Captain Pearson was mildly surprised to see the Gudrun’s jolly boat being rowed over, and still more so when he saw Caleb Wynton aboard in manacles. McVicar, officer of the deck, had already signalled for a pair of Marine sentries, who were waiting at the entryport, and Pearson watched as Wynton, looking pail and strained, climbed aboard, followed by a grim-faced Lieutenant French. He returned the junior officer’s salute and raised an eyebrow.
“You have a disciplinary matter to bring to me?”
“Yes, sir. A serious one. You might prefer to hear it in private.”
French’s uncharacteristic solemnity bore all the witness to the gravity of the situation that Pearson could have asked for. This sounded like another of the times when he would have to rely on the wisdom of his more experienced officers, and he was willing to take hints. “Very well. In my cabin; the captain of the Passamaquoddy has just left. Will you take refreshment?”
“It would stick in my throat, sir,” muttered French; and Wynton felt his heart skip a beat. It would be hard for anyone to feel much worse about his present position than he did himself; but it was vaguely comforting to know that French was upset too. Better to be condemned to death on the word of a sympathetic man doing only his duty, even if the noose would feel just the same.
In the captain’s cabin, Wynton was made to stand, but French sat in one of the spare armchairs. The Captain sat in his own chair behind the desk where he did his paperwork, and the resemblance to a magistrate was hard to shake. All that was lacking was the wig and the black cap. Pearson favoured him with a long look, and then said to French, “Very well, Lieutenant. Please tell me what this seaman stands accused of.”
“Sir, disobedience, specifically disobedience under fire during the late action against the American vessel,” said French. His voice was steady but sounded hollow; probably he had never had to lay a capital charge against a man under his command before.
“I see. This is very serious, of course. You had better tell me the particulars of the case. This is not a formal trial, so you need not be placed under oath, but I think it would be better for all concerned if you were careful to state as fact only that which you could unhesitatingly repeat if you were. Mr Wynton, you’ll hold your tongue for now,” said Pearson.
“As you know, sir,” French began, “the schooner Gudrun under my command was following in your wake this morning after the recent storm. I observed the strange vessel firing upon the Hector and at once gave orders to open fire after hoisting our own colours in place of the Swedish flag.” That was a legitimate ruse de guerre accepted by all combatant parties; a ship could sail under false colours at any time and for any reason, but was obliged to raise her proper flag before engaging in combat. “Upon being ordered to run out the gun the crew of which Wynton formed a part, he refused, protesting that he would not fire upon an American vessel.”
French looked wretched, as well he might, for the offence was clear and unmistakable and the Articles of War stipulated Death-with-a-capital-D for it, meaning that no captain and no court martial had even the alternative of a lesser sentence upon conviction. Pearson pondered his words for a few moments. “Given the gravity of the accusation, Mr French, it is only fair to the prisoner if I enquire whether you have witnesses who can corroborate your statement.”
“Several, sir,” said French, with an audible sigh in his voice. “The remainder of the gun’s crew, being Atkins, Johansen and Isaacs, were well within earshot, and the men at the other stern-chaser and at the helm presumably heard as well.” After a pause, he added, “Sir, I should like to remind you that Mr Wynton saved the life of Midshipman Callow during the storm, at no small risk to his own.”
“I see.” Pearson looked at Wynton over steepled fingers, as though he were a master chessplayer contempating his next move in a sequence that would see his adversary mercilessly checkmated. He did not speak for almost a minute. Eventually he turned his gaze back upon Lieutenant French.
“Mr French, this is, as you are doubtless aware, the first occasion on which I have been called to pronounce upon a matter as serious as this. I shall lay myself open to much criticism, and well justified at that, if I am at all careless. So please forgive me if I go over your statement in detail. Now, you have said that Wynton refused to obey an order under fire. What exactly happened when you gave the order to run out the guns?”
“He did not do so, protesting that the vessel was an American.”
“Did he explicitly state that he would not obey the order?”
“No, sir, but he did not in fact obey it.”
