Ramage's Mutiny (6 page)

Ramage reached the fo'c's'le, paused by the belfry and looked aft. What a mess! There was not a square foot of clear deck: sails were stretched out like collapsed tents with men busy at work on them with needles and palms. Southwick was prowling round looking for worn canvas and marking out where he wanted extra patches sewn on to take care of chafe.

The bosun and his mates were working on a pile of blocks, with a carpenter's mate driving out the pins so that they could be greased. As soon as men left the purser's table and stowed their sea bags they were being given jobs. The decks were dirty, the brasswork green with verdigris, but a morning's work would see all that cleaned up, though it would need a week to get it sparkling. It was important now that running rigging should rend freely through blocks, that sails should not chafe holes on rigging or spars.

The gunner had the locks of all the guns up on deck, spread out on a sheet of canvas, and was checking them one by one. He had a large box of flints and a seaman was sorting through them, putting aside any that did not have a sharp edge that would ensure a good spark.

Three men who had not been on board more than half an hour were manhandling the big grindstone into position while others were collecting the cutlasses—more than two hundred of them—ready to give them all a sharp edge. More men were taking boarding-pikes from their racks round the masts—the heads, exposed to the spray, were rusty. Once they had been sharpened they would be given a coat of blacking and the wood of the staffs would be oiled to stop it splitting in the heat of the sun. All small jobs and all tedious, requiring a lot of men, but vital if the
Calypso
was to be an efficient ship.

There should be another ten men coming on board from the
Invincible
this afternoon to make up the
Calypso
's ship's company to two hundred, and more Marines had just arrived. Few frigates ever had more than three-quarters of their official complement, and Ramage knew it was an indication of how the Admiral viewed the
Jocasta
operation that he was making sure that the
Calypso
had more than her complement.

He could see that Aitken, who had been on board only long enough to change into an old uniform, was busy with a group of men at a stay-tackle, hoisting up a heavy awning from below. There would soon be fifteen minutes of chaos as they stretched out the awning and tried to work out how the French secured it, but the sun was scorching and the men needed some shade.

Wagstaffe should soon be back on board and no doubt telling a story of the insolence of the storekeeper. The Second Lieutenant had a long list of the
Calypso
's requirements and Ramage was determined he was not going to be fobbed off. If the
Calypso
did not get them now, while commissioning, she never would, and with the Admiral anxious to have the frigate ready, Ramage knew he would have a sympathetic ear for any complaints about a storekeeper's shortcomings.

Jackson came up to him and saluted. “A boat from the flag-ship is coming to us, sir. She's been to the other ships in the anchorage. There's a lieutenant on board.”

Ramage nodded. More orders, no doubt. The Marine Lieutenant, Rennick, approached and, coming smartly to attention, reported that all his Marines were now on board. “One lieutenant, one sergeant, two corporals and forty private Marines, sir!” he said like a priest reciting a liturgy.

“Forty-three men, eh? Quite a force you have now!”

“Yes, sir,” Rennick said cheerfully. “It'll take a few days to lick the new men from the flagship into some sort o' shape, but the sergeant's a good man: served with me in another ship when he was a corporal.”

“Very well,” Ramage said solemnly, half wishing Captain Edwards could have heard Rennick's patronizing comment on the extra men sent over from the
Invincible.
Yet Rennick was probably right. He was plump, the tropical heat made him perspire like a leaking head pump, but he was a very efficient officer. He was a strict disciplinarian—but he knew when to crack a joke with his men, who were proud of him. And men proud of an officer would follow him into action whatever the odds.

“These extra men from the flagship,” Ramage said quietly, “if you're doubtful about any of them, send them back.”

Rennick grinned and shook his head. “I know, sir, the one rotten apple! But the sergeant picked ‘em. Every man wanted to serve in the
Calypso.
Seems they've all heard about you, sir.”

