by Dudley Pope
“Please call your next witness, then.”
“I … the prosecution has no more witnesses to call.”
“Very well, the defence will present its case.”
Normally Ramage should have read out his defence against the charges, while Syme copied it down, then called his witnesses to prove the points of his defence. Instead he stood up.
“If it pleases the court, I wish to waive my right to state a defence … I’m prepared to rest my case on the evidence the court has already heard and what it will hear from the remaining witnesses.”
“Very well,” Napier said. “Note that in your minutes, Syme.”
After Syme finished writing, Napier told Ramage: “You may call your first witness.” Officially he was still on trial for his life and the minutes of the trial would be read in the Admiralty by men who knew none of the background.
“Call Edward Southwick.”
The Master was sworn and Ramage questioned him so that the Peacock’s curious behaviour the night before the attack on the Topaz was described in detail and he was able to show why the written report on the episode was made to the Admiral and delivered on board the Lion.
Then, answering questions, Southwick described, simply but graphically, how the Peacock had been sighted in the darkness coming up the line of merchantmen, and how the Triton had been manoeuvred to save the Topaz.
Southwick’s description of Ramage’s handling of the Triton during and after the attack left no doubt in anyone’s mind of his admiration for his Captain.
Ramage’s questions had touched only lightly on their stay on Snake Island, but the capture of La Perla and the voyage to Jamaica rounded off the evidence, except for a few last questions which Ramage could not resist, since it would make Southwick’s name famous in the Navy.
“When La Perla left Snake Island, did she have a defect in her sailing qualities?”
“Yes, she was down by the head and griped a lot.”
“Tell the court what orders you received concerning this.”
“I was told to shift some cargo aft.”
“How much did you shift, and what was it?”
“About two tons of gold and silver coins.”
“I have no more questions to ask of this witness,” Ramage said.
Napier turned to Goddard.
“Your witness.”
“I have no questions.”
Syme read the evidence aloud, and after Southwick signed it he was told to stand down.
“Your next witness?” Syme asked, as if at last deciding to take a more active part in the proceedings.
“Call the Duke of Brittany.”
The Duke walked in and bowed deeply. Napier, uncertain what to do, stood up and bowed back.
“Your Grace,” he said hesitantly, “I—er, is your Grace familiar with the English language?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
Napier went red. “You understand that I am duty bound to ask the question.”
“Of course,” the Duke said. “But I have no need of an interpreter.”
“The oath,” Napier said, motioning to Syme.
The Duke took the oath, using the Crucifix, and Napier said apologetically, “The deputy judge advocate has first to write down the question, and then your answer, so….”
“I understand perfectly,” the Duke said.
“You travelled to Jamaica in a ship called the Topaz?” Ramage asked, hoping the Duke would realize the significance of the question.
“I travelled part of the way in the Topaz,” he said, and before anyone could stop him, added, “I and my suite transferred to her from the Lion because of the behaviour of Admiral Goddard.”
In the silence that followed Ramage heard his own heart thumping. Would Napier rule the answer out of order? Would Goddard protest? Quickly he asked the next question.
“What happened on the night of the eighteenth of July last?”
“The Topaz was attacked by a French privateer.”
“Was the attack successful?”
“No, it was foiled completely because of the foresight and daring of the Triton brig.”
“Did you make any complaints to the Admiral following the attack?”
“Yes, because he had been criminally negligent in allowing this privateer to sail in the convoy for several days.”
Still no one challenged the legality of the reply and, hardly believing his good luck, Ramage plunged on, rubbing the scar on his forehead.
“Evidence has been given in this court that you sent the Captain of the Topaz on board the Lion to accuse myself of cowardice in not coming to the defence of the Topaz. On what grounds did you make that accusation?”
“I made no such accusation,” the Duke said quietly. “It is not for me to speculate about the motives of any man who makes such a claim.”
Napier interrupted: “The court desires to know if the Captain of the Topaz carried any message from you to the Admiral, and if so, the nature of the message.”
“Mr Yorke certainly did carry a message. It was in writing. It praised Mr Ramage and said I was writing to His Britannic Majesty drawing his attention to Mr Ramage’s bravery in ensuring my safety and allowing me to carry out the mission with which His Majesty had entrusted me.”
“Thank you,” Napier said.
“Have you any complaint of your treatment at my hands while on Snake Island, or on board La Perla?” Ramage asked.
“Yes,” the Duke said gravely, his eyes hard, his face set and his lips squeezed tightly together. Goddard sat up and the members of the court leaned forward expectantly. Ramage looked dumbfounded.
“Would you please tell the court the nature of that complaint?” said Napier.
The Duke’s face dissolved into a smile.
“Mr Ramage refused my request to sign on as one of his crew.”
The members of the court bellowed with laughter and the noise they made drowned Ramage’s own laugh, which had begun to sound slightly hysterical.
“Thank you, your Grace. I have no more questions to ask this witness.”
Syme read back the evidence, and once again Napier turned to the Admiral.
“Have you any questions to ask this witness?”
Goddard shook his head, and Ramage said: “That was my last witness.”
