"Ramage and the Freebooters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pope Dudley)

CHAPTER TWO

Dusty and weary after a night's journey in the post-chaise from London to Portsmouth, Ramage walked through the great dockyard after visiting the Admiral Superintendent's office with as much enthusiasm for the task ahead as a condemned man going to the wall to face a firing squad.

Normally there was more bustle in the streets of Portsmouth than in the City of London; normally the dockyard was busier than Billingsgate Fishmarket, and the language riper, and one had to keep a weather eye open for fear of being run down by an exuberant crowd of shipwrights' apprentices hurrying along with a handcart of wood.

There'd be the thudding of a hundred adzes biting into solid English oak, shaping futtocks and beams for new ships of war; the sharp clanking of blacksmiths' hammers shaping red-hot metal in the forges; the grating of two-handled saws cutting logs into planks in the sawyers' pits.

Groups of seamen from the various ships with a cheery 'One, two and heave!' would normally be hoisting sacks and barrels of provisions on to a cart, while the masts and yards sprouting from ships in the docks between the buildings would be alive with men bending on new sails and replacing worn-out rigging.

Marine sentries guarding the gates and the buildings would be saluting smartly, muskets clattering in a cloud of pipe-clay.

But today the dockyard was deserted as though abandoned before an approaching enemy army. Not one adze, blacksmith's hammer or saw was at work; not one forge had its furnace alight: the mutineers had frightened the craftsmen into staying at home. The masts and yards were bare—indeed, few yards were even squared.

Although there were plenty of seamen about, they slouched, some of them insolently walking out of their way to pass dose to an officer without saluting.

For the first time in his life Ramage felt he didn't belong; neither to me dockyard nor the ships. All were alien, things of brick or wood through which malevolent ghosts walked.

And the Port Admiral... He'd cursed and sworn with well-nigh apoplectic vigour about the mutineers and the disrespect they'd shown him; but he'd been quite unable to tell Ramage what was going on. In fact Ramage ended the interview with the uncomfortable feeling the Admiral considered him an odd fellow for being so inquisitive and was far more concerned that, as a new Commanding officer joining his ship he took a copy—and signed a receipt for it—of me bulky 'Port Orders' which outlined in considerable detail how the port's daily routine was to be conducted.

Ramage seemed as he recalled the interview. When he'd asked whether the Triton was provisioned for the West Indies and ready for sea, the question had been brushed aside, the Admiral drawing his attention to me first of the Port Orders and reading it out—'The receipt of all Orders or Letters on Service is to be immediately acknowledged in writing...'

Like a naval Nero fiddling while the Fleet mutinied, the Admiral reacted by ignoring it, apart from i tirade against the men in the Royal George who'd dared to hoist a red flag —the 'bloody flag'.

However, he'd finally managed to discover that Southwick had already gone on board the Triton. That was something, even though the Admiral added with gloomy relish that the mutineers had by now probably put him in irons and would do me same to Ramage the moment he set foot on board.

Recalling Lord Spencer's reactions when he'd attempted to warn him that many captains felt some of the seamen's grievances were justified, Ramage suddenly understood why the First Lord showed so little interest: he relied on his admirals to advise him; men like the Port Admiral. Men who, when they went to sea, took their own provisions, own cook and own servants; who, by the very nature of their high position, had to remain remote from the seamen. Little wonder the First Lord showed little sympathy for the men.

And suddenly he guessed that the mutineers' leaders must have realized all this long ago; realized that open mutiny was the only chance of getting better conditions. Since the men had already announced their loyalty to the King and vowed they'd sail at once if the French Fleet put to sea, there was no question that the mutiny was fomented by revolutionaries.

But why, he mused, couldn't people of Spencer's calibre understand that conditions must be bad for thousands of men to risk hanging to secure a few pence more pay, another two ounces in a pound of provisions, occasional shore leave and better treatment for the sick and wounded? The only possible explanation was that the admirals, unwilling to be the bearers of unpalatable news, had forgotten they had a loyalty to their men and told the First Lord what they thought he'd want to hear...

