Governor Ramage R. N. (41 page)

The corporal's eyes widened. “Why, sir, yer got
two
scars there nar!”

“St Vincent,” Ramage said briefly. “The French seem to like my head!”

Satisfying though it was to know the corporal was friendly; and grateful as he was for the information about Captain Croucher's troubles with the Admiral, he wanted his letter delivered to
La Perla.

The corporal took it. “Mr Hobson passed the word, sir. I'll send my best man out wiv it. Oh—it ain't sealed, sir.”

“I've no wax. Can you get any?”

“Aye, sir, no trouble at all.”

“Just seal it and give it to your man.”

“Leave it ter me, sir,” the corporal said, flattered at Ramage's trust in him. He returned in a few minutes to report the letter sealed and on its way to
La Perla,
and apologizing for having to shut and lock the door.

An hour later there was a peremptory rap on the door which flew open to admit a shrivelled little man who strutted like a bantam cock and wore tiny, steel-rimmed spectacles that stuck on his nose like a price label.

“The deputy judge advocate!” he announced in a high-pitched voice that fitted the body like a squeak would a rusty hinge.

Ramage remained seated, eyed the man and said: “What about him?”

“I
am
the deputy judge advocate.”

“Your manners are certainly familiar; what's your name?”

“Harold Syme,” he said, oblivious of Ramage's snub. “I have come to serve you with the charges.”

Ramage held out his hand for the papers. Puzzled at Ramage's silence, he began fumbling in the leather bag which had been tucked under his arm.

“The charges are exhibited by Rear-Admiral Goddard. They are capital charges.”

Ramage gestured impatiently with his hand.

“Deliver any documents necessary, please. I am busy.”

“Busy? Why—”

“I will let you have the names of my witnesses in due course,” Ramage said. “The documents?”

The man burrowed into his case, took out several papers and handed them to Ramage as if they were delicate, breakable objects. Ramage tossed them carelessly on the table.

“I have to read the ‘Letter to the prisoner' to you.”

“I can read,” Ramage said. “Please have some wax sent in.”

“What do you want wax for?”

Ramage gestured to the writing materials on the table. “To seal my letters from prying eyes.”

“Really! Do you suppose I would—”

“The thought occurred to you, not me. Good day to you, sir,” Ramage said, and began unscrewing the inkwell.

“Mr Ramage, how—”

“I'm preparing my defence. Do you want it said you deliberately hindered me?”

After a pause the man strutted from the room, calling loudly to the corporal that he was leaving.

As the door slammed, Ramage opened one of the letters. It was Rear-Admiral Goddard's report to Sir Pilcher, dated two weeks earlier, soon after the
Lion
arrived. He began reading, underlining with his pen the words which were taken directly from the various Articles of War.

“I beg leave to inform you that Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, commanding officer of His Majesty's brig
Triton
while escorting ships of a convoy under my command, on the occasion of one of the ships being attacked on the night of the 18th of July last, by a French privateer,
did not make the necessary preparations for fight, and did not in his own person, and according to his place, encourage the inferior officers and men to fight courageously;
and furthermore the said Lt Ramage upon the same occasion
did withdraw or keep back
and
did not do his utmost to take or destroy
the enemy ship
which it was his duty to engage;
and furthermore the said Lt Ramage upon the same occasion, being the commanding officer of the ship
appointed for convoy and guard of merchant ships, did not
diligently attend upon that charge
according to his instructions
to
defend the ships in the convoy,
and did
neglect to fight in their defence:
in consequence of which I am to request you will apply for a court martial on the said Lt Ramage for the said crimes,

I am, &c,”

By the time he finished reading Ramage felt coldly angry. The moment Admiral Goddard had mentioned the numbers of the Articles of War he'd guessed the charges would revolve round the
Peacock
attack. It hadn't been clear—since the Articles ranged widely—that he was in fact accused of one thing only: cowardice in the face of the enemy. Charges arising from the loss of the
Triton
were presumably being kept in reserve.

Ramage gave a bitter laugh. At least once a month, on a Sunday, during the whole of the time he had been at sea, he had heard the Articles of War read to the ship's company. For the past year or two, as commanding officer, he had read them out himself, noting the fact in the log to show that the regulations had been carried out. In his imagination he could hear himself reading loudly, trying to make his voice heard above the noise of wind and sea …

“Article ten … shall not encourage officers and men to fight courageously … shall suffer death … Article twelve … Every person in the Fleet who through cowardice, negligence or dis-affection, shall in time of action … not do his utmost to take or destroy every ship … shall suffer death … Article seventeen … running away cowardly, and submitting the ships in their convoy to peril … be punished … by pains of death, or other punishment, according as shall be adjudged by the court martial …” There was a devilish skill about it all. As far as Admiral Goddard knew, the
Topaz,
and presumably the
Greyhound
, had been sunk in the hurricane, so the only surviving witnesses to the
Peacock
's attack were the
Lion
's officers and Ramage's own men. It wouldn't be hard to guess which a court would believe.

It was difficult to guess precisely what Goddard was going to accuse him of doing to constitute the actual act of cowardice. Yet the limits were solely the limits of Goddard's imagination and ingenuity, since as far as he knew Ramage was the only person who could challenge him. Few courts would believe a young lieutenant's pleas of innocence against the charges of a Rear-Admiral who was also second-in-command on the station, especially when the charges were ones of cowardice.

Well if the heat of Jamaica made him feel drowsy, or he began to get bored with the trial, he had something to make him concentrate. All he need remember was that if the court did find him guilty under either of the first two Articles, it had no alternative but to sentence him to death. Articles ten and twelve were among the few which presented a court with a nice, simple equation: guilt equals a sentence of death. The third one, Article seventeen, gave a “death or” choice.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door and the cheerful voice of the Marine corporal.