The Marine Lieutenant had all the subtlety of a caulker's maul; he made the statement in his usual direct manner and Ramage knew it was not in him to flatter his Captain. For all that, Ramage found it hard to understand why Marines should want to leave the comparative comfort of a ship of the line and transfer to a cramped frigate—particularly as by now most of them would know the
Calypso
was bound for Santa Cruz. Even if a miracle occurred and the
Calypso
managed to cut out the
Jocasta,
at least half the seamen and half the Marines would be buried at sea the following morning; the most purblind optimist could see that.

“I'm glad to hear it, and I can rely on you to polish them,” Ramage said. “Tell me when you want me to inspect them; I'll breathe fire down their necks.”

“I've already warned ‘em, sir; I said all that easy living in the flagship is a thing of the past.”

Ramage gestured towards the grindstone, which was just beginning to spin and shower sparks as it put an edge on the first of the cutlasses. “The men are attending to the cutlery. Your Marines had better start on the muskets; we have 250 on board. And check the flints, too. We have ten boxes, I believe, with two hundred flints in each. Make sure they are marked musket or pistol size—it'd be just like the French to mix them up. And the pistols: check them over, too. The French equivalent of a Sea Service pistol is not too reliable, if my memory serves me.”

“Yes, sir. What about tomahawks?”

Ramage pointed to the pile beside the cutlasses. “All we need is a tinker mending kettles.”

Jackson came back to report that the boat from the
Invincible
had two lieutenants on board.

“Very well,” Ramage said. “Tell Mr Aitken that our new Fourth Lieutenant is probably about to arrive.”

The
Calypso
had all her men on board: four lieutenants, Master, Surgeon, and 203 warrant, petty officers and seamen, as well as Rennick and 43 Marines—a total of 253 officers and men, the most Ramage had ever commanded.

In front of him on the desk were the first letters concerning the trial of the
Jocasta
's four mutineers—and the news that Aitken would be needed, too. He had not thought of that, but apparently the machinery of a trial needed someone to start it off.

“Whereas Lieutenant James Aitken, for the time being commanding His Majesty's ship
Juno,
has represented to me that he did take four men from the American schooner
Sarasota Pride
on suspicion that they were formerly of His Majesty's frigate
Jocasta,
” said Admiral Davis's letter, he was ordering a court martial to try the four men for mutiny.

The letter, addressed to “The Captains of His Majesty's vessels, &c, at English Harbour, Antigua,” had to cite at length all the various acts of Parliament and amendments relating to courts martial, and finally concluded, after giving the men's alleged names and aliases: “I do hereby assemble a court martial composed of the captains and commanders of the squadron under my command, for the trial of the said four men for the offences of which they stand charged, and to try them for the same accordingly.”

With that came a memorandum which said, in language which Ramage was thankful to see had not been mangled by lawyers: “You are to attend a court martial which is to be assembled by Captain Herbert Edwards, on board His Majesty's ship
Invincible
in English Harbour, Antigua, on Monday next, the fourteenth instant, at eight o'clock in the morning in order to sit as member of the same.” That was also signed by Admiral Davis, but the third, from Captain Edwards, said that Ramage was “desired to attend a court martial,” giving the place and time, and adding the time-honoured injunction: “It is expected you will attend in your uniform frock.” Sword, clean stock and stockings, polished boots, white breeches and frock coat—no one brought before a naval court martial could complain that his judges were not well dressed.

Ramage pictured the four prisoners. It was unlikely all of them could read or write. They would be receiving copies of the charge and formal requests from whoever had been appointed the deputy judge advocate (probably the
Invincible
's purser, at eight shillings a day) for lists of witnesses they wished to call in their defence. Ramage felt sorry for them—until he remembered that Captain Wallis, four lieutenants, master, midshipman, surgeon and a lieutenant of Marines had been murdered and one of the King's ships handed over to the enemy …

The new Fourth Lieutenant seemed a lively youngster, he thought, in a deliberate attempt to cast off thoughts of the mutiny and the trial. Peter Kenton was twenty-one years old and the son of a half-pay captain. He was only four or five inches over five feet tall and had flaming red hair. His face was heavily freckled and peeling—his skin was obviously sensitive to the sun. More important than his appearance was Southwick's first report on him.

