'll go down to investigate her, Mr Aitken. Have the boats ready for hoisting out, and pass the word for Mr Rennick.”

An hour later the
Jocasta
was hove-to a cable to windward of a small merchant ship. Ramage estimated her to be about four hundred tons. Her masts were bare; he could make out three yards lying across her decks in a tangle of ropes. Where were the others?

“At least she's not floating low,” Southwick said.

“No, they're not working the pumps,” Ramage confirmed, lowering the telescope.

“But there's a deal of work in getting those yards up again. She's probably sprung her masts, too,” Southwick grumbled.

Ramage turned to Aitken. “We'll send two boats over. You'll take one, I'll take the other. A dozen Marines in each. Rennick can go with you.”

As the First Lieutenant hurried off to the main deck, Southwick said: “Let me take a boat, sir. It's not right for you to be leading boarding parties.”

“I need some exercise,” Ramage said flippantly.

“But you can't trust those Dons, sir.”

“Mr Southwick,” Ramage said impatiently, remembering the times before when the Master had protested at being left on board, “as soon as you learn to speak Spanish you can board every Spanish ship we sight!”

“But I can bring back the Captain for you to question,” the Master protested. “It's not seemly, sir.”

“It may not be seemly, but it saves a lot of time.” With that he went below to collect his sword.

As Jackson steered the boat across the merchant ship's stern, Ramage realized that losing her yards was not the only damage: as she pitched he saw that her rudder was smashed. The rudder-post was still there but the blade had been torn off. No wonder they were not hurrying to get the yards up again; first they needed a jury-rudder.

Now there were a dozen or more men lining the rail and watching the approaching boats. The masts looked curiously naked, like great fir trees stripped of their branches and leaves. Yet the paintwork of the hull was in good condition and she was pierced for eight guns. And there it was—Jackson had noticed it too and grunted. Always, as you approached a Spanish or French ship from to leeward, there was the whiff of garlic.

“They look quiet enough, sir,” Jackson murmured.

“Glad to see us, even though they can see from our colours it means they'll be taken prisoner. Better that than drifting all the way to the Mosquito Coast.”

Jackson snapped an order to the oarsmen and a moment later the bowman had hooked on with a boat-hook and the boat was rising and falling alongside the ship. Ramage jammed his hat on his head, swung his sword round out of the way, and leapt for the rope ladder hanging down the ship's side.

The men who met him on deck were unshaven, their faces drawn with weariness and despair. Behind them the wheel spun uselessly and in several places the deck planking was stove in where yards had crashed down. On the starboard side the bulwarks were jagged, sections crushed by the weight of the falling yards.

One of the men stepped forward. He was solidly built and in better times he obviously had a cheerful face. Now his skin was grey from fatigue and his eyes rimmed with red.

“I am the master of this ship,” he said nervously.

Ramage nodded and answered in Spanish. “You are now prize to his Britannic Majesty's ship
Jocasta
.”

“But—well, when we first saw you we thought you were a Spanish frigate,
La Perla.
”

By now the Marines had followed Ramage up the ladder and were spreading round the deck, covering the Spanish crew with their muskets. He decided to leave the Spanish master puzzled for the time being; first he wanted to find out about the “particular cargo.”

“Show me the ship's papers,” he said, and followed when the Spaniard pointed to the companion-way.

The cabin was comfortable; it had a good deal of mahogany panelling and the furnishings were tasteful. The master went to his desk and unlocked a drawer.

“The log and the ship's papers,” he said, placing them on the desk and shutting the drawer again. Ramage saw that he was very nervous; his movements were jerky and his upper lip was beaded with perspiration. It was hot down here in the cabin, but that was the perspiration of nervousness, not heat.

“Manifests, bills of lading … ?” Ramage asked.

“We had not completed loading.”

“You are wasting my time,” Ramage said impatiently. “You know what I am looking for. I can set my seamen to work searching through the holds until we find it, but unless you want to be left on board this wreck until you drift to the Mosquito Coast, I suggest you cooperate.”

“
Señor,
I dare not …”

“The papers are in that desk. Do you want me to have you seized so that I can get them out?”

The man finally shrugged his shoulders, took another key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer. Slowly he took out a sheaf of papers and put them on top of the desk. Ramage saw that he could not bring himself to push them across; that would be handing them over to the enemy. He reached over and took them.

