Ramage's Trial (37 page)

“Increasing our escort by one more frigate can hardly be hazarding it, sir,” Aitken said sourly but, Ramage guessed, by adopting a guileless manner, deliberately trying to provoke Goddard.

“Damnation, Aitken, don't you understand what a court-martial is all about?”

“I thought I did, sir,” Aitken said, his accent becoming heavier, “I
thought
I did – until now.”

He is trying to provoke me, Goddard told himself, and stabbed his finger down on the
Articles
of War
.

“Listen carefully, now: the nineteenth Article…‘If any person in or belonging to the Fleet shall make, or endeavour to make, any mutinous assembly…he shall suffer death…' and, in the same Article, ‘…shall utter any words of sedition or mutiny, he shall suffer death…'”

Now the pair of you, Goddard thought grimly, can have a taste of your own medicine. “Might I remind you, Mr Aitken, that plotting against a superior officer, removing him from his command, or even talking of doing so, is a breach of that Article, and no one is disputing that Captain Shirley was the superior of all the officers in the King's service in that convoy.”

And that, you impudent Scot, Goddard thought, reminds you that you are as guilty as your blasted commanding officer: you helped him and if you were brought to trial and found guilty (as you surely would) the noose would go round your neck too.

“Aye, sir,” Aitken said, “but there's a phrase in that Article you didn't read, though – about ‘such superior officer being in the execution of his office'. Captain Shirley had no ‘office' connected with the convoy.”

“Don't be impudent,” Goddard snapped. “He was the superior officer by virtue of his seniority in the Navy List, and that's all that matters.” And before Aitken had time to argue that point Goddard said triumphantly: “Now we come to Article twenty – ‘If any person in the Fleet shall conceal any traiterous or mutinous practice or design…he shall suffer death.' Later the same Article refers to concealing ‘
words
, traiterous or mutinous, spoken to the prejudice of His Majesty or tending to the hindrance of the service…'”

Goddard noted to himself that the whippersnapper had no answer to that and hurriedly went on to the next Article.

“Article twenty-two says that ‘If any officer, mariner, soldier or other person in the Fleet, shall strike any of his superior officers, or draw, or offer to draw, or lift up any weapon against him…' then if found guilty that person shall be sentenced to death, and of course the same article deals with anyone disobeying lawful commands.”

Goddard could not resist turning round and wagging an admonitory finger. “Mr Aitken, firing a gun comes in the same category as ‘lift up any weapon', of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Aitken, “but in this case the
senior
officer fired a broadside at the
junior
one.”

Goddard was quick to realize that, having no answer to the slip of his own tongue, it was best to ignore the remark and trust that Jenkins was not putting it in the minutes.

“Now, Mr Aitken, we come to the final Article to the charge, number twenty-three, which says that ‘If any person in the Fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other person in the Fleet, or use reproachful or provoking speeches or gestures…' and so on.”

“Thank you for reading them, sir. Of course I know them by heart but it must be very helpful to yourself as the president to be reminded of the precise wording.”

Goddard, brought up in the old school where you were polite and considerate to your superiors, particularly if your promotion depended on them, shut the book with a snap and signalled to Jenkins to carry on with the questioning. In the meantime this wretched fellow Aitken's question about that phrase “another broadside” had been forgotten: he had guessed that nothing would smother it as successfully as reading from the
Articles of War.

Then, to Goddard's horror, Jenkins, instead of going on to the next question, repeated the previous one about Aitken's role when the
Calypso
boarded the
Jason
, but the deputy judge advocate looked up in time to see Goddard's glare and tried to recover the situation, saying to Aitken: “You have already told the court how Captain Ramage had laid the
Calypso
alongside the
Jason
. Go on from that point.”

“I led a particular boarding party and climbed over at about the mainchains.”

“How were you armed?”

“Cutlass and pistol.”

“And Captain Ramage?”

“If you mean ‘how was he armed?', I think a cutlass and pistol – little enough when you think we'd just received a broadside.”