The Master had decided the foretopsail had too many patches to withstand the brisk winds they would find off the coast of the Main, and Kenton was given a few men and orders to get the new one up from the sailroom and stow the old. The young Lieutenant had started off well by saying he could make do with fewer men and, with the new sail on deck, went ahead preparing everything to hoist it up to the yard.

So even though the lad had not been on board three hours, Kenton's stock stood high with Southwick, and Ramage knew it was no passing whim, because over the years the old Master had seen dozens of lieutenants come and go—old ones and young, experienced and inexperienced, quiet and noisy. Lieutenants had commissions, so even the most junior in the ship were senior to Southwick: masters were warrant, not commission officers. For all that, it was a rash lieutenant that ran foul of a master, who was usually a fine seaman and often worth any brace of lieutenants that chance or influence brought on board a ship of war.

On the deck below, James Aitken had stripped off his uniform and was washing, using a quart of water in a small basin perched precariously on his wooden trunk. His cabin was eight feet square with only five feet of headroom, and the lantern contributed more heat than light.

No cooling draughts ever penetrated this part of the ship. Aft on the lower deck, just clear of the tiller, was the gunroom with three cabins opening off to one side and four on the other, the accommodation of the four lieutenants, Bowen, Southwick and Rennick. They ate their meals at the long table running almost the length of the gunroom, and a square scuttle beside the table reminded them that they were separated from several tons of gunpowder only by the thickness of the deck, because it covered the hatch leading to the magazine.

Just forward of the gunroom there were two cabins to lar-board, belonging to the Captain's clerk and bosun, and two to starboard, occupied by the gunner and carpenter. A larger cabin formed the midshipmen's berth, normally crowded but now occupied only by Paolo Orsini and a master's mate. Forward of them, abreast the mainmast, the Marines slung their hammocks while the seamen had the rest of the deck forward.

Aitken began towelling his bony body. He knew the effort would leave him dripping with perspiration, but he was happy to be back with Captain Ramage, Southwick, Wagstaffe and Bowen, despite the discomfort. He had enjoyed his brief command of the
Juno
and her captain's quarters were spacious: the great cabin running the width of the ship, the smaller one called the coach, and a third which was the bed place.

Spacious (by comparison with his present cabin) and even luxurious, with sideboard, wine-cooler, chairs, settee and desk, but lonely. That was what had hit him the moment he was given the temporary command. The captain's accommodation formed the after end of the main deck; everyone else, officers, petty officers, seamen and marines lived on the next deck below. That alone increased the sense of isolation: the knowledge that he was alone and above all the others, like a spinster occupying the top floor of a house, with all the other residents on the ground floor.

Yet that was only part of it: most of the isolation came from the fact that the man living in that accommodation was the captain; he made the decisions and gave the orders. He had to be right the first time, and for the sake of discipline (and perhaps pride) he could not ask for second opinions.

The captain ate alone, unless he invited some of his officers to dinner; when he was not walking the quarterdeck he was alone in his cabin, reading, thinking, brooding or sleeping. To someone who had never experienced this almost terrifying isolation, a captain's life seemed easy: he never stood a watch (although he left orders that he was to be called when land was sighted, if the course could not be laid because of a wind shift, or for a dozen other reasons) and really did not work, apart from signing papers prepared by his clerk, writing up his journal (usually borrowing the master's log and copying it) and generally making sure that the officers did their jobs properly.

Aitken now knew from experience what envious young lieutenants, dreaming of the day they would be made post, never considered. The captain had the final responsibility for
everything
in the ship. If she sprang a leak and sank because the pumps became blocked with rubbish, ran on a reef after the master made a mistake or the current ran faster or slower than expected, lost a mast when rigging failed or wood rotted, was sunk after attacking an enemy too powerful, or ran away when admirals considered she should have stayed and fought—all these were the captain's responsibility: he was the person court-martialled even though the real fault could lie with dozens of other men, ranging from the officers of the deck to a seaman heaving the lead and calling out a wrong sounding.