“Quite,” said Pearson, now with an air as if he was plunging his Queen into a bristling thicket of enemy pawns, “but can I clearly establish whether or not he said anything such as ‘No, sir, I will not fire upon an American vessel’? Remember, I might need you to make such an assertion under oath.”
French cocked his head, as if replaying the moment in his head. “Sir, I cannot confirm that Wynton made such a statement. He certainly did state that the strange vessel was American; he reiterated the statement when I repeated the order; but I could not in all conscience state that he directly said ‘No, I will not’ in as many words.”
“Thank you,” said Pearson. Caleb felt the first surge of a wild hope. Could it be…? But now the Captain’s gaze was fixed upon him and it was extremely stern. “Wynton, you have committed an extremely serious breach of discipline. On Mr French’s testimony, for which as he has told me he has at least three witnesses whose record makes their corroboration trustworthy, you have presumed to take upon your shoulders a responsibility which manifestly does not belong there. Before I continue, do you have any quarrel with the Lieutenant’s version of events?”
Wynton shook his head. “No, sir. He gave the order and repeated it, and both times I did respond by saying that the strange vessel was American.”
“Well,” said Pearson, shaking his head crossly, "it is only your inexperience aboard a King’s ship that excuses your ignorance at all. You may have thought that you were obeying the spirit of your duty rather than the letter, in attempting to avoid a serious international incident - for if you thought that it is a very grave matter to fire upon a non-belligerent neutral, you were quite right - but the responsibility for such a decision is not yours to make. On the head of the Captain be it, and his alone. It was for Mr French to identify any given vessel encountered upon the seas as a hostile, and there the matter ended, until a higher-ranking officer saw fit to reverse Mr French’s decision.
“You do not seem to have considered even for a moment the possibility that the Passamaquoddy could have been anything but the American ship that she seemed,” Pearson added. “In view of the Gudrun’s own peculiar circumstances, did it never occur to you that the strange ship might have been flying colours as false as your own?”
“No, sir, it did not.”
“Well, hindsight would have proved you right, Wynton, but that is not a luxury afforded to seamen. I firmly regret that I must inflict this punishment upon you, but I cannot let your offence go without correction. The next man who is tempted to bandy words with his senior officer instead of doing as he is told will likely benefit from remembering your fate; and I hope you will too.”
There was just time for the words to sink in before Pearson called for his clerk to bring the punishment book, pen and ink. He was going to be given a punishment he could remember?
“Wynton, taking into account your previous good record, your inexperience, and your recent commendable conduct whereof Mr French has been kind enough to remind me, I am determined that you shall receive twenty-four strokes of the cat for your shocking insolence. The sentence will be carried out tomorrow morning. Have you anything to say?”
Caleb smiled weakly. “Can’t we get it over with now, sir?”
“That’s not how things are done in the King’s service. You’ll be confined meanwhile. Mr French, if you’ll be good enough to call for the sentry?”
When Wynton was gone, Lieutenant French smiled. “When they haul you into the court for witchcraft, sir, I hope they don’t call me in to deny the charge. I’d never have thought any man could magic that up.”
“It’s the counting-house mentality,” Pearson replied with a smile, “seeing only what’s on the page. What’s implied doesn’t count, only what’s in the book. Well, but I don’t envy young Wynton his sentence.”
“Nor I, sir, but it’ll help that he’s popular with the hands.”
“How so? He’ll get a lighter flogging for it? I was warned against favouritism the day I boarded this ship, by the First Lieutenant, no less. You’re sure you won’t take something now?”
“I could get a glass of lime juice past my throat, sir, thank you. No, the master at arms will lay on just as heartily, sir,” said French, “as if he was the vilest thief aboard. Though it’s a knotted cat for thievery. But while he’s in confinement, it’s likely he’ll be smuggled enough rum to take away the worst of the pain. You and I don’t know about that officially, sir.”
“And it can stay that way. Well, we have much to do, beginning with making the Passamaquoddy fit to swim again. Let’s be about it, Mr French.”
Pearson stood up and left the cabin, leaving behind him the pen and ink with which he had conjured Wynton’s neck out of the noose.
