Ramage and the Freebooters by Dudley Pope

give damning evidence at the court martial…
    He, Southwick and Appleby could – no they couldn’t; there was no way of training a carronade forward so the recoil wouldn’t hurl it through the transom into the sea. And it was the wheel, the quarterdeck, that had to be defended. Not because they could steer the ship if the mutineers wanted to prevent them – all they had to do was cut the tiller ropes, brace the yards round or even furl the sails. But as long as Ramage could himself destroy the wheel and compass, he could stop the mutineers steering for France until they’d completed lengthy repairs. But, but, but…he was fooling himself. The three of them could do nothing that mattered much; nothing the mutineers couldn’t make good in a few hours. And there was nothing he could do beforehand. He was checkmated by pawns.
    Ramage sat up with a start, then recognized Southwick’s characteristic rat-tat-tat, rat-tat knock on the door. As soon as he came in Ramage pointed to the chair by the table.
    ‘Trouble, sir,’ the old man announced, running his hands through the white hair which, freed from the confines of his hat, sprang out over his head like a new mop. ‘I don’t know what it is but…’
    He stood up and opened the door suddenly, looking to see if anyone was outside eavesdropping.
    He sat down again. ‘Sorry, sir. But Jackson’s passed me a weird message for you. As near as I can recall, tonight he wants you to keep people away from the companionway, keep the wardroom door shut, and keep everyone – including yourself, sir – clear of the breadroom scuttle because there’ll be three guests in the breadroom tonight. Oh yes, and he’d be glad for you to find ’em there in the morning an’ take the necessary action. It sounds balmy,’ Southwick added, ‘but he isn’t drunk sir – leastways, I don’t think he is. And that reminds me, he said could you leave a bottle or two of rum by the breadroom scuttle, and a lantern.’
    ‘That’s all he said?’
    ‘That’s all, sir,’ Southwick said, pulling his nose. ‘When I eased over close to ask what he was talking about – there were several men around – Stafford whispered something about the cook’s mate keeping too close under their lee to say any more.’
    ‘Pour yourself a drink if you wish,’ Ramage said, waving at the sideboard.
    ‘I’ll join you in one, sir.’
    ‘Not for me, thanks.’
    ‘Don’t think I will, then: we’ve got to keep our wits about us tonight. Oh yes, sorry, I did forget something. Stafford said they’d be obliged, begging our pardon, if we’d please get the surgeon tipsy and making as much noise as possible from the time “Lights out” is piped.’
    Ramage picked up the pen and scratched the scars on his forehead with the end of the quill. Wardroom door shut – that’d be so no one from forward, where the Marines and ship’s company slung their hammocks, could see into the wardroom (or see the scuttle, which was in the wardroom). Guests in the breadroom…a bottle or two of rum by the scuttle? Maybe Jackson and Stafford were going to hide there for the night. But why the rum? No – it couldn’t be those two since whoever they were, they had to be found in the morning and he had to ‘take the necessary action’.
    Southwick suddenly thumped the table with his fist and growled: ‘Why the hell can’t they tell us straight out what’s going on?’
    ‘Those two have a reason all right, though I can’t think what it is. But it all points to me not doing or knowing anything until I find the “guests” tomorrow morning. It could mean that if the mutineers suspected I knew anything tonight, Jackson and Stafford would be in danger. Or couldn’t do whatever they’re planning.’
    ‘Well, I only hope the reasons are good. Good grief, four or five men in the breadroom would pack it tight. And bottles of rum – they going to have a party down there?’
    Ramage laughed. ‘I think Jackson’s using the