Ramage's Mutiny

by Dudley Pope

  “Yes, sir. He told me that a new muster book had been started a week before the Jocasta sailed from Jamaica, so that the only record the Admiralty had of the men on board during the mutiny came from the previous muster book.”

  “Did he know of any men who had left the ship after the new muster book was started but before the ship left Jamaica?”

  That was a shrewd question, Ramage noted; Captain Edwards was as concerned with the truth of the whole mutiny as he was with trying these four men. His question could avoid a man being wrongly accused of being on board the ship.

  “Yes, sir. He mentioned three men who had been discharged dead just before the mutiny.”

  “He gave the names?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were these dead men’s names on the list of mutineers you had in your possession?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Now, Weaver, have you any more questions to ask this witness?”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned towards Aitken. “Did I say to you that I was giving myself up, sir?”

  “You did.”

  “And wasn’t you taken aback, like, and didn’t you go right through your list and ask me if the name ‘George Weaver’ was an alias?”

  “I was puzzled at first, yes, and I did check the list again.”

  “Why, sir?”

  There was a sudden silence in the cabin: Gower’s pen stopped squeaking and every man’s eye was on Aitken. Even the Marine sentries realized how much depended on the Scots officer’s reply.

  “Because you’d have been left in the American brig if you had kept silent. At least, unless one of the other prisoners gave you away.”

  Captain Edwards held up his hand. “Summers refused to denounce the other two. Do you think he would have denounced you?”

  “Yes, sir, providing he was asked direct; we’d had a falling out,” Weaver said simply, obviously realizing that the question and answer did much to destroy his defence. “But, sir, I went up to this gentleman to give myself up the minute he boarded. I didn’t know why he was coming on board. No one did. It just seemed routine. No one knew he was looking for Jocastas—why, all that happened two years ago. I didn’t know he’d find Summers.”

  Ramage leaned forward to catch the president’s eye and Edwards nodded, giving permission for him to ask a question.

  “Why did you sign on board the American brig?” Ramage asked.

  “T’was the only way I could get away from the Main, sir.”

  “Why did you want to get away from the Main?”

  Weaver looked puzzled and went to scratch his head, but his hands were manacled. “Well, sir, I was trying to get back to my own folk.”

  That was what Ramage had expected, but Weaver was taking too much for granted; he was expecting the court to understand instinctively why he had done certain things. More questions were needed so that Weaver’s answers filled in the story.

  “But you were in an American ship, bound for an American port.”

  “Aye, sir, I were; but the Jonathans are the only ones what come into ports on the Main. I was reckoning on getting to England from Charleston, or maybe back down to Jamaica.”

  “Supposing you reached England or Jamaica—what did you intend to do?”

  “Do, sir? Why, report to the authorities—just like I did when this gentleman came on board the brig.”

  “Why did you think the lieutenant boarded the brig?”

  “I dunno, sir. Mebbe to press some men, like when I was pressed into the Jocasta. But the minute I saw the Juno was a British ship I told my mate I was going to try to get on board.”

  “Your mate?”

  “The friend of mine I met in Barcelona: the one what got me signed on.”

  “Was he an American or one of these prisoners?”

  Weaver looked dumbfounded. “An American, sir. Why, if these fellers—” he nodded towards the other three men “—if they’d known what I was going to do they’d ‘ave done me in. Why, you saw that Summers tried to throttle me. Well, you didn’t, sir, but the lieutenant did.”

  Edwards tapped the table lightly with his gavel.

  “Are you prepared to give evidence against the other prisoners?” he demanded.

  “Why, yes, sir, of course.”

  “Clear the court,” Edwards said briskly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE FOUR prisoners were marched out, the onlookers left the cabin and the provost marshal shut the door with a flourish as he ushered the last man out. Captain Edwards gave a sigh of relief. “Well, we’ve got our witness!”

  “What was all that business earlier on?” Marden asked. “Those three lieutenants going out when you ordered all but the first witness to leave the court?”