Who on earth was waving from that doorway? Suddenly Ramage recognized the lanky figure of Thomas Jackson, an American seaman and his former coxswain in the Kathleen: the man who'd helped him rescue the Marchesa and helped him escape, using false papers, after being captured by the Spaniards. Each had saved the other's life more than once; between them was the bond of shared dangers, failures and successes.

Glancing round to make sure none of the seamen was watching, Ramage walked over to the building, with apparent casualness, noticing Jackson had disappeared through the open door.

The building was a cooper's store, full of empty barrels and casks, with thousands of staves and hoops piled on top of each other in great stacks.

'Morning, sir: sorry to be waving like that but------'

'Good to see you, Jackson: you're mustered in the Triton?'

'Aye, sir: all the Kathleens exchanged into her from the Lively and Mr Southwick's joined. That's why I'm here.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, sir, us Kathleens didn't think anything about the exchange because the Lively's due for a refit soon; but when Mr Southwick arrived alongside one or two of us began to wonder. The original Tritons were all for keeping him off, but we got him on board. I tipped him the wink and as he knew you were due he thought I'd better stay on shore to keep a weather eye open.'

'Good. Now, how are things on board?'

'Bad, I'm afraid, sir.'

The Tritons?'

'They support the mutiny, every one of them. There's no violence, though. They're good enough men at heart.'

'A particular leader?'

'One man—the rest follow him.'

'If he wasn't on board?'

'Don't know, sir, to be honest. Someone else might take his place.'

'Any likely candidates?'

'No, I don't think so. But I've only been on board a short while, sir: it's hard to be sure.'

'The Kathleens?'

Jackson looked embarrassed.

'Come on, speak out, Jackson. The whole damned Fleet's mutinied, so nothing else can surprise me!'

'It's difficult to explain, sir, because the men's claims __________'

'We're not discussing conditions in the Navy, Jackson, because I can't change them. Now, how do the Kathleens stand?'

'Well, sir...'

He understood only too well Jackson's dilemma: those twenty-five men were among the finest in the Navy: cheerful, loyal and well-disciplined. After the Kathleen had been sunk he'd hand-picked those sent to the Lively and it had been difficult to choose them.

And how ironical—here's Jackson, an American and in law neutral, explaining away the disloyalty of Britons to the Royal Navy!

'It's like this, sir,' Jackson finally began, running a hand through his thinning hair, then pinching his nose. 'The delegates from all the sail of the line have told the smaller ships to stay out of the mutiny, but they're being ignored, because all the men think the Fleet's claims are reasonable. So the Kathleens—well, in the Lively we were just a small group and with everyone else in favour—well, we agreed.

'Everything's being organized by the delegates in the big ships: they're doing all the running around, shouting and cheering, sending the officers on shore, and hoisting the "bloody flag". In the frigates it's different; it just means no one doing any work. Just playing cards and so on------'

Ramage interrupted: 'Stop backing and rilling! Get to the point!'

'Well, you couldn't have done anything with the Kathleens in the Lively because whatever they thought they were outnumbered five to one. In the Triton there's thirty-six originals and twenty-five Kathleens. It's a question of whether the Tritons threaten to stop the Kathleens doing anything.'

'You think they will.'

'Yes. At least, this fellow I was telling you about will.'

'And the Kathleens would obey him?'

'I'm not sure.' Jackson said frankly. 'Stafford, Fuller, Rossi, Maxton—all of them would do anything for you personally, sir. But—well, this mutiny's the only chance the Fleet has of getting an improvement.'

'What you mean is,' Ramage said bluntly, 'they think they've got to be loyal to the mutineers, and it'd be unfair to ask 'em to be loyal to me as well.'

'That's more or less it, sir,' Jackson admitted.

'I wonder if the mutineers realize that if the French Navy mutinied Bonaparte'd shoot every third man.'

'I know,' Jackson said soberly. 'That's why I'm...'

