Ramage’s Mutiny

CHAPTER FOUR

On board the Calypso next day everyone's temper frayed. More than 150 men had been brought over from the Juno and the purser had to enter details of each one of them in the muster book. There, in twenty-seven columns, were recorded all the details that the Admiralty, Navy Board and Sick and Hurt Board would ever want to know about a man - including whether he was a volunteer or "prest", where he was born and his age, his full name and rank, and what clothing, bedding and tobacco had been issued. The last column on that page, headed "D., D. D., or R.", would not be filled in by one of those abbreviations until the man left the ship by one of only three possible ways: Discharged (to another ship or to a hospital), Discharged Dead (death from battle, accident or illness) or Run, the Navy's phrase for deserting.

Ramage paced round the deck, pausing occasionally at the table set up by the purser in the shade of the awning. The men were filing past fairly quickly and the list of names in the muster book was lengthening. Looking over the purser's shoulder at the first few names, Ramage was once again reminded of the cosmopolitan nature of the Navy in wartime. The first five names in the book, filled in several days earlier, were of men from various parts of Britain, the sixth was Thomas Jackson, an American volunteer from Charleston, the seventh Alberto Rossi from Genoa, the eighth the Londoner Will Stafford, who served as apprentice to a locksmith and then became a burglar until a press-gang swept him into the Navy. The ninth was a Dane, the tenth an Irishman.

All the men seemed to be glad to be on board: at the table and as he walked round the ship he saw grinning men who were hoping that the Captain would give them a nod. After telling Jackson how much prize money each man was likely to get, he had the impression that the word went round the ship faster than if he had mustered them all aft and announced it. Prize money did not make such men fight any better; they needed no inducement. But it was a satisfying bonus after the battle. Many of them would spend the money in a few days' carousing, cutting a dash with whichever fortunate doxies first hooked a grapnel when they went on shore. Others would save it towards the day when they gave up a seaman's life. When would that be? The war had gone on for years, and there was no end in sight. Politicians in London talked loudly, and listeners to the voices booming with such authority could choose between forecasts of defeat for Bonaparte in one year or fifteen. Pitt was a fool or a genius; Fox a hero or a traitor.

Whatever their politics, Ramage thought bitterly, they all cheered when one or other of these spice islands of the West Indies was captured, yet the value was only the cheers it brought in Parliament because the cost in garrisoning the islands was enormous. Regiments came out and within a few months half the men were dead from the black vomit. Such losses in battle would start a row in Parliament . . .

The Devil take the gloomy thoughts. He walked away from the purser's table. So far - and this was the second time he had commanded a ship in the West Indies - he had managed to keep his men fit, but he knew he had been lucky; stories of half a ship's company dying of fever in a couple of weeks were legion. He was doubly lucky, because Bowen was a fine surgeon.

In fact, he reflected, a captain was no better than the men serving him. Southwick was a fine Master; he had good lieutenants, particularly Aitken, the First Lieutenant. Aitken had dumbfounded the Admiral who, because of the young Scot's distinguished behaviour in the recent action off Martinique, had proposed making Aitken post and given him command of the Juno, but Aitken had asked permission to continue sailing as First Lieutenant with Ramage. Both Admiral Davis and Ramage had been puzzled - it was the first time either of them had come across a man not wanting to be made post.

The obvious explanation had been that Aitken was scared of the responsibility, yet he had fought well while commanding a prize frigate. And the obvious explanation had proved wrong: Aitken had explained - much to Ramage's embarrassment - that he still had much to learn and wanted to continue serving with Captain Ramage.

Bowen was perhaps the best example of Ramage's luck. Bowen had been a doctor in Wimpole Street, one of London's most fashionable physicians. Then he had started drinking heavily and soon, a gin-sodden wreck, was reduced to serving in the Navy as a surgeon.

His first ship had been commanded by Ramage. The prospect of having the health of his men in the hands of a drunkard - and concern about what might happen if any of them were wounded in battle - had led to Ramage and Southwick effecting a ruthless cure of Bowen's drink problem. Now, a couple of years later, Howen was one of his most valued officers - a fiendish chess player, stimulating company, and a man devoted to the health of the ship's company. He never touched a drop of liquor. He had since been back to London, where he could have returned to treating wealthy dowagers for non-existent complaints, but instead he had asked only that Ramage allow him to continue serving as his ship's surgeon. Well, better one volunteer than three pressed men.

