Ramage and the Freebooters r-3 Read online

  I have to lead 'em and punish 'em when necessary. Sometimes when going into action I have to give orders which will certainly kill one, a dozen or all of them. I am—if I do the job properly—their teacher and leader, judge and jury. Yes, and father-confessor and friend as well.

  As far as the Admiralty are concerned, whether I succeed or not has little to do with my promotion; where that's concerned it's more important to have influence in Parliament! The surest way to quick promotion is to be closely related to someone worth five votes to the Government in the House of Commons ... But whether the system is good or bad, it is the system; neither I nor anyone else can change it, whether----- 'Deck there!'

  The shout was from the lookout at the foremast and South-wick, snatching up the speaking trumpet, bellowed a reply.

  The man shouted back: 'Land, sir. A headland I think, two points on the starboard bow; can just see it in the haze.'

  Southwick acknowledged, looked around for Appleby and demanded: 'Would you recognize the Lizard if you saw it?'

  'Yes sir, I've seen it several times.'

  'Good. Take the "bring 'em near" and get aloft.'

  Ramage idly watched him scurry forward and begin the long climb up the ratlines. The Lizard...

  *

  The blue-grey smudge on the starboard quarter began slowly to fade and drop below the horizon, and Ramage watched the bosun's mate sitting on the coaming of the main hatch. Every movement the man made irritated him; everything about him was irritating.

  Evan Evans was a tall and almost painfully thin Welshman who viewed the world, when he was sober, with doleful disapproval. However, his enormous nose—it looked like a purple cucumber stuck on as a joke—had an uncanny instinct for pointing into a tot of rum, and he had been one of the most popular of the Kathleen's petty officers.

  But Evans was now making up three cat-o'-nine-tails for the flogging tomorrow morning.

  It 'was a tradition—perhaps there'd been an Admiralty order, though Ramage had never seen it—that a man was never flogged on the day the captain pronounced the sentence: always the next.

  No doubt the seamen thought it was to give the sentenced men time to work up a dread of the punishment facing them; but Ramage knew that, by tradition anyway, it was to give the captain time for second thoughts hi case he had acted too harshly in the heat of the moment. And, curiously enough, the delay was doubly to the men's advantage. If those to be flogged were popular then many of their shipmates illicitly hoarded their most valued possession, their morning and evening tots of rum, so that (if it could not be smuggled to the prisoners to drink before being marched on deck) they had something to deaden the pain after the punishment. M the punishment was given the same day as the sentence there'd be no time for hoarding.

  Evan Evans was working slowly and steadily; there was a dreadful fascination in watching him which, Ramage noticed, everyone else shared: not a seaman walked past without glancing at him. But the man worked methodically, oblivious to stares and, because of his rating, immune from unpleasant comments.

  Beside him on the deck were three pieces of thick rope, each a couple of feet long and an inch in diameter. They were for the handles. From a coil of braided line Evans had already cut twenty-seven pieces, each just over two feet long and a quarter of an inch in diameter. They would form the tails.

  As Ramage paced miserably up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck, pausing occasionally to glance at the set of the sails and check the course the helmsmen were steering. Evans went on with his work. He picked up one length of thick rope and put it across his knees. From the brim of his tarred hat he took a sailmaker's needle and threaded it with twine.

  With a slowness that did not hide his deftness, he made a sailmaker's whipping at one end of the rope, preventing the strands coming undone. After whipping an end of each of the other two thick pieces he put them down on the deck again. Then he patiently whipped one end of each of the twenty-seven tails.

  The Lizard was still a smudge on the horizon when he dropped the last one on the deck and stuck the needle back in his hat. He held one of the handles between his knees, the whipped end hanging down, the other end conveniently placed to work on. Unlaying the three strands of the rope for a couple of inches, he took one of the tails and worked the unwhipped end between the unlaid strands of the rope in the fashion of a long splice. Holding it in place with one hand he did the same with another, then a third and fourth until all nine had been spliced into the handle.