There were two or three dozen sheets of paper and most of them had at least one large seal. He began to leaf through them, intending to look for any that came from Panama. Half of them bore the seals of the office of the Viceroy of the Indies and the rest had the seals and signatures of the Captain-General of the Province of Caracas. They referred to two separate consignments of cargo.

Then he found copies of receipts, notarized and signed by the master of the ship. They said that he had received the consignments on board, and described what they were. Ramage felt dizzy as he read the words again, and the quantities. He glanced up at the master, who was watching him like a rabbit paralysed by the eyes of a weasel.

“Where is it stowed?” he asked.

A
S THE
Jocasta
glided through the entrance to English Harbour, Ramage saw the
Invincible
at anchor in Freeman's Bay with two frigates farther up towards the careening wharf. Jackson began calling out the numbers of a signal from the flagship, and Paolo was busy with the signal book.

Southwick said suddenly: “Look, sir: the
Invincible
's men are swarming up the rigging!”

Was she about to get under way? Ramage trained his telescope on the fo'c's'le of the flagship. No, there were no men there, so she could not be weighing anchor. The men continued climbing the rigging; then some spread out along the lower yards while others carried on upwards, to go out on the topsail and topgallant yards, looking at this distance like starlings on the branches of three trees.

“They're manning the yards!” Southwick exclaimed.

“What on earth for?” Ramage muttered anxiously, trying to remember if it was the King's or Queen's birthday, or one of the half a dozen other days when salutes were fired. He saw both Aitken and Southwick staring at him.

“They might be glad to see the
Jocasta
coming back,” Southwick said, barely troubling to keep the irony out of his voice.

Now Paolo was reading out the signal: the
Jocasta
was to anchor to the north-west of the flagship—just in front of the masked battery, Ramage noted. A moment later Jackson was reporting another signal that had been hoisted by the flagship with the
Calypso
's numbers.

“Well, what is it?” Ramage asked Paolo impatiently.

“She's to anchor to the south-east of the flagship, sir.”

The Admiral was gathering the frigates round him like a hen collecting her chicks.

“The batteries, sir!” Southwick exclaimed and Ramage glanced up to the walls of Fort Barclay, built along the top of the western arm of the entrance. Rows of red-coated soldiers were standing to attention.

There was no more time to think about all that. “Stand by for anchoring, Mr Southwick,” he snapped, and the Master hurried to the fo'c's'le.

Ramage picked up the speaking-trumpet, gave an order to the quartermaster and began shouting the sequence of orders for trimming the
Jocasta
's yards round and bringing her to the positioning for anchoring.

The ship was a hundred yards from the
Invincible
when it started: a stentorian “Hip, hip” followed by five hundred voices bellowing “Hurrah!”

Birds wheeled up in alarm as the cheer echoed off the hills on either side of the anchorage and a few moments later came a second cheer, and then a third. What on earth does one do? Ramage could only recall the yards being manned to cheer a departing commander-in-chief, who usually stood on the quarterdeck saluting.

He glanced astern to see that the
Calypso
was through the entrance under topsails only and already bearing up to anchor south of the
Invincible.
He looked forward again to make sure the cable was ranged on deck. The anchor was clear, the topmen waiting. Aitken was beside the binnacle and calling out the bearing of the flagship. Ramage lifted the speaking-trumpet to his lips. Every man in English Harbour was watching, from the Admiral to the most heavy-footed soldier in the island's garrison; this was not the time to make a mistake in what the seaman-ship books referred to as “Bringing the ship to anchor.”

Fifteen minutes later, with her topsails furled and riding to a single anchor, the
Jocasta
looked like any other frigate in English Harbour. The boatswain was being rowed round in one of her boats, giving signals to ensure the yards were square. A second boat had been hoisted out and Jackson was inspecting its crew, making sure their queues were neatly tied and that their shirts and trousers were clean.

Ramage came up on deck with his best uniform, his sword slung, a canvas pouch of papers under his arm. The anchor buoy had hardly hit the water before the flagship had hoisted another signal for the
Jocasta,
ordering her commanding officer to come on board. They had sharp eyes on the flagship, spotting that he was not in the
Calypso.