Ramage's Trial (36 page)

“Call Lieutenant Wagstaffe,” Shirley said, and for a moment his eyes flickered across the few feet to where Ramage was sitting. Was there a look of triumph in them? Or just the flat look of a madman playing some elaborate game of which only he knew the rules? Obviously Shirley would call Wagstaffe as a prosecution witness, and Ramage had made it very clear to Wagstaffe that he was to answer the questions completely and openly, whether or not he thought they might hurt Ramage's case. When Wagstaffe had protested, asking to be given some latitude, Ramage had told him: “We have nothing to hide. I put you on board the
Jason
because I thought Shirley was mad, and that's all there is to it.”

But since Ramage had spoken to Wagstaffe, Rear-Admiral Goddard was so juggling the evidence by restricting the questions, that Ramage was now sure he was not going to be able to make a proper defence. Goddard (and perhaps the commander-in-chief and the Admiralty) must know that Shirley was mad, but apart from Goddard getting his own back on Ramage, neither the commander-in-chief nor the Admiralty would want it confirmed in open court (or even alleged in open court, let alone being confirmed by a verdict) that one of the Navy's captains was mad and had to be removed from his command not by some unknown commanding officer or flag officer of whom few had heard but by one of the country's most famous young frigate captains…

Wagstaffe took the oath and faced Goddard, assuming that the president of the court would ask the familiar question: “Tell us what you know…” but instead Jenkins started reading from one of Shirley's slips of paper.

“When did you board the
Jason
?”

“At eleven forty-three in the forenoon of July the twenty-first last,” Wagstaffe said.

“What were the circumstances?”

“The
Jason
had nearly rammed–”

“Silence!” Goddard bellowed. “Confine yourself to the questions you are asked and to the substance of the charges against the prisoner.”

“I am on oath, sir Wagstaffe waited until he was sure that Jenkins had written that down and then continued: “…and I shall not perjure myself, either by wrong statements or by omissions, sir.”

“Nobody is suggesting you perjure yourself,” Goddard said huffily, startled by Wagstaffe's statement and realizing the significance of his use of the word “omissions”. “Just confine yourself to the questions and the charges,” Goddard said,

Jenkins read: “Having boarded the
Jason
with Captain Ramage and various other people, what did you do?”

“I had a severe coughing fit,” Wagstaffe said innocently, and before Goddard realized what was coming next added: “There was still a lot of smoke about from the broadside the
Jason
had just fired.”

“Strike that from the record,” Goddard shouted. “You have been warned once,” he told Wagstaffe. “The next time you will be confined for contempt of court.”

“Yes, sir,” Wagstaffe said contritely, and added quietly: “May I be excused now, sir?”

Goddard, obviously wanting to make some amends for the shouting, had been looking amiably in Wagstaffe's direction, but now he looked first startled and then wary.

“The prosecutor – Captain Shirley – has more questions to ask you. And the defence, too,” he added hurriedly. “Why are you asking to be excused?”

“Because, Sir, the court is trying to force me to commit perjury, and if I do that I shall myself be liable to be tried by court-martial.”

Very neatly done, Ramage thought. Wagstaffe had not said a word earlier about how he would try to trap Goddard. Well, Ramage's only regret was that none of his other witnesses could see Goddard's face: the glowing red of a few minutes ago was replaced now with a whiteness verging on grey, and the flesh of his face, never taut at the best of times, now hung slack like a spaniel bitch's teats. He was having a whispered conversation with Swinford on his right, and then he turned to Captain Huggins on his left. Then he looked down the table at Jenkins.

“The witness is accusing the court of forcing him to commit perjury. What are the precedents for that, Mr Jenkins, eh? Let's have the precedents for
that
!”

Jenkins carefully wiped the tip of his pen and put it down on the table. Then he clasped his hands together, as though in prayer, and said carefully: “Sir, I have looked back over my minutes, and it seems that is not
quite
what the witness said.”

“What the devil was he saying, then? I'm damned sure I heard him say the court was forcing him to commit perjury.”

