Ramage's Trial (7 page)

“You don't own
all
of them,” she protested.

“Not
all
,” he said mockingly, “but enough that I don't
have
to listen to you.”

“But you do, though.”

“Just out of politeness,” he said, and Ramage saw the affection in his glance.

 

As the captain's coxswain, Jackson always commanded the boat carrying Ramage to and from another ship; while he steered the
Calypso
's cutter towards the flagship he reflected on the years he had served with Mr Ramage, and how often they had been in action together, frequently side by side.

From there it was an easy daydream trying to remember how often each had saved the other's life. Jackson eventually gave up trying to reach a total because how did one count a shouted warning which saved death from a slashing sword or a well aimed pistol, compared with actually warding off the sword, or shooting down the man aiming the pistol?

It was a pointless exercise anyway because, as far as he could see, the two of them were running about equal, and if they were to stay alive and die of old age, they were going to have to carry on as before until this war ended – if it ever did.

Apart from the recent year and a half following the Treaty of Amiens, which did not really count, Jackson found he could not remember what peace was like: the war had been going on for – well, it must be eight or nine years now.

Ramage, sitting in the sternsheets and trying to get some shade from the brim of his hat, although as many rays reflected up from the waves as came directly from the sun, suddenly had a shock. He had been thinking of Sarah, and how many more tedious weeks of worry must pass before he had any definite news, when he found that he could not recall her face.

Every time he called on his memory, he saw only a blur. Yes, her voice came, and a few of her mannerisms: he could hear some of her little jokes and many of the whispered endearments. But her face, like an elusive word or name, refused to appear.

In her place he saw Alexis, and guiltily he dismissed her immediately, telling himself that as he had been talking to her only a few hours ago it was hardly surprising she came to mind so readily.

And here was the
Queen
: already her lookouts had hailed, already Jackson had shouted back the answer: “
Calypso
!”, warning the flagship that the approaching boat carried the captain of the named ship, and ensuring that sideboys would be ready, holding out the sideropes.

Ramage grasped the canvas pouch which had been resting on his lap. Rear-Admiral Tewtin would want to talk about the convoy: what route Ramage intended to take back to England (and the answer to that would be that it depended on wind direction), and no doubt a few ships would be mentioned as being of special concern – meaning the owners were friends of the admiral, or friends were shipping cargoes in those ships.

In fact, Ramage found the admiral in good humour. Or, to be more exact, once he found that Ramage accepted the valuations of the two frigates, he stayed in the good humour with which he had obviously greeted the dawn.

“You read the papers about the convoy?”

“Yes, sir, and the sailing date. No delays if ships haven't arrived?”

“Indeed not. The merchants throughout the islands have had the date for weeks. But can
you
be ready?”

“Yes, sir: we've started provisioning, and wooding and watering shouldn't take too long. But you didn't mention what other ships I'd have.”

“Why, bless my soul!” Tewtin said, “the two prizes, of course!”

“But sir, they've neither ships' companies nor sufficient provisions. And
L'Espoir
is only armed
en flûte
.” Ramage had a sudden picture of Tewtin expecting him to sail the ships to England with the original prize crews – two thirds of the
Calypso
's ship's company, in other words, leaving him with three virtually defenceless frigates to defend both themselves and the convoy.

Tewtin apparently correctly interpreted the reasons for the dismay showing on Ramage's face. “I'm making two of my lieutenants post, to command; two other promising young lieutenants will become first lieutenants, and four young lieutenants who should never have gone to sea will be getting their last chance…All thanks to you bringing in a couple of prize frigates, Ramage. Now I've been frank with you. I've put in good captains and good first lieutenants…”

“And the ship's company, sir? Aren't you short of seamen?”

The admiral looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, yes, I wish I could give you more men in both frigates, but you know how it is out here in the West Indies. I've lost a thousand men from yellow fever in the last year.”

“So what's being done to make up the shortages in those two ships, sir?” Ramage asked, although, since he knew, the answer would be a formality.

