Ramage's Devil (38 page)

“Very well, the ‘plank' we might be attacking using the several small axes method is, I hope, the French frigate
L'Espoir
when she arrives.”

From the satisfied “Ahs” and the way that the men wriggled to make themselves more comfortable, as though settling in for a long session, Ramage knew that only a handful of men had thought that far ahead.

“Now, capturing
L'Espoir
—providing she arrives here and providing we are still here to meet her—is going to be the most difficult job we've ever undertaken. Not the most dangerous, just the most difficult. You saw how the ‘plague' trick worked: and you'll remember that Mr Orsini did a similar thing once in the Mediterranean. You were all with me when we dealt with the renegades at the Île Trinidade. But this time each of us will be fighting with one hand tied behind his back.

“There are fifty prisoners on board
L'Espoir
that we are under orders to rescue. We won't know where those prisoners are being kept in
L'Espoir;
we don't even know if the captain will be desperate enough to threaten to kill them unless we let him go free. Of course we can't use our great guns for fear of killing the prisoners. Now, listen carefully.”

Quickly he outlined the plan, explaining how each group of twenty men would be under a particular leader and would have its own task. “So you see,” he concluded, “the frigate is a plank of wood, and the eight groups are the eight small axes. Has anyone any questions?”

Jackson stood up. “Yes, sir. When do we expect
L'Espoir?
”

The
Calypso
's gunroom, occupying the after part of the lower deck, was just far enough forward to clear the end of the tiller as it moved from side to side in a great arc, responding to the lines led down to it from the barrel of the wheel, but not far enough to be out of range of the harsh squeaking of the pintles of the rudder blade grinding on the gudgeons which supported them. When the
Calypso
was under way the rudder moved constantly, but the noise was almost lost in the symphony composed of water rushing past the hull and the creaking of the whole ship working as she flexed like a tree in a strong wind to ride across the troughs and crests of the waves.

The gunroom was an open space between four large boxes on one side and three on the other. The boxes were in fact cabins formed by three walls, or bulkheads, made of painted canvas stretched tightly over battens, with the ship's side forming the fourth. Each had its door, and each door had a stone-ground glass window in the upper half. Over each door was a sign bearing a carefully painted rank—surgeon, first lieutenant, and second lieutenant on the starboard side, Marine officer, third lieutenant, master and fourth lieutenant on the larboard side.

A table and forms fitted most of the remaining space, though the object like a thick tree trunk at the after end was the mizen-mast, while the hatch on the larboard side, between the table and the master's cabin, and on which everyone stubbed a foot at least once a week, was the scuttle to the magazine, a reminder if any was needed that the ship's officers lived just above several tons of gunpowder.

Forward of the gunroom were two smaller cabins on the starboard side (for the gunner and the carpenter) and two to larboard, occupied by the purser and the bosun. A large cabin forward of the bosun's box was the midshipmen's berth, built to be the home of up to a dozen who could range in age from fourteen or fifteen to fifty, but at present the sole inhabitant was Midshipman Paolo Orsini, who thus had more space than anyone else in the ship except the captain.

Forward of these cabins the Marines had their tables and forms, and at night slung their hammocks, and forward of them was what was usually called the “mess-deck,” because the seamen forming the rest of the ship's company lived there, six or eight men to a table or “mess” and slinging their hammocks at night.

Right in the bow, most of the time with a leg in irons, were the
Calypso
's half of
La Robuste
's prisoners, guarded by a couple of Marines with muskets. For a couple of hours in the morning the French prisoners were freed for exercise but, as Ramage had told Rennick, it was unlikely they would be kept on board for more than a few days; not enough to worry about them being in irons.

In the gunroom, with the day's work in the ship completed and only the anchor watch, lookouts, and prisoners' guard to keep men from their hammocks and cots, the ship's lieutenants sat in their cabins or at the table.