  Retrieving the needle from his hat and re-threading it, he ran a few stitches through each tail where it was spliced into the rope, which then had one whipping put over the end and another an inch farther down. There'd be no chance of the tails pulling out.

  After inspecting it carefully he put the cat down on the deck and took up a roll of red baize material. Measuring the handle against the material, he used an enormous pair of sail-maker's scissors to cut off a strip just long and wide enough to wrap right round it. With all the care of a seamstress making a ball dress for her most important customer, he then wrapped the material round the handle like a stocking, joining it by stitching a seam along the entire length. With the thread cut and the needle stuck back in his hat he held up the finished cat.

  Even from five yards away it looked both terrible and grotesque: a vile and deadly tropical plant perhaps, or a deformed octopus—the stiffness of the line made the nine tails stick out like groping tentacles from the red handle.

  Ramage was thankful the men had not been guilty of theft because that would have meant the tails of the cat being knotted, three knots in each. Mutiny, desertion, disobedience, drunkenness, bestiality—for all those crimes the cat was not knotted; only for theft.

  Yet there was a crude justification for that apparent anomaly—men cheerfully put up with rats on board, and there were weevils in the bread that they shared with the mice and rats, but there was no worse animal in a ship than a thief; a seaman who stole from his shipmates.

  As he watched, Evans finished sewing a small bag of red baize with a drawstring round the neck, curled up the cat, put it in the bag and tightened on the drawstring. Then he began making the second cat.

  It was a ritual, a tradition, whose origins were probably lost in antiquity, and although he'd witnessed many floggings in ships in which he'd previously served, first as a midshipman and then as a lieutenant, Ramage never realized (perhaps, he thought grimly, because he'd never been responsible for ordering a flogging) just what effect a bosun's mate sitting there making a cat had on the rest of the ship's company. Perhaps even more of an effect—as far as being a deterrent was concerned—than watching an actual flogging.

  Always a new cat-o'-nine-tails for each flogging; always the cat was made the day before; nearly always it was given a red baize handle and put in a red baize bag.

  Red to hide the bloodstains? Hardly, since the whole snip's company had to watch a flogging and could see the tails becoming soaked in blood and tangled after each stroke, so that the bosun's mate had to straighten them out by running his fingers through them—'combing the cat'. And one look at a man's back after even half a dozen strokes made such niceties as a red handle unnecessary.

  No, probably the origin was just that red was a colour of warning; that before the flogging, while the victim was being seized up and a leather apron tied high round the back of his waist to protect his liver, spleen and kidneys from the tails, the ship's company would see the bosun's mates standing there ready, some of them, depending how many men were to be flogged, holding red baize bags.

  One victim, one bag. But if he was to get more than a dozen strokes, then more than one bosun's mate, because it was customary to change the bosun's mate after he'd administered a dozen.

  Ramage knew of one captain who always made a point of having at least one left-handed bosun's mate on board. If a bosun's mate was right-handed, the tails of the cat fell diagonally downwards from the right shoulder. This captain boasted that his left-handed bo
sun's mate 'crossed the cuts'.

  Shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the thought of flogging, Ramage turned and looked back at the Lizard. The wind was north, a nice breeze, almost a soldier's wind to give Ushant a wide berth. In fifteen minutes the headland would be out of sight, and he took a bearing, noting it and the time on the slate.

  As he put the slate down on the binnacle he reflected how many thousands of times seamen before him had noted the bearing of the Lizard ...

  The wretched Duke of Medina Sidonia with the Spanish Armada: the Lizard had been his first sight of the England he was supposed to conquer for his master, Philip II. It was the last sight of England for the Pilgrim Fathers sailing for America; Sir Francis Drake's, too, before he died off Porto bello almost exactly two centuries ago. (And how excited be must have felt, before that, as he sailed back to sight it and complete his great Voyage of Circumnavigation—three years in which he encircled the globe.) Nor did Ramage forget the Lizard was Cornwall. Hidden under its lee was Landewednack, whose parish church was the most southerly in England. There was the fishing village of Coverack whose fishermen often used the stone quay for landing strange cargoes at dead of night, since many of them more often fished for bottles and casks than fish; bottles and casks brimful of smuggled brandy. The French Directory might be at war with Britain, but nothing would interrupt one of Cornwall's profitable industries, smuggling from Brittany.