“Take what you need from the best-manned ships in the convoy,” Tewtin said nonchalantly. “Tell any masters who complain that the men will be more useful protecting the merchantmen by serving a gun in a frigate than cowering behind a few casks of molasses.”

That was one thing about Tewtin, Ramage admitted: he did not beat about the bush. He had just found a way of sending the June convoy to England without having to use even one of his own frigates; he had been able to use two of the prizes to make post two of his favourite lieutenants and give two more of them hefty promotions (and at the same time get rid of some duds).

The hint that the Count of Rennes was a friend of the Prince of Wales and that it might be unwise to delay his return to England had made little impression: Tewtin might only be a rear-admiral but obviously he knew (or guessed) enough about Court life to know that Prinny's attention could be held at most for only a couple of minutes, unless the subject concerned women or the latest fashion in men's clothing.

“Lieutenant Newick has all your copies of the convoy instructions, one for each master, although God knows by now they should know them by heart. Secret signals – I haven't received the latest ones from the Admiralty (who nevertheless are trying to dissuade flag officers from issuing their own). So you'll have to draw up a set. Send them over here for copying – I know your clerk won't be able to make seventy-two copies in time.”

Tewtin bellowed a hearty “Come in” when the sentry at the door announced a name, and Newick walked in, holding a bundle of papers and to be met by an angry Tewtin.

“Do you expect Mr Ramage to carry those convoy instructions round as though he's selling copies of the
Morning Post
? Have them sent down to his boat.

“When you reach flag rank, Ramage,” he added, “if you haven't discovered it already, you'll find you're surrounded by dolts. And in my experience so far, the higher the rank the more dolts it attracts.”

At that moment Ramage felt he could grow to like Tewtin, who said: “Hold the meeting of the convoy masters the day before they sail. Any earlier, they'll forget all your warnings. And it's just early enough in the hurricane season that all those scoundrels wanting to cadge sailcloth or a topsail yard or cordage can be told there's no time for any of that nonsense: hoist in boats and get the capstans and windlasses turning!”

 

Ramage sat at the far side of the room on a small dais – in fact a platform used by the auctioneer in Bridgetown when taking bids for whatever luxuries (like armchairs, crockery, cutlery and cloth) the latest convoy from England had brought in. The masters were coming in to Bridgetown's only large hall for the convoy conference, but Ramage knew from experience they were men who could only demonstrate their independence by being late. It was like the old and tedious story of a senior officer keeping you waiting fifteen minutes and unwittingly giving you a good insight into the uncertainty he felt about himself. A confident man had no need to play such silly games.

Southwick sat on his left and Aitken on his right, and in front of Ramage was a pile of twelve-page booklets, each measuring a dozen inches by eight. The title, in small type and neatly displayed between double rules, said: “
SIGNALS and INSTRUCTIONS for SHIPS under CONVOY
”. In tiny type was the announcement: “Printed by W Winchester and Son, Strand.”

“Forty-three of the mules up to now,” Southwick growled.

“Don't be impatient, you're going to have their company for weeks…” Ramage chided as he turned over the first page of one of the booklets. The title was repeated, with the extra explanation: “
INSTRUCTIONS explanatory of the SIGNALS
”.

As Ramage glanced down the seven numbered paragraphs on this first page he felt the all-too-familiar despair. Number III, for instance: “No signals are to be made by the ships under convoy besides those appointed by the Commander thereof.” What would happen, in fact, was that proper signals made by the commander (himself) would be ignored and incomprehensible flag signals would be hoisted by mules. Days later it would transpire that the mules were using an old signal book from some past convoy.

The next instruction was almost a mockery: “The ships of the convoy out of their stations are to take advantage of all opportunities, by making sail, tacking, waring, &c to regain the same.”

