Ramage's Mutiny (19 page)

Ramage walked back to the quarterdeck and stood at the rail looking forward over the ship. It all looked unreal. Although he had given the orders which had transformed the
Calypso,
he seemed remote from it. The dirty bloodstained deck, the frayed ropes—she lacked shot holes and splintered woodwork, otherwise anyone would think she had been in battle and then left to drift for a week or two.

What was he really trying to do? The problem was that he was far from sure, but was risking everything on it. What was “it”? His own questions made him impatient, because they only underlined that he was grasping at straws. The straw, for example, that led to the order to make the
Calypso
look like a hulk. Now Southwick and Aitken waited confidently for the next orders, for the next stage in the plan to be revealed to them.

The only difficulty was that there was no next stage. I've used my ration, he thought ruefully, and it isn't enough. I have a dirty, bloodstained ship and an appointment at dusk off Santa Cruz, and that's all. A little picture was trying to intrude into his mind with the tenacity of a woodpecker; a picture which, if studied carefully, might yield a plan. “Might”—a longer word than “if,” but no more certain …

In an hour or two, after the men had finished their dinner, Wagstaffe expected to come on board the
Calypso
to receive his orders. Captain Ramage could hardly greet him with: “I'm most apologetic for bringing you over to no purpose, Wagstaffe, but I have no orders for you because I have no ideas.”

The picture seemed a little clearer now, as though the lines and colours had grown stronger at the thought of apologizing to Wagstaffe. Yet the problem was not the clarity, it was the absurdity. The picture represented a plan whose success was enormously dependent on luck and even more on the Spanish. He would need to keep his plans flexible, and if he was to achieve surprise he had to be careful not to be surprised himself.

The first surprise was that he seemed to have turned a picture into a plan, and even as he stood there, too stupid to move over a few feet out of the sun and into the shade, he was adopting the plan and dividing it up between the two ships …

How the situation would appeal to Gianna's sense of humour. Young Paolo had entered into the spirit of it too, as though adding his quota to the confusion while acting as an agent for his aunt—a word Ramage had always associated with old ladies and white hair, bony fingers, sharp knuckles and watery eyes! Gianna was an aunt with raven hair, an oval-shaped face, high cheekbones, eyes that laughed—or, when she was angry, stabbed. Aunt Gianna was slim with an imperious body and jutting breasts that made the ship and the sea fade as he thought about them.

He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. Lopez and the Spanish prisoners could be a problem. The lieutenant had been bubbling with indignation and protests because the three of them were not allowed on deck for some exercise, but Ramage could imagine the expression on Lopez's face if he saw the ship now. All the prisoners, officers and seamen alike, had to remain in ignorance of what was going on, and they would have to be told that they might get their throats cut if they made any noise—an idle threat they would readily believe.

He went down to his cabin and spent half an hour poring over the Santa Cruz chart. The port was about thirty miles away now and the west-going current seemed to be less than a knot. The wind had been steady from the east for the past two days, strong enough to overcome any land or sea breeze and likely to hold all the way to the coast. The entrance channel to Santa Cruz ran almost south-east and north-west, and any ship trying to enter it now would probably have to be towed in by boats. Pico de Santa Fé would be deflecting the wind down on to the lagoon and port so that it funnelled through the channel and out between the headlands on each side of the entrance, Punta Reina and Morro Colorado.

He rolled up the chart and put it back in the rack. And that, he told himself sheepishly, is how battles are won or lost: the crazy picture trying to lodge in his imagination had now changed into Captain Ramage's plan. Not a bad plan, come to think of it, but not a good one either. A good one left nothing—or very little, anyway—to chance.

Wagstaffe would be ordered on board to get his instructions after dinner, and at the same time he would explain everything to the rest of the officers. Then he would muster the ship's company aft and tell them. Not that anyone would need much explanation. Once you knew the basic idea, the rest was obvious.