The cabins were tiny and airless—there was room only for the cot, a canvas or metal bowl for washing, a trunk usually up-ended, a leprous mirror stuck in the best place to catch what little light squeezed through the skylight under the half-deck, and a rickety canvas chair which usually collapsed when the ship rolled violently, forcing the occupant to retreat to the forms, which were bolted to the deck.

Kenton, the red-haired and freckle-faced third lieutenant, was the smallest of the ship's officers but his chair had recently broken completely and it was only the suddenness of the collapse that saved him trapping any fingers. Now, as he waited for a carpenter's mate to make him a new chair, he had to sit on a form, munching the last piece of fruit cake he had brought with him from home, and which was edible only after he had scraped off a thick layer of mildew.

William Martin, the fourth lieutenant and son of the master shipwright at Chatham, was in his cabin behind Kenton and softly played his flute. Kenton did not particularly like the tune that “Blower” was playing and called to Aitken, who was sitting in his cabin filling in reports on provisions which should have been handed to the captain's clerk last week.

“When does the captain reckon
L'Espoir
will arrive?”

He rubbed his nose while waiting for a reply. Kenton, like Rennick, never tanned and the tropical sun meant his face was always scarlet and usually peeling. He had tried rubbing the skin with butter, goose grease (which was awful: his clothes reeked of it for days) and soap, but nothing helped.

“The captain doesn't ‘reckon.' He can only guess, like you or me. He's hoping, obviously, but he's trying not to be influenced by the fact that one of the prisoners is a close friend.”

“Yes, what's that all about?” Kenton asked.

“I thought you knew.” Aitken was always careful to separate information that the officers should know from gossip. Sometimes the dividing line was thin.

“No, I've only heard what Southwick's said.”

“Well, the captain and Lady Sarah were on their honeymoon in France and staying with this friend, the Count of Rennes, when the British ambassador left Paris. Bonaparte's police arrested many Royalists before they knew the war had started again.”

“Why didn't they arrest the captain and Lady Sarah at the same time?”

“Oh, that's how we came to have those four Frenchmen on board: Gilbert managed to hide the captain and his wife; then with the other three retook the
Murex
.”

“Yes, I heard some of the seamen saying that her Ladyship shot dead a Frenchman.”

“She did. Saved all their lives, I gather.”

Kenton sighed, a deep sigh that seemed to go on as a descant to Martin's flute. “What a lovely lady she is. The captain certainly finds ‘em. I used to think the Marchesa was the loveliest woman I ever saw until Lady Sarah came along. I'm glad I didn't have to choose between them!”

“Keep your voice down; there's no need for Orsini to hear you going on about his aunt.”

“She went back to Italy, didn't she? Hey!” Kenton sat up suddenly. “Do you suppose the French arrested
her
as well?”

“Arrested or assassinated?” Aitken said sourly. “No one knows yet. She reached Paris and left for Volterra, but there's no proof she ever reached Italy.”

“I don't like this making war on women.”

“At least some of the women make war on the French,” Aitken commented. “Think of Lady Sarah!”

“Yes. I'm sorry we missed that. That's the first time the captain's been in a scrap without us for a long time.”

“Ha, a long time!” Southwick rumbled from his cabin, where he was stretched out on his cot. “You're a new boy! I've been with him since he was given his first command!”

“Yes,” Kenton said. “That was the
Kathleen
cutter, wasn't it? Tell us about the first time he came aboard and what you thought of him.”

“Corsica, that's where it was,” Southwick said, a nostalgic note in his voice. “Bastia. Nice harbour with all those fortifications. Commodore Nelson—well, he was only a commodore then—gave orders that—”

A hammering on the deckhead had all the officers grabbing their swords and pistols from the racks over their doors and hurrying for the companion-way, Kenton muttering: “I thought I heard a hail!”

T
HE SUN was setting, and within half an hour it would plunge below the mangrove swamps and distant hills lining the mainland. Already Île Royale and Île St Joseph seemed to have changed shape as the shadows lengthened and moved round, the sun lighting the crest of fresh hills and darkening valleys.

