Governor Ramage R. N.

by Dudley Pope

  After that, Ramage had been led away to talk for half an hour to the island’s Attorney-General, an amiable and breezy man who wanted to discuss the trial. The warnings he had then given, Ramage felt, had been as a direct result of the Governor’s knowledge of the Duke’s role in the case.

  As the horses clattered towards Sir Pilcher’s house, Ramage thought about his summons. It was silly to wonder why the Commander-in-Chief was interesting himself in a mere lieutenant; Goddard had seen to it that Ramage was no longer a “mere lieutenant.” He now had all the notoriety of a queen’s lover or a famous highwayman.

  Ramage wiped the perspiration from his brow, straightened his hat, tucked his papers under his arm and grasped the scabbard of his sword: the coachman was reining in the horses in front of a large, four-square white house guarded by Marines.

  Ten minutes later Ramage was being ushered into Sir Pilcher’s office.

  The Admiral was plump, shorter than Ramage and with a tendency to waddle. He had several chins and his cheeks were fat and sagging. He had the glistening pink complexion of a man who enjoyed good living.

  “Ah, Mr Ramage?”

  He gave Ramage a limp handshake.

  “Come, let us sit comfortably.”

  He led the way to some armchairs set in the middle of the room round a small, low and highly polished table.

  He sat in one chair and waved Ramage to one opposite him.

  “A cool drink? No? Well now, I trust you are having an enjoyable stay with the Governor.”

  “Yes, sir, most enjoyable.”

  “Good, good, a delightful man, and so competent. And the Duke—in good health, I trust?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ramage said.

  “I must congratulate you, Ramage, on bringing the Duke—and his entourage, of course—here safely.”

  Ramage nodded politely.

  “The Duke has—er, explained his …”

  “In great confidence, sir.”

  “Quite so, quite so. He told the Governor he wished you to know.”

  Sir Pilcher flicked imaginary dust from his lapels, obviously ill at ease.

  “Er—I have just read your report to Admiral Goddard on the loss of the Triton . . .”

  “I have the others here, sir.”

  “Oh, excellent; let me have them.”

  Ramage took the first one. “This takes up from the time we were wrecked on Snake Island, sir, until we arrived in sight of Jamaica in La Perla.”

  “Excellent, excellent.”

  “And this deals with the period we were on Snake Island.”

  “Ah—finding the treasure, eh?”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “Splendid business, Ramage, quite splendid. The Admiralty—indeed, the Government—will be delighted. We are having it unloaded now. I went down to look—boxes and boxes! My dear fellow, what a haul!”

  “Yes, sir. I wonder who the pirate was?”

  “Ah yes, the Attorney-General has been looking up some records. This place has a long history of piracy, as you know—Jamaica I mean. That fellow Morgan was after one particular man back in 1690. Seems they were shipmates at first—Brethren of the Coast—and then they fell out. The Attorney-General seems to think it was most likely his. There’s some legend that he and his gang vanished, and after a quarrel with Morgan he went to a lonely island and drank himself to death.”

  “A sad end,” Ramage said, since the Admiral seemed to expect some comment.

  “Ha, yes! All that gold and nothing to spend it on, what? Well, ‘easy come, easy go’ I suppose.”

  Ramage waited. The point of all this was bound to emerge soon.

  Sir Pilcher stuck his finger inside his stock and gave it a tug, as if it was too tight.

  “Sure you won’t have a drink, Ramage?”

  “Thank you, sir, no.”

  “I will, then: ring for a steward, there’s a good fellow.”

  Ramage walked over to the long, richly embroidered bellpull, gave it a tug, and heard a distant, faint ringing. A few moments later a coloured steward glided in.

  “Rum and lemon, Albert. The ‘tenant’s not drinking.”

  As soon as the steward left the room, Sir Pilcher said: “This court martial business, Ramage …”

  Ramage glanced up, his eyebrows raised, and waited.

  “Deuced difficult, y’know.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “Doubtful if it was in legal form. Napier, the President, was in a damnably difficult position. The deputy judge advocate wasn’t much use to him.”

