Ramage's Trial (18 page)

Ramage turned to Pegg, eyebrows raised, and the gipsy face nodded to show that he understood the moment was fast approaching and knew what he had to do. It was not a straightforward manoeuvre, because no one would be tending sheets or braces, but Pegg had the kind of confidence that Ramage had spent years instilling into his ship's company against such a day as now.

Fifty yards…the black paint of the
Jason
's hull was in even better condition than he had thought. Forty yards…there were a dozen brightly coloured shirts strung out on a washing line on the fo'c'sle. Thirty yards…although the
Calypso
was overhauling her, the
Jason
was making good speed: her wake formed the usual fascinating pattern of whorls. In a few minutes the
Calypso
's jibboom would be overhanging the
Jason
's stern like a fishing rod over a stream.

Ramage nodded to Pegg, who snapped out an order which had the four men spinning the wheel. To the captain of the
Jason
the
Calypso
was at last beginning to turn to starboard, sidestepping so that instead of following she came up alongside to starboard: on the windward side, with her whole broadside ready.

The
Jason
's captain would be making sure that all his gunners were at the starboard side guns: no frigate could man both broadsides at once, and if it was needed the men fired one side and ran across to fire the other.

There were still several yards between the
Calypso
's jibboom and the
Jason
's transom, even though the British frigate had begun her swing out, ready to overtake and come alongside.

Ramage watched the gap, narrowing his eyes as if to see more clearly. All he really saw was every one of his officers and Pegg anxiously watching him.

“Right, Pegg,” he snapped and the gipsy, certain the order had been left a moment too late, shouted at the four men and flung himself on the wheel too, clawing at the spokes.

Slowly, as though with enormous dignity, like a dowager changing her mind, the
Calypso
's bow began to turn to larboard. To the watching men, it seemed as though the
Jason
was being pulled slowly to starboard and then, as the
Calypso
's extra speed became obvious, the
Jason
was gently pulled astern.

Ramage watched the
Jason
's quarterdeck. Twenty yards…that curious black-coated figure was striding up and down and he had not looked at the
Calypso
for several minutes: it was as though he was unaware that she had been following and was now overtaking. All part of the play-acting, all part of whatever trap he was trying to set? Ramage was far from sure: all he knew was that the man would look perfectly at home striding among the dark-green yews and the moss-packed tombstones in an English cemetery, perhaps quietly muttering some prayer or psalm in memory of those who had taken up permanent residence.

He said to Pegg: “Now!”

The quartermaster snapped a third order to the men at the wheel, who hauled on the spokes and then stopped at another order from Pegg as the
Calypso
's bow started to swing in towards the
Jason
. After she had travelled to within a dozen yards, the wheel was spun back amidships and the
Calypso
came back on to a parallel course.

Wagstaffe sighed, but Ramage had the feeling it was more from disappointment than relief: the
Jason
's guns had not crashed back in a full broadside, even though the
Calypso
was a perfect target. Then once again Pegg, after a quick glance at Ramage to receive an approving nod, gave more orders which sent the wheel spinning again, except this time the
Calypso
turned on to a course which would converge with the
Jason
in two ships' lengths.

As the ships approached to crash alongside each other Ramage shouted: “Stand by those grapnels,” and ran down the quarterdeck ladder to join his men waiting on the maindeck. Pegg calmly gave the order which turned the wheel enough to lessen the shock of the forthcoming crash. An excited Wagstaffe, for once ordered to remain on the quarterdeck instead of leading a boarding party, contented himself with shouts of “Hurrah, Calypsos!”

Ramage squeezed alongside a gun barrel and peered down into the water between the two ships. Only five yards separated them.

“Over with the grapnels!” he shouted. “Swing the others out from the yards. Take your time and aim true!”