Ramage reached the fo'c'sle, paused by the belfry and looked aft. What a mess! There was not a square foot of clear deck: sails were stretched out like collapsed tents with men busy at work on them with needles and palms. Southwick was prowling round looking for worn canvas and marking out where he wanted extra patches sewn on to take care of chafe.

The bosun and his mates were working on a pile of blocks, with a carpenter's mate driving out the pins so that they could be greased. As soon as men left the purser's table and stowed their sea bags they were being given jobs. The decks were dirty, the brasswork green with verdigris, but a morning's work would see all that cleaned up, though it would need a week to get it sparkling. It was important now that running rigging should rend freely through blocks, that sails should not chafe holes on rigging or spars.

The gunner had the locks of all the guns up on deck, spread out on a sheet of canvas, and was checking them one by one. He had a large box of flints and a seaman was sorting through them, putting aside any that did not have a sharp edge that would ensure a good spark.

Three men who had not been on board more than half an hour were manhandling the big grindstone into position while others were collecting the cutlasses - more than two hundred of them - ready to give them all a sharp edge. More men were taking boarding pikes from their racks round the masts - the heads, exposed to the spray, were rusty. Once they had been sharpened they would be given a coat of blacking and the wood of the staffs would be oiled to stop it splitting in the heat of the sun. All small jobs and all tedious, requiring a lot of men, but vital if the Calypso was to be an efficient ship.

There should be another ten men coming on board from the Invincible this afternoon to make up the Calypso's ship's company to two hundred, and more Marines had just arrived. Few frigates ever had more than three quarters of their official complement, and Ramage knew it was an indication of how the Admiral viewed the Jocasta operation that he was making sure that the Calypso had more than her complement.

He could see that Aitken, who had been on board only long enough to change into an old uniform, was busy with a group of men at a stay-tackle, hoisting up a heavy awning from below. There would soon be fifteen minutes of chaos as they stretched out the awning and tried to work out how the French secured it, but the sun was scorching and the men needed some shade.

Wagstaffe should soon be back on board and no doubt telling a story of the insolence of the storekeeper. The Second Lieutenant had a long list of the Calypso's requirements and Ramage was determined he was not going to be fobbed off. If the Calypso did not get them now, while commissioning, she never would, and with the Admiral anxious to have the frigate ready, Ramage knew he would have a sympathetic ear for any complaints about a storekeeper's shortcomings.

Jackson came up to him and saluted. "A boat from the flagship is coming to us, sir. She's been to the other ships in the anchorage. There's a lieutenant on board."

Ramage nodded. More orders, no doubt. The Marine Lieutenant, Rennick, approached and, coming smartly to attention, reported that all his Marines were now on board. "One Lieutenant, one sergeant, two corporals and forty private Marines, sir! " he said like a priest reciting a liturgy.

"Forty-three men, eh? Quite a force you have now! ".

"Yes, sir, " Rennick said cheerfully. "It'll take a few days to lick the new men from the flagship into some sort o' shape, but the sergeant's a good man: served with me in another ship when he was a corporal."

"Very well, " Ramage said solemnly, half wishing Captain Edwards could have heard Rennick's patronizing comment on the extra men sent over from the Invincible. Yet Rennick was probably right. He was plump, the tropical heat made him perspire like a leaking head-pump, but he was a very efficient officer. He was a strict disciplinarian - but he knew when to crack a joke with his men, who were proud of him. And men proud of an officer would follow him into action whatever the odds.

"These extra men from the flagship, " Ramage said quietly, "if you're doubtful about any of them, send them back."

Rennick grinned and shook his head. "I know, sir, the one rotten apple! But the sergeant picked 'em. Every man wanted to serve in the Calypso. Seems they've all heard about you, sir."

The Marine Lieutenant had all the subtlety of a caulker's maul; he made the statement in his usual direct manner and Ramage knew it was not in him to flatter his Captain. For all (hat, Ramage found it hard to understand why Marines should want to leave the comparative comfort of a ship of the line and transfer to a cramped frigate - particularly as by now most of them would know the Calypso was bound for Santa Cruz. Even if a miracle occurred and the Calypso managed to cut out the Jocasta, at least half the seamen and half the Marines would be buried at sea the following morning; the most purblind optimist could see that.

"I'm glad to hear it, and I can rely on you to polish them, " Ramage said. "Tell me when you want me to inspect them; I'll breathe fire down their necks."

"I've already warned 'em, sir; I said all that easy living in the flagship is a thing of the past."