  Ramage felt his skin go cold with fright. Had they celebrated too soon? He had forgotten that Sir Pilcher could declare his trial void and order a new one on some technicality. At a new trial, the cowardice charges could be forgotten and Sir Pilcher and Goddard, with the help of the best legal brains available, could draw up new charges … His talk with the Attorney-General took on a new meaning, and he tried to remember the past cases the man had cited so carefully. At the time they had seemed of little significance or relevance.

  “In what way was it illegal, sir?”

  “Well, not exactly illegal. Fact is, the charges were drawn up without the prosecution knowing all the facts—or about all the witnesses.”

  “But that’s the prosecution’s responsibility, sir,” Ramage protested. “The witnesses arrived in time and the facts eventually emerged!”

  “Oh, quite, quite; no one’s disputing that. It’s a question of how the evidence was introduced, an’ all that sort of thing. You know what sticklers these lawyers are!”

  “The court didn’t express any doubts, sir.”

  “No, no, but as I was saying just now, that damned deputy judge advocate—what was his name? Syme? He didn’t advise the President properly.”

  “What can be done now, sir?”

  “Deuced difficult, Ramage; blessed if I know. I hate having to order a new trial, after all you’ve been through … there’s still the court of inquiry on the loss of the Triton, of course.”

  Was this a veiled threat, Ramage wondered. Sir Pilcher was going to show what he could do to him if Ramage didn’t agree with whatever the Commander-in-Chief had in mind. But what exactly had he in mind? His manner was still remarkably friendly.

  “A similarity to the case of Captain Powlett, perhaps, sir?” Ramage asked innocently.

  “Powlett? Powlett? That was way back in ‘52,” Sir Pilcher said, and Ramage knew that the Attorney-General’s comments were based on solid ground. The case had been discussed in the past few hours: Sir Pilcher remembered the date too easily.

  “The court sat for several days,” Ramage persisted. “When they finally doubted if they could legally reach a verdict, they sent the minutes to the Admiralty for Their Lordships to decide.”

  “You sound like a sea lawyer, my boy,” the Admiral said sharply.

  “I’ve needed some sort of lawyer these last few hours,” Ramage said bitterly. He spoke so rudely he waited for the explosion,

  but none came, and he decided to press the point the Attorney-General had given him.

  “When Admiral Griffin said he would not proceed against Captain Powlett because witnesses were abroad, the court—”

  “I know, I know,” Sir Pilcher said testily, “I spent half the night reading the case!”

  “Then I don’t understand what the problem is, sir. Could you …”

  “Damnation, Ramage,” he exploded, “don’t you see you’ve put Admiral Goddard in a deucedly tricky position?”

  “My apologies, sir,” Ramage said. “But the Admiral was trying to hang me.” He wondered if Sir Pilcher yet realized that he was beaten even in his attempt to save his second-in-command from public disgrace. His next question should convince the man!

  “Would you be kind enough, sir, to issue an order that I should be given an attested copy of the minutes of my trial?”

  Sir Pilcher gulped the rest of his rum before asking: “What the devil d’you want them for?”

&nb
sp; “Evidence, sir.”

  “You don’t need them for the inquiry into the loss of the Triton.”

  “It’s not for the inquiry, sir.”

  “What d’you want ‘em for, then? A souvenir?” he asked.

  “No, sir: I am advised I need them for my case against Admiral Goddard.”

  And that, Ramage thought to himself, is that; it either takes the trick or loses the game!

  Sir Pilcher’s eyes widened, and Ramage knew he was not sure he had heard correctly.

  “The minutes of Admiral Goddard’s case against you, eh? Yes, that’s what I’m saying. You don’t need them.”

  “I do, sir,” Ramage said patiently, raising his voice slightly, “for the case in the King’s Bench against Admiral Goddard.”

  “What the devil are you talking about? Are you threatening a senior officer?”

  “Oh no, sir,” Ramage said innocently.

  “What case, then?” Sir Pilcher said suspiciously.

  “For perjury, sir.”