  Ramage already knew from a previous glance at the chart that the Triton was steering a course which, if one drew a line on a chart along her wake, would go through the Lizard and diagonally right across Cornwall to touch Tintagel on the west coast, the birthplace—so legend had it—of King Arthur.

  For the moment Ramage had little concern for King Arthur: the line, a few miles before reaching Tintagel, passed through St Kew, the home for several centuries of the Ram He imagined a bird crossing the Lizard and flying towards St Kew, mentally ticking off the places it would cross and revelling in their names, delighting in their very Cornishness, their complete difference from other names in the rest of the country. Indeed, the majority of Cornishmen still regarded anyone living outside the county boundary as foreigners.

  Over the Lizard, then, passing the link village of Gunwalloe in a small cove among towering cliffs—cliffs at the foot of which was the wreck of a treasure ship belonging to the King of Portugal, the St Andrew, driven there to her death by a south-westerly gale more than 250 years earlier. Legend had it that the folk of Gunwalloe saved eighteen great ingots of silver—and four suits of armour, made in Flanders for the King.

  On and on: Feock, Old Kea and Malpas, Penkevil, Probus and (too far for the poor bird to see, he admitted, but he delighted in the names) Sticker and Polgooth; and Veryan, near St Austell, where an ancient king was supposed to be buried in his armour, and beside Him a golden boat in which, on the day he rose up again, he would sail away.

  Right over Castle an Dinas (a more suitable claimant to being the birthplace of King Arthur than Tintagel, Ramage always thought: any man born at Tintagel, with the sea thundering against the cliffs, would surely have been a great sea king). Then after Talskiddy and Bilberry Bugle the bird would be flying over rugged land laced with sheep tracks, gashed with rocky hills, softened by grassy mounds—Ramage country!

  Lying in the cemeteries of the surrounding churches were dozens of long-dead Ramages. Men of honour who'd died in battle, sickness and old age (and some had died dishonourably too: his family had had its share of black sheep). There were Ramages killed fighting the Royalist cause alongside Sir Bevil Grenvile and Sir Ralph Hopton, Sir John Arundel and Sydney Godolphin, Sir Nicholas Slanning and Sir John Trevanion—aye, they and almost every Cornish family, aristocrat or peasant had fought hard against Cromwell's armies.

  And there were Ramages whose bodies had been brought back from distant battlefields to rest in the vaults of various branches of me family; and Ramages lost at sea in the King's service whose very existence was recorded now only by memorial tablets inside the churches.

  Thinking of his forebears, it seemed the actual moment of death was not important to record: you died when those who lived forgot your existence. Gloomy thoughts... and he pictured the bird flying over the River Camel stretching away to me port of Padstow. Once one of Cornwall's great ports, it was now being strangled by a sandbar across its entrance—the work, so the local folk had it, of a jealous mermaid—and well named the Doom Bar, because any ship missing the narrow channel through it on the west side (keeping so close to the rocks her yardarms almost touched them) was indeed doomed.

  He recalled the flood stream rushing over Doom Bar and up the Camel to cover the sandy stretches exposed by the low tide, floating the schooner lying aground at Wadebridge itself and delighting the ducks and swirling round the granite buttresses of the old bridge. And a mile or so up the valley, laced with sunken lanes, Egloshayle, where on a moonlit night the villagers gave the church a wide berth for fear of seeing a white rabbit with pink eyes—a rabbit who left the man who went to hunt it dead by the church, his chest full of the shot with which he'd loaded his musket And not far away Tregeagle, where one house had regular visits from the ghost of a Cavalier, spurs ringing, curly hair loose over his shoulders.

