"Because, Sir, the court is trying to force me to commit perjury, and if I do that I shall myself be liable to be tried by court-martial."
Very neatly done, Ramage thought. Wagstaffe had not said a word earlier about how he would try to trap Goddard. Well, Ramage's only regret was that none of his other witnesses could see Goddard's face: the glowing red of a few minutes ago was replaced now with a whiteness verging on grey, and the flesh of his face, never taut at the best of times, now hung slack like a spaniel bitch's teats. He was having a whispered conversation with Swinford on his right, and then he turned to Captain Huggins on his left. Then he looked down the table at Jenkins.
"The witness is accusing the court of forcing him to commit perjury. What are the precedents for that, Mr Jenkins, eh? Let's have the precedents for that!"
Jenkins carefully wiped the tip of his pen and put it down on the table. Then he clasped his hands together, as though in prayer, and said carefully: "Sir, I have looked back over my minutes, and it seems that is not quite what the witness said."
"What the devil was he saying, then? I'm damned sure I heard him say the court was forcing him to commit perjury."
"His actual words -" Jenkins lifted the top sheet of his minutes and read down until he found the exact line, "- after asking to be excused, were (in answer to your question): 'Because, sir, the court is trying to force me to commit perjury if I -' "
"There you are!" Goddard exclaimed triumphantly. "I was right. 'Force me to commit perjury.'"
Captain Swinford said mildly: "The phrase is that the court is trying to force him to commit perjury, sir."
"What the devil's the difference? Damned insolent young puppy! I'm -"
Jenkins interposed smoothly: "Sir, legally there -"
"Clear the court.'" Goddard suddenly shouted. "Clear the court, I say!"
This brought Jenkins to his feet. "Sir, if you clear the court this lieutenantwhose protest we are considering will have to leave the court, along with the prisoner and the prosecutor. If I may offer an opinion sir, I think it would be most unwise, most unwise." He shook his head as though more words could no longer help him.
Goddard sat silent for a full minute, staring at Wagstaffe with an expression about which Ramage was not sure if it revealed hatred or sheer disbelief.
"All right, the court will remain in session," he said finally. "The witness can be assured the court is not trying to force him to commit perjury. This court," he added, an unctuous note in his voice, "is concerned only with discovering the truth, without fear or favour."
Wagstaffe gave a slight bow and said politely. "Thank you, sir, I realize that. It was simply that when I described how the smoke of the Jason's broadside made me cough, you -"
"Wagstaffe, you are under arrest! Jenkins, strike out his remarks! Send for the Marine officer!" Goddard started mopping his face with a large silk handkerchief, and Ramage remembered how, in the tropical heat of a trial in Jamaica, Goddard had a lieutenant sitting close and handing him fresh handkerchiefs from time to time.
Now Captain Shirley was standing up. He waited for Goddard to notice him and then said: "Sir, I still have several interrogatories to put to this witness."
Goddard's jaw dropped: he stared at Shirley with the same look of betrayal and disbelief that a man might look at a hitherto loving wife who mentioned casually at the breakfast table that she had been committing adultery with Dr John Moore, the Primate of All England, on Mondays, and Dr John Douglas, the Lord Bishop of Salisbury, on Thursdays, explaining that she could not resist prelates with the Christian name John, but the bishops of Hereford, Chichester and Oxford, although all named John, had so far rebuffed her advances.
"This officer is under arrest," he said flatly, "and as soon as a Marine officer has taken him away, the court will adjourn for today and convene again tomorrow at the usual time."
Ramage watched Shirley. The man's expression did not change as he lost what was probably his best witness. Instead he sat absolutely still as the Marine sentry passed the word for his officer, who took Wagstaffe away. He must be, Ramage reflected, one of the most contented prisoners ever to be taken into custody, judging from the expression on his face. Still, Goddard would not allow much of what he had said to appear in the minutes - which, Ramage suddenly realized, Wagstaffe had not signed, so they had no legal standing. As far as this court-martial (and thus the Admiralty) were concerned, Ramage guessed, Wagstaffe had never given evidence . . . And Goddard had known that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Next morning the court opened in the Salvador del Mundo's great cabin with the precision of a quadrille: the captains filed in, all wearing full uniform with white breeches and swords, and went straight to their seats, ready to sit in descending order of seniority; Jenkins made one neat pile of his reference books and another of the paper on which he would be writing the minutes. He examined the tips of his quills and made sure his pen-knife was close by in case any needed recutting, along with the small square of cloth he used to wipe the ink.
Goddard strode in last of all, trying to infuse dignity into his carriage, but the effect was marred by the protuberant belly (which no amount of cunning by his tailor could disguise) and by the heavy jowls which jerked up and down with each step with the springiness of geraniums displayed by an itinerant flower seller.
Goddard nodded an acknowledgement rather than a greeting to the court and sat down. The captains then scraped their chairs and sat down, and Goddard told Jenkins: "Have the prisoner brought in."
A call to the Marine sentry led to Lieutenant Hill marching in carrying Ramage's sword and followed by his prisoner. While Ramage sat down, Hill replaced the sword on the table and Ramage saw Captain Shirley walking in, holding books and papers but with the remoteness of a monk pacing the cloisters.
"Ah, Captain Shirley," Goddard said, in his first pleasant word or gesture of the day. "Are you ready to call your next witness?"
Shirley nodded and said to Jenkins: "Call Lieutenant Aitken."
Like Wagstaffe, Aitken was a witness for both the prosecution and the defence. He marched in briskly, took the oath, his Scots accent very pronounced.
Ramage saw Shirley pass several slips of paper to Jenkins, and noted that the usual procedure (not that there was any regulation about it) where the president of the court did most of the questioning was, as in the case of the other witnesses, being abandoned: Goddard was going to leave the questioning to Shirley.
At a nod from Goddard, Jenkins read out the first question.
"You are the first lieutenant of the Calypso and you were on July the twenty-first last?"
"I am, and I was," Aitken said, adding as though making it clear to a child, "on that specific date, too."
"When the Calypso boarded the Jason on that date, what was your role?"
Aitken gave a brief chuckle, as though both Jenkins and Shirley had, by asking the question, committed some solecism. "The Calypso did not board the Jason of course, but I ken what you mean. Aye, well, when Captain Ramage laid the Calypso alongside despite the risk of another broadside -"
"Stop!" Goddard shouted at Aitken and, waving to Jenkins, instructed him: "Strike it out."
He then swung round in his chair to face Aitken. "Listen, you were not in court yesterday but the second lieutenant of the Calypso is under an arrest for contempt of court from his refusal to answer the court questions properly. You will confine yourself to a direct answer to the question."