The clinking of metal was men's cutlasses banging against gun barrels and metal fittings as they slid to the ports; the sharp metallic clicks were men cocking their pistols. Moments now – and there it was: with a crash that men felt right through the hull rather than heard, the
Calypso
drove alongside the
Jason
. The grapnels swinging out to lodge in her rigging and bulwarks were hauled in to hold the two ships together, and before Ramage had time to give the order the Calypsos were swarming on board the other ship, led as far as Ramage could see by Southwick, who looked like a demented bishop as he ran, white hair streaming, across the
Jason
's deck, his great sword like an immense crozier.

Ramage scrambled up and over the
Jason
's hammock nettings and dropped down on to her deck, vaguely noticing that the nearest men to him were Jackson, Rossi, Stafford, Gilbert and the other three Frenchmen. With a pistol in his left hand and cutlass in his right, he headed for the quarterdeck, for the man in the black coat, and was surrounded by dozens of men shouting excitedly: “
Calypso!
Calypso!
”

But there was a strange atmosphere, as though they had met the coldness of a crypt. The excited dash that surged the Calypsos over the
Jason
's bulwarks was slowing down: far from men being in desperate cutlass-against-pike, pike-against-tomahawk, pistol-against-pistol duels, they were slowing down to a walk and looking round with all the curiosity of bumpkins at a fair. And beyond – or was it round them? – other shouting: that of frightened men shouting in English, as though desperately trying to establish their true identities before being run through, spitted by a pike or cut down by a tomahawk.

Was this the trap? English prisoners forced to shout for quarter at the instant the Calypsos boarded? Creating confusion and making them pause just long enough for the French to shoot them down?

Ramage looked round wildly, saw no immediate explanation and carried on his dash towards the man in the black coat who (Ramage blinked but kept his pistol raised) was now walking towards him, arms outspread in a welcoming gesture: just as a parson would greet a valued parishioner or, more likely, the patron of his living.

Above the din Ramage could hear the man saying in a normal voice: “Ramage, isn't it? I've heard so much about you, my dear fellow, and I'm so glad we meet at last!”

Was this the trap? Ramage stopped and motioned with his pistol that the man should stand his ground. Southwick and Aitken stood warily, like hunters waiting for the prey to walk into their gun sights, and the
Calypso
's boarders had all stopped and were watching Ramage, waiting for a signal or order.

Ramage glanced at Aitken and snapped: “Talk to her gunners!”

The first lieutenant, as he took the few paces to the nearest gun's crew, realized how quickly his captain was thinking: the gunners would reveal their nationality, why they had fired high when raking the
Calypso
, and who or what their captain was.

There were six men grouped round the nearest gun, all crouching, and none was armed: there was no sign of a cutlass, pistol, tomahawk, pike or musket; in fact a glance showed Aitken what they should have noticed from the
Calypso
, that the boarding pikes were still clipped into the racks fitting round the masts like dogs' collars.

The nearest man, holding the trigger lanyard, was obviously the gun captain but his face was white under a superficial tan and his eyes avoided Aitken's glare. He still stood in a half-crouch, as though he had just been kicked in the belly. To Aitken he looked like a pickpocket caught in a congregation and singled out by the parson up in the pulpit for special castigation.

“Do you speak English?” Aitken demanded.

The man nodded nervously.

“Well, stand up straight and tell me what's going on.” Aitken suddenly realized something else. “Where are all the officers apart from the man in the black coat and a few midshipmen?”

At last the seaman threw the lanyard over the breech of the gun, out of the way (Aitken noticed the lock was not cocked, so the gun could not be fired), and stood to attention.

“All the officers are down in their cabins, sir. One of them could tell you. Yes, sir,” he said eagerly, the idea becoming more appealing as he thought about it, “they'd all be able to tell you, 'specially the first lieutenant.”

“
You
tell me, quickly!” Aitken snapped, slapping the flat of his cutlass against his leg, “or else you'll all be dead men in a couple of minutes: you fired on one of the King's ships. That's treason, to start with.”

“Oh no!” the man protested in an agonized voice, and several of the others round the gun now stood up straight and added their protests. “We fired over you sir,” the man said excitedly “All of us did, even though we'd been told to rake you.”