  Edwards grinned and confessed: “That was in case none of the prisoners turned King’s evidence. If they thought Aitken was the only witness against them, they’d know that if they kept their mouths shut they’d be safe. The fact that three officers left at that moment was a fortunate coincidence.”

  “Indeed it was,” Marden said. “I’m glad they could take a hint!”

  “Ah well,” Edwards said, “we now have to consider what to do next. Are we agreed that Weaver should be allowed to turn King’s evidence?”

  The four captains agreed, and Edwards asked Gowers: “Are we following the correct procedure?”

  “I think so, sir,” the deputy judge advocate said. “We haven’t made him any promises.”

  “Indeed not!” Marden exclaimed. “As far as he knows he’ll be strung up from the foreyardarm as soon as he’s told his story.”

  Captain Teal coughed. “His story might be quite detailed if he gives enough evidence to convict those men.”

  Edwards shrugged his shoulders and, to Ramage’s relief, said flatly: “As president of this court I intend to give these men a fair trial. I’m not concerned with whitewashing anyone. Anyone at all,” he added heavily, and the four captains knew that he included the unfortunate Wallis and his Commander-in-Chief, Vice-Admiral Sir Hyde Parker. Did Admiral Davis and Edwards consider that Sir Hyde should have put a restraining hand on Wallis’s shoulder? Ramage was not sure.

  Edwards looked left and right at his fellow captains. “Very well, since we’re all agreed about this man Weaver, we’ll call him as our next witness. Gowers, is one witness sufficient to convict on a capital charge?”

  The purser opened a book in front of him, looked up the index and turned to a page. “Ah, here we are, sir—’As a prisoner … by the rules of common law may be found guilty on the uncorroborated evidence of a single witness, so, if the court or jury believe the testimony of an accomplice—’ that word is in italic type, sir ‘—though such testimony stand totally uncorroborated, a prisoner may be found guilty of a capital crime.’”

  “That’s clear enough,” Edwards commented. “Now, you remember that passage I marked about King’s evidence: read it out to the court.”

  Gowers turned back a page. “It begins with a discussion of whether accomplices can be witnesses—they can, of course—and then says that if the court agrees to them being so admitted, it is ‘upon an implied confidence which the judges of courts of law have usually countenanced and adopted; that, if such accomplice make a full and complete discovery of that, and of all other crimes or offences … and afterwards give his evidence without prevarication or fraud, he shall not be prosecuted for that … Were not this to be the case, the greatest offenders would frequently escape unpunished, from want of sufficient evidence.’”

  “Very sound,” Marden commented.

  “I agree,” Ramage said cautiously, “but in fact aren’t we deciding before we hear any evidence that Weaver is guilty although we’ll let him off if he turns King’s evidence?”

  “Hmm, that’s a point,” Edwards admitted.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Gowers said. “If the evidence warrants it, I think the court would simply return a verdict of not guilty in his case.”

  Marden nodded in a
greement. “There’s no other way of clearing a man once he’s charged. I can see what Ramage means, though: that even if Weaver was guilty of every one of the crimes, he’d be ‘not guilty’ because he’s turned King’s evidence, but the same applies if he is completely innocent and turns King’s evidence.”

  “But, sir,” Gowers said patiently, “the court can make that clear in its verdict. It can find a man guilty but ‘because of mitigating circumstances’ let him go free: that makes it clear he is being released in return for giving evidence. Or he can be found not guilty. That is—with respect, sir,” he told the president, “a very dear difference.”

  “Of course, of course,” Edwards said, “but you were right to raise the point, Ramage. Very well, Gowers, let ‘em in!”

  The prisoners marched in, led by Summers, and as Ramage watched him he knew he would have to be careful to judge him only on the evidence. Nature had given Summers an appearance which could make honest men condemn him without a word being spoken.

  The president told Gowers: “Call the next witness.”