“His actual words–” Jenkins lifted the top sheet of his minutes and read down until he found the exact line, “–after asking to be excused, were (in answer to your question): ‘Because, sir, the court is trying to force me to commit perjury if I–'”

“There you are!” Goddard exclaimed triumphantly. “I was right. ‘Force me to commit perjury.'”

Captain Swinford said mildly: “The phrase is that the court is
trying
to force him to commit perjury, sir.”

“What the devil's the difference? Damned insolent young puppy! I'm–”

Jenkins interposed smoothly: “Sir, legally there–”

“Clear the court!” Goddard suddenly shouted. “Clear the court, I say!”

This brought Jenkins to his feet. “Sir, if you clear the court this lieutenant whose protest we are considering will have to leave the court, along with the prisoner and the prosecutor. If I may offer an opinion sir, I think it would be most unwise, most unwise.” He shook his head as though more words could no longer help him.

Goddard sat silent for a full minute, staring at Wagstaffe with an expression about which Ramage was not sure if it revealed hatred or sheer disbelief.

“All right, the court will remain in session,” he said finally. “The witness can be assured the court is not trying to force him to commit perjury. This court,” he added, an unctuous note in his voice, “is concerned only with discovering the truth, without fear or favour.”

Wagstaffe gave a slight bow and said politely: “Thank you, sir, I realize that. It was simply that when I described how the smoke of the
Jason
's broadside made me cough, you–”

“Wagstaffe, you are under arrest! Jenkins, strike out his remarks! Send for the Marine officer!” Goddard started mopping his face with a large silk handkerchief, and Ramage remembered how, in the tropical heat of a trial in Jamaica, Goddard had a lieutenant sitting close and handing him fresh handkerchiefs from time to time.

Now Captain Shirley was standing up. He waited for Goddard to notice him and then said: “Sir, I still have several interrogatories to put to this witness.”

Goddard's jaw dropped: he stared at Shirley with the same look of betrayal and disbelief that a man might look at a hitherto loving wife who mentioned casually at the breakfast table that she had been committing adultery with Dr John Moore, the Primate of All England, on Mondays, and Dr John Douglas, the Lord Bishop of Salisbury, on Thursdays, explaining that she could not resist prelates with the Christian name John, but the bishops of Hereford, Chichester and Oxford, although all named John, had so far rebuffed her advances.

“This officer is under arrest,” he said flatly, “and as soon as a Marine officer has taken him away, the court will adjourn for today and convene again tomorrow at the usual time.”

Ramage watched Shirley. The man's expression did not change as he lost what was probably his best witness. Instead he sat absolutely still as the Marine sentry passed the word for his officer, who took Wagstaffe away. He must be, Ramage reflected, one of the most contented prisoners ever to be taken into custody, judging from the expression on his face. Still, Goddard would not allow much of what he had said to appear in the minutes – which, Ramage suddenly realized, Wagstaffe had not signed, so they had no legal standing. As far as this court-martial (and thus the Admiralty) were concerned, Ramage guessed, Wagstaffe had never given evidence…And Goddard had known that.

 

Next morning the court opened in the
Salvador del Mundo'
s great cabin with the precision of a quadrille: the captains filed in, all wearing full uniform with white breeches and swords, and went straight to their seats, ready to sit in descending order of seniority; Jenkins made one neat pile of his reference books and another of the paper on which he would be writing the minutes. He examined the tips of his quills and made sure his pen-knife was close by in case any needed recutting, along with the small square of cloth he used to wipe the ink.

Goddard strode in last of all, trying to infuse dignity into his carriage, but the effect was marred by the protuberant belly (which no amount of cunning by his tailor could disguise) and by the heavy jowls which jerked up and down with each step with the springiness of geraniums displayed by an itinerant flower seller.

Goddard nodded an acknowledgement rather than a greeting to the court and sat down. The captains then scraped their chairs and sat down, and Goddard told Jenkins: “Have the prisoner brought in.”

A call to the Marine sentry led to Lieutenant Hill marching in carrying Ramage's sword and followed by his prisoner. While Ramage sat down, Hill replaced the sword on the table and Ramage saw Captain Shirley walking in, holding books and papers but with the remoteness of a monk pacing the cloisters.