Ramage, out of earshot, called impatiently and Aitken said: “Quickly now, this is the
Jason
and one of the King's ships?”

“She's that,” the man said. “Commissioned in Plymouth the week after the war started again. Bound from Barbados an' Jamaica with despatches.”

“Why did you open fire?”

“Go on, sir; ask one of the officers,” the man said evasively, his body wriggling like a hooked fish.

Aitken's brain felt numbed: if the man in black was the captain, the officers were down in their cabins, and the men were crouched down round guns whose locks were not cocked, then what the devil was going on?

“What were your orders if and when you were boarded by us?”

“Orders, sir? Oh Gawd, sir, it ain't like that at all: please go an' ask the officers 'cos they know all abart it.”

“So none of you are going to fight us?”

“
Fight
you?” the man said in alarm. “Strike me, we bin 'oping fer weeks something like this would 'appen.”

Aitken turned and reported to Ramage, who thought for a moment and then snapped out orders. “Renwick,” he told the Marine lieutenant, “get all these men at the guns lined up on the fo'c'sle, with your Marines surrounding them.”

Then, with his pistol covering the man in the black coat, he told Southwick: “Have all the
Calypso
's grapnels unhooked and hauled inboard. As soon as she's free I want Wagstaffe to get her clear and keep a gunshot to windward of us.”

He looked round for Jackson and waved him over. “Collect half a dozen men here.”

Then he turned to the man in the long black coat who was still standing there, calm and not a bit alarmed at having men from another ship swarming over the deck of his own ship; in fact, Ramage realized, the man had a strange remoteness, like an effigy in a church which had watched over the funerals, weddings and christenings for centuries and would continue until the church fell down, unless another Cromwell came along.

Ramage tucked the pistol in his belt and slid the cutlass back into the frog and deliberately looked the other man up and down. He said loudly to Aitken, aware that the words might well have to be remembered as evidence at a court of inquiry: “I wonder who this man is – you notice he is not wearing any sort of uniform. Green trousers, a long black coat, no hat…”

“Aye, sir,” Aitken said, realizing the point of Ramage's remark. “There's no telling who he is.”

“Come, sir,” Ramage said, “you have the advantage of me: you have guessed who I am, but I only know your ship has just been firing at mine.”

“Shirley, my dear Ramage, William Shirley at your service, a captain in the Royal Navy but lacking, I fear, your distinction.”

“You have your commission?” Ramage asked sharply.

“Oh yes indeed, it's in a drawer in my desk. Shall we go down to my cabin and find it?”

“Later,” Ramage said. He wanted witnesses to all the conversation with this man. “Less than half an hour ago you approached my ship in the
Jason
flying the wrong challenge and then giving the wrong answer when my ship hoisted the correct challenge.”

“My dear fellow, you don't say so?” Shirley seemed genuinely upset. “How careless of me. Still, no harm came of my omission, I'm glad to say.”

“No harm?” Ramage looked round at Aitken to make sure he had heard, and noticed that Jackson, Stafford and Rossi were among several other seamen who had, almost without realizing it, grouped round Shirley, covering him with their pistols. “You narrowly missed colliding with my ship and then fired a raking broadside into her. Do you call that ‘No harm'?”

“A raking broadside?” Shirley repeated in a puzzled voice. “My dear Ramage, you are mistaking the poor
Jason
for someone else. Why should we want to rake one of the King's ships?”

“That's the point of my questions,” Ramage said, adding heavily: “It is rather an unusual situation.”

“Yes, it would be,” Shirley agreed. “By the way, do I address you as ‘my Lord' or just Ramage? I've heard it said you don't use your title in the Service.”

“Ramage will do. Why did you open fire?”

Shirley shook his head sorrowfully, as though regretfully refusing some importunate request. “Must have been some other ship, my dear Ramage. Anyway, now we've settled that, I hope you can be persuaded to stay and dine with me. That is one of the complaints I have about the King's Service: at sea and on foreign stations one does meet such a poor class of person, and that is why it's such a pleasure to meet you.”