Napier picked up his watch. Ramage’s sword was still lying across the table in front of him.
“The court will adjourn until 8:30 tomorrow morning, when it will announce its verdict. The prisoner will, of course, remain in custody.”
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
NEXT morning, as Ramage stepped from the Arrogant into La Perla’s dingy boat, with its peeling paint and heavy balanced oars, he was conscious only of smiling, welcoming faces. At the tiller stood Jackson, smartly dressed, freshly shaven, hair tied in a neat queue. In the stern sheets was Southwick, flowing white hair sticking out from under his hat, holding the scabbard of his sword close to his side. Next to him was Yorke, his grin no longer sardonic but exuberant, as though he had just won heavily while playing faro for high stakes. Beyond him was the Duke, whose face had the contented look of a man welcoming home a prodigal son.
Southwick reached out a hand.
“I’ll take your sword, sir.”
In this, his moment of triumph, shared by the friends who had helped bring it about, Ramage was close to tears. That one gesture by Southwick summed it up.
An officer brought before a court martial surrendered his sword—in effect his badge of office—to the provost marshal, who handed it to the court. Throughout the trial his sword had been lying on the green baize of the table in front of the captains. Round it was piled, almost symbolically, the paraphernalia needed for the administration of justice—the law books required for reference, ships’ logs and muster books which had become numbered exhibits, and their entries, often made in a hurry, or later when memory could be at fault—capable of having an enormous significance in the legal re-creation of some long-pas
t event.
Then, with all examination of witnesses over, the minutes of evidence read aloud for the last time, the seven captains having deliberated, the court had at last been ready to announce its verdict.
Ramage—”the prisoner”—had been summoned and the door into the great cabin was flung open in front of him. As he walked in, head erect, shoulders back, heart racing, he had tried to glimpse the sword on the table. But Syme and the three nearest captains obscured it. Knowing that everyone in the cabin was watching him, he went straight to his chair and stood in front of it, turning slightly to bow to the members of the court.
As he did so, he glimpsed the sword in its scabbard. It was lying on the table with its hilt towards him, indicating that the court’s verdict was not guilty. Quite involuntarily, he had glanced at Goddard. The Admiral, too, was staring at the sword. By chance, as it was lying in its scabbard on the table, the blade was pointing towards the Admiral.
Napier had spoken the court’s verdict and Ramage had accepted his sword from him. He had muttered his thanks to the court and stumbled from the cabin into the sunlight. He had gone to the bulwarks and stared over the side at the wavelets, and a swarm of small, minnow-like fish had leapt out of the water, frantically trying to escape from some hidden predator. Beyond, anchored at random, were the Lion and eleven merchantmen; the only survivors of the hurricane.
He had turned, and Jackson had been standing there alone, with the others waiting a few feet away.
“Your boat is ready, sir,” the American had said, and spontaneously Ramage had shaken him by the hand and only realized he was trembling violently when he found he could put no pressure in his grip.
One by one, Stafford, Appleby, Southwick, Yorke and the Duke had shaken him by the hand, and the Duke had said: “My wife and my daughter also thank you for all you’ve done, and all you’ve suffered for us.”
As Ramage sat down on the thwart beside the Duke, Jackson gave the order to shove off. Stafford was rowing stroke, with Rossi behind him, then Maxton and another coloured man, who was a fraction of a second slower than the others. It was Roberto, the former Spanish slave and now rated a landsman in the Royal Navy.
Jackson was not steering towards La Perla and Ramage was just going to say something when he remembered that they would have to put the Duke and Yorke on shore.
Southwick leaned across and passed him a letter.
“Delivered this morning, sir.”
It was addressed simply to “Lieutenant Ramage.” Though the court had found him innocent and there was no risk of charges over the loss of the Triton—only a routine court of inquiry—he still had no ship. Sir Pilcher Skinner, having seen what Ramage had just done to his second-in-command, would not want to appoint him to command even a hired bumboat. That meant he’d have to return to England as a passenger, report his arrival to the Admiralty, and wait.
He’d go home to Cornwall, and his father and mother would be overjoyed to see him. For a few weeks he’d enjoy the atmosphere of Blazey Hall and he’d walk and ride over the Cornish moors. Gianna would probably be there too … and then he’d begin to feel unsettled, listless, unable to concentrate on what he was doing, unable to get pleasure from the things he had previously enjoyed. He’d long to get back to sea, but the Admiralty would never employ someone who had brought about the ruin of an admiral, however badly that admiral had behaved….
Rear-Admiral Goddard was now professionally ruined, although he was a wealthy man and could return to London society and perhaps be lionized. Certainly with his connections at court almost every door would be open to him. But Goddard, too, was a sailor, albeit—if that Marine corporal’s comments and Croucher’s behaviour at the trial had been anything to go by—a poor one in a hurricane, but he would never receive another appointment, and Ramage found that despite his recent hatred for the man he was beginning to feel sorry for him.
Southwick was watching him anxiously while he daydreamed. Perhaps the letter was important. He ripped it open, not noticing the seal until the wax was too shattered to recognize, and began reading.