  “George Weaver,” Gowers said, and waved back the Marine sentry who was obviously going to escort him to the witness’s chair. “Go over there,” he added, because Weaver obviously had not grasped what was happening.

  Gowers then asked: “You are George Weaver, and on the fifth of June last you were serving in the Sarasota Pride, an American vessel?”

  “I were.”

  Gowers paused and then wrote down “Yes.” He was uncertain what the next question should be and glanced over at the president, who coughed and asked: “Have you ever served in one of the King’s ships?”

  “Aye, sir, the Jocasta—for three weeks.”

  “How came you to be serving in her?”

  “You know that already, sir!” Weaver protested.

  “You are giving evidence now,” Edwards explained patiently. “The court has to hear the whole story, and in the proper sequence.”

  “Very well, sir. I were steward in the Three Brothers out of Plymouth. Bound from Port Royal, Jamaica, to Antigua, she was, when somewhere orf Navassa Island the Jocasta sent over a boarding party and pressed five men, including me.”

  “How were you rated in the Jocasta?”

  “Well, Captain Wallis gave us the chance of volunteering, so we’d get the bounty, and we took it. Seems his steward had just died—’e was one of them what you’ve still got on that list of mutineers, by the way—and so I got made ‘is steward.”

  “Do you remember the date you boarded the Jocasta?”

  “Aye, the fifth of November, it were, an’ a lot of fireworks there were a few days later.”

  “Quite,” Edwards said calmly, “but just answer without any additions. Now, how soon did you become aware that some of the ship’s company might be discontented?”

  “Soon as I went on board, sir: twelve men was flogged that afternoon.”

  Ramage glanced at Summers and the other two men. “Why had Captain Wallis awarded that punishment?” Edwards asked.

  Weaver paused, and Ramage thought it was an unwise question for Edwards to have asked at this stage; but the words were spoken.

  “Well, sir, seems they was furling the foretopsail the day before, and Captain Wallis said he’d flog the last man down orf the yard, and a man fell and was killed—”

  “Stop,” Edwards ordered. “That is hearsay evidence and—”

  “T’isn’t hearsay, sir, beggin’ yer pardon, an’ I heard you explaining what hearsay was. No, sir: I heard Captain Wallis say it with his own voice.”

  “But you were not on board.”

  “Not the day it happened, sir, but before he had those dozen men flogged he did some speechifying, an’ he said they hadn’t learned the lesson.”

  Edwards was silent but Marden asked: “What lesson, and how did it tell you about the threat?”

  “The lesson was that they was too slow furling the topsail,” Weaver said patiently.

  “But Captain Wallis said only one man, yet you say twelve were flogged.”

  “Yes, sir. He never did flog the last man because he was the one what fell and killed hisself. ‘Murmuring,’ that’s what the Captain flogged the twelve for. He said they was murmuring after the man was killed.”

  Ramage saw that Captain Teal, sitting next to him, had clenched his hands as they rested on the table top. Threatening to flog the last man down—that could only create panic. Flogging a dozen men for “murmuring” when they saw a frightened shipmate fall from the yard in his rush to avoid punishment … The Navy, Ramage thought bitterly, was better off without men like Wallis. Edwards was still silent. Was he being tactful, leaving the junior members of the court the task of questioning Weaver? The minutes would make uncomfortable reading at the Admiralty, but there were other captains at sea, not as bad as Wallis perhaps but likely to become so; the story should come out, if only to warn them.

  “What punishment was awarded the twelve men?” Ramage asked.

  “Three dozen each, sir, and he had a left-handed bosun’s mate who laid on the last dozen and so crossed the cuts.”

  “What happened on the lower deck that night?” Ramage knew he asked the question only to compare the answer with what he guessed his own reactions would have been if he was a seaman.

  “Some of them decided to take the ship, sir.”

  “How many men decided?”

  “About a dozen.”

  “Were any of these prisoners among the dozen?”

  “Yes, sir. Summers, him what tried to strangle me in the Sarasota Pride.”