Ramage gestured towards the grindstone, which was just beginning to spin and shower sparks as it put an edge on the first of the cutlasses. "The men are attending to the cutlery. Your Marines had better start on the muskets; we have 250 on board. And check the flints, too. We have ten boxes, I believe, with two hundred flints in each. Make sure they are marked musket or pistol size - it'd be just like the French to mix them up. And the pistols: check them over, too. The French equivalent of a Sea Service pistol is not too reliable, if my memory serves me."

"Yes, sir. What about tomahawks?"

Ramage pointed to the pile beside the cutlasses. "All we need is a tinker mending kettles."

Jackson came back to report that the boat from the Invincible had two lieutenants on board.

"Very well, " Ramage said. "Tell Mr Aitken that our new Fourth Lieutenant is probably about to arrive."

The Calypso had all her men on board: four lieutenants, Master, surgeon, and 203 warrant, petty officers and seamen, as well as Rennick and forty-three Marines - a total of 253 officers and men, the most Ramage had ever commanded.

In front of him on the desk now were the first letters concerning the trial of the Jocasta's four mutineers - and the news that Aitken would be needed, too. He had not thought of that, but apparently the machinery of a trial needed someone to start it off.

"Whereas Lieutenant James Aitken, for the time being commanding His Majesty's ship Juno, has represented to me that he did take four men from the American schooner Sarasota Pride on suspicion that they were formerly of His Majesty's frigate Jocasta, " said Admiral Davis's letter, he was ordering a court martial to try the four men for mutiny.

The letter, addressed to "The Captains of His Majesty's vessels, &c, at English Harbour, Antigua", had to cite at length all the various acts of Parliament and amendments relating to courts martial, and finally concluded, after giving the men's alleged names and aliases: "I do hereby assemble a court martial composed of the captains and commanders of the squadron under my command, for the trial of the said four men for the offences of which they stand charged, and to try them for the same accordingly."

With that came a memorandum which said, in language which Ramage was thankful to see had not been mangled by lawyers: "You are to attend a court martial which is to be assembled by Captain Herbert Edwards, on board His Majesty's ship Invincible in English Harbour, Antigua, on Monday next, the fourteenth instant, at eight o'clock in the morning in order to sit as member of the same." That was also signed by Admiral Davis, but the third, from Captain Edwards, said that Ramage was "desired to attend a court martial", giving the place and time, and adding the time-honoured injunction: "It is expected you will attend in your uniform frock." Sword, clean stock and stockings, polished boots, white breeches and frock coat - no one brought before a naval court martial could complain that his judges were not well dressed.

Ramage pictured the four prisoners. It was unlikely all of them could read or write. They would be receiving copies of the charge and formal requests from whoever had been appointed the deputy judge advocate (probably the Invincible's purser, at eight shillings a day) for lists of witnesses they wished to call in their defence. Ramage felt sorry for them - until he remembered that Captain Wallis, four lieutenants, master, midshipman, surgeon and a lieutenant of Marines had been murdered and one of the King's ships handed over to the enemy . . .

The new Fourth Lieutenant seemed a lively youngster, he thought, in a deliberate attempt to cast off thoughts of the mutiny and the trial. Peter Kenton was twenty-one years old and the son of a half-pay captain. He was only four or five inches over five feet tall and had flaming red hair. His face was heavily freckled and peeling - his skin was obviously sensitive to the sun. More important than his appearance was Southwick's first report on him.

The Master had decided the foretopsail had too many patches to withstand the brisk winds they would find off the coast of the Main, and Kenton was given a few men and orders to get the new one up from the sail room and stow the old. The young Lieutenant had started off well by saying he could make do with fewer men and, with the new sail on deck, went ahead preparing everything to hoist it up to the yard.

So even though the lad had not been on board three hours, Kenton's stock stood high with Southwick, and Ramage knew it was no passing whim, because over the years the old Master had seen dozens of lieutenants come and go - old ones and young, experienced and inexperienced, quiet and noisy. Lieutenants had commissions, so even the most junior in the ship were senior to Southwick: masters were warrant, not commission officers. For all that, it was a rash lieutenant that ran foul of a master, who was usually a fine seaman and often worth any brace of lieutenants that chance or influence brought on board a ship of war.

On the deck below, James Aitken had stripped off his uniform and was washing, using a quart of water in a small basin perched precariously on his wooden trunk. His cabin was eight feet square with only five feet of headroom, and the lantern contributed more heat than light.

