Ramage's Devil (22 page)

“She's heaving-to,” Ramage told Swan. “Cross her bow again and then as soon as we're to windward, heave-to.” Was there any point in sending the
Murex
's men to general quarters? Ten guns, five each side, and only a dozen or so of the men had ever fired them. No one would know his position in a gun's crew. No, there would be chaos, and ten guns against the
Calypso,
with her well trained, experienced crew, would do about as much harm as the shrill cursing of bumboat women.

“As soon as we've hove-to, I want the cutter hoisting out to take me across to the
Calypso.
”

Swan looked anxious, his eyes flickering from Ramage to the frigate. “Sir, Bridges and Phillips are quite competent to handle this ship. May I come with you to the
Calypso?
Not because I'm being nosy,” he added hastily, “but I'd be happier if you had an escort.”

Ramage had been thinking not of an escort but of something that might prove more necessary. “Yes—but you'll be coming as a witness. Keep your eyes and ears open. Try and remember exact phrases. I can't tell you more than that because I don't know what the devil we're going to find.”

As the cutter surged down and rounded up alongside the
Calypso,
Ramage recognized several of the faces watching from over the top of the bulwark, but no one was waving a greeting and no one was standing at the entry port.

Aitken? Southwick? Young Paolo? They must be on board, and although they could never expect to find their old captain arriving alongside in a brig's cutter, surely some of them would have recognized him by now, since he had deliberately stood up in the sternsheets of the cutter for the last hundred yards. Surely
someone
would be watching through a telescope. The whole episode of a brig making peremptory signals to a frigate was unusual enough to make the cutter's arrival a matter of considerable importance.

It seemed only a moment later that the cutter was alongside and Ramage leapt for the battens just as the cutter rose on a crest. He sensed that Swan was right behind him. A rope snaked down from the
Calypso
to serve as a painter.

No sideropes, so the
Calypso
was not extending the usual courtesy to the commanding officer of another ship o' war, but perhaps there had not been time to rig them. There had, of course, and Ramage knew it, but he also knew that when Aitken and Southwick proposed it, Bullivant might have refused.

Up, up, up … cling to the battens with your fingers, keep your feet flat against the side of the ship to prevent the soles of your shoes from slipping … Yes, that gouge in the wood there was so familiar and that scarph in the plank there … He could remember the actions in which the hull had been damaged.

Suddenly his head came level with the deck and a moment later he was through the entry port, standing on the deck itself and staring into the muzzle of a pistol held by a man he had never seen before but who was wearing the uniform of a post captain. He had a single epaulet, showing he had less than three years' seniority, Ramage noticed inconsequentially.

“Stop!” the man bellowed. He was young, stocky, with a round face mottled with—was it anger? The pistol in his right hand was beautifully made, the barrel damascened, the silver and gold tracery of inlaid patterns catching the sun. The silver tankard in his left hand also had an intricate design worked all round it. And the man, who seemed too excited to string together a coherent sentence, took a pace forward as Swan stepped on deck.

“Stop, both of you!” He gestured with both hands as though shooing a hen back into her coop, and an amber liquid spilled from the tankard.

“You see, pirates! Look at him, a
sans-culotte!
A Republican pirate. And the other one …” he paused, catching his breath and then unexpectedly took a long drink from the tankard. He's wearing the … the
King
's uniform …”

Ramage saw that the speech was becoming more slurred and the man's eyes were glazing. The man—Ramage guessed it must be Bullivant—turned and pointed. Ramage recognized the lieutenant in Marine's uniform as Rennick, now white-faced, fear showing in the way the lips were drawn back. Ramage had seen Rennick facing broadsides, muskets fired at close range, pistols from a few feet, dodging the slash of cutlasses, but the Marine officer always grinned because he loved battle. Fear? A moment later he realized why.

“Shoot these men!” Bullivant screamed. “Come on, you have your file of Marines ready! The devil's work … that's what these French swine are doing …” His speech was slowing and Ramage glanced round.

