by Dudley Pope
“Was a ship responsible for that section of the convoy?”
“Yes, the Triton.”
“Did she prevent the attempt?”
“She eventually fired from a distance.”
“At what distance, and from what bearing?”
“From perhaps a mile. From the starboard bow of the convoy.”
Ramage wondered if he would remember all the discrepancies.
“For how long did the Triton engage the privateer—or, at least, fire on her?”
“For perhaps a quarter of an hour.”
Napier said: “Can you be more precise.”
“For a quarter of an hour.”
“Did the privateer capture the Topaz?” Goddard asked.
“No, the Topaz drove her off with her own guns, and the Greyhound frigate came up and captured her.”
“What, to the best of your knowledge and belief, would you have expected the Triton to have done?”
“Hauled her wind and come up to the privateer before she reached the Topaz.”
Captain Robinson raised his hand.
“Are you aware of any reason why she did not do so?” he asked.
“None. Nor did the prisoner subsequently give any.”
“Answer only the question you are asked,” Napier said. “Strike the last part of that answer from the minutes.”
Goddard wriggled impatiently and, at a gesture from Napier, continued the questioning.
“From your long experience as an officer and from your knowledge of the circumstances, did the action of the prisoner lead you to any conclusions?”
Hmm, thought Ramage, very neat. It’s probably phrased illegally but none of us knows enough of the law to challenge it. Napier is frowning but obviously not sure of his ground.
“Yes,” Croucher said, almost whispering, “he fell under the tenth, twelfth and seventeenth Articles of War.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Croucher shifted from one foot to the other as though Goddard was forcing him to give the required answers.
“He kept back from the fight; he did not engage the ship he should have engaged; he did not do his utmost. He did not defend the ships of the convoy.”
Captain Innes, sitting nearest to Ramage, turned to Croucher. “You have deposed that the Triton did open fire.”
“Yes,” Croucher said.
Goddard asked: “In the time available—from the time of sighting the privateer—could she have closed the range?”
“Stop!” Napier said crisply. “Strike out that question.” Ramage stood up. “With respect, sir, I don’t object to it.”
“Good heavens!” Napier exclaimed. “Very well, carry on.” Croucher said: “Yes, she could have closed the range.”
“No more questions,” Goddard said.
“The court has some questions before the prisoner examines the witness. You said the Lion was a mile ahead of the convoy?”
“About a mile, to the best of my knowledge.”
“And ahead of the centre?”
“Yes.”
“How many columns of ships were there in the convoy, and how far apart?”
“Seven, and two cables apart.”
“So the front of the convoy extended 2,400 yards?”
“That is correct.”
“And the Triton was ‘perhaps a mile’ on the starboard bow of the convoy?”
“That is correct.”
“Thank you,” Napier said.
Napier’s spotted a discrepancy, Ramage thought, cursing his mathematics. As Syme began reading back the evidence, Ramage pencilled a right-angled triangle on a piece of paper, wrote in “Lion” at the apex, “centre ship” at the right angle, and “Topaz” at the other end of the base line. One mile from the Lion to the centre ship; 1,200 yards from the centre ship to the Topaz. The hypotenuse would be the distance from the Lion to the Topaz.
He drew a second triangle, substituting the Triton for the Topaz, so the base was the distance from the centre ship to the Triton.
The hypotenuse was the distance from the Lion to the Triton. Bully for Pythagoras. A mile and a quarter from the Lion to the Topaz; roughly two miles to the Triton. Two? He checked his figures again. A few yards short of two.
“The prisoner may examine the witness,” Napier said. Ramage stood up.
“Could you tell the court the position assigned to the Triton?”
“Abreast the Topaz and two cables off.”
“If the Triton was as far out of position as a mile off, why did you not make a signal to her?”
“I could not see her in the darkness!”
“So you did not know she was there?”
“No,” Croucher said indignantly, not noticing the infuriated look on Goddard’s face.
“But you have already told the court where the Triton was. How did you see her and estimate the distance?”
“From the flash of the guns when she opened fire.”
“Would you agree that the distances,” Ramage asked, glancing at his notes, “were from the Lion to the Topaz roughly a mile and a quarter, and from the Lion to the Triton, about two miles?”
“Without pencil and paper, I cannot.”
Napier said: “If the witness will accept the court’s mathematics, those distances agree approximately with the evidence the witness has already given.”
“I’m grateful,” Croucher said.
“When the Triton opened fire on the privateer, what was her rate of fire?”
“Slow and sporadic,” Croucher said uncertainly. “Single guns.”
“How slow, would you estimate?”
“Two or three guns a minute. Less, perhaps.”
“But you saw the flashes and you knew they were the Triton’s guns?”
“Of course.”
“Can you, under oath,” Ramage said deliberately, emphasizing each word, “explain how you estimated the distance of two miles in the dark with such certainty when you only had ‘slow and sporadic’ flashes to go by?”
“Experience, of course. I have served at sea for many years,” Croucher said stiffly.
