Ramage's Trial (21 page)

It seemed to belong to a much bigger and heavier man; someone with Falstaffian girth and a plump face, and a great club of a nose that commanded attention like a blunderbuss when its owner aimed it. In keeping with the rest of the face it was bloodless, yet for its size one would have expected a healthy pink glow, something that would show up on a dark night.

Both Aitken and Wagstaffe had written down the answer. Ramage looked at Shirley again.

“Have you threatened any of your ship's company so that they are frightened of answering my questions?”

“Why should I? I have nothing to hide! Ask them anything you like, my dear fellow.”

“When I asked you to smell the muzzle of that gun – number nine gun on the starboard side – you said you could smell nothing.”

“Nor could I! Just the usual blacking, of course.”

“In your opinion the gun had not been fired recently?”

“No. Nor was that just my opinion; it was the opinion of the men serving that gun.”

“But
my
officers and those of my men who were asked all smelled burnt powder and gave their opinion that the gun had been fired within the last half an hour.”

“Yes, they did, and most singular I found it. Had you threatened
them
?” Shirley asked archly.

“Why were you the only commission officer on deck when the
Calypso
came alongside?”

“Apart from two or three midshipmen, who were running messages, my officers have various different duties, of course! Really, Ramage, I do find some of your questions naïve.”

“Perhaps so, but why were all your officers at that moment confined to their cabins with a Marine sentry guarding the gunroom door?”

“There you are, that's what I mean. You know as well as I do that in a frigate like the
Jason
or the
Calypso
there is always a Marine sentry at the gunroom door, just as there is one at the door to the captain's quarters and, in hot weather, at the scuttle butt, so what is so singular about this particular sentry? What
is
curious is that you choose to go down to the gunroom at a time when the officers are in their cabins. I was on the quarterdeck – you saw me – and surely you agree that I am competent to handle the ship without assistance from some callow lieutenant?”

Ramage had a mental picture of the
Jason
racing across the
Calypso
's bow, her shrouds missing the jibboom by inches, but this was not the time to thrash it out: it was not a subject that could be reduced to questions and answers even though, according to lawyers (indeed, the whole legal system), every situation must be, even when a man's guilt, and thus his life, depended on answering yes or no to particular questions. “When did you stop beating your wife?” Everyone but lawyers and judicial authorities had heard that “Answer yes or no” joke but whether a man was on trial for murder or treason, or stealing a trinket or poaching a hare, it was “yes” or “no”.

Shirley turned and faced Ramage squarely. “Tell me, my dear fellow, are you attempting to remove me from my command? I am your senior by dozens of places on the Post List, as I am sure you are well aware.”

And that first question was the one I hoped you would not ask, Ramage thought to himself. He was now standing on the edge of the great pit dug by the Articles of War to trap scoundrels but also equally dangerous to officers trying to carry out their duties in the King's Service.

Board him in the smoke: a good rule when you are not sure what to do next. “Don't you think that attacking the
Calypso
justifies you being removed from your command?”

No sooner had Ramage asked the question than he realized he had provided a loophole, and Shirley was quick to stick his musket through and open fire.

“I keep telling you, Ramage, and so do my officers and men, that I did not attack the
Calypso
. You have questioned all of us, yet you persist in this absurd allegation.”

Ramage considered for a minute or two, considered the risk of the
Jason
suddenly attacking ships in the convoy or one of the other frigates, and made his decision. Shirley did not dispute that Ramage had the authority to remove him from his command if there was sufficient justification (something about which Ramage was far from certain). No. Shirley was only disputing whether or not the
Jason
had fired on the
Calypso
; whether or not, in fact, he had provided the justification.

“We do agree on this point, then,” Ramage said. “We agree that you say your ship did not fire on the
Calypso
, and we say she did.”

“Yes, indeed,” Shirley said, “that seems a very fair summary.”

Both Wagstaffe and Aitken wrote quickly.

