Ramage's Mutiny (7 page)

The safety of the ship, in good weather and bad, on passage or in battle, was only part of it. The surgeon's job was to cure the men's illnesses, but a good captain did his best to make sure the men did not become ill in the first place. Captain Ramage, for instance, was fanatical in going to any length to make sure there were fruit and fresh vegetables for the men whenever possible, and many a time the cook's mate's hands had been raw and stinging, crushing fresh limes to provide the juice issued to the men daily to ward off scurvy.

Yet, Aitken reflected as he began dressing, the physical health of the ship's company was also only part of the story: there was always trouble among two hundred seamen. Hot weather shortened tempers; fights occurred in a few seconds, men who had been friends for months had bitter quarrels and applied to change their mess, deciding they wanted to try their luck with a group of another six or eight men. A man received a letter from home relating some tragedy or crisis; another began hoarding his tot so that he could get blind drunk every few days. A man sulking over an actual or imagined injustice at the hands of a petty officer would slack. One man merited promotion while another ought to be demoted …

These were the normal problems in a well-run ship, and in each case the captain had to decide what to do: he had to be a judge one minute and a father the next; a medical man and a navigator. Yet not every ship was well commanded. The pleasure—yes, that was the right word—of serving with Captain Ramage was not that he was always right (the whole ship's company knew how uncertain his temper was before breakfast) but that he
cared.
If he was wrong then it was not likely anyone else would have been right. He treated his men as though they were his sons, though many were his age and the majority much older. Southwick, for instance, could have been his father.

It showed in many ways. He watched their diet to keep them fit; but like a true father he made damned sure they did their work properly. He rarely flogged a man (none in Aitken's time, and according to Southwick only twice in his whole career), but Aitken had seen seamen who would have preferred the lash of the cat to the lash of the Captain's tongue.

As he pulled on his stockings, smoothing out the wrinkles, Aitken realized that he was in effect assessing Captain Ramage because he had been thinking a lot about Captain Wallis and the
Jocasta.
Something had gone dreadfully wrong on board that ship, and although no one yet knew exactly what it was, Aitken was becoming more and more certain that if any one man was to blame it was Captain Wallis.

Which is where his gloomy thoughts started: in a ship
everything
depended on the captain. Aitken knew that Admiral Davis had been surprised when he asked to be allowed to remain with Captain Ramage instead of being made post and given command of a frigate, but the reason had been simple enough: he did not think he was yet fit for command. Not that he couldn't handle a frigate—that was easy enough—but he wanted to learn more about keeping a ship's company well disciplined but happy. It boiled down to having a seaman call you “sir” because he regarded you as the captain, not because you were the man put in as captain and backed up by the Articles of War.

Aitken suspected that Captain Wallis had commanded his ship by waving his commission in one hand and the Articles in the other, forever charging men with breaking an article and setting the bosun's mates to work with the cat. With Captain Ramage the only time the men heard of the Articles of War was every fourth Sunday when, by regulation, they had to be read aloud.

If the Navy suddenly turned republican, he thought, the men would elect Lord Ramage as their captain. Lord Ramage—it was hard to remember he was a lord and, when his father died, would become the Earl of Blazey. How many men in the Navy had a title but refused to use it? Perhaps he would now that he was a captain. According to Southwick it had started when he was a midshipman, when a twelve-year-old with a title might find himself in difficulties on shore when he ranked above his captain socially, and often his admiral as well.