He didn't finish the sentence, and Ramage knew there was nothing more the American could tell him.

The task was simple enough; the execution was so complicated he doubted if anyone could do it. Who, with nothing to offer, could talk honest men into dividing their loyalty?

'Go back on board,' he told Jackson, 'and pass the word to Mr Southwick that I'll be out within the hour. But don't tell anyone else.'

*

The boatman at the tiller of the little cutter slicing its way through the choppy sea to take Ramage to the brig at anchor near the Spit Sand outside the harbour was as talkative and inquisitive as his mate was silent and uninterested.

'The Triton you said, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Nice little ship. Just finished refitting, they say.'

Ramage nodded.

'You'll be the new capting, I suppose, sir?'

Ramage dodged the question in case the man was in the pay of the mutineers, and asked: 'What happened to her present one?'

'Put on shore by the mutineers he was, like a lot of the officers from the ships of the line. An 'ard man, they do say.'

Ramage nodded.

'Took me new Master out to her last night.'

Ramage nodded again and, tapping the leather bag he held on his lap, said, 'I'm merely a messenger.'

The boatman eyed his trunk stowed under a tarpaulin to protect it from the spray.

'Aye,' he said, with all the insolence of a man who carried a Protection in his pocket, exempting him from the attention of a press gang, 'I guessed you must be.'

With that he spat to leeward and, jamming his hip against the tiller, dug into his pocket for a knife and a quid of tobacco. He sliced off a piece, stuck it in his mouth and began chewing.

The Triton was at anchor off Fort Monckton and just dear of Spit Sand, the big shoal on the Gosport side which almost sealed off the V-shaped entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. The shoal left only a narrow channel for large ships and it ran close in along the Southsea and Portsmouth side. Ramage noted grimly, as an idea began to form in his mind, that at half-ebb and half-flood the tidal stream there was very strong.

At first the Gosport shore sheltered the harbour entrance from the brisk west wind, but as the cutter slipped across the shallow Hamilton Bank the waves were short and high and spray blew aft, and Ramage wrapped himself in his boat cloak.

As the cutter beat down parallel with the coast he could see the Triton more clearly. Finally, with the brig bearing north-west the boatman growled:

'Mind yer 'ead, sir: smartly with them sheets, Bert.'

He pushed the tiller over and the sail swung across, filled on the other tack, and the cutter sped directly towards the brig.

Outlined against fiat land to the south of Haslar Hospital the little brig looked trim and warlike. Her two masts were exactly me same height; her hull gleamed black with a broad white strake sweeping along a few inches below the top of her bulwarks and a little wider than her gun ports, which showed as five black squares. She was floating low on her marks—showing she'd been provisioned for several months —and her yards were hanging square.

Ramage realized the boatman was steering to go alongside on the larboard side, a deliberate insult since the other side was used for officers.

'Starboard side, dam' you,' Ramage growled without looking round. That's cost you your tip.'

'Sorry sir—no offence meant; just wasn't thinking:'

'Don't lie: d'you think I don't recognize a former man o' war's man?'

It was a long shot but, from the way the man lapsed into silence, an accurate one.

The mate went to the halyards and, as the boatman luffed up the cutter, let go the halyard. Both of them grabbed the sail and stifled it and a moment later the mate had hooked on alongside the brig.

After paying the boatman Ramage slung the strap of his leather bag over his left shoulder and climbed up the brig's side battens.

There'd been no hail from a sentry on board the Triton, but Ramage knew many pairs of eyes had been watching his approach.

A few moments later he was standing on deck just forward of the main mast. A score of seamen lounging around were doing nothing, but Southwick, his hat unsuccessful in its attempt to contain his flowing white hair, was standing there saluting, a broad grin on his red face.

'Welcome on board, sir!'

Ramage returned the salute and at once shook the old Master by the hand.

'Hello and thank you, Mr Southwick: I'm glad to see you again. Are there any other commission or warrant officers on board?'