Ramage almost laughed at the way that Aitken's quiet voice with its Highland lilt had lulled Goddard so that he could make what sounded as though it was going to be an innocent remark in fact be lethal. Lethal, Ramage amended, in a proper trial, but not in this travesty.

Goddard waved at Jenkins. He had learned enough now not to rely on using words with the witness. “Strike out all from ‘little enough' – the witness has been warned to respond only to matter relevant to the charges.”

Yet as Aitken gave a slight bow in acknowledgement, Goddard felt more than a little uncertainty. They were glib, these young scoundrels, and Jenkins did not seem to understand what was going on.

Jenkins picked up the next slip of paper. “Did you or your men shoot at or in any way attack any of the
Jason
's ship's company?”

“It wasn't necessary–”

“Answer ‘yes' or ‘no',” Goddard snapped.

“No,” Aitken said, and as Jenkins dipped his pen in the ink before writing down the single word, Aitken added: “The
Jason
's men had left the 12-pounders and surrendered.”

“Out! Out! Strike it out!” Goddard shouted. “Just ‘No', that was his answer. Aitken, you've had your last warning.”

Jenkins picked up the next slip of paper and, seeing Goddard nod, asked the question. “Did you see Captain Shirley at about this time? And if so, what was he doing?”

“I did, and he was standing abreast the mainmast,” Aitken said.

Goddard nodded. The young puppy had at last learned the lesson, although God knows it had taken long enough.

Reading from the next slip, Jenkins asked: “Was Captain Shirley making any threatening gestures towards you or any of the
Calypso
's boarding party?”

“Oh no,” Aitken said, as though shocked at the idea. “He was standing quite alone and watching us.” He let Jenkins write down the answer and then added: “I also saw that none of his officers were making any threatening gestures.” Goddard nodded – this was more like it: evidence was being given in a proper fashion now. Aitken continued: “In fact I was surprised–” he paused a few moments as Goddard continued nodding, “–because there was not an officer on deck: Captain Shirley was alone, apart from a few midshipmen.”

Goddard's brow wrinkled and the six captains sitting with their backs to Aitken swung round and stared. Captain Swinford, without waiting for Goddard's permission, exclaimed: “What do you mean, there were no other officers on deck? You simply mean you did not see them.”

“I did not see any, sir,” Aitken agreed, and Swinford seemed contented with the reply until Aitken added quietly: “Within minutes I confirmed none was on deck because I found them all locked in the gunroom guarded by a Marine sentry.”

“Indeed?” said Swinford, and looked at Goddard, whose face had gone white. The silence in the cabin was broken only by the slapping of wavelets under the
Salvador del Mundo
's stern, the distant mewing of seagulls, and the scraping of Jenkins' pen.

And that has nailed you, Admiral, Ramage thought. Now Goddard would have to ask questions concerning that evidence, and then there would be a chance of bringing out the details of Shirley's madness.

Goddard rapped the table with his signet ring and a startled Jenkins looked up.

“Read out the question again.”

Jenkins again asked whether Shirley had made any threatening gestures.

“Ah yes,” Goddard said calmly. “That was the question, and the witness replied that he had not, so the answer is: ‘No'. Very well, carry on with Captain Shirley's next question. I have told the witness several times that he must answer the question. The court is not interested in his views on any subject not referred to in the question. We'll be hearing him preaching to us next–” he guffawed at the idea and added, without realizing that the captains were watching him silent and stony-eyed,” – or even giving us his views on naval tactics!” Realizing his joke had fallen flat, he snapped: “Come on, Jenkins, we haven't all night. Next question. But perhaps, Captain Shirley, you have no more questions to ask this witness?”

The question was asked in a persuasive tone and accompanied by what Goddard no doubt regarded as his winning smile.

Shirley raised his head a fraction, as though resting from his survey of every thread in the canvas stretched over the deck. Before answering, he stood up and walked the three or four paces to Jenkins' place at the table, retrieved some slips of paper and returned to his seat. He reached under his chair for a leather pouch, opened it and put away the slips, taking out several more.