Aitken tried to picture Captain Ramage as a young midshipman. He must be about twenty-five now. No doubt as a youngster he would have been in constant trouble with his mathematics:

even now he knew just enough to make him a good navigator, but no more, and would often make jokes at his own expense about his poor mathematics, or tease Southwick, who had an uncanny knack for adding up rows of figures in his head. What he lacked in mathematics he made up for in seamanship: Aitken had watched him handling the ship on scores of occasions and he did it quite instinctively. As a good rider seems part of his horse, so Captain Ramage seemed to be part of the ship. The way he handled the
Juno
when he put her alongside this very ship, for example …

Twenty-five was Aitken's age as well, but Ramage had had half a dozen or more
Gazettes
almost to himself. Wounded three times, sunk twice: it was a remarkable record. Would his luck hold? Luck did not come into the tactics Captain Ramage used. He was lucky only because so far he had not been cut down by a cannon ball or hit by a musket shot.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about him was that he had earned every bit of promotion. Having a father who was both an admiral and the holder of one of the oldest earldoms in the country would normally have ensured rapid promotion; but for much of his career the Admiral had been out of favour with the government—the scapegoat, Southwick said, for some mistake the government of the day had made many years ago.

Aitken tucked in his shirt and sat down to cool off. From an officer's point of view, the worst thing about the Captain was that his face gave nothing away—unless you watched his eyes. He could be in a fury or he could be making a joke (he had a dry wit) but his face revealed nothing, except for the eyes. They were set deep, like the muzzles of guns in the ports before they were run out, but when he was angry they fixed on you; you could no more avoid them than if they were a pair of pistols aimed at your head.

Those alarming eyes were going to have plenty of work to do: the
Calypso
was a fine-looking ship, and from all accounts sailed like a witch, but she would need a broomstick to get into Santa Cruz to cut out the
Jocasta.
Luckily, most of the ship's company had been in action together several times.

He heard the steward clattering plates and cutlery as he set the table outside in the gunroom. This was what he had missed while commanding the
Juno,
the company of men like Bowen and Southwick and Wagstaffe. Phew, he was tired—as indeed every man on board must be, after today's work. The ship still looked a mess to the untrained eye, but she would be ready long before the court martial reached a verdict on the mutineers. In a strange way he wished he had never sighted that Jonathan and taken them off. It was one thing to kill four men with a round shot fired at an enemy in battle; it was another to cause four men to be hanged from the yardarms.

He found he was dreading the sound of the signal gun calling the captains to the flagship for the trial.

A
T PRECISELY seven o'clock on Monday morning the muffled thud of a signal gun echoed up the channel and across the dockyard, bouncing off the hills and finally losing itself among the valleys. Pelicans paddling lazily round the
Calypso
suddenly took off, frantically launching themselves with clumsy thrusts from their webbed feet; tiny green herons squawked off into the shelter of the mangrove roots.

Ramage watched the smoke from the
Invincible
's gun drift away to leeward and saw high at her mizenmasthead a Union flag break out and flutter lazily in a gentle breeze. Four men now in irons on board the flagship would have heard that gun—it would be only a few feet from where they were under guard—and they would know they were soon to stand trial for their lives over something that happened more than two years ago.

Will Stafford put down the telescope, picked up the slate and wrote: “7 o'clock, flagship fired one gun and hoisted Union at mizenm'head.” He glanced up but decided to wait before adding the rest of the entry: “Captain & First Lieutenant left ship to attend court martial.”

He saw that both officers looked drawn: the skin on the Captain's face was taut, and the light from the sun, still low, emphasized his high cheekbones and deep-sunk eyes. He was tanned, but Stafford saw the strain was there. And the First Lieutenant—Mr Aitken never took a tan, and now he was even more pale, and nervous too, fiddling with his sword, his eyes glancing round the ship. Anyone would think they were on trial, Stafford thought, instead of the two pair o' murderers.

Ramage saw that the boat was waiting at the starboard gang-way, the painter being held forward and the sternfast aft. He patted his pocket to make sure he was carrying his commission and saw Southwick had noticed the gesture and knew what it meant. The Master obviously had in mind discreetly checking that he had not forgotten it.

The
Calypso
was the farthest from the
Invincible,
yet already a boat was on its way from one of the other frigates. Southwick raised an eyebrow and Ramage nodded, whereupon the Master bellowed: “Man the side!” Two seamen ran to the gangway and swung over the side to hold out the manropes for the two officers to grasp as they climbed down the ship's side, treading carefully on the battens that formed narrow steps. Ramage gestured to Aitken, who swung his sword round, jammed his hat firmly on his head and went over the side into the boat. Ramage followed, and when they went alongside the
Invincible
the sequence would be reversed: the senior officer was the last in and first out of a boat.

