Ramage's Trial (20 page)

If there were six reasons why he should do one thing, there were half a dozen why he should do the other – and that was only choosing between returning to Barbados or going on to England.

There were plenty of variations lurking around to distract him. He could escort the
Jason
back to Barbados with the
Calypso
, leaving
La Robuste
and
L'Espoir
to carry on with the convoy and arranging a rendezvous for, say, a week's time. (But what hope was there of clearing up this business in a week? Tewtin would want dozens of depositions: Shirley, if he had any sense, would want even more. Very well, forget that choice.)

What about sending the
Jason
back to Barbados with, say,
La Robuste
, giving her captain a written report for Rear-Admiral Tewtin? How the devil could he describe all this in a written report that was not as long as the
Regulations and Instructions
, the largest volume a King's ship carried? And what yarn was Shirley (and his officers, whatever their role was) likely to tell, if Ramage and the Calypsos were out of sight and sound, even if not out of mind? Shirley could have the
Calypso
raking the
Jason
, and those officers of his would probably back him up, judging from the story Southwick brought back after his talk with the
Jason
's master.

Yet if he was honest, his main concern was that the
Jason
business was so unusual and complex that Rear-Admiral Tewtin was not the man to deal with it: this was something for Their Lordships at the Admiralty, and the Judge Advocate's department.

And he was involved in it only because he – well, first he had got married, then he and Sarah had had to escape from Bonaparte, and all that had led to him crossing the Atlantic to Devil's Island, to rescue Jean-Jacques, the Count of Rennes. In turn he had brought two French prizes into Barbados…and been stuck with the job of escorting this convoy back to England. But why –
why, why
– had the
Jason
chosen to interfere with his convoy? Why could she not have gone on to Britain, where her orders sent her?

He answered the Marine sentry's call and Southwick came into the cabin. Ramage waved him to a chair, and the master threw his hat on to the settee.

“I've been reading the Articles of War again, sir.”

“They don't help,” Ramage said, “unless you want to get into more of a muddle.”

“But there must be
something
we can do, sir.”

“There isn't,” Ramage said shortly. “Not so long ago, while I was escaping from the French at Brest, none of you could do anything about a drunken captain sent to the
Calypso
. Their Lordships in their wisdom have drawn up the Articles of War on the assumption that a captain can do no wrong.”

“A surgeon can have him replaced on medical grounds,” Southwick offered hopefully but without much conviction.

“Oh yes. What do you suggest Bowen diagnoses in Captain Shirley's case? That the black coat proves he has a poor tailor? That a bulge in his right shoe shows he has a bunion? The fellow doesn't drink, doesn't smoke (or even chew tobacco in secret), he doesn't swear or keep a mistress on board. He seems identical with dozens of other post-captains, except perhaps he reads his Bible more frequently.”

“Those officers,” Southwick said. “Apart from Price…”

“Apart from the master they seem a weak-kneed crowd,” Ramage said. “I wouldn't want to go into action with them, especially Ridley, who is a fool as well. But apart from keeping their mouths tight shut, they haven't done anything to harm us. Indeed, keeping their mouths shut isn't
harming
us; it's just puzzling.”

“It's not my place to say this, sir, and I'm presuming on the years–”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Ramage said impatiently, “out with it!”

“Well, sir, are you sure of your ground in putting Captain Shirley under an arrest? You were just saying about the Articles of War.”

“What gave you the impression that Captain Shirley is under an arrest?” Ramage asked innocently. “I've no grounds for arresting him. No authority, rather. I may have, but I can't find any backing in the Articles of War or the Admiralty Instructions.”

Southwick frowned, the wrinkles on his brow like a much folded leather pouch. “But when you spoke to him in his cabin and left Wagstaffe there, I thought you said…”

“I know you did, and so did Aitken and so did Wagstaffe. More important, so did Captain Shirley. You all expected me to arrest him – and so you heard words I didn't actually say.”