The captain was on deck: they all knew that because when he wanted to spend some time alone pacing up and down, he had told Martin, who was officer of the deck, that he could go below for an hour.

They looked questioningly at the captain as they reached the quarterdeck, and he simply gestured seaward.

There, like a grey swan gliding on the far side of a lake, a frigate had just come in sight round the end of Île Royale.

“She looks French-built,” he said, and told Orsini: “Go aloft with a bring-'em-near and see what you make of her. You, Kenton and Martin, had better get over to
La Robuste.
”

Ramage then looked again at the approaching ship, at the Île Royale which was a grey, black-streaked monster crouching close by, and at
La Robuste,
anchored abeam. From pacing the quarterdeck he knew the wind was steady from the south-east at ten to fifteen knots.

Speeds and distances. Although the approaching frigate had at first been hidden behind the Île Royale, now she had drawn clear he could see she had only three miles to reach the point where she would expect the pilot canoe to be waiting.

I command
L'Espoir
and am at the end of the long and potentially dangerous voyage across the Atlantic, he told himself. My pilot book tells me where to anchor (there, where two frigates are already anchored) and that I should find the pilot just off the western end of Île Royale.

However, there is no pilot. I curse because, apart from anything else, the sun is too low to penetrate the water enough to show reefs and rocks, and the sea is too smooth in this lee to break. And soon it will be dark. What do I do?

Obviously I assume the two anchored frigates have seen me approaching. The pilot book tells me where the bank of dangerous rocks is, and the two frigates indicate the anchorage. One or both of the frigate captains will notice that the pilot does not meet me and if I try to get to the anchorage they will have warning guns ready. So I shall creep in under topsails, and if I get too near the bank a frigate's guns will warn me, and if it gets too shallow my own leadsman will warn me.

Yes, Ramage told himself, that is what he would be thinking and doing himself, and he was damn'd sure that is what the French captain was thinking and doing. The Frenchman would be concentrating his thoughts first on the outlying rocks and reefs and then on the shallow banks with soft muddy bottoms. And at the back of his mind there would be the prospect of a good supper at the governor's house with fresh meat instead of salt tack, and fresh fruit and fresh vegetables.

Aitken was inspecting
La Robuste
with a telescope. “I can see Wagstaffe watching. There are a few men on deck and they look very French.” He closed the telescope and looked aloft and forward to check the
Calypso
. “We do, too, sir.” He sniffed in a fair imitation of Southwick. “And I can't wait to have the men back at work with the brick dust putting a shine on our brasswork. It's so green that the ship begins to look like those copper roofs in Copenhagen.”

“I didn't know you'd ever been there.”

“Copenhagen, Elsinore, Christiania, Malmö, Stockholm … Yes, I know the Cattegat and Skagerrak, sir. In fact every time I

see some weathered copper or brass I think of Copenhagen. Those spires and towers make it a lovely city. You know it?”

Ramage nodded, and both men were aware that they were using this inane conversation to pass the time. As they watched,
L'Espoir
seemed to slow down, but they knew that it was their own reactions quickening.

Opening his telescope again and carefully lining up the focusing ring he had filed in the eyepiece tube, Ramage looked carefully at the peak at the western end of Île Royale. The church stood shadowed and the big western door closed. The flagstaff was bare and there was no movement round the building.

Obviously the garrison commander or
préfet
had listened to the pilot's story that Brest had
la peste
and that although the two frigates already arrived had lost only a few men, a third frigate still on her way was believed to have lost many more. The garrison commander would assume that this frigate was the third and that she, even more than the other two, must be prevented from bringing
la peste
to the three islands which were already crowded with convicts and
déportés.
Only one hospital, the pilot book said, and Ramage could picture it: built of stone, small windows, one or perhaps two small wards, four beds in each, and nearby a cemetery situated in a place where there was a reasonable thickness of earth on the rock. And both hospital and cemetery within a short distance of the church: one did not walk far in the sun in a latitude of 5° North, and funerals were always held within 24 hours of death.