  The Admiral’s brow creased in concentration. “The King’s Bench … for perjury …” he said softly. Abruptly he stopped. “My dear boy, surely you don’t mean it!”

  But the Admiral’s jovial heartiness rang hollow.

  “I’m advised the minutes prove perjury, sir, without the need to call more witnesses—although I shall be doing that.”

  “What, d’you mean to say you’ve been gossiping with attorneys already?”

  It was the “already” that told Ramage his card had taken the trick. Keep up the pressure.

  “Yes, sir.” It was true, after a fashion.

  “You think the charge can be proved?”

  Sir Pilcher’s manner had changed. Now he was matter of fact; his voice was crisper. He seemed more detached; more the Commander-in-Chief.

  “Yes, sir; there are also the Bastia court-martial minutes.”

  “Yes, I haven’t forgotten that,” Sir Pilcher said slowly.

  He was not a man who hid his thoughts, and Ramage could see the Admiral mentally holding a pair of scales: on one pan was Rear-Admiral Goddard, and on the other stood—what?

  “Your witnesses,” Sir Pilcher mused. “The Duke, the Count of Chambéry, the fellow that owns the merchantman …”

  “And Lord St Vincent, and Commodore Nelson for the Bastia trial,” Ramage added.

  “Yes, yes, yes … an impressive list. It’d carry weight in Whitehall.”

  “It would indeed, sir,” Ramage said, and added quietly, “if it was needed.”

  “A trial of that nature would finish you in the Service, my boy; you realize that, don’t you? You’d never be employed again by the Navy, after you won it!”

  “I’ll never be employed again anyway, sir.”

  Sir Pilcher was thinking deeply, and Ramage guessed that Goddard had been weighed in the Admiral’s scales, and found not to be heavy enough. Goddard’s distant relationship to the King had been useful in the past, but now it would be wiser to forget that the man had ever been a friend.

  “Your mind is made up, I suppose?”

  “Not finally, sir: I just want to do the right thing.”

  Ramage sounded hypocritical to himself, but Sir Pilcher was busy preparing defences for Sir Pilcher…. After all, Goddard was still his second-in-command.

  “You want to get back to England?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To bring Rear-Admiral Goddard to a trial?”

  “If it proves necessary, sir.” He made no attempt to keep the ambiguity from his voice: he and Sir Pilcher were now speaking the same language.

  “You want to strike a bargain, eh?”

  Ramage had not expected the Admiral to be so blunt so quickly, but he nodded.

  “What do you want, then?”

  Once again Ramage was taken by surprise, and for a moment all he could do was to remind himself to ask for the maximum. It ought not to be too difficult to persuade the man that what Ramage wanted was also best for the Commander-in-Chief.

  “Very little sir. Justice, really.”

  He was surprised to hear himself speaking: it sounded so reasonable; almost naive.

  “Of course, of course; you’ve every right to that! But,” he said warily, “what do you regard as justice?”

  “Well, sir, if there’s a doubt over today’s trial verdict, the Captain Powlett case should be treated as a precedent.”

  “Transmit the papers to the Admiralty, you mean, and let their Lordships rule on it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. I was proposing to do that anyway. Anything else?”

  Ramage gave him credit for the smooth way he had said it. Sir Pilcher had been proposing to do that for less than a minute: only since he had realized that Ramage was not going to help him to prevent a scandal.

  “Only two things, sir, both quite routine.”

  He realized “routine” was an inspired word: like his earlier claim, it gave Sir Pilcher a way out. He had already decided to send the minutes to the Admiralty on the grounds of the Powlett precedent; now he could grant the rest as a matter of routine.

  “Come on, man,” the Admiral said impatiently.

  “The inquiry into the loss of the Triton, sir. Could it be held in the next day or two?”

  “I suppose so. Yes,” he said hurriedly as though Ramage might otherwise insist on extra conditions. “The day after tomorrow. I’ll issue the order this afternoon.”

  And that, Ramage knew, would make sure his witnesses could not be sent off on some pretext or other to ships about to sail.

  “And what else?” demanded Sir Pilcher, as though justice was a mere word, a preliminary demand to some iniquitous request.

