Governor Ramage R. N. (47 page)

A moment later he saw Southwick and Yorke peering into the darkness of the cabin, their eyes still dazzled by the bright sun on deck.

“Is this a cabin or a clothes locker?” Yorke inquired quizzically.

“Stay out there a moment while I get dressed,” Ramage said shortly. “I'm a prisoner at large, so we can take a turn on deck.”

Five minutes later the three men were standing on deck in the shade of the awning, looking across at the town of Kingston and thankful for a gentle Trade wind breeze that did its best to keep them cool.

“He went on shore after about an hour,” Southwick said without any preliminaries. “Just him and that whipper-snapper Hobson. He'd got his colour back. Couldn't have been anything serious, otherwise they'd have kept him on board the
Arrogant,
or the Surgeon would have gone with him in the yawl.”

“Sounds as if it was a touch of the vapours,” Yorke said blithely. “Had an old aunt who had an attack like that just as the Bishop of Lincoln was getting out of his coach to kiss her hand. One of the horses broke wind, and she thought it was the Bishop.”

“Must be the same sort of thing,” Ramage said. “It happened just as Goddard read the name on your visiting card.”

“Whatever it was,” Southwick said sourly, “it wasn't fatal, and that's all that matters. What's the next move, sir?”

“When the court convenes again tomorrow morning, Goddard will withdraw the charges. We've been over all that once.”

“But will he get away with it, sir?” Southwick asked.

“I'll bet the deputy judge advocate is looking up all the precedents he can find, and Admiral Goddard is probably talking it all over with Sir Pilcher Skinner.”

“Curious thing is that no one's come to
La Perla,
” Yorke said. “Once the secret was out the Duke sent a formal letter to the Governor, telling him that he'd arrived but was staying on board until your court martial ends, in case he can be of help.”

“That's kind of him,” Ramage said. But he knew there had not been time enough for anyone on shore to react to the news that, far from being dead, the Duke of Brittany was in the anchorage on board a tiny captured Spanish schooner.

Yorke glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot.

“Listen, do you really think Goddard will withdraw the charges now? What's to stop him going ahead, and as soon as the Duke and I have given our evidence, just get up and say it's all been a mistake? That if he'd been able to talk to us earlier, the charges wouldn't have been laid? That it simply
appeared
Lieutenant Ramage had behaved in a cowardly way, but now of course … and so on?”

Ramage suddenly realized that neither Southwick nor Yorke knew the extent of the evidence given in court that morning.

“If you were going to give evidence tomorrow, I suppose I shouldn't tell you this,” he said, “but since you won't, I can talk freely. Captain Croucher this morning gave evidence on oath—in answer to questions from Admiral Goddard—that after the
Peacock
attack, you went on board the
Lion
and accused me of cowardice.”

“Good God, what a lie! I can prove—”

“But you won't be giving evidence,” Ramage said. “Not only did you accuse me, but to my face and in front of Admiral Goddard, and in—”

“But that's monstrous!” Yorke exclaimed angrily.

“—and in addition you said that I had nearly caused the death of your passengers and they were complaining to the Commander-in-Chief.”

Yorke had gone white, and leaned back against the breech of a gun. He seemed almost stupefied at what he had heard, and it was a minute or two before he spoke.

“I begin to understand what you were talking about yesterday. I thought you were—well, overwrought. These men can do anything they please!”

Ramage shook his head. “No, not quite. But Goddard has got to get this trial stopped for the simple reason that he can't risk having you and the Duke prove that he and Croucher not only perjured themselves, but actually conspired together to bring false charges against me for which the only penalty was death. The only way of stopping you both is to stop the trial.”

“But the Commander-in-Chief …” Yorke said lamely.

“I'm sure the Commander-in-Chief is just as anxious as Goddard. Don't forget that he signed the order for the trial. Don't forget Goddard is his second-in-command. Don't forget that any scandal concerning Goddard also reflects on Sir Pilcher …”

“But the Duke will tell the Governor what happened!”