  “Why did he try to strangle you?”

  “Because I never did join the mutiny, sir.”

  Ramage watched Summers. No reaction; the man’s eyes remained staring at the deck. He seemed remote from the trial—perhaps he was at this moment back on board the Jocasta, reliving that time two years ago …

  “Did the ship’s company mutiny the next day?”

  “No, sir, not for several days.”

  “Why was there a delay?”

  “The floggings, sir.”

  “What floggings—the dozen the day you joined the ship?”

  “Oh no, sir!” Weaver exclaimed, surprised at Ramage’s question. “Eight men was flogged the next day, two dozen each, an’ four of the men was among the ringleaders, an’ by the time the bosun’s mates had finished with them their backs was so cut up they could ‘ardly move, let alone mutiny.”

  “Why were they flogged?”

  “No one was quite sure, sir. Cap’n Wallis said it was the thirty-sixth Article.”

  Again Ramage sensed the tension among the captains sitting at the table: they were seeing a grim picture of Wallis emerging, not because Weaver was trying to blacken him but because the simple answers gave away more than the man realized. The thirty-sixth Article covered “All other crimes … which are not mentioned in this Act.” An unscrupulous captain could use it to have a man flogged because he sneezed; indeed the Article was usually called “The Captain’s Cloak,” because it covered everything. But one had to try to be fair to Captain Wallis: that bare answer in the minutes could be misleading.

  “You must have some idea of what these men did.”

  “No, sir. Not then, nor the next day.”

  Edwards interrupted and asked harshly: “What happened the next day—the third day, in fact?”

  “The Captain picked 22 more men an’ charged ‘em under the thirty-sixth. They was all put in irons—that’s what set it orf.”

  “Set what off?” Edwards asked, obviously trying hard to remain patient.

  “The mutiny, sir. It started off with men freeing the 22 prisoners, so they shouldn’t be flogged. Most of them still had bloody backs from floggings they’d got earlier.”

  Edwards obviously decided that he had heard enough about the mutiny generally because he said abruptly: “I am going to ask you about the activities of these prisoners, but first tell the court what you were doing immediately before the
mutiny.”

  “Well, sir, Cap’n Wallis was an impatient man, like, and when he called for his steward—that was me, o’ course—he didn’t like no delay. So he made me sling me ‘ammock just outside his door, right by where the Marine sentry stood.

  “That night there was a lot of talk on the lower deck, but I don’t know what it was all about—though I could guess—because I kept away from it.”

  “Did you know they were plotting a mutiny?”

  Weaver waited a full half-minute before answering and then, taking a deep breath, said: “I know what Article Twenty says—’ If any person in the Fleet shall conceal any traitorous or mutinous practice or design …’—but I’ve got to confess I knew but I didn’t say nothing.”

  “Why did you not report it?”

  “Because they said they’d cut my throat if I did.”

  “How could they do that, once you warned the officers?”

  “They would take the ship anyway, sir,” Weaver said simply, “even if the officers were ready.”

  “How do you know that?” Edwards demanded sharply. “There were the Marines.”

  “Most of them—all except the lieutenant and sergeant—were in it.”

  Edwards knew it was impossible for the sergeant to have been unaware of groups of men gathering on the lower deck and whispering together, but he did not pursue the point; the man had been murdered anyway.

  “How and when did the mutiny start?” Edwards asked.

  “About ten o’clock at night, sir. The men rushed up from the lower deck. Some seized the quarterdeck, others went to the gunroom, and some went to the Captain’s cabin.”

  “What about the Marine sentry at the Captain’s door?”

  “He was in the group that murdered the Captain—leastways, I think he was, sir.”

  “Why don’t you know? You must have been in your hammock, which you said was slung by the door.”

  “As soon as the men came rushing up I started to get out of me ‘ammock, sir, but the sentry fetched me a clip with the butt o’ his musket and knocked me out, sir.”