Realizing the significance of Ramage's words, Southwick said quickly: 'No, sir, only myself.'

'Very well.'

Unhurriedly Ramage opened the leather bag, took out and unfolded a large sheet of paper and, turning so the men on the deck could hear, began reading it aloud, the wind snatching at his words.

'By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom and Ireland... to Lieutenant the Lord Ramage ... His Majesty's brig Triton ... willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said brig to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments, with all due respect to you, their said Captain... you will carry out the General Printed Instructions and any orders and instructions you may receive ... hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril...'

He folded me paper and put it back in the bag. By reading to the officers on board the commission appointing him captain, he had 'read himself in', lawfully establishing himself in command. In happier times me ship's company would also have been mustered to hear it and he would have concluded with a speech which would have given them all a chance to size him up.

Jackson, Stafford and Fuller were now standing by the gangway, and Ramage was thankful for the American's foresight which ensured that his first order, to be made through the Master, would be obeyed. First impressions ...

'Mr Southwick, would you have my trunk hoisted on board from the cutter—the boatman has been paid. Then join me in the cabin.'

With that he walked slowly aft to the taffrail, turned and looked forward along the whole length of the deck.

Every object and every person he saw was under his command : he was the king of all he surveyed. Legally, he had more power of life and death over these men than the King himself: he could order any of them to be flogged, which the King could not. He could order them into a battle from which they couldn't possibly return alive, and since the King didn't command a ship he couldn't do that either.

But, Ramage thought ruefully, just as no king was safe from revolution, no captain was safe from mutiny; and for all the good it did, his commission could have been a cook's recipe...

Walking forward the fifteen feet that brought him to the companionway, he clattered down the steps and turned aft into the two cabins which would be his home for the next few months. Stretching the full width of the hull, one abaft the other, they formed the stern of the ship. Forward of them were three small cabins on either side, against the hull, the space in the middle forming the wardroom. Each was about six feet square and in them lived Southwick, the surgeon, purser, and other senior men.

Ramage glanced round at the main cabin. It was larger than he expected and he needed to bend his neck only slightly to avoid banging his head on the beams. The door was in the middle of the bulkhead and there was a similar door in the other bulkhead leading to his sleeping cabin.

The main cabin was well furnished: a desk to starboard against the forward bulkhead was lit by the skylight above; next to it a sideboard fitted the ship's side and had a glass-fronted cupboard over it.

On the larboard side a well-padded settee made three sides of a square, its back against the forward bulkhead, the ship's side and after bulkhead. A table was fitted in the middle so that four or five people on the settee sat round three sides of it, leaving the fourth clear for the steward to work.

Walking aft into the sleeping cabin, Ramage found it was small and dark and airless: the hull was curving into the centre-line so sharply (the rudder was hung only a few feet farther aft) that mere was less than five feet headroom.

The long, open-topped box that was the cot, slung at head and foot by ropes secured to the beams above, had just enough room to swing with the ship's roll without banging the larboard side of the hull. On the starboard side there was a chest of drawers and an enamelled basin with a mirror above it. But the only light came through the open door: the skylight did not reach over this cabin.

Ramage returned to the main cabin and went to the desk, opening the leather bag and emptying out its contents as he sat down.

His commission, a new copy of the Signal Book for Skips of War, the letters for Admiral Curtis, Lord St Vincent, and Admiral Robinson, a small fiat parcel, and the copy of his orders from the Admiralty.

After locking the Signal Book and letters—the most secret items on board—in the top drawer of the desk, he opened the parcel. It was a small portrait in a plain gilt frame, and a good likeness—the artist had almost caught the unpredictability of Gianna's expressions—one moment so patrician, the next so impudent. And the way the light glistened in her jet black hair. And the small nose, high cheek bones and warm, expressive mouth.

Although the portrait was simply a head and shoulders, one could see the subject was small—barely five feet tall; and even a stranger could sense she was accustomed to rule. How long, he mused, before she ceased being a refugee and could return to her tiny kingdom of Volterra, with its 20,000 inhabitants, all of whom were now part of Bonaparte's empire?