There they all were, in a circle of men with fear on their faces: Aitken, the Scots first lieutenant; Wagstaffe; the red-haired and freckle-faced Kenton, his face red and peeling from the effect of wind and sun; young Martin, the fourth lieutenant; and old Southwick, his white mop of hair as usual trying to escape his hat and suddenly reminding Ramage of straw sticking out from under a nesting hen. And Paolo, his normally sallow face now white, his hooked nose bloodless, as though he was some young Italian model for a Botticelli painting.

Then Ramage saw that every one of the men on deck, seamen and Marines, was watching him, horrified by Bullivant's words. Rennick was making no move. The sergeant of Marines stood firm. Yes, they must be thinking, their old captain has by some magic come back, dressed as a French fisherman, and their new captain has just given orders to shoot him.

Now the signal for the physician of the fleet made sense: Bullivant had been driven mad by drink and presumably Aitken had hoisted that signal at a time when Bullivant could not see it—when he was below.

Where was the surgeon, Bowen? Even as Ramage glanced round once again, he saw the surgeon coming up the companion-way, carrying a big flask. Now everyone was watching Bowen and Bullivant was smiling: it was the vapid smile of an idiot, ingratiating and welcoming.

“Ah, Mr Bowen … Welcome, you bring me sustenance … you see the demons I face.” He waved both pistol and tankard towards Ramage and Swan. “Here, you are just in time.” He held out the tankard and Bowen poured liquid from the flask. Bullivant took a sip, swallowed and then gulped like a calf at a cow's udders.

Swan, pressing with his elbow, caused Ramage to look down. The
Murex
's first lieutenant had a Sea Service pistol tucked in the waistband of his breeches and was trying to draw Ramage's attention to it while Bullivant, head back and tankard to his lips, had his eyes closed.

This situation was what every officer dreaded. Relieving a captain of his command was juggling with the risk of being charged with treason. What was madness on the high seas could appear to be perfectly sane behaviour when the captain soberly described it to a row of hard-faced officers forming a court martial in the peace and quiet of a guardship's cabin in Plymouth or Portsmouth. The whole edifice of discipline was built on the authority of a senior officer—a seaman obeyed a bosun's mate who obeyed the bosun who obeyed a lieutenant who obeyed the captain who obeyed a captain senior to him or an admiral who obeyed the Admiralty: it was all in the Articles of War … Many covered every aspect for maintaining command—numbers XIX, XXII (carrying the death penalty for anyone even lifting a weapon against a superior), and XXXIV … and of course, XXXVI, the so-called captain's cloak, covering “all other crimes” not covered by the Act. None provided the means of depriving a man of command …

Bullivant was not just senior to all the officers and men of the
Calypso;
his commission appointing him to command the
Calypso,
signed by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, and which he would have read out aloud to the ship's company when he first came on board (“reading himself in”), would have enjoined everyone to obey him, and given warning that they failed to do so “at their peril.”

Only one thing could save them all from a crazed captain, and that was a more senior officer. There was no signal in the book that Aitken (as the second-in-command) could make to warn the admiral; he could only, Ramage realized, ask for the physician of the fleet and rely on him to declare the captain unfit to command.

That was the only thing unless a senior officer came on board … and that was why Admiral Clinton had made sure Ramage was higher up the Captains' List than Bullivant. Ramage was senior. A higher link in the chain of command …

Ramage pulled the pistol clear and held it out of sight behind him. All this might be of significance at a court martial charging that Bullivant was first threatening an unarmed senior officer with a pistol. To this, Ramage realized, Bullivant at the moment had the perfect defence: he did not know Ramage, who was not in uniform, and genuinely mistook him for a Frenchman.

The hell with courts martial and niggling points of law; this was the
Calypso
and Rennick had just been told by his captain to order his Marines to shoot Ramage. Now was the time to act, while everyone was paralysed by the outrageousness of the order.

Ramage waited until Bullivant lowered the tankard and then stepped forward.

“Captain Bullivant, I believe?”

“Yes, I am. Listen, Bowen, this dam' fellow speaks passable English!”

“I am Captain Ramage, and I have been ordered by Admiral Clinton to board your ship and satisfy myself on certain matters.”