Aitken pushed the paper across to Ramage with the quill resting on top. “I've written down your question and Captain Shirley's answer,” he said. “There's nothing else written there.”

Ramage immediately guessed his first lieutenant's purpose. He took the pen, wrote in the date and headed it “On board His Majesty's ship the
Jason
frigate” and, dipping the quill again, said to Shirley: “To avoid any misunderstanding later, perhaps you would care to read that and sign it?”

Shirley read it slowly, nodded as though there could never be any doubt that he would agree, and wrote his signature with a flourish. He gave the pen back to Ramage and slid the paper along the table. “Now you sign it, eh? Then there can be no question of what we disagree about.”

Although Ramage did not use his title in the Service, this sheet of paper was becoming (was already?) a legal document, so he signed simply: “Ramage”.

“Ah yes,” Shirley said jovially, “you fellows with titles don't have so much writing to do as we more common folk.”

Ramage smiled. “Our tailors charge us twice as much, so in the long run I'm sure you gain.”

“Ah yes, innkeepers too, no doubt,” Shirley said sympathetically. “Even ostlers would expect half a guinea tip from a lord, whereas an impoverished post-captain like me in the lower half of the list gets away with a shilling.”

Yes, Ramage thought to himself, you look the sort of fellow who would tip a shilling when half a guinea was appropriate: no doubt you would also take mustard with mutton.

“Well, is that all?” Shirley inquired.

“You are so obliging,” Ramage said hypocritically and hating himself for it, “that there are two other things I'd like to get cleared up while we're at it. Three things, actually.”

“You have only to ask,” Shirley said expansively.

“Your orders, what are they?”

“You have no right to ask, of course, but as there is nothing particularly secret about them, I've no objection to telling you. I am taking despatches to the Admiralty from the commanders-in-chief at Barbados and Jamaica.”

How the devil could one dislike a man like this? Ramage asked himself. He was not a man one liked in the sense of making him a friend, but he was thoughtful and courteous (when he was not raking you: do not forget that).

Ramage nodded his thanks as Shirley said: “And the second thing? You mentioned three, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes. I would like my surgeon to examine you. I presume you would have no objection to that?”

“Ah, back we go to removing a captain from the command of his ship. You know it can only be done on medical grounds, so it follows your sawbones has to make an appearance.”

“Yes, but my surgeon is far from being a ‘sawbones' – he was in a practice in Wimpole Street before entering the King's Service.”

“He must have done something very dreadful to cause the change, then,” Shirley commented. “Still, I'll agree – as long as he doesn't bleed me. I won't be bled. Achieves nothing, bleeding a sick man; just drains the life from him. Remember Ramage, if you want to kill something you cut its throat to let the blood run out. Yet these doctors try to say it does human beings good. Rubbish, sheer rubbish! Hold on to your blood, never know when you'll need it. Very well, now what's the third on your list?”

“I would like to leave Lieutenant Wagstaffe on board with you.”

“I'll be glad to have him on board. I'm sure he'll find the experience invaluable. Experience – it's everything for the young naval officer. Battles, boarding parties, hurricanes, wooding and watering – everything!”

Ramage glanced at Wagstaffe who, red-faced but apparently more amused than angry, was writing with great concentration.

“Speaking of surgeons,” Shirley said, “always remember one thing.” His voice was solemn and Ramage expected he was about to go back on his agreement to be examined by Bowen. “Two things, rather, and stand by them no matter what the surgeons might say. Three things, in fact. There are only three sovereign remedies. Just three. Mind you, the sawbones don't like to admit it because knowing the three sovereign remedies puts them out of business. Would you care to know them?”

Anything, Ramage thought, which throws any light on what is going on in your head and keeps you agreeable to Bowen's examination. “I would regard it as a favour on your part,” he said.