  From Egloshayle the road ran north-eastward to St Kew Highway, with St Kew itself standing back from it. And within a circle of five or ten miles were the villages through which he had been driven as a small child in his father's carriage and later ridden his own horse—Blisand, Penpont, Michaelstow and Camelford, all skirting Bodmin Moor ... He remembered rides from Camelford across the Moors to the two great peaks of Roughtor and Brown Willy, towering nearly 1,400 feet over the surrounding countryside as if the guardians of all Cornwall.

  And Gianna would be at St Kew within a few days with his father and mother...

  Southwick, standing in front of him, had obviously just asked a question, which he repeated as Ramage looked at him blankly.

  'Grating or capstan, sir?'

  'What?'

  The Master had seen the Lizard disappear from view too often not to guess Ramage's thoughts were either on his home beyond the Lizard or of the Marchesa, and he rephrased the question.

  'The floggings tomorrow, sir: shall we use a grating or the capstan?'

  'Capstan,' Ramage said automatically, and Southwick thanked him and walked away.

  Why choose the capstan? He'd replied without thinking but answered his own question at once. In larger ships it was usual to take one of the gratings covering a hatch and stand it vertically against the bulwark or the fo'c'sle bulkhead. The man to be flogged was made to stand spreadeagled against the grating, and his hands and feet were lashed to it, the gridded wooden bars making it easy to pass the seizings.

  Because he was held hard up against the gratings, Ramage had noticed, he could not move an inch to absorb any of the crushing weight of the blows.

  But using the capstan, a common practice in smaller ships, was different. The capstan bars, each six feet long, were slotted into the capstan to project horizontally, like the spokes of a wheel lying on its side, at the height of a man's chest— at just the right height to push against For flogging, only one bar was shipped and the man stood as though pushing, only his chest was hard up against the bar, his arms stretched along it on either side.

  He was then secured to it by seizings round his wrists and just above his elbows; but the rest of his body was free: he could, by arching his back, move an inch or so, just enough to ride the lash. Little enough, but perhaps it helped.

  Evan Evans was putting a baize bag down on the deck after completing the second cat and picking up the third handle. And down below, guarded by Marines, Dyson, Brook-land and Harris would be... Ramage began pacing the deck again, wishing for once Southwick was walking with him, prattling away about nothing in particular.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Next morning after the bosun's calls shrilled and the order was passed—and obeyed—for 'All hands aft
to witness punishment', Ramage went up on deck in his best uniform, sword at his side, to be greeted by Southwick, similarly dressed.

  The capstan was midway between the wheel and the mainmast, instead of right forward, as in larger ships. Being set aft meant it could be used for hoisting the heavy lower yards as well as for weighing anchor.

  The Marines were already drawn up in two files, one on each side of the capstan, with the ship's company formed in a three-sided square round it, the fourth side being the quarterdeck.

  With Southwick he inspected the ship's company and was surprised to see they were smartly rigged out in clean shirts and trousers, hair newly combed and re-tied in neat queues, and freshly shaven. Then, with their corporal, he inspected the Marines. Their red jackets were spotless, cross-belts stiff with pipeclay, brass buttons and buckles gleamed, their muskets immaculate, the metalwork looking oily but dry to the touch, the woodwork buffed to a high polish.

  Ramage then returned to stand just in front of the wheel. A bright sun shone fitfully through broken cloud, the ship was gently rolling and pitching, the tiller ropes creaked as the men turned the wheel a spoke this way and a spoke that to keep the Triton on course for the rendezvous with Admiral Curtis's squadron. His clerk handed him a sheet of paper and a copy of the Articles of War, and the Marine corporal —who was not carrying a musket since his main role for the moment was to be master-at-arms—stood beside me prisoners.

  Flogging a man was more than a punishment; it was a ritual, a long and complicated rigmarole that Ramage could not alter or shorten, whatever his personal feelings. And as he stood there, his left hand on the scabbard of his sword, holding the Articles of War in his right, the three prisoners standing to attention in front of him, the sails overhead drawing in the north-west wind and knowing that below, locked in his desk, were secret and urgent letters from the First Lord to three of his admirals, he recalled a letter from his father congratulating him on passing his examination for lieutenant. He couldn't remember the exact wording but the gist of it was still fresh in his mind.