Only then did he look up at Goddard and say in a monotone: “I have no more questions to put to this witness.”

Goddard sighed and then stared heavy-eyed at Ramage. “Do you have any questions? As he'll be called later as a defence witness, you must restrict your questions to the points raised by the prosecution.”

“I have some questions, sir.” He turned to Aitken. “The first question asked by the prosecution was to describe your role when the
Jason
was boarded. You omitted to describe my orders to you before the
Calypso
went alongside the
Jason
.”

Ramage was conscious that Goddard's great bulk was tense; he could imagine the man's mind working quickly, trying to spot hidden meanings or traps.

“Your orders were brief, sir. I was to lead one of the boarding parties.” He waited while Jenkins wrote the sentence and then looked at Ramage, as if waiting for the next question. Then he added: “And I was to help secure the captain.”

Goddard neither shouted nor banged the table: he was learning quickly how to deal with questions and answers he did not want in the trial minutes. “Strike out the last part of that reply.”

Ramage took a step forward. “May I ask why, sir?”

“Indeed you may; that is your privilege,” Goddard said amiably. “The question is not allowed because it has nothing to do with the question asked by the prosecutor. I warned you about that a few moments ago, and your very first question ignored the warning.”

“But sir, Captain Shirley asked about Lieutenant Aitken's role. Tell the deputy judge advocate to read out that part of the minutes. If Captain Shirley can ask Lieutenant Aitken about his role, surely I can – I am the one on trial!”

“Your question did not ask Lieutenant Aitken about his role,” Goddard said, his voice oozing with reasonableness. “You asked him what orders you gave him.”

“But
my
orders concerned
his
role!” Ramage protested. “He answered that he was to lead a boarding party–”

“Exactly,” snapped Goddard. “That was the answer to the question. If the witness decides that is his answer to the prosecutor's question, that is the end of it. You can only question him on that.”

Ramage knew that Goddard held too many aces. The president controlled what Jenkins wrote down in the minutes: he controlled the questions asked; he controlled the answers given because he could always order sentences struck out of the minutes on the grounds of them not being relevant. Who could argue – there was no record of – Ramage's question, the witness' reply or of Goddard's reason for striking anything out. In theory the safeguard for the accused (and the witnesses, for that matter) lay in the members of the court, the captains sitting round the table. But those captains, Ramage understood only too well, were serving officers with careers (and therefore promotion) to think about. The defect in the system was in making the president of the court the senior officer. In ports of the United Kingdom it was usually the second-in-command to the commander-in-chief; abroad a flag officer if available, otherwise the senior captain. It would be a bold and foolhardy captain who argued with a flag officer whose gossip, let alone a written report, would lose him his command and ensure that he would stay on half-pay for the rest of his life…on the beach drawing half-pay while the other captains round the table, who had kept their mouths shut, went on to find glory and prize money in battle.

Ramage bowed towards Goddard and said, speaking every word slowly and with deliberate clarity, and watching Jenkins to make sure he entered it all in the minutes: “In view of what you have just said, sir, there are no other questions I can ask this witness.”

Goddard, seeing no ambiguity, said: “Very well, the witness may stand down.”

Jenkins waved his pen at Aitken. “Wait, I must read the minutes back to you and then you must sign them.”

As Jenkins read in a monotone, Aitken caught Ramage's eye and raised an eyebrow. Ramage gave an imperceptible nod. Aitken had a quick grasp in normal times: in these somewhat unusual circumstances he seemed to be even faster.

Jenkins finished reading and, looking across at Aitken, held up the quill. “Please sign here that the minutes are a true record of the evidence you have given.”

“Ahhhh,” Aitken shook his head, “now there we have a problem, mister. You know quite well the minutes are by no means a true record of the evidence I've been giving, so thanking you for your trouble, but I'll no be signing the noo.”