Southwick was by now grinning broadly. “Well, as long as Captain Shirley and that sorry collection of commission and warrant officers accepted it, and continue to do so until we reach Plymouth, we'll have no complaint.”

“No, we just have to hope for an understanding port admiral at Plymouth. Once we have the convoy safely dispersed, everything should be all right.”

“But if he talks to the wrong people in Plymouth?” Southwick asked.

“Half-pay for my officers, if they are lucky.”

“But what about you, sir?”

“Best for you not to think about it.”

Southwick shook his head and picked up his hat. “You said the
Jason
's station is a cable off our larboard beam?”

“She'd better stay a cable to leeward of us, unless she gets a signal to the contrary. Wagstaffe understands.”

“Yes, I had a word with him before he went across. It was a good idea putting him in command. It'd be risky with Aitken.”

“Yes, Aitken is too near being made post: if there's trouble, it could count against him.”

“If there's trouble it'll count against you,” Southwick said gloomily.

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “If I am dismissed from the Service, I've plenty to keep me occupied, but it's Aitken's whole life. Though thanks to prize money, I doubt if he depends on his pay.”

“Pay! Thanks to you no one in the
Calypso
now depends on his pay, even allowing for the villainy of the prize agents.”

Ramage grinned at Southwick's forthright statement. “Still, I expect Aitken would like to get his flag eventually, so that when he retires to his estate in the Highlands, it'll be as Rear-Admiral Aitken. Perhaps even Vice-Admiral, with a knighthood.”

“Could be,” Southwick agreed. “He would if it just depended on merit. This stepping into dead men's shoes is no good. Promotion by seniority is just an insurance policy for the dullards. If you live long enough you're bound to end up the most senior admiral in the Navy.”

“Providing you make that first jump on to the Post List,” Ramage pointed out. “Unless he is a post-captain, he doesn't even put a foot on the bottom rung…”

“That's understood, sir. Don't forget he's already refused one chance. Admittedly that was because he reckoned he wasn't ready, and would learn a lot more by staying with you.”

“Yes, but now he's learned all he can from me. He's ready for the Post List, and I don't want anything like this–” he gestured in the direction of the
Jason
, “–getting in the way. Now, leave me to write up my journal. Between now and the time we reach the Chops of the Channel, I have to write a full report on all this business…”

“Aye, and if you'll allow me to stick an oar in, sir, you'd be well advised to get signed reports from the
Calypso
's officers, and perhaps some of the senior petty officers.”

“You
are
gloomy,” Ramage commented.

“I just wonder who this Captain Shirley has for friends. As I see it, his friends are going to be our enemies, if all this business comes to trial.”

Southwick was right, of course: whatever happened, it was all bound to come to a trial which would clear or condemn Shirley. It could even turn into a situation where clearing Shirley meant condemning Ramage…All the Calypsos were certain that Shirley was mad. Perhaps not permanently, but at least temporarily. Touched by the sun, perhaps. Anyway, Bowen was going to examine him tomorrow and would write a report, but all that would not stop Shirley getting a fair trial.

It was more likely, Ramage thought ironically, to bring odium and attacks down on the head of Captain Ramage, if Shirley had friends in high places and money to pay off the press and get lampoons and pamphlets sold in the streets. Ramage knew how vicious were the attacks made on his own father, when the Earl of Blazey was made the government's scapegoat for sending a fleet too weak and too late to deal with a French attack on the West Indies. And most shameful of all (perhaps the most shameful episode in recent British political history) there was the Byng affair: there a not-very-bright but honourable admiral had been accused of cowardice and shot to disguise the vacillating weakness and stupidity of the First Lord, Anson, and the prime minister, the Duke of Newcastle.

Stupidity? No, it was the very essence of politics: viciousness, self-interest, hunger for power and cowardice. In the case of Admiral Byng the whole crowd of them, the Duke of Newcastle, the Earl of Hardwicke (and his son-in-law Anson) and most of the rest of the party were trying to cling to power in Parliament, and they were quite prepared to murder Byng (judicially, of course: why use a stiletto when you have the law to do it?). Byng was executed and they kept power. Byng, Ramage reflected, lost his life, but the government under Newcastle and the Admiralty under Anson lost their honour (without realizing what it was).