After a dinner of mutton, he thought gloomily. It was a pity they had had to kill another sheep so soon, but they had needed the bucket of blood. Apart from cutting the Captain-General's nephew's throat, the sheep was the only source of supply. Antigua sheep must lead hard lives; the meat from the last one was the toughest he had tasted for a long time.

He took out the Spanish signal book to compare it with the one used by the Royal Navy. The Spaniards must find it hard to communicate at sea; there were no more than fifty signals listed in this one, compared with nearly four hundred in the
Calypso
's book. Number 7 was a useful one: “Keep in close order.” He made a note of it, cursing while he retrieved a pencil which rolled off the desk as the ship gave an unexpectedly heavy roll. Number 33: “Lead the Fleet”; then 41: “Anchor”; and 48: “Keep in the Admiral's wake.” Finally he noted number 50: “The signal not understood although the flag can be distinguished.”

He put the signal book back in the drawer. By now the Spanish lookouts in the Castillo San Antonio and in El Pilar, the fort on the west side of the entrance to Santa Cruz, would be watching for the
Santa Barbara.
They would have been told she was due back from her two-week patrol and they would not get excited when they saw her. Like lookouts and politicians the world over, they would see what they expected to see.

Ramage's steward knocked on the door and came into the cabin to see if the Captain was ready for dinner, the main meal of the day. “That lamb's roasted up a treat, sir.”

“Lamb?” Ramage exclaimed sourly. “That was a very ancient sheep. Did the officers want to buy some of it?”

“Well, no sir; they said they was off mutton for a while, and I'd best salt the rest of it.”

“They're wise—and tactful. That sheep had the muscles of a mountain goat and not a spare ounce of flesh on it.”

“The sweet potatoes, sir,” the steward said soothingly, “they're nice and fresh. An' a bottle of wine to celebrate?”

Ramage stared at him suspiciously. “Celebrate what?”

“Why, sir, that we're almost in sight of Santa Cruz.”

“Did you think we wouldn't find it?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the steward said hurriedly, disconcerted by Ramage's surly tone. “All the men are excited, and what with the ship all of a mess I thought perhaps—”

“You know I never drink at sea.”

“Yes, sir, but I thought this once—”

“Jepson, stop thinking for a day or two, and if you're a wise man, I'd sharpen the knives so that the meat seems less tough.” He glanced up at the clock on the bulkhead. “All right, you can serve now.”

While the
Calypso
rounded up and hove-to for Wagstaffe to come on board from the
Santa Barbara,
Ramage sat at his desk writing his Journal. Nine columns had to be filled in, beginning with the date (“Year, month and week day”), and giving wind direction, courses steered, miles covered, the latitude and longitude at noon, and ending with a wide column headed “Remarkable observations and accidents.”

The ship's log, more usually called the Master's log, normally gave a more complete picture of the ship's activities, and Ramage copied the details into his Journal. Under “Remarks,” Southwick had listed the morning's activities—”Ship's company employed dirtying decks, making bloodstains, taking the shine off brasswork.”

In the “Remarkable observations” column of his Journal, Ramage wrote the brief note: “Ship's company employed changing character of ship.
Santa Barbara
in company.” The latitude—a few miles short of eleven degrees north—was the furthest south he had ever been; only a few hundred miles short of the Equator.

He put his Journal away, closed Southwick's log, and took out a fresh sheet of paper. He glanced at the small pile in his drawer, saw the last number and wrote “19” at the top of the page. His letter to Gianna—it could not be posted until he returned to Antigua—was getting long, but he tried to write a few sentences each day so that what she received was more of a diary than a letter, and he knew she read extracts to his father and mother. He liked writing it because it helped sort out his thoughts and ideas, and talking to Gianna through his pen eased the loneliness forced on the captain of one of the King's ships; the man who at sea commanded all that he surveyed, but who also lived in almost monastic seclusion.

He had described the court martial, but had forgotten to tell her that Summers had been rescued by the
Kathleen.
The story would sadden her because he had been given command of the cutter just after rescuing her: she had stayed in Bastia while he sailed northward up the Corsican coast to see what could be done about the stranded
Belette.
Later Gianna, the valuable refugee, had sailed for Gibraltar with him in the
Kathleen.
Yet he wanted to tell her about Summers; about the tragic coincidence which had made the seaman's rescuer one of the five judges who had to condemn him to death.