“Would you care to describe your previous experience in estimating distances under such circumstances, and what proof you subsequently had that such estimates were correct?”
Goddard leapt to his feet.
“Impertinence,” he shouted. “Sheer damn’d impertinence. The accused is impugning the honour of one of the most experienced—”
“Order!” Napier snapped. “You will not make further interruptions of that nature. The question is perfectly in order. It is a very important point, and the court is trying to get at the truth of this matter.”
The seven captains round the table looked at Croucher. “One can never subsequently check one’s estimates; that’s absurd. But after being in action many times …”
Ramage waited, but when Croucher said no more he knew there was no need to labour the point.
“You referred to a privateer,” he said. “Could you tell the court the nature of this vessel?”
Once again Goddard was on his feet. “This is absurd! She was full of Frenchmen and—”
Napier rapped the table and Goddard broke off.
“This is the second time the court has had to warn the prosecution …”
Goddard sat down like a sulky schoolboy, and Napier continued: “The witness will answer the question.”
“She was a fairly large ship. She came up from astern—”
“What was the position you had assigned to her in the convoy?” Ramage interrupted quietly, and saw the heads of all seven captains jerk up in surprise.
“She was the eighth ship in the starboard column.”
“The last ship in the column led by the Topaz?”
“Yes.”
“When did the ship join the convoy?”
“I ought to explain that—”
Napier rapped the table. “Please just answer the question; you are not allowed to make statements.”
>
“I can’t be forced to incriminate …” Croucher began unhappily. He broke off as Goddard stared at him coldly. Slowly, as though they were the guns of a broadside, the seven captains turned to look at Goddard, those sitting with their backs to him swivelling round in their chairs.
“Do you wish the court to be cleared while this point is decided?” Napier asked Goddard.
“I don’t know what the witness is talking about,” Goddard said.
“Very well,” Napier said crisply, and turned back to Croucher. “You will answer the question.”
Croucher took a deep breath. “She joined the convoy in Barbados.”
“A British ship?”
“No. Yes, I mean …”
Robinson held up his hand.
“The court understood you to say she was a French privateer.”
“Well, she was!”
“But you have just said she was a British ship.”
“We thought she was,” Croucher said desperately. “She had all the correct papers. Her master claimed she was a runner and wanted to join the convoy to Jamaica. He said the route to Jamaica was thick with privateers!”
Captain Innes began laughing until he saw Napier frowning at him and gesturing to Ramage to continue. Ramage took out his watch and looked at the time, then asked: “Was any report made to you or to the Admiral about the behaviour of this ship at any time before she attacked the Topaz?”
“Yes,” Croucher said grudgingly.
“Was this report in writing or verbal?”
“In writing.”
“Do you have the report with you?”
“No.”
“Do you recall what it said?”
Napier interrupted. “I’m not too sure whether the court ought not to insist on this report being put in as evidence.”
“It is available, if required,” Goddard said.
“Very well. Continue.”
“It said, to the best of my recollection, that the ship—the Peacock was her name—had ranged up abreast her next ahead in the previous night.”
“Did it say any more?”
“Well, it hinted that something might be wrong.”
“Who made that written report?”
“You did.”
“And what was the distance of the Triton from the ship ahead of the Peacock?”
“Well, the ships were a cable astern of each other. Six cables.”
“So in the darkness the Triton’s lookouts had spotted a suspicious movement 1,200 yards away.”
“I suppose so.”
“What action was taken over this report?”
“A frigate was sent to investigate,” Croucher exclaimed triumphantly, glad to have some positive evidence to give.
“What did she do?”
“She reported that all was well.”
“I asked what she did, not what she reported.”
“Well, she went close to the other merchantman and hailed her.”
“Do you know now who in fact answered the frigate’s hail?”
“Yes, a French prize crew.”
“How did a French prize crew come to be on board her?”
“They had been put on board the previous night by the Peacock.”
“Thank you,” Ramage said heavily. “You gave evidence that on the night that the Peacock attacked the Topaz, the Triton engaged her. Do you think the Triton’s fire drove off the Peacock, or contributed to her capture?”
“Not that I know of,” Croucher said. “It was the alertness of the Topaz’s own officers and the bravery of her own crew with the assistance of the Greyhound.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The Captain of the Topaz boarded the Lion the next day and made a report to the Admiral.”
“In writing?”
“No, verbally, I understand.”
“Do you have my written report on the episode?”
“No,” Croucher said nervously, glancing at Goddard. “You made no such report.”
Ramage’s jaw dropped. He looked over at Goddard, who was staring at him, his eyes hate-laden and triumphant. So he had managed to persuade Croucher to condone the deliberate suppression of evidence.
“Did you make any charges or remonstrances when I came on board the Lion on the morning after the attack?”
“You know very well that the Admiral did. And I gather that Mr Yorke, the master of the Topaz, did so as well.”
Napier was watching Ramage, expecting a protest from him about hearsay evidence, but Ramage rubbed the scar over his brow and could not resist asking: “Did Mr Yorke make any specific accusations of cowardice?”