Shirley nodded agreeably. “Yes, well, for any common distemper – upset of the bowels, for example, then rhubarb. I carry a good supply of dried sticks and use it ground up and dissolved in water. In wine, if you prefer it. For headaches, general malaise, muscular pains – brimstone and molasses. Fresh mixed and well stirred, a large spoon four times a day. And last, for any agues, feverishness, or trembling of the extremities, then the bark. I know that many surgeons use the bark. I expect they have heard of my success with it.”

Shirley ran his thumbs under the collar of his coat, as if he was going to turn it up because of a chill wind, but then Ramage realized he had done it several times and it was a nervous gesture, the only thing that Shirley did that was not absolutely normal.

“Thank you,” Ramage said politely, “I'll make sure my surgeon has supplies of those items. Now,” he said as he stood up, “we'll leave you in your cabin while I have a chat with your officers.”

“Ah yes, indeed,” Shirley said with unexpected heartiness. “You don't need my inhibiting presence, do you!”

“No,” Ramage agreed because there was no point in disguising the fact that no one in the ship would dare say more than “Good day” with that black-coated figure pacing up and down, like a crow on the lawn presaging a death in the family.

 

It was humid and almost dark down in the
Jason
's gunroom, which reeked of the sickly-sweet smell of bilges that needed pumping. The officers and warrant officers, Ramage quickly realized, were still sulking from yesterday, although at first it was not obvious whether their resentment was directed at Shirley or against Ramage, who had freed them from their arrest and put them back on normal watches.

The atmosphere, Ramage decided, was not ripe for either comfort or the exchange of confidences. “Join me on the fo'c'sle,” he told Ridley, noting that the man still had not shaved.

The
Jason
's bow lifted and fell as she stretched along astern of the convoy under topsails only. The wind was light and she needed little canvas set to keep up with the merchant ships, which were jogging along under all plain sail and, Ramage noted, in good formation.

Ramage found some shade made by the fortopsail and waited with Aitken and Wagstaffe.

“What do you make of this Ridley fellow, sir?” Wagstaffe asked.

“Scared stiff of something,” Ramage said. “Reminds me of an animal trapped in a cage. Eyes flicking from side to side, looking for a way out. Apart from that, he looks intelligent…or, rather, not too stupid.”

Wagstaffe laughed as he saw the man coming up the ladder. “I'm glad you qualified that, sir; I was thinking he got this job because his father knows Captain Shirley.”

“His tailor, perhaps,” Aitken said, and the other two laughed. It was one of the oldest jokes in the Navy that a certain type of captain would pay for his uniforms, shirts and hose by taking the tailor's son or nephew to sea as a midshipman (officially a captain's servant) – a gesture which cost him nothing since he was allowed to take a certain number and he did not pay them, nor did they act as servants.

Ridley walked up and stopped in front of Ramage, saluting with a listless gesture, as though all spirit and energy had been drained out of him.

Ramage looked him up and down carefully, noting the unshaven face, uncombed hair, creased breeches and jacket, soiled stock.

“Is that your usual rig? Do you always sleep in full uniform and has the carpenter borrowed your razor to split wood? Is there a shortage of soap in the ship?”

Ramage spoke quietly but contemptuously, his voice intended deliberately to provoke the man, who straightened his shoulders and sighed. Ramage recognized it as a sigh of despair and ignored it.

“I'm sorry sir. I didn't expect you, otherwise I'd have tidied myself up.”

Ramage took the watch from his fob pocket, looked at it and slowly put it back. “Is the
Jason
's first lieutenant usually still
en déshabillé
at this time of the day?”

“Sir, these are not normal times for the
Jason
's officers,” Ridley muttered plaintively, as though that sentence alone explained his appearance.

“In what way?” Ramage said, encouragingly.

Ridley shook his head. “I can't explain, sir; but I'd be grateful if you'd just take my word for it.”

“Ridley,” Ramage said sharply, “your ship opened fire on the
Calypso
. I'm trying to find out why.”

Ridley shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir, I know nothing about it. You must ask Captain Shirley.”