Governor Ramage R. N.

by Dudley Pope

  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 ha
ng 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?”

  “I doubt it. Depends how quick-witted he is.”

  “Can he withdraw the charges just like that? I mean, would the court allow it?”

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “He can certainly withdraw the charges, but I can’t say for certain that the court would agree. After all, the court is simply a group of captains.”

  “You’re taking a devilish risk, Ramage. After all, our evidence will come after the prosecution’s case. Suppose he has time to withdraw the charges, and the court agrees? You still face another trial on the charge of losing the Triton. Why take such a chance on the Peacock affair? Why let Goddard bring up the main cowardice charges? Why not let him know we’re alive, so that he drops the Peacock affair and goes for you on the loss of the Triton—and perhaps ‘running away cowardly’? After all, you can fight him on both those charges without taking any risk on Goddard or what the court might decide?”

  Southwick was nodding his head in agreement with Yorke. “I have to take the chance,” Ramage said flatly. “It’s the only way of ending this vendetta. If I don’t, it’ll drag on for years. Anyway, he’d get me on losing the Triton. Maybe I’d dodge the noose, but I’d be finished in the Service.”

  “You’d be finished even if the court found you not guilty,” Southwick said as if thinking aloud.

  “Would you?” Yorke asked sharply.

  “Yes. Don’t forget there are never enough ships to go round. That means no one gets a command if there’s the slightest doubt about him.”

  “And favouritism,” Southwick murmured.

  “True enough. If you’re out of favour with the local admiral—or the Admiralty—you’ll be left to rot on half pay for the rest of your life.”

  “I still think you’re mad,” Yorke said doggedly. “You’re staking everything—including your life—on slipping me and St Brieuc into court and getting one or both of us giving evidence before Goddard has time to withdraw the charges. What’s to stop him withdrawing the charges after we’ve started giving evidence? Or even after we’ve both told everything we know? Have you thought of that?”

  Ramage nodded wearily. “Yes, I’ve thought about it until my head spins.” Yorke was trying to be helpful, and he deserved an explanation; but Ramage already knew he was taking an enormous risk, and having decided to take it he didn’t want to discuss it because further talk only mirrored and enlarged his fears.

  “I’m counting on several things. The main one is the natural curiosity of the court. By the time you and St Brieuc arrive, all the prosecution evidence will have been given on the assumption that you are both dead. I’m hoping that whatever Goddard tries, the court will want to hear what you have to say. It may lead to them deciding against allowing Goddard to withdraw the charges, and that means the court is bound to find me not guilty.

  “Almost as important,” Ramage continued, “are the minutes of the trial. Don’t forget that as far as the Admiralty is concerned, all that happens in a trial is what is recorded in the minutes. Even if the charges are withdrawn, the minutes have to go to the Admiralty. With a little luck, those minutes might say enough.”

  “If only we knew who St Brieuc really is,” Yorke mused. “I

  wonder if there’s any need for secrecy now … The point is, if he’s really influential, would Goddard be forced to carry on? Be too frightened—or too flustered—to withdraw the charges?”

  “I’ve thought of that, too. All I know is that Goddard is scared of him.”

  Southwick coughed politely. “Supposing the gentleman is important, sir. Suppose the Admiral does withdraw the charges. Would the French gentleman be sufficiently important to write to the Admiralty—or the Commander-in-Chief—and tell them what he knows?”

  Both Yorke and Ramage stared at the Master.

  “He might be!” Yorke exclaimed.

  “What matters,” Ramage said, “is whether or not Goddard—and the court—thinks he is! Well, you’ve earned your tot for today, Mr Southwick!”

  But a moment later Yorke was again looking gloomy.

  “It’s still a fantastic risk, Ramage. Listen, why don’t you take advantage of what Southwick’s just suggested, only modify it. First, let it be known that St Brieuc and I are still alive, so that the Peacock cowardice charges are dropped. Let Goddard bring up a charge over the loss of the Triton. And ask St Brieuc to write a report for the Admiralty?”

  Ramage shook his head. “For a start, anything St Brieuc wrote would then seem vindictive: in effect he’d be denying charges which Goddard hasn’t made …”

  “But he has—dammit, you have the wording in front of you!”

  “—which Goddard hasn’t made in court. Until they’re made in court they don’t exist, at least, not in this sense. All St Brieuc could write is that Lieutenant Ramage didn’t behave in a cowardly fashion over the Peacock attack, and My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would reply, ‘Who the devil said he did?’”

  “That sounds likely enough,” Yorke admitted. “It’s just that it’s almost as though you’re staking everything on the turn of a card.”

  “I am,” Ramage said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. If I can’t completely smash Goddard on the Peacock charges, I’m finished. He’ll keep hammering away at me. If not this week, then next. If not this year, then in a couple of years’ time. Don’t forget, this isn’t the first time he’s tried.”

  “We’ll all do our best,” Yorke said soberly. “We’ll keep out of sight in La Perla, even though she’s like an oven in this sun.”

  Ramage nodded gratefully. “I’ll try and get the trial brought on quickly. I don’t think there’ll be much delay.”

  After Yorke and Southwick had gone, Ramage went through the rest of the documents left by the deputy judge advocate. The second in the pile was from the man himself, a routine letter to the prisoner.

  “Sir Pilcher Skinner, Vice-Admiral of the Blue and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels employed at or about to be employed upon the Jamaica Station, having directed a court martial to be held on you for cowardice in action, tomorrow morning at half past eight o’clock on board His Majesty’s ship Arrogant. I am to acquaint you therewith, and enclose for your information Rear-Admiral Goddard’s complaints against you.

  “You are therefore desired to prepare yourself for the same, and if you have any persons to appear as witnesses in your behalf, you will send me a list of their names that they may be duly and speedily warned to attend the said court martial.”

  A corresponding letter would have been sent to the Rear-Admiral by the deputy judge advocate asking for the list of prosecution witnesses Goddard wanted to call “in support of the charges.”

  Half past eight o’clock tomorrow morning! Ramage snatched up the pen and quickly scribbled a letter t
o the deputy judge advocate saying he wished to call the former Master of the Triton, Edward Southwick, and the master’s mate, George Appleby. He was just going to sign it when he decided to include Jackson and Stafford. He would not call them, in fact, but it would give them a day or two on board another ship, and they deserved a change.

  He added a postscript: “In view of the fact that I have been notified that the trial starts in sixteen hours’ time this is my first list of witnesses: a second list will follow later.”

  He called the corporal, sent off the letter, and was told he was being transferred to the Lion in half an hour. Before that the corporal had to hand over responsibility for his prisoner to the Lion’s Marine Lieutenant, who would act as provost marshal. “‘E’ll be glad o’ the four bob a day,” the corporal said. “‘E’s got four nippers.”

  A good thing some deserving soul was gaining by his arrest, Ramage thought sourly, as he wrote a quick note to Southwick.

  “My trial fixed for half past eight tomorrow morning on board the Arrogant. Assume haste is due to the fact captains now available have to sail soon. I have asked for you, Appleby, Jackson and Stafford as witnesses. Please bring my journal, your log, the Triton’s muster book, La Perla’s log, particularly for the period under my command. Also bring with you personally a dozen circular samples of the ballast. Ask our friends to come on board the Arrogant at exactly half past ten tomorrow morning. They should insist on seeing me and if necessary send in visiting cards.”

  Early that evening Ramage was taken out to the Lion. Captain Croucher, presumably on orders from the Admiral, had given instructions to the Lieutenant of Marines acting as provost marshal to take a large escort which would have been more suitable for bringing a wild elephant on board.