Ramage knew he should talk again to Shirley and his officers before drafting his report. Yet after talking to any of them he came away with the feeling that he had been dreaming; their answers were so incoherent or remote from reality that recalling them later was like trying to remember how you had behaved while drunk at a party.

 

Captain Shirley had never seen such grim-faced men sitting round his dining table, and he seemed more puzzled than alarmed. Both Wagstaffe and Aitken held pens and had to share the same inkwell as they wrote down the questions, and Shirley's answers, making him slow down or repeat an answer. The demands for repetition were frequent because many of Shirley's answers were difficult to credit.

The
Jason
was rolling her way along, astern of the convoy, in good weather. Wagstaffe had the big awning stretched over the quarterdeck and the captain's coach, cabin and sleeping place were cool. Ramage had thought deeply about making Shirley move down into one of the officer's cabins in the gunroom but had finally decided to leave him in his quarters and instead put Wagstaffe in the first lieutenant's cabin, making all the lieutenants shift round one.

As soon as Ramage had come on board and Wagstaffe had the frigate under way again (at the speed the convoy was making good, nothing was lost by heaving-to the frigate to avoid getting soaked by spray which would be thrown up if the ship had to tow the
Calypso
's boat alongside), Shirley – still in his long black coat – had walked over and greeted Ramage.

“Ah, my dear Ramage, how thoughtful of you to pay us a call,” he had said in a completely sincere voice, rubbing his hands as though washing them. “Can I persuade you to dine with me this time? No – then a cup of green tea, or a glass of something stronger?”

The man had been genuinely upset when Ramage refused, and again Ramage was reminded of an anxious parson who felt he was being rebuffed by his patron.

Even now, sitting round the dining table, Ramage at the head, Shirley to his left and with Aitken and Wagstaffe on his right, facing Shirley, the man exuded sincerity. Sincerity? Well, again and again Ramage was reminded of the last occasion he had met the Archbishop of Canterbury, who proved to be a most unctuous individual exuding the secretive bonhomie expected of the doorman at one of the better houses of pleasure in Westminster.

Ramage tapped the table to emphasize what he was going to say.

“Captain Shirley, for the eleventh time I must ask you why you raked the
Calypso
although she was displaying British colours and her pendant numbers, and was flying the correct challenge?”

“My dear Ramage, why should the
Jason
fire at the
Calypso
?”

“Don't dodge the question,” Ramage snapped. “I am asking you.”

“On what authority, pray?”

Ramage waited until Aitken and Wagstaffe had finished writing. It gave him time to think, although God knew he had already given the subject enough thought.

“On the authority of a captain of one of the King's ships trying to discover the reason for a traitorous and treasonable attack by another of the King's ships.”

“But no one attacked you, treasonably or traitorously. Ask my officers. Ask my men. You have done so once already, but you have my permission to ask them again.”

This man was so calm and cool. Both Wagstaffe and Aitken were perspiring – although that could be from the effort of writing fast and concentrating. But this man Shirley – there was not even a single bead of perspiration on his brow. A belly of pork! Ramage suddenly realized that the man's complexion, dead white and only wrinkled by lines running from each side of his nostrils to the corners of his mouth, reminded him of a familiar sight in a pork butcher's shop. The man's baldness heightened the effect: not only was the skull utterly hairless, but Ramage was sure (probably because of some illness, malaria, perhaps) no hair grew on the man at all. Did he have to shave? There was none of the shadow on his face that most men had by late afternoon (and even earlier in the Tropics, where the heat made hair grow faster).

His eyes were small but unusually widely spaced. However, the nose seemed to belong to another face altogether. This face was cadaverous, the skin tight over the bones, with no pouches beneath the eyes, no hint of middle age in jowls. No, there was not much flesh to wrinkle, apart from the lines beside the nose. But the nose!