“And the Governor will forward any letter to London without comment. Once the Government know the Duke is alive and safe, they won't give a damn about the affair of some wretched young lieutenant!”

“The Duke would never allow that,” Yorke said firmly.

“The Duke won't have any say in the matter. It's what the Admiralty decides that matters to me, and I can tell you the Admiralty won't want a scandal; certainly not one concerning, the Commander-in-Chief and his second-in-command.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Listen politely to what's said in court tomorrow, and prepare myself for another visit from the judge advocate so that I can read the wording of the new charges over the loss of the
Triton.
”

“Well, what can
we
do?” Yorke asked soberly.

Ramage held up his hands helplessly. “I wish I knew.”

“Perhaps Mr Yorke and the Duke ought to come over to the
Arrogant
when the court convenes tomorrow,” Southwick said quietly. “Just in case, sir. After all, you never know.”

Ramage gave a cynical laugh as he rubbed the scar over his brow. “I think we know well enough. Still, if they wish …”

“We'll be there,” Yorke said. “The Duke is a very angry man.”

“So am I,” Ramage said. “After all, it's my neck we're trying to save!”

T
HE Marine sentry outside the
Arrogant
's great cabin saluted smartly as Ramage followed Ransom through the door next morning. Although the early sun was bright and the sky clear, the ship still felt cool and, as he had done from the time he woke at dawn, Ramage tried to shut out all thought of the trial. He had slept badly—hope was hard to sustain in the darkness. Lying in his cot, a thousand pictures sped one after another through his mind; wild pictures that at any other time would come only with a high fever. Croucher standing on the
Lion
's quarterdeck and giving the order that would run Ramage to the fore-yardarm with a noose round his neck; his father receiving the news in Cornwall of his trial and execution; the Duke comforting a weeping Maxine … but when sleep finally came it was soon chased away by a bleary-eyed steward with the inevitable weak coffee.

He had washed, shaved and dressed with great deliberation, studying every movement. He found it was the only way of preventing his mind racing back to the trial, and was surprised how many everyday things were done without conscious thought. Shaving the left side of his face before the right, putting the left leg into his breeches before the right, slipping his left arm first into his jacket. Did left-handed people use their right hands and legs in the same way?

In the great cabin nothing had changed from the previous day: Napier was already seated at the head of the table with the other captains in their places; Syme was shuffling papers at the foot of the table; Admiral Goddard was sitting in the same chair with Hobson just behind him. For a moment Ramage found it hard to believe that the previous day's events were anything more than a half-remembered dream.

Napier glanced up, nodded briefly as Ramage sat down, and then tapped the table.

“The court is in session—are there any witnesses present who have yet to give evidence?”

He glanced round but no one spoke.

“Very well, the deputy judge advocate will read the minutes so far, and then we will proceed, since everyone has already been sworn.”

As Syme reached for a small pile of papers on the table in front of him, Admiral Goddard stood up and coughed. His face glistened with perspiration; his eyes darted nervously from side to side. Captain Napier glanced up questioningly.

“The prosecution—” Goddard paused for a few moments, as if out of breath. “The prosecution wishes to state—with the court's permission, of course—that it withdraws all the charges against Lieutenant Ramage.”

For a moment there was complete silence in the cabin; a silence in which every one of the seven captains turned to stare at the Admiral, and Syme's spectacles slid almost to the end of his nose.

Even as he jumped to his feet Ramage realized that Goddard had taken the court by surprise; Napier must have kept the contents of the letter to himself.

“Sir, I must protest!” Steady, he told himself; that was too loud, too sharp, too aggressive. “Capital charges have been made against me, and much of the prosecution's supporting evidence has already been given. I submit the prosecution cannot now withdraw the charges without one word of my defence being heard!”

Napier held up his hand. “The court will be cleared. The prosecutor and the prisoner will remain.”

As soon as everyone else in the cabin had left, Napier turned to Goddard.

“The court wishes to know your reasons for withdrawing the charges.”

