Ramage & the Rebels (25 page)

“Leave the shot in the locker—we don't have time to get them out, and anyway we are not concerned in reducing her draught—but all those on deck can be hove over the side.”

Southwick combined a doubtful sniff with a vigorous scratching of his head, and Ramage smiled as he looked at the Master. “What's worrying you, Mr Southwick?”

“Well, sir, I still can't see why this fellow Duroc
has
to make for the Main, and what good it does when he gets there.”

“He has water for only two days,” Ramage repeated patiently. “Obviously that limits his range for two days' sailing. But, more important, his ship is making seven feet of water an hour. That means with every man taking his turn at the pumps and bailing with buckets he can just keep her afloat. But for how long can he pump and bail? The men have to get some rest, quite apart from sailing the ship—and in this heat they have to drink a lot of water.”

“But when he arrives off the Main—say at La Vela de Coro—and anchors, he can get fresh water from the Dons and careen the ship.”

Ramage shook his head. “Even supposing Duroc can get water, he has only enough casks for two days—he'll never get more locally—he's still tied to a radius of two days' sailing from La Vela. Don't forget Martinique is almost dead to windward, six hundred miles or more, and that much punching to windward will double the leaks. So he's condemned to stay and pump wherever he first anchors, and my guess is he'll end up so exhausted he'll have to run the ship ashore—or land his men in the boats and let the ship sink. He has no other choice. But whatever happens, we're rid of her and the three hundred men.”

“And
La Créole,
sir?” Aitken prompted.

“She's our insurance. She keeps
La Perle
company until Duroc is anchored somewhere. Lacey has nothing to fear from the Spanish and the French frigate will not have even a pistol on board. Drilling out the spikes in the great guns will be beyond them—tell the carpenter to take off all suitable drill bits and small awls, Mr Aitken. Lacey could batter her to pieces in an hour or two, if Duroc tried any tricks.”

By an hour before midnight the two head pumps and hoses from the
Calypso
were being brought back on board from
La Perle
and Southwick reported that the French frigate's own pumps were holding the leaks. Ramage had gone through the ship in the last of the daylight, inspecting the nails which had been hammered into the touchholes of all the great guns to spike them, the heads cut off, the ends riveted to make it impossible to pull them out. Only drilling would make the guns usable again—many hours of patient work with the proper tools which only an armourer would have.
La Perle
's armourer did have them, but his elaborately carved and brassbound box of tools was now on board the
Calypso,
whose armourer was walking round with the unbelieving smile of a small boy given the Christmas present about which he dreamed but never thought to get.

Water casks had been smashed and the hoops thrown over the side, the staves lying about in the holds like dozens of pieces of melon rind. A few casks had been left untouched: the two days' supply of water for the three hundred men. The hanging magazine, a lathe-and-plaster-lined cabin whose deck was three feet below the normal deck level so that it could be flooded with hoses, was now a small rectangular pond, the water slopping as the ship rolled, with scores of what seemed like dead cats floating in it—the cartridges for the guns. Casks of powder had their bungs removed; the grey powder they contained was sodden and some had washed out so that the water had the consistency of a thin grey soup.

Southwick and Aitken had made a thorough job of limiting
La Perle
's range. Bags of bread had been ripped open and the hard tack they contained soaked with salt water, taking care that none of the resulting mash went into the bilge, where it would plug the strainers and block the pumps. Casks of cheese, jars of oil, barrels of sauerkraut (which accounted for the vile smell), sacks and casks of oatmeal—all had been smashed, cut open, or the contents spoiled with salt water.

All the books and papers from the cabins of the Captain and the Master—they included another signal book, and the order book giving every order Duroc had received since before leaving France—were now stacked in Ramage's cabin, while the charts were in Southwick's. At the purser's suggestion, only a couple of dozen candles had been left in the ship. It was a very good idea but Ramage had been amused at the reason behind it. In the Royal Navy the purser had to pay for and supply free all the candles used in a ship, and now the
Calypso
had a windfall of several hundred, admittedly thin and of poor quality. No doubt Rowlands was hoping—though he would not dare suggest it—that the Captain would not mention the acquisition in the
Calypso
's log. This would, Ramage noted wryly, make the purser the only man to make a financial profit from
La Perle
's capture.

The French prisoners were quite cheerful, despite