Jackson soon had the men rowing briskly, but Ramage told him to slow down. The court martial began at eight, and within the limits of obeying orders—which meant obeying the seven o'clock gun—he had no wish to waste time on board the flag-ship in idle chat with the other captains. The Admiral, for once, could sleep in late at his house in the dockyard: he would not appear on board the flagship until the trial was over, because no doubt his great cabin would be used, with refreshments served in the coach.

The boat was a pistol-shot from the
Invincible
when a Marine sentry shouted “Boat ahoy!” and Jackson bellowed back
“Calypso!”
—the traditional way of indicating that the boat carried the captain of the ship named. Ramage heard shouted orders and sidesmen appeared to hold out the two manropes.

Edwards was on deck to greet him, bulky and cheerful, sword-hilt gleaming in the early sunlight, the picture of a competent and confident flagship captain. He gestured to two captains standing behind him. Like Ramage, both were wearing epaulets only on their right shoulders, showing that they had less than three years' seniority.

“You've all met?” Edwards asked. They had not and Edwards introduced them: Edward Teal of the
Anita,
a thin man of perhaps forty, sad-faced and probably embittered that it had taken him so many years to be made post, and John Banks of the
Nereus,
plump and red-faced, and four or five years older than Ramage, a man as cheerful as Teal was melancholy. Ramage then introduced Aitken.

A Marine sentry hailed again and a third captain came on board and was introduced to Ramage. John Marden wore epaulets on both shoulders and, Ramage was told, had commanded the
Wasp
frigate in the West Indies for more than two years. Marden was barely five feet tall and lean, his face tanned and lined. His eyes were sharp and his ears curiously pointed, reminding Ramage of a pixie.

Edwards took out his watch. “Twenty minutes to go. I trust you all have your commissions?” With that he led the way to his cabin and offered them tea.

Precisely at eight o'clock another gun fired in the
Invincible
to signal the beginning of the trial and Captain Edwards led the way to the Admiral's great cabin. The long dining table had been put athwartships at the after end of the cabin with five chairs placed along one side, so that the captains would sit facing forwards, their backs to the big sternlights.

A rotund, bespectacled man already sat at a chair at one end, a pile of papers, inkwell, pen and several books in front of him. Edwards introduced the
Invincible
's purser, Eric Gowers, who had been appointed deputy judge advocate.

There were two rows of chairs at the forward end of the cabin—Ramage guessed they came from the wardroom and that the ship's officers would be eating their meals sitting on forms until the trial ended—with a single chair in front of the table ready for the witness. Between the table and the first row of chairs was an open space: there the prisoners would stand, guarded by Marines and with the provost marshal to one side.

As if to underline the fact that the
Invincible
was primarily a fighting ship, there were two guns on each side in the cabin, their train tackles neatly coiled, the barrels shining black and the carriages and trucks freshly painted. The gun ports were open to keep the cabin cool. Against the forward bulkhead there was a well-polished mahogany sideboard with a matching wine-cooler beside it, shaped like a Greek urn. Over the sideboard was an oil painting of a plump and pleasant-looking woman, probably the Admiral's wife. She looked amiable enough, Ramage noted.

Edwards went to the centre chair at the after side of the table and sat down. In front of him was a small gavel, and he looked at the four captains. “We might as well begin. Please read your commissions—you start,” he said, gesturing to Marden.

Ramage saw that Gowers, the deputy judge advocate, noted down the date of the commission: Marden had been made post six years ago. As soon as all the commissions had been read, establishing their seniority, Edwards told them to take their seats. Marden, as the senior, sat on Edwards's right, with Teal on his left, Banks beyond Marden and Ramage, as the junior, next to Teal, on Captain Edwards's extreme left.