He finished one side of the page and then turned it over to give news of Gianna's favourites, Jackson, Stafford and Rossi. He described how they, and most of the frigate's men, had spent the morning dirtying the decks, but he gave no explanation: that would follow later, when he knew the result, but he could imagine Gianna turning the page impatiently. “Read this to father,” he wrote, “and make him wait a few minutes before telling him the rest of the story, which I hope to write tomorrow.”

Ramage wiped the pen and put it in the rack. If only he
could
guess the rest of the story! By midnight—if he was still alive—he would know; but by midnight something unexpected might have happened so that Gianna never received the letter. Now the depression and doubting was coming back … It always happened: like the cold and misery of the hour before dawn, this chill spread over him before going into battle. Not exactly fear but something dam' close to it. The feeling of not being sure whether he was going to be sick or fall ill with a fever, yet appearing confident or whimsical, firm or flippant, in front of his officers and men.

There was shouting on deck: Aitken was giving orders that would get the ship under way again, so Wagstaffe must have boarded and his boat would be towing astern. A minute or two later the Marine sentry announced him and the Lieutenant, his face sunburned despite his tan—there was no awning over the
Santa Barbara
's quarterdeck—appeared, clear-eyed and cheerful.

“How do you find the
Santa Barbara?
” Ramage asked.

“She handles well, sir. Just about every rope is badly stretched and turned end for end, but the sails are in good condition. The whole ship's riddled with vermin, though; the lice are fighting the fleas for a chance to get at us.”

Ramage nodded and told Wagstaffe to sit in the chair beside the desk to receive his orders.

“First, the papers. This is a copy of the signals in the Spanish signal book and here are drawings of the flags—Orsini has been busy with his watercolours in case the actual flags aren't marked. These are your written orders—don't bother to read them now because I want to talk to you about them—and here,” Ramage paused a moment as he selected a roll from the rack over his head, “is a chart which shows all we know about Santa Cruz.”

For the next fifteen minutes Ramage outlined what Wagstaffe and the
Santa Barbara
would do. There were three possibilities, and he emphasized that he would probably leave it to the last moment before deciding which to select. “Now, the boats. Your two boats and the Marines are the key to the whole thing. They must work fast but they mustn't make mistakes. Pick a dozen good men for each one. I'll let you have more if you think it leaves you short.”

Wagstaffe shook his head. “No, sir, just the extra boat will be enough.” He hesitated, and then began: “But, sir …”

Ramage raised an eyebrow, guessing what was coming. “Could—well, sir, Baker is experienced now, and I feel I can be of more help if I—”

Ramage held up his hand. “You have this job for one reason. I need Aitken for something else. You are next senior. In fact if you make one mistake you'll wreck everything. I've told you all the alternatives that I can think of, but I can't be expected to guess everything the Dons can do.”

He spoke very deliberately. “It's a great mistake to assume the enemy is a fool: many battles are lost through underestimating the opposition. But sometimes the enemy can be more foolish than you expect, or unprepared, or a dozen other things. For instance, the three hundred soldiers on board the
Jocasta
have just been taken off and sent into the hills against the Indians. That was unexpected from everyone's point of view.”

He tapped the top of the desk for emphasis. “The forts may blow us out of the water, the Mayor may come out in a gilded barge to take the Captain-General's nephew to a banquet, you might run the
Santa Barbara
aground, it might suddenly pour with rain so we can't see what we're doing … You agree all those things are possible?”

Wagstaffe nodded uneasily, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

“Very well. In every case
you
will have to do the right thing without waiting for orders from me. And there could be a dozen more things.”

The Second Lieutenant was still not convinced, but then Ramage said: “Aitken wants to change jobs with you. He doesn't know what I have in mind for him, but he'd like to command the
Santa Barbara.
Do you really want to exchange?”