“Mr Southwick to see you, sir, with your lawyer.”

“Bring them in.”

Thoughtful of Southwick to find a lawyer, but at a court martial one was better off without one. The “five or more” captains forming the court usually knew little or nothing of law, and were often antagonized by lawyers.

It was Yorke who came in with Southwick. He was dressed in a drab black suit, had his shoulders hunched and was carrying a stove-pipe hat and a large leather briefcase. His hair was combed diagonally across his brow and the whole effect was to age him ten years and make him look convincingly like an attorney.

Southwick grinned and said, “I've brought you a lawyer, sir; he says he'll be happy to conduct your defence for one hundred guineas!”

“Too much!” Ramage said, “offer him fifty!” By then the door was shut and locked again.

Ramage waved the two men to the chairs round the tiny table, and Southwick said: “What are they trying to prove against you, sir?”

“I don't know the details, but cowardice is the main charge.”

“Cowardice …” Yorke repeated quietly. “It's a wicked charge. Cowardice is one of those words that—well, you can be found not guilty of murder and that's the end of it; but if you're found not guilty of cowardice there's always a—well, a stigma. Cowardice over what?”

“The
Peacock
business.”

“The
Peacock
?” Yorke was genuinely dumbfounded. “But how can they?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Probably blaming me for the attack on the
Topaz.
”

“But you prevented it! No harm was done to the St Brieucs! Everyone knows what happened. You gave the Admiral a written report, didn't you?”

Ramage decided that the time had come to tell Yorke the facts of life where people like Goddard were concerned. He tapped the table with the quill pen.

“The court reminds you, sir, that your claim that no harm was done to the St Brieucs can't be substantiated. As far as this court is aware, they were drowned in a hurricane. The
Topaz
was lost in the hurricane, with no survivors. The three frigates and the
Lark
lugger were lost too. The Admiral has given evidence on oath that he received no written report from the accused. The Admiral has produced evidence from among his own officers that the
Triton
held back because the accused was safeguarding his own skin.”

“It's wicked!” Yorke said.

“It's almost as ruthless as business,” Southwick said unexpectedly. “All this gammon goes on because men are struggling to get power, which means struggling for promotion and interest. To a serving officer, promotion means profit, more pay and more opportunity. It's the same for a businessman,” he continued as patiently as a vicar talking to his flock. “A businessman's profit isn't promotion and interest, it's money. But he's often just as ruthless in trying to get it.”

“I suppose you're right,” Yorke finally admitted. “It's just that business seems more subtle and less cruel—less blatant!”

“It might seem like that to a businessman,” Ramage said, “but not to a naval officer! Southwick was just comparing the two so that you'd understand. He's crediting you with sharp business instincts and thinks that if you can see how getting promotion in the Service and making a profit in business are alike, you'll be better able to look into the Admiral's mind. It's the same—perhaps worse—in politics.”

Yorke nodded. “I do understand. But Goddard can't really hope to prove any of this.”

“Why not?” Ramage asked.

“My evidence alone would …”

Ramage shook his head, knowing it was absolutely vital that Yorke fully understood the significance of what he was about to say. “
Your evidence might never be given!
That's why Goddard is in an almost perfect position. He has the rope all ready to drop round my neck!”

The harshness in Ramage's voice left Yorke looking dumbfounded. “But surely he can't stop me giving evidence?”

“If he discovers you and St Brieuc are still alive, he'll immediately drop these charges.”

“But how could he discover that in time to make any difference?”

“You have to get on board the
Arrogant
to give your evidence. From the moment he spots you in court, he needs only a couple of minutes to announce that the prosecution is withdrawing the charges.”

“What if he does?” Yorke demanded. “Surely that means you're safe!”

“No, it doesn't,” Ramage said impatiently. “It means that he withdraws the charges on which your evidence has any bearing, then substitutes something else.”

“Oh, come now,” Yorke protested. “You're getting overwrought. What can he substitute?”

“Losing the ship,” Southwick growled. “That could put a rope round Mr Ramage's neck!”

When Yorke glanced at him for confirmation, Ramage said: “He'd forget all about the
Peacock
attacking the
Topaz
—that means dropping the charges under Articles ten and twelve. He might well chance leaving the
‘running away cowardly'
to show I deserted the convoy—you couldn't disprove that. He'd then concentrate on my losing the
Triton
—Article twenty-six,
‘… no ships be stranded, or run upon any rocks or sands, or split or hazarded … upon pain that such as shall be found guilty therein be punished by death, or such other punishment as the offence … shall be judged to deserve.'
”

“But they can hardly hang you for losing the ship in the circumstances.”

“Possibly not,” Ramage said, “but if you add that to a charge of
‘running away cowardly'
I think you'll see the noose tightening round my neck.”

Yorke sat deep in thought, rubbing his knuckles against his forehead. Finally he looked up and said carefully: “I want to make sure I understand the situation correctly. First, at the moment you are charged with cowardice over the
Peacock
and
Topaz,
and Goddard thinks he can prove it—and get you hanged—because he doesn't know St Brieuc and I survived. But you know you can prove you're innocent because you have our evidence.”

When Ramage nodded, Yorke continued, still speaking slowly: “Proving yourself innocent—with our evidence—means you prove Goddard to be a liar who has perjured himself to try to get you hanged. That would be enough to ruin his career—and end his vendetta against you once and for all, I imagine?”

Again Ramage nodded.

“But we're agreed that Goddard would drop the cowardice charges—the main ones, anyway—if he knew St Brieuc and I were alive and going to give evidence. You've said it would take him only a couple of minutes to do that, once he sighted us. Is that an exaggeration?”