What forbearance (or plain stupidity) the Admiralty had shown in not making it a direct order that unless the weather made it necessary, the mules must not reef at night, or furl topsails, and drop so far astern that by dawn they would be specks on the horizon, just the trucks of their masts showing up in a powerful glass. Or, even worse, they would be below the horizon, and the whole convoy would have to heave-to until noon while they caught up. Well, Ramage thought grimly, if Yorke played his agreed role at this convoy conference, perhaps this time there would be less of all that nonsense.

The next instruction followed on logically: “In case of parting company (which the ships of the convoy are to avoid by all possible means) and being met with by an enemy, the Commanders of the ships are to destroy the rendezvous, these signals, and all other papers whatsoever concerning the destination of the fleet,
SEE PAGE 13
.”

Idly Ramage turned to page 13, although he knew what it said. It began by quoting the Act of Parliament under which it was enacted that “if the Captain of any merchant ship, under convoy, shall wilfully disobey signals or instructions, or any other lawful commands of the Commander of the convoy, without notice given, and leave obtained for that purpose”, he was liable to be hauled into the High Court “at the suit of the Crown”, and fined up to £500 or jailed for up to a year.

The next section warned a master that he could be fined £1,000 for sailing alone from a port where a convoy was being arranged, and more important, Ramage reckoned, he could be fined £1,000 if he should “afterwards desert or wilfully separate or depart from such convoy without leave obtained from the Captain or other Officer in His Majesty's Navy entrusted with the charge of such convoy…”

Ramage noted that the cheapest infringement for a master seeking a bargain was, ironically, for one of the most important tasks falling to a master in time of attack – he would have to pay up to £100 if, “being in danger of being boarded or taken possession of by the enemy”, he “shall not make signals by firing guns, or otherwise convey information of his danger to the rest of the convoy, as well as to the ships of war under the protection of which he is sailing; and, in case of being boarded or taken possession of, shall not destroy all instructions confided to him relating to the convoy”.

On the final page, a paragraph set by itself in solitary splendour and headed
MEMORANDUM
said:

 

‘All Masters of Merchant Vessels to supply themselves with a quantity of False Fires, to give the Alarm on the approach of an Enemy's Cruizer in the Night; or in the Day to make the usual Signal for an Enemy. On being chased or discovering a suspicious Vessel, and in the event of their Capture being inevitable, either by Night or Day, the Master to cause the Jeers, Ties, and Haul Yards to be cut and unrove, and their Vessels to be otherwise so disabled as to prevent their being immediately capable of making Sail.'

 

Aitken muttered: “I think they're all here now, sir.”

Ramage looked up to find the hall now almost full, and if a complete stranger looked at all the masters and tried to guess who they were, the chances are he would choose farmers attending an auction to bid for some well-favoured grazing land.

“Very well, Aitken: bring 'em to the starting post!”

Aitken rapped on the table. “Gentlemen, your attention please, and I introduce the commander of your escort, Captain Ramage.”

There was an immediate buzz of conversation, and from what Ramage could hear of the masters in the front row, they were commenting on the name. One of them waved an arm like a schoolboy with a question.

“Is that the Captain Ramage we've read about in the
Gazettes
?”

“Aye, the very same one,” Aitken answered, his Scots accent very pronounced.

At that moment Yorke's voice shouted from the back: “Captain Ramage, eh? Last time I saw you, you were firing across the bow of one of the convoy and then towing a slow ship – nearly towed her under, I recall, with the master crying for mercy from the fo'c'sle.”

Ramage stood up and slowly looked round the room. Nearly eighty pairs of eyes were focused on him; their owners were looking at him with interest and, he thought, in some of them there was fear.

“Good morning, Gentlemen. As Lieutenant Aitken has just told you, I shall be commander of this convoy.” He tapped the pile of
SIGNALS and INSTRUCTIONS
in front of him and waved towards Jackson and Stafford, who were standing behind the table. “Each of you will now be given a copy, which you've read as many times as you've sailed in convoy – I
hope
you have, anyway, because there are some interesting points in it.