No cooling draughts ever penetrated this part of the ship. Aft on the lower deck, just clear of the tiller, was the gunroom with three cabins opening off to one side and four on the other, the accommodation of the four lieutenants, Bowen, Southwick and Rennick. They ate their meals at the long table running almost the length of the gunroom, and a square scuttle beside the table reminded them that they were separated from several tons of gunpowder only by the thickness of the deck, because it covered the hatch leading to the magazine.

Just forward of the gunroom there were two cabins to larboard, belonging to the Captain's clerk and bosun, and two to starboard, occupied by the gunner and carpenter. A larger cabin formed the midshipmen's berth, normally crowded but now occupied only by Paolo Orsini and a master's mate. Forward of them, abreast the mainmast, the Marines slung their hammocks while the seamen had the rest of the deck forward.

Aitken began towelling his bony body. He knew the effort would leave him dripping with perspiration, but he was happy to be back with Captain Ramage, Southwick, Wagstaffe and Bowen, despite the discomfort. He had enjoyed his brief command of the Juno and her captain's quarters were spacious: the great cabin running the width of the ship, the smaller one called the coach, and a third which was the bed place.

Spacious (by comparison with his present cabin) and even luxurious, with sideboard, wine-cooler, chairs, settee and desk, but lonely. That was what had hit him the moment he was given the temporary command. The captain's accommodation formed the after end of the main deck; everyone else, officers, petty officers, seamen and marines lived on the next deck below. That alone increased the sense of isolation: the knowledge that he was alone and above all the others, like a spinster occupying the top floor of a house, with all the other residents on the ground floor.

Yet that was only part of it: most of the isolation came from the fact that the man living in that accommodation was the captain; he made the decisions and gave the orders. He had to be right the first time, and for the sake of discipline (and perhaps pride) he could not ask for second opinions.

The Captain ate alone, unless he invited some of his officers to dinner; when he was not walking the quarterdeck he was alone in his cabin, reading, thinking, brooding or sleeping. To someone who had never experienced this almost terrifying isolation, a captain's life seemed easy: he never stood a watch (although he left orders that he was to be called when land was sighted, if the course could not be laid because of a wind shift, or for a dozen other reasons) and really did not work, apart from signing papers prepared by his clerk, writing up his |ournal (usually borrowing the master's log and copying it) and generally making sure that the officers did their jobs properly.

Aitken now knew from experience what envious young lieutenants, dreaming of the day they would be made post, never considered. The captain had the final responsibility for everything in the ship. If she sprang a leak and sank because the pumps became blocked with rubbish, ran on a reef after the master made a mistake or the current ran faster or slower than expected, lost a mast when rigging failed or wood rotted, was sunk after attacking an enemy too powerful, or ran away when admirals considered she should have stayed and fought - all these were the captain's responsibility: he was the person court-martialled even though the real fault could lie with dozens of other men, ranging from the officers of the deck to a seaman heaving the lead and calling out a wrong sounding.

The safety of the ship, in good weather and bad, on passage or in battle, was only part of it. The surgeon's job was to cure the men's illnesses, but a good captain did his best to make sure the men did not become ill in the first place. Captain Ramage, for instance, was fanatical in going to any length to make sure (here were fruit and fresh vegetables for the men whenever possible, and many a time the cook's mate's hands had been raw and stinging, crushing fresh limes to provide the juice issued to the men daily to ward off scurvy.

Yet, Aitken reflected as he began dressing, the physical health of the ship's company was also only part of the story: there was ulways trouble among two hundred seamen. Hot weather shortened tempers; fights occurred in a few seconds, men who had been friends for months had bitter quarrels and applied to change their mess, deciding they wanted to try their luck with a group of another six or eight men. A man received a letter from home relating some tragedy or crisis; another began hoarding his tot so that he could get blind drunk every few days. A man sulking over an actual or imagined injustice at the hands of a petty officer would slack. One man merited promotion while another ought to be demoted . . .

These were the normal problems in a well-run ship, and in each case the captain had to decide what to do: he had to be a judge one minute and a father the next; a medical man and a navigator. Yet not every ship was well commanded. The pleasure - yes, that was the right word - of serving with Captain Ramage was not that he was always right (the whole ship's company knew how uncertain his temper was before breakfast) but that he cared. If he was wrong then it was not likely anyone else would have been right. He treated his men as though they were his sons, though many were his age and the majority much older. Southwick, for instance, could have been his father.