Goddard shrugged his shoulders and wiped his lips with a handkerchief.

“The charges were drawn up upon assumptions which have subsequently proved to be incorrect.”

“What assumptions?” Napier asked.

“On the assumption that there were no survivors from the
Topaz.
”

“What?” Napier exclaimed in surprise. “Do you really mean that there was only one assumption?”

“No, of course not,” Goddard said hurriedly. “That was merely one of the assumptions.”

Napier turned to Ramage. “What do you say to this?”

“Has the prosecution questioned any of the survivors of the
Topaz,
sir?”

Napier looked at Goddard. “Have you?”

“Well, no, not yet.”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders and, looking directly at Napier, said quietly: “Then how can the prosecution possibly know that any survivor's evidence could alter the case, sir? I am accused of cowardice in action—how can the fact that the
Topaz
's people weren't drowned possibly affect that accusation?”

“Really!” Goddard exclaimed angrily. “That isn't the point at all. The prosecution has every right to withdraw the charges if it wishes!”

Napier looked questioningly at the deputy judge advocate. “Can it? What are the precedents for that, Syme? I've never met such a case.”

Syme took off his spectacles nervously.

“I—er, I can find no exact precedent, sir. Yesterday, out of curiosity, I tried to find a similar case—simply out of curiosity, of course—and the nearest seemed to be the case of Admiral Keppel.”

Napier looked puzzled. “I fail to see the connection.”

“When charges were brought against Admiral Keppel by Vice-Admiral Sir Hugh Palliser, it was debated in both Houses of Parliament. However, the Admiralty insisted that they could not interfere; that once the accusations had been made, they were obliged to act ministerially, not judicially. They had to accept the accusations and give orders for the trial.”

“That hasn't the slightest bearing on this case,” Napier said crossly.

Ramage took the opportunity of reinforcing his objection. “It can't be anything but an injustice, sir, if an officer is charged with these most terrible offences, and the trial is ended the moment the prosecution's case is completed, before the accused can say a single word in his own defence. Whatever the court might rule, the fact is the charges will be talked about by every officer in the Service. But since the defence was never heard, the stigma must always remain!”

Napier turned towards Goddard. “What has the prosecution to say to that? The court feels the prisoner has made an important point.”

The Admiral waved his hand contemptuously towards Ramage. “It is up to the prosecution to decide, otherwise the whole discipline of the Navy would be in the hands of dissident seamen!”

Ramage suddenly spotted the flaw in Goddard's argument, and felt himself growing cold with anger. Goddard was recovering his poise; subtly he was changing his role from Ramage's prosecutor to the Admiral who was second-in-command on the station, treating these captains as the subordinate officers they would once again become the moment the trial was over. Very well, Ramage thought; the moment has come to shake that poise; to frighten Goddard.

“With respect, sir,” he said to Napier, “a great deal of evidence has already been given on oath, written in the minutes and signed by the witnesses. All that evidence was intended to prove that I acted in a cowardly fashion. If that evidence is true, then I am a coward and deserve to be sentenced to death. If it isn't true, then the witnesses have perjured themselves in an attempt to have me hanged. Since the prosecution brought the charges against me, the only possible reason for the prosecution to withdraw the charges now must be that it knows the evidence is not true and that its witnesses have perjured themselves.”

“There was only one witness,” Napier said, as if thinking aloud.

“This is scandalous!” Goddard shouted. “Since when has it been a defence to accuse the prosecutor of perjury?”

“He wasn't accusing you,” Napier said quietly. “He referred specifically to evidence that has been given.”

He waved to Syme. “What do the Court Martial Statutes have to say about perjury?”

The deputy judge advocate hurriedly picked up a volume in front of him, looked at the index and then flicked through several pages.

“Section seventeen, sir—I'll read the relevant part.
‘… All and every person … who shall commit any wilful perjury … or shall corruptly procure or suborn any person to commit such wilful perjury, shall and may be prosecuted in His Majesty's court of King's Bench, by indictment or information …'
”