“I was not there,” Croucher said lamely. “But I gather he was very bitter against you.”
“He accused me of cowardice?”
“So I was told.”
“And anything else?”
“I understand that he said you had nearly been the death of his passengers, and that he was going to complain to the Commander-in-Chief.”
“Did he?”
“No. They were all drowned in the hurricane.”
“Did Mr Yorke make any written accusations of cowardice?”
“The Admiral thought it unnecessary. There was no hint that such a tragedy would overtake them. It could have been done on arrival at Kingston.”
“Did the Captain of the Greyhound frigate make any written report about the Peacock’s attack?”
“He probably did, but it was not delivered to the flagship.” Ramage glanced at his watch again to have time to think. Croucher puzzled him. The man seemed nervous, many of his answers were qualified and the quick glances at Goddard seemed to indicate that he was giving evidence against his will and trying to say the minimum that would gain him Goddard’s approval. Had Croucher at last seen the Admiral for what he was? Had his behaviour in the hurricane finally sickened him? Plenty of questions, Ramage thought sourly, and damned few answers.
“I have only two more questions. From what you saw, from your own professional knowledge and experience, do you consider I was guilty of cowardice during the attack by the Peacock?”
“I was too far away to see everything.”
“Do you consider the accusation of cowardice made against me by Mr Yorke of the Topaz was justified?”
“From what I have heard of the incident, yes.”
“Thank you. I have no more questions.”
The seven captains were looking at Ramage as though he had gone mad. The deputy judge advocate’s pen had been flying over the paper and he had been feverishly pushing his spectacles back as they kept sliding down his nose.
Croucher looked uneasy. His earlier doubts about his estimate of distances were of little consequence but Ramage’s questions had brought out how little he knew from his own experience and how much he had heard from Goddard.
Syme began reading back the evidence and Ramage sat down and pulled out his watch again. Syme had five minutes to get through it and have Croucher sign it as a correct record of his evidence.
At that moment there was a knock on the door and Ramage realized that he had not decided exactly how to handle the next episode. Napier looked up angrily, signalled to the provost marshal, who went to the door, had a whispered conversation with someone outside, shut the door again and marched over to the President.
He placed a letter before Napier and whispered something. The President waved him away and opened the letter. Three small white cards dropped out, and Napier, obviously puzzled, glanced at them before reading the letter. He then looked up at Ramage, and folded the letter and cards.
Syme finished reading the evidence and Napier glanced at Croucher.
“You may remain in court if you wish,” he said.
He has guessed, Ramage thought to himself; or if he has not guessed, he suspects!
“Mr Ramage,” Napier said, “you mentioned earlier that you might have further witnesses. It appears they have arrived. This has come for you, and the court agrees to your receiving it.�
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He held up the letter, and Ramage walked over to collect it.
Goddard was lolling back in his chair, completely satisfied with the way things were going and making little effort to hide his boredom. He began polishing his nails with an ivory-backed strip of chamois leather, and Croucher moved to the back of the cabin and took the chair offered him by a lieutenant.
Ramage went to his place and sat down before reading the letter. Unsigned, it said simply: “Three witnesses of extreme importance to the defence are waiting to give evidence.”
He read the names on the visiting cards. The first said “Sydney Yorke,” the second was larger, and embossed on it was “Le Duc de Bretagne,” the third said, “Le Comte de Chambéry.”
Ramage felt his head spinning. So the man calling himself “St Brieuc” was the Duke of Brittany, one of the most powerful men in France before the Revolution, a close friend of the late French King, and now the leader of the French refugees in London. “Valuable cargo” indeed! Goddard must have known his real identity—which meant that Goddard too was fighting for his professional life!
Sir Pilcher must be wanting to know why the Duke of Brittany had left the Lion—which survived the hurricane—and sailed on the Topaz, which foundered. Even if Sir Pilcher could be satisfied, the Admiralty—and the Government—would be ruthless. He imagined the Foreign Secretary’s angry notes to the Admiralty—”Why did the Duke leave the Lion? How was it that a French privateer was allowed to attack the Topaz? With a hurricane coming, why was the Duke not made to return to the Lion?” Goddard could hardly tell the truth: that it had started because of something offensive he did or said to the Duke’s daughter. He needed a scapegoat—and he had chosen the “cowardly” Lieutenant Ramage….
Ramage tried to decide which of the three men to call first. Better start with Yorke, because … he suddenly realized he had made a terrible mistake; a mistake so obvious that, his body rigid with fear, he could hardly believe it.
He had told St Brieuc—the Duke, rather—and Yorke to come at half past ten on the assumption that the prosecution case would be almost over by then. But the case was going so slowly that several prosecution witnesses had still to be called. He would not be able to call the defence witnesses before tomorrow morning, at the earliest. With the Duke, the Count and Yorke already on board the Arrogant—and Captain Napier had seen their visiting cards—it would be impossible to keep their existence secret for another ten minutes, let alone 24 hours. Without a surprise confrontation, he was lost … unless—he realized there was just one chance of springing his trap.