She might be the ruler of Volterra and a wave of her hand might have dismissed her chief minister; but Ramage relaxed for a few minutes to relive their parting a few hours ago at Blazey House, in Palace Street. Since Gianna was living with his parents, she'd insisted on nursing him while he recovered from the head wound. Neither of them had been over-anxious to speed his convalescence.

The door of his bedroom would be flung open; a moment later Gianna would come in carrying a tray of food. She'd set down the tray, shut the door and run into his arms. He grinned to himself as he thought of the cold meals he'd eaten because the tray had remained on the table for so long before they remembered the ostensible reason for her visit to the sickroom.

When the time came to write to the Admiralty reporting he was fit for duty she'd been full of secret plans to prevent him getting an appointment; in fact his father had eventually —unknown at the rime to Ramage—warned her not to meddle. But, like Ramage himself, they loved her deeply; she'd become the daughter his mother always wanted. Yet when his mother had once hinted, when Gianna was out of the room, that she would make an excellent daughter-in-law, the old Admiral had pointed out that Volterra would be a turbulent state by the time Bonaparte was driven out of Italy; the spirit of revolution would linger. The people might be unwilling to return to the old, almost feudal system. Gianna might have a struggle to regain her place as Volterra's ruler, and a foreign husband would be a handicap. Grunts and the scuffling of feet on the companion ladder beyond the bulkhead interrupted his thoughts and told him the seamen were bringing dawn his trunk.

Stafford backed in first, holding one end, followed by the lanky Suffolk fisherman, Fuller, who was holding the other. Jackson brought up the rear with sharp but good-natured exclamations of 'Mind the table—steady, Fuller, you clodhopper I'

Ramage pointed to the after cabin. He'd have to find out if the captain's steward was on board; but for the moment, until he was sure of the man's loyalty, he didn't want him rummaging around.

After putting down me trunk both Stafford and Fuller relumed grinning, reminding Ramage of a pair of eager spaniels.

'Well, you two, I'm glad to see you again.'

' Twas a surprise, sir,' said Fuller; and Stafford's cockney face showed he meant it when he said, 'Never guessed we'd 'ave the 'onour o' servin' wiv you agin, sir!'

'From what I hear,' Ramage said dryly, 'it's an honour the rest of the ship's company don't wish to share.'

'Well, sir...' Stafford began, and Fuller's bony hands clenched and unclenched with embarrassment, the few yellowed teeth he still possessed showing as he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

'Very well,' Ramage said, and grinned. 'Carry on, Jackson, pass the word for Mr Southwick.'

'He's just coming, sir.'

Ramage heard shoes clattering on the ladder and as the three men left Southwick burst into the cabin.

'Heavens, I'm glad to see you, sir!' He shut the door. 'What a mess it all is!'

Ramage nodded. 'You've had an enjoyable leave?'

'Fine—though I'm glad to be back afloat again. And you, sir?'

'The same.'

'The Marchesa?'

'She's very well and enjoying England. She asked me to give you her best wishes.' He pointed at her portrait. 'She's still with us in a sense!'

Southwick grinned with obvious delight. 'It was good of her to remember me, sir. And that's a splendid likeness.

Your father, sir?'

'Very well. He enjoyed the tale of our scrap off Cape St Vincent.'

'Thought he would—and wished he was there with us, no doubt.'

'Now,' Ramage said briskly. 'Thanks for sending Jackson. How do we stand here?'

'Jackson was the only one I could send who'd be any use. That's how we stand...'

'As bad as that?'

'Well, that's how we stood a'fore you came on board.'

'How's my arrival affected the situation?'

Southwick ruffled his hair, obviously choosing his words carefully.

'Put it like this: the Tritons look to me like good lads who've just followed the rest of the Fleet, just as the Kathleens followed the Lively. What matters is that the thirty-six Tritons don't know you, and the twenty-five Kathleens do. They'd be a poor lot if they ever forgot what you've done for 'em.'

