Ramage & the Rebels (40 page)

Four minutes. The lack of goats was of course the indication that human beings were hiding up that hill: there were goats over on the flat land to the left and to the right, goats variously quartered in white and black, brown and black, white and brown. The kids born three or four months ago were quite large now, and he realized he had become accustomed to their almost human bleating.

Three minutes. In fact, they sounded like shrill-voiced wives nagging their husbands, or children bleating complaints to their mothers.

Two minutes. They were nimble, though, and often skittish, jumping into the air with all four legs stiff, as though playing a game.

One minute. Jackson was watching him now, poised, tensed and with a white cloth ready in his hand. Ramage said, quietly: “Three-quarters of a minute … half a minute … a quarter of a minute … now!”

Jackson leapt to his feet, waving the white cloth so that all the men in the eight companies—and the French, if they were looking—could see him; then he dropped flat again. With luck he had given the signal without being spotted by dozing sentries and certainly without noise.

Now three men were running forward from each company, each with a blazing torch in his hand. They ran like nimble goats, Ramage realized, because each had spent the last quarter of an hour deciding his targets and his route to bushes and withering shrubs, patches of dried grass, to cacti that had fallen years ago and were now long-dried husks—and held the flaming torches against them. Within seconds the base of the parched hillside had a line of flame sputtering, spurting and then driving up it, fanned by the wind and leaping, flames a few inches high growing to six feet in as many seconds. The smoke as the few green bushes were scorched and then burned by dried shrubs drifted up the hill, like the smoke of a continuous broadside; the crackling of burning twigs and boughs increased until it sounded as though a giant was crashing through a jungle.

Then Ramage realized that he could not see the upper half of the hill: clouds of billowing smoke now covered it and already the flames had swept over several yards, leaving an ever-widening scorched black band which was advancing up the hill as though pulled by the flames.

A wind eddy made a momentary gap in the smoke and Ramage caught sight of several groups of men running about quite aimlessly at the top of the hill. He stood up and shouted to his left and then to his right: “Stand by, men; they might make a dash for it any moment.”

Immediately the seamen and Marines knelt behind their piles of stones, muskets ready, aiming up the hill into the smoke, so that it would take only a moment's twitch of the muzzle to take precise aim.

Suddenly a section of the hillside seemed to move and he saw figures weaving about in the smoke as they ran down the hill. As some reached thinner patches of smoke Ramage could see they were trying to protect their eyes, and some had rags tied across their faces, probably to try to filter out some of the smoke before it went down into their lungs. But they were clutching muskets and cutlasses; they were men about to fight, not surrender.

With a fearful deliberation Rennick's Marines fired, the muskets delivering what seemed a ragged volley until you realized that no man fired until he had taken proper aim.

Now no one moved up there in the smoke. There were two dozen or more bodies sprawled just this side of the line of flames: Rennick had let them come down clear of the smoke before allowing his men to fire.

Wagstaffe's company would fire at the next target while Rennick's reloaded—and yes, here were another ragged group of the enemy, coughing and spluttering while they ran, firing pistols wildly and yelling as they waved their swords. Two or three, probably blinded by the smoke, sprawled flat on their faces, tripped by rocks or the roots of burned bushes.

There was a crash of musketry as Wagstaffe's men fired, and only two or three of the enemy kept on running—not, Ramage realized, because they intended to attack a couple of hundred British, but because they had no choice: they were escaping the smoke and flame of the hill rather than braving the fire of the British muskets. Ramage was just about to order half a dozen of his own men to pick them off when more muskets fired from Wagstaffe's company. The men were coolly obeying orders, that much was sure!

Lacey's company would take the next group, but if there was a great rush down the hill all the companies would fire. And, Ramage realized, there was probably no one in command of the rebels and privateersmen at the top of the hill; groups were just bolting when they found the smoke and heat became too much.

The line of flames, growing crooked now as stronger eddies of wind drove it on, leaping gaps when sheets of sparks flew into the air, was soon two-thirds of the way up the hill, and the flames themselves were in places six or eight feet high as bushes blazed, their boughs quickly turning to flaming scarecrows.