“Ah, Captain Shirley,” Goddard said, in his first pleasant word or gesture of the day. “Are you ready to call your next witness?”

Shirley nodded and said to Jenkins: “Call Lieutenant Aitken.”

Like Wagstaffe, Aitken was a witness for both the prosecution and the defence. He marched in briskly, took the oath, his Scots accent very pronounced.

Ramage saw Shirley pass several slips of paper to Jenkins, and noted that the usual procedure (not that there was any regulation about it) where the president of the court did most of the questioning was, as in the case of the other witnesses, being abandoned: Goddard was going to leave the questioning to Shirley.

At a nod from Goddard, Jenkins read out the first question.

“You are the first lieutenant of the
Calypso
and you were on July the twenty-first last?”

“I am, and I was,” Aitken said, adding as though making it clear to a child, “on that specific date, too.”

“When the
Calypso
boarded the
Jason
on that date, what was your role?”

Aitken gave a brief chuckle, as though both Jenkins and Shirley had, by asking the question, committed some solecism. “The
Calypso
did not board the
Jason
of course, but I ken what you mean. Aye, well, when Captain Ramage laid the
Calypso
alongside despite the risk of another broadside–”

“Stop!” Goddard shouted at Aitken and, waving to Jenkins, instructed him: “Strike it out.”

He then swung round in his chair to face Aitken. “Listen, you were not in court yesterday but the second lieutenant of the
Calypso
is under an arrest for contempt of court from his refusal to answer the court questions properly. You will confine yourself to a direct answer to the question.”

“Of course, sir,” Aitken agreed and Ramage watched the polite smile on the Scotsman's face. “But sir,” Aitken asked politely, “what part of my answer – or, rather, partial answer – did you find so provoking?”

With Aitken's accent the word “provoking” had a soothing quality, long drawn out, and Goddard's eyes rose to the deckhead as though seeking Divine help.

He was just going to answer when he saw the trap: if he said that he objected to the phrase “another broadside” he would – damnation, he thought: this young puppy Ramage must have spent hours with his officers guessing what Captain Shirley's questions would be and perfecting these double-edged answers. Goddard knew he had been very near the limit of his powers as court president yesterday, and he had arrested that other lieutenant for contempt of court because it seemed the only way of shutting him up. The charge would not hold, of course, and all that he intended was to keep the fellow locked up out of the way until after the verdict on Ramage was given. But two lieutenants cited for contempt in the same trial (in succession, too) would raise eyebrows at the Admiralty and draw attention to what he was trying to do.

All right, what
is
the answer to this impudent young puppy's apparently innocent question? Damnation, this cabin is so hot. Ah yes: this should hide the fact that he had not thought of an answer to the question.

“Lieutenant Aitken, let me remind you of this. The prisoner is accused of–”

Now this damned fool Swinford is whispering something. He had always considered Swinford as a reliable sort of man but, Goddard thought, he seemed to be adopting a very radical attitude in this trial.

Goddard nodded impatiently at Swinford and modified his second sentence. “Yes, as Captain Swinford points out, the prisoner is accused by Captain Shirley of removing him from his lawful command of the
Jason
, and he is charged under six of the Articles of War…numbers fifteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-two and twenty-three.”

He gestured to Jenkins and told him to bring up a copy of the
Articles of War
.

He opened the black leatherbound volume with the bold gilt lettering on the front cover. “Let me just remind you. Number fifteen, the first in the charge, refers to ‘Every person in or belonging to the Fleet' who shall desert (which does not apply here) or, and I emphasize that word, ‘or run away with any of His Majesty's ships or vessels of war, in any ordnance, ammunition, stores or provision belonging thereto'…”

He tapped the small book. “I think you can see why the Board of Admiralty ordered that Captain Ramage should be tried under that Article. Let us consider the next one, seventeen. I will just quote the relevant parts, as it is long: ‘The officers and seamen of all, ships, appointed for convoy and guard of merchant ships, or any other, shall diligently attend upon that charge…and whosoever shall be faulty therein…and submitting the ships in their convoy to peril and hazard…' and so on and so forth…”