'I've merely tried to kill them from time to time.'

'Now, now sir,' Southwick chided, surprised at the bitterness in his captain's voice. 'You always take on so. In war some's got to get killed, and the men know that. Still...'

'Still what?'

'Well, you'll be wanting to know if the Kathleens will get this brig under way, even if the original Tritons won't lift a finger.'

'More than that: would the Tritons try to stop them?'

'I've been trying to find out, and to be honest I'm not sure; nor is Jackson. The Kathleens are torn between loyalty to the mutineers—you can understand that, though I'd like to see all those dam' delegates dangling from the foreyardarm —and their loyalty to you.'

'And what happens when the strain comes on both loyalties at once?'

Southwick, looking at him directly, said in a flat voice:

'It's entirely up to you, sir. That's Jackson's opinion—and he's a seaman among seamen—and it's mine, too.'

Ramage had known that only too well, even without the First Lord saying it. But coining from Southwick so bluntly it jolted him. It's entirely up to you! This was the loneliness of command. From the First Lord of the Admiralty to me old Master of the Triton came the same verdict.

'Any idea what my attitude should be?'

'None, sir, more's the pity. I was talking half the night with Jackson on just that point.'

'But you must have some idea: harsh and threatening, friendly and appealing to their loyalty, just laughing at the whole thing?'

'I'm not backing and filling to avoid the responsibility of advising you, sir. I simply don't know. None of us has ever seen open mutiny before!'

'True . . . Jackson mentioned a ringleader among the Tritons?"

'Well, not exactly a ringleader; mere's one of them who's a sort of spokesman.'

'What's his name? An out-and-out mutineer?'

'Harris. No, not a real mutineer; in fact the sort of man I reckon you'd probably rate a petty officer after a couple of months. Just intelligent and literate. The rest of me men turn to him to read and write their letters and so on.'

Ramage grinned. 'Very well, Southwick. Now, do you know anything about my orders from the Admiralty?'

The Master shook his head and Ramage quickly explained them, concluding: 'We must get under way tomorrow morning: high water is six o'clock. I want to weigh an hour before and we'll get the most out of the ebb. I'll spend the rest of today wandering around. Make no attempt at enforcing discipline; just leave the men alone, so I can take a good look at them. How about the Marines?'

'No sergeant: just a corporal and six men. They're all right, but they can't do anything even if they wanted to because they've no arms: the seamen have taken the keys to the arms lockers, though not for those in my cabin.'

After the Master left the cabin, Ramage went to the sleeping cabin, unlocked his trunk and took out a pair of half boots. He checked the right one, which had a sheath for a throwing knife sewn inside, and pulled them on in place of his shoes.

There was much to do: before sailing he should go through all the papers left by the previous captain. There were inventories to check and sign, letters and order books to read, a dozen and one other things a new captain had to deal with as soon as he took over command to satisfy the voracious appetities of the clerks at the Admiralty and the Navy Board.

And then, with Southwick, he'd have to check over the ship: masts, yards, sails, hull, stores, powder, shot and provisions ... small wonder the poor old Triton was floating on her marks: she was carrying enough food and water to feed more than sixty men for half a year; enough powder and shot to fight a couple of dozen brisk engagements; enough spare sails and cordage to keep her at sea despite wear, tear and damage from battles with both Nature and the enemy.

He went to bed early that night. It was obvious, after a couple of hours spent on deck, that there was little to be done while the ship was still in sight of the rest of the Fleet. His steward was too terrified even to unpack his trunk and stow the contents; the Marines dare not resume their duties, so he slept without a sentry at the door. By nine o'clock, after half an hour spent giving instructions to Southwick, Ramage was lying in his cot going over his plan once again.

It was all or nothing. If it failed he'd be a laughing stock and, since he'd received his orders direct from the First Lord, be might just as well resign his commission since any chance of further promotion—or even employment—would be nil. He'd be the comic hero of the saga of Spit Sand shoal.