A few men ran down the hill—too few, Ramage felt; only madmen would come in such small numbers. “Stand by, men!” he shouted. “This may be the—”

But before he could finish the flames were momentarily hidden as scores of men came racing down the hill, like a great centipede moving sideways. Lacey's company fired at once—they were already aiming into the flames, waiting for targets to appear, and Ramage could see many of the leading men falling, followed a few moments later by a score shot down by Baker's company. There was too much noise to shout an order and anyway his own thirty men knew it was their turn after the muskets close on their left had fired.

Jackson's musket kicked and then Stafford's, and both men were tugging at their pistols. Ramage grasped his, cocked them, and waited a few moments as the muskets of the next company—that would be Kenton's men—and then the next, Aitken's, fired almost simultaneously.

The effect was ghastly: the enemy appeared to run into an invisible wall and collapse: barely twenty men were still running, the rest had fallen, some among the flames, others in the smouldering debris this side of the flames. Some reached the unburnt shrubs and grass six or seven yards beyond before being cut down.

Ramage realized that neither Jackson nor Stafford had fired their pistols, and his own were still cocked and loaded, but unused. Please, please, let a man come out of the smoke with a white flag or waving a shirt, or just shouting that they have surrendered: there's no point in continuing this aimless slaughter. Except, he realized, that the Dutch rebels knew they'd get no mercy if they fell into the Governor's hands because they were traitors, and French privateersmen by the nature of their bloody trade expected no quarter and rarely gave it. But piles of dead and wounded lying on a scorched hillside … this was not the kind of war that Ramage had seen before nor, he realized, queasiness sweeping over him in waves, could he stomach much more of it.

Then, before he could do or say anything, another group of Frenchmen came pouring down the hillside, screaming and coughing, rubbing their eyes and yelling defiance, and, as soon as they broke through the line of flames and made clearer targets, he heard Kenton calmly giving fire orders to his company. Again there was a volley of musketry; then, as some of the enemy still ran on, he heard a crisp voice telling a company to open fire with pistols, and a moment later he realized it was his own, and a crackle of pistol shots brought down the rest of the men.

The Calypsos were now busy reloading their muskets, and he could see, just this side of the flames, what seemed a low parapet and then, as a puff of wind blew the grey coils of smoke clear for a moment, that it was built of bodies. An arm waved here and there, a man staggered upright and collapsed, vague movements which made the barrier seem alive—as indeed parts of it were.

Yet, ghastly as it all was, he was saving his own men; he had dreaded sending them charging up the hill to attack prepared French positions. Those bodies out there, lying dead or, if wounded, coughing in the smoke, were enemy, not Calypsos. Not just regular enemies, either: if they were Dutch they were traitors to their own folk; if French they were privateersmen and little better than pirates, and perhaps a hundred of them came from Brune's ship and had helped murder the
Tranquil
people.

Slowly the scene became less ghastly; his imagination superimposed the neat staterooms of the
Tranquil,
where the blood of the raped women with their throats cut had stained carpets and settees. He found it a satisfactory thought that by now the Marines and the seamen in all the companies had reloaded their muskets and were kneeling, waiting for the next wave of the enemy to come through the smoke, which was now thinning. The flames were high up the hill, perhaps forty yards away now. Another twenty yards, he guessed, and they would have reached the top.

How many French were left? They must be crowded at the very top of the hill now, unless they were jumping off into the sea, but the Marine patrols sent out by Rennick to watch the beaches had not fired, showing that the enemy preferred the devil to the deep blue sea. Or course, from the very first the men on the hill had not known the fate of their comrades once they had run down the hill and plunged through the smoke: they would hear the firing but the clouds of rolling smoke prevented them seeing how the musketry from the Calypsos was cutting them down like corn before a reaper's scythe. When the smoke clears, Ramage guessed, the remaining enemy will surrender. Yet they might all make a dash before the last of the hill burned, preferring a sudden foray through the flames. It would be the flames rather than the smoke that made the men run: they would scorch anyone who stood and waited for them to pass.