It showed in many ways. He watched their diet to keep them fit; but like a true father he made damned sure they did their work properly. He rarely flogged a man (none in Aitken's time, and according to Southwick only twice in his whole career), but Aitken had seen seamen who would have preferred the lash of the cat to the lash of the Captain's tongue.

As he pulled on his stockings, smoothing out the wrinkles, Aitken realized that he was in effect assessing Captain Ramage because he had been thinking a lot about Captain Wallis and the Jocasta. Something had gone dreadfully wrong on board that ship, and although no one yet knew exactly what it was, Aitken was becoming more and more certain that if any one man was to blame it was Captain Wallis.

Which is where his gloomy thoughts started: in a ship everything depended on the captain. Aitken knew that Admiral Davis had been surprised when he asked to be allowed to remain with Captain Ramage instead of being made post and given command of a frigate, but the reason had been simple enough: he did not think he was yet fit for command. Not that he couldn't handle a frigate - that was easy enough - but he wanted to learn more about keeping a ship's company well disciplined but happy. It boiled down to having a seaman call you "sir" because he regarded you as the captain, not because you were the man put in as captain and backed up by the Articles of War.

Aitken suspected that Captain Wallis had commanded his ship by waving his commission in one hand and the Articles in the other, forever charging men with breaking an article and setting the bosun's mates to work with the cat. With Captain Ramage the only time the men heard of the Articles of War was every fourth Sunday when, by regulation, they had to be read aloud.

If the Navy suddenly turned republican, he thought, the men would elect Lord Ramage as their captain. Lord Ramage - it was hard to remember he was a lord and, when his father died, would become the Earl of Blazey. How many men in the Navy had a title but refused to use it? Perhaps he would now that he was a captain. According to Southwick it had started when he was a midshipman, when a twelve-year-old with a title might find himself in difficulties on shore when he ranked above his captain socially, and often his admiral as well.

Aitken tried to picture Captain Ramage as a young midshipman. He must be about twenty-five now. No doubt as a youngster he would have been in constant trouble with his mathematics: even now he knew just enough to make him a good navigator, but no more, and would often make jokes at his own expense about his poor mathematics, or tease Southwick, who had an uncanny knack for adding up rows of figures in his head. What he lacked in mathematics he made up for in seamanship: Aitken had watched him handling the ship on scores of occasions and he did it quite instinctively. As a good rider seems part of his horse, so Captain Ramage seemed to be part of the ship. The way he handled the Juno when he put her alongside this very ship, for example . . .

Twenty-five was Aitken's age as well, but Ramage had had half a dozen or more Gazettes almost to himself. Wounded three times, sunk twice: it was a remarkable record. Would his luck hold? Luck did not come into the tactics Captain Ramage used. He was lucky only because so far he had not been cut down by a cannon ball or hit by a musket shot.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about him was that he had earned every bit of promotion. Having a father who was both an Admiral and the holder of one of the oldest earldoms in the country would normally have ensured rapid promotion; but for much of his career the Admiral had been out of favour with the government - the scapegoat, Southwick said, for some mistake the government of the day had made many years ago.

Aitken tucked in his shirt and sat down to cool off. From an officer's point of view, the worst thing about the Captain was that his face gave nothing away - unless you watched his eyes. He could be in a fury or he could be making a joke (he had a dry wit) but his face revealed nothing, except for the eyes. They were set deep, like the muzzles of guns in the ports before they were run out, but when he was angry they fixed on you; you could no more avoid them than if they were a pair of pistols aimed at your head.

Those alarming eyes were going to have plenty of work to do: the Calypso was a fine-looking ship, and from all accounts sailed like a witch, but she would need a broomstick to get into Santa Cruz to cut out the Jocasta. Luckily, most of the ship's company had been in action together several times.

He heard the steward clattering plates and cutlery as he set the table outside in the gunroom. This was what he had missed while commanding the Juno, the company of men like Bowen and Southwick and Wagstaffe. Phew, he was tired - as indeed every man on board must be, after today's work. The ship still looked a mess to the untrained eye, but she would be ready long before the court martial reached a verdict on the mutineers. In a strange way he wished he had never sighted that Jonathan and taken them off. It was one thing to kill four men with a roundshot fired at an enemy in battle; it was another to cause four men to be hanged from the yardarms.

He found he was dreading the sound of the signal gun calling the captains to the flagship for the trial.