It was from Sir Pilcher’s secretary: Lieutenant Ramage was to call on the Commander-in-Chief at four o’clock that afternoon. He took out his watch. It was now just half past nine.
He held the letter out to Southwick but the Master shook his head.
“I took the liberty of questioning the Lieutenant who delivered it,” he said. “The Lieutenant appointed to command La Perla,” he added quietly.
Sir Pilcher had wasted no time.
“Your gear has been taken on shore, sir.”
“The ship’s company?” Ramage asked.
“The original Tritons are being temporarily transferred to the Arrogant, sir. The men from the Topaz are still on board. Mr Yorke’s seeing about them.”
“Oh, very well,” Ramage said numbly. It had to come, but he was being parted from Southwick and the Tritons. Somehow each and every man had shared so much and now—as always in the naval service after a ship was lost—her company was going to be scattered like spindrift.
The Duke noticed his depression.
“A celebration lunch,” he said. “We have taken the liberty of arranging one in your honour.”
“Cheer up, Ramage,” Yorke said. “Anyone would think the verdict went against you!”
“Where has your Grace chosen for the celebration?” Ramage asked politely, longing to know if Maxine would be there.
“It was not my choice,” the Duke said. “In fact we are all guests: Mr Yorke, Mr Southwick, my family, the Count—who feels quite put out at not being called to give evidence: he has a sharp tongue and wished to unsheath it on your behalf—Mr Bowen and young Mr Appleby.”
“Indeed?” Ramage said more cheerfully. “And to whom are we indebted for this invitation?”
“The Lieutenant Governor. We are on our way now to Government House.”
“I’ll be damned!” Ramage exclaimed. “Government House?”
“I have—er, how do you sailors say it: I’ve ‘slung my hammock’ there. The Governor has shown an interest in our recent—ah, excursion—and wishes to hear the details from you. After I had presented my credentials he was kind enough to express his pleasure that we were safe, and insisted we should be his guests. Indeed, I fear I kept him from his bed telling him of our adventures!”
“Your credentials?” Ramage asked, then realizing that he had been thinking aloud, waved his apology.
“I shall tell you later,” the Duke said. “It will serve to explain the Admiral’s discomfort when we left his ship for the Topaz. Alas, it was a move which brought about all your troubles.”
“Your Grace!” Yorke exclaimed. “You are quite wrong. The privateer affair was only an evening’s excitement; the hurricane would still have dismasted us even if you had been on board the Lion. My only regret is that the ladies have suffered so much.”
“Suffered?” The Duke did not hide his surprise. “I assure you none of us would have missed a moment of it all. When you get to my age, you envy the exciting lives the young men lead. Now we’ve experienced it and, thank the good God, we live to tell a tale of almost everything the sea has to offer—a battle, a hurricane, shipwreck on a reef, hunting for treasure, a dangerous voyage in a tiny ship, and a naval court martial. Pray tell me, have I missed any of the other excitements the sea has to offer?”
Yorke pretended to ponder a few moments.
“I think not—do you agree, Ramage?”
“A hanging from the yardarm … flogging round the fleet … No, they’re not offered by the sea, so I think His Grace can rest content,” Ramage said, laughing.
“He does, I assure you,” the Duke said, “and I’m grateful to you all for the experience. I have such a story that will out-bore every bore in every salon I shall ever visit!”
Jackson called: “Way enough!”
Ramage noticed, as they came alongside the jetty, that a carriage with four greys was standing close by, and men in livery we
re waiting.
“Ah,” the Duke said, “how thoughtful of the Governor. And my ladies will be waiting for us, too.”
As one of the Governor’s carriages took him from Government House to Admiralty House for his appointment with the Commander-in-Chief, Ramage felt more than half drunk. For the whole of the morning and throughout the meal he had refused to drink anything except a single glass of champagne with which to answer the toasts.
The moment they arrived at Government House, Ramage and Yorke had sensed the Duke’s importance to the British Government, but had been startled when the Duke told them that the British government had planned to launch a heavy attack on Guadeloupe and Haiti, the last strongholds of Revolutionary France in the Caribbean. The Duke was to have been the figurehead, the man to whom all the Royalists still left in the islands would have rallied. In effect he would have been the Viceroy of a new French Caribbean empire, comprising Haiti, Guadeloupe and Martinique—an empire captured by the British and handed over to a French government in exile.
The object in sending the Duke out had been to remove the phrase “in exile” by establishing, on French soil in the Caribbean, the seeds of a new French nation.
But, as the future Viceroy told Ramage in his quiet, patient voice, many ships and many troops were needed, and the first news he had received when he met the Governor was that for the time being the attacks on Haiti and Guadeloupe had been postponed: a frigate sailing direct from England to Jamaica had brought a despatch from Lord Grenville, the Foreign Secretary, to this effect. By chance the frigate had arrived only four days ago.
When Ramage and Yorke tried to express their regrets, the Duke had shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“I sometimes feel,” he said, “we are trying to rebuild a new world in the shape of the old; and I have seen too much to ignore the old world’s defects. But I am also too old to try and change it. Change is the enemy of age, my young friend, and we old people tend to fight it.”