And now another group of Frenchmen was running down—and the first of them was waving a white flag: a shirt tied to a cutlass. Ramage shouted to left and right for the companies to hold their fire, but even as he shouted he saw Stafford pause for a moment, and then correct his aim, and Jackson did the same thing, and even as he continued shouting the muskets thudded until the last of the running Frenchmen collapsed, a rag doll thrown on a rubbish heap.

Jackson stood up and turned to him. “I don't think the men could hear you, sir,” he said quietly, looking Ramage straight in the eye. “Leastways, not until all the muskets had fired.”

“No, sir,” Stafford confirmed, “I didn't hear you order nothing; certainly not telling us to hold our fire. Probably deafened by all the shooting. Ain't that right, Rosey?”

The Italian cupped a hand to his ear. “That's right, Staff; speak up, I can't hear.”

No quarter for the men who murdered the people in the
Tranquil:
clearly the Calypsos had already decided that, and as a result in that last rush perhaps a few Dutch rebels had been killed, but there had been only ten or fifteen behind the man waving the white flag.

The smoke was thinning out now; in the gusts Ramage could see the top of the hill. No one stood there, although a few men might be crouching behind rocks, seeking shelter from the hail of bullets that could be expected now there were only wisps of smoke to hide them.

He shouted for Rennick, ordering him to search the hilltop with the Marines, and waited for Aitken, whom he could see hurrying towards him. Well, now was the time to get reports from all the lieutenants and see what casualties there were. He took a small silver whistle from a pocket and blew four quick blasts, the signal he had arranged before he left the bonfire.

It was a whistle of a curious pattern; a cylinder with an intricate Moorish design which was unrecognizable unless you looked at it from a particular angle, when it became clear that it was a representation of a woman's breast, the nipple forming the mouthpiece. It had been a present from Gianna, of all people; a present in a tiny velvet-lined case, tucked into his pocket as he left with a mischievous smile and a comment in Italian, spoken with a Neapolitan accent, which he had not understood but was probably lewd. This was the first time he had used it; a silver piece of erotica which signalled the end of the bloodiest and longest action he had ever fought.

The lieutenants came up and reported. No casualties—this was Aitken. One man sprained an ankle when he stumbled over a rock—Kenton. One man with powder burns of the face from a flash in the pan of his musket—Baker. A shoulder wound from a cutlass wielded by an over-enthusiastic shipmate—Wagstaffe. Apart from them, two men had stomach pains—brought on, according to an unsympathetic Aitken, by a surfeit of roast beef—while two of Kenton's men were almost crippled by the hairlike spines of prickly pear cactus which had penetrated the skin of their legs and festered overnight.

The second guide was sent off to Amsterdam, by way of the bonfire site, for more horses and carts to bring in the dead and wounded, and by the time Rennick and his Marines came down the hill to report that it was deserted, the Calypsos were busy carrying the French and Dutch wounded out of the smouldering scrub and making them as comfortable as possible clear of the smoke. The guide was told to bring back doctors if he could, but Ramage had little hope of that: they would still be busy patching up the wounded from the bonfire.

An hour later, leaving behind fifty men to look after the wounded and help load the carts when they arrived, he led his men on the long march back to Amsterdam, twenty miles away. Most of the men still had chunks of roast beef, and the sight of a seaman marching with a musket over one shoulder and a great haunch of beef under the other arm, the meat dusty from having been put down many times, made Ramage feel like Falstaff and wish there was a Hogarth or a Rowlandson to sketch the march. The column stopped from time to time to fill water flasks at the few villages or plantation houses that had wells or enough water in their cisterns, but the sun was well down over the western horizon before Ramage saw the first houses of Amsterdam.

It was then that the fact of the island's surrender really came home to him. The surrender agreement had been signed, the rebels and their privateer allies had been dealt with. Now it would be possible to leave the island with its Dutch garrison and sail for Jamaica, to report to Foxey-Foote about this latest addition to the British flag. He could take three or four privateers with him, and he might decide to burn the rest, just in case some of the Dutch took it into their heads to steal them—after all, Curaçao had surrendered, but Britain was still at war with the Batavian Republic, not to mention France and Spain.