  “Employment, sir: I’d like another ship, and to keep my crew together.”

  Sir Pilcher frowned and clasped his hands, staring at the polished table top with all the concentration of a fortune-teller looking into a crystal ball. Ramage was not surprised at the Admiral’s preoccupation. Giving him a ship would advertise the fact that the Commander-in-Chief had disowned Goddard. Sir Pilcher had reached a critical stage: critical for all three of them. What he said or did now was a signpost to the future. Giving Ramage a ship told the Admiralty that Sir Pilcher approved of his activities; that he supported the Lieutenant against the Rear-Admiral.

  Refusing him a ship meant that approval was withheld. That in turn meant that Sir Pilcher supported his second-in-command, even though the moment the court-martial minutes arrived at the Admiralty, Goddard would be discredited, and some of the mud was bound to stick to his friend Sir Pilcher.

  Yet, because of tradition and the fact that the Admiralty had to think in terms of the discipline of the whole Navy, discrediting Goddard did not mean automatic approval for the wretched Lieutenant who, however unwittingly, had been the cause of the trouble.

  Sir Pilcher unclasped his hands and looked directly at Ramage.

  “Very well, I’ll give you a ship.”

  Ramage had begun to thank him when the Admiral continued: “I’ve nothing available at the moment, but there’ll be a vacancy in a few weeks. In the meantime, you deserve a month’s leave. I’ll have the Tritons transferred to the guardship and you can come back in a month’s time. You’ll be seeing the Governor again?”

  “Yes, sir: he has been kind enough to let me sling my hammock at Government House for a few days.”

  “Excellent. Splendid, so you’ll be seeing the Duke, too, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ramage said, and added the words Sir Pilcher obviously wanted to hear. “They’ll be glad to hear that various problems have been resolved.”

  “Capital. Very well, Ramage,” he said, getting up, “I’m delighted with the way you handled the treasure business. The Attorney-General’s looking up the book of words: no one’s too sure whether it’s treated as prize or what, because of the way it was found.”

  “I was hoping, sir,” Ramage said, “that if it’s not treated as prize, perhaps the Government would
make some sort of ex gratia payment to the ship’s company. They were very loyal: it must have been a temptation to make off with it—there were only three King’s officers on board …”

  “Quite, quite, I shall recommend it to the First Lord in my next despatch—that’s if they don’t get a share automatically.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all, not at all. Have a good leave; I’ll expect you back here in a month’s time.”

  Back at Government House Ramage found Maxine in her room, dressed for dinner and with the maid combing her long, black hair. Without turning from the mirror, she said: “You’ve seen the Admiral?”

  Her voice sounded muffled and Ramage, glancing at her reflection, saw that she had been crying again. She tried to smile but suddenly began sobbing, waving to the maid to leave the room as she buried her face in her hands.

  Ramage stood helpless for a moment and then, as he heard the maid shut the door, put his hands gently on her shoulders.

  “Oh Nicholas,” she wailed. “I’ve been so worried!”

  “Why, what happened?” he asked in surprise.

  She dropped her hands and stared at his reflection in the mirror, her eyes wide. She looked so startled that Ramage gave a nervous laugh. In one movement she stood up, turned and threw her arms round him.

  “It doesn’t matter what I was worrying about,” she murmured, burying her face in his shoulder. “Tell me what the Admiral said.”

  “Oh—well, everything’s all right.”

  With that she pushed him away, holding him at arm’s length, and smiled up at him.

  “‘Everything’s all right,’” she mimicked. “Nicholas—for days and weeks the St Brieuc family have been dreading the moment when you reported to the Admiral. My father has needed brandy to help him through this afternoon; my mother has taken to her bed. I myself lay on my bed and wept”—she waved at the rumpled counterpane—”and I’ve sat in that chair and wept. And finally”—she began sobbing again—”you march in as though there had never been anything to worry about and announce ‘Everything’s all right!’”

  Before she started speaking Ramage had been dumbfounded to find her in tears and now he stood in front of the almost hysterical girl in total silence.