“Captain Ramage? Absurd. Ramage is on the Continent. Prisoner of Bonaparte. With his new wife. Ramage's, not Bonaparte's. Spy, that's what you are. Rich, Ramage is dam' rich; he wouldn't wear fisherman's clothes. That brig—I ask you, where has she come from, eh? Shoot you and sink her, doing my duty. Says he is Captain Ramage, Bowen, what do you think of that, eh?”

“He is Captain Ramage, sir,” Bowen said loudly and clearly. “I have served with him for several years, and so have all the ship's officers, and they recognize him too.”

“Well, I don't. I command this ship. Admiralty orders. Have m'commission. I read it out loud when I first came on board. Death, that's what happens if you disobey me—”

Ramage said crisply: “I have identified myself to you and been recognized by all your officers. Now, I relieve you of your command, Captain Bullivant. You are a sick man. You will go to your cabin and place yourself in the surgeon's care while I take this ship to the admiral.”

Bullivant flung the tankard at Ramage. It spun through the air, spilling a tail of liquor, and crashed against the bulwark. He then lifted the pistol and, his face creasing with the effort of concentration, said carefully: “You are the Devil dressed … as a French fisherman … You want me … to surrender this ship, Satan … but I shall shoot first …”

He tried to pull back the hammer with his thumb to cock the pistol but, glassy-eyed, it was obvious that he could probably see at least two, perhaps more, flints. And Ramage, although holding a pistol behind his back, was helpless: he could not shoot a besotted man.

It might work, Ramage thought. Suddenly he realized it was exactly the hint that Bowen was trying to give. He cursed himself for being so slow and turned and said casually to a seaman: “Jackson, pick up that tankard and give it back to Captain Bullivant.”

Yes, Bowen had the idea; Bowen, of all people, the man who regularly drank himself senseless until Ramage and Southwick cured him by using a ruthlessness neither had thought the other capable of: Bowen would know. Bowen knew—or could guess—what was going on in Bullivant's befuddled mind, and Bowen had already removed the cap of the flask …

Jackson, holding out the tankard, approached Bullivant, whose face was streaming with perspiration, and said as though unaware that the man was wrestling with a pistol: “Your tankard, sir.”

“Wha'? Wha's that? Oh, tankard, eh? I've got a set like that. No good empty.”

But Bullivant's attention was now on the tankard; he had lowered the pistol but being right-handed was obviously wondering how he could take the tankard. By then Bowen was beside him, holding up the flask.

“I'll fill it for you, sir. Now, Jackson, hold it steady.”

Ramage heard the suck and gurgle of the liquid as it ran from the flask and Bullivant watched with the fascination of a rabbit cornered by a stoat.

“There we are, sir, almost full. I'll have to refill this flask, though. Now, if I take the pistol you'll have a hand free for the tankard, sir …”

In a moment Bullivant was sucking greedily at the tankard while Bowen tucked the pistol inside his coat. He motioned to Ramage and Jackson to keep still.

It was then Ramage realized that every man in the ship seemed to be staring at Bullivant and holding his breath: it was as though there had been complete silence for an hour. Instead, Ramage knew he had been on board only a very few minutes and a frigate lying hove-to made a good deal of noise: canvas slatted, the waves slopped against the hull, the backed foretopsail yard creaked its protest at being pressed hard against the mast. It seemed that all these noises started again when Bullivant began drinking.

But what was Bowen waiting for? There was nothing to stop Ramage ordering Rennick to detail a file of Marines to take Captain Bullivant down to his cabin: he had the authority by virtue of his seniority and, much more important, the confidence of knowing that at the court martial that was bound to follow, each one of these officers would give evidence of precisely what happened: none would back and fill to save his own skin from possible reprisals from Bullivant's cronies or people over whom Bullivant's father had influence. Aitken, Wagstaffe, Kenton, Southwick, Rennick, Martin, every seaman—they would be only too anxious to tell a court on oath exactly what had happened in these few minutes—and what had happened in the preceding few days. He had led these men in and out of action, he'd been wounded several times alongside them, he had saved Jackson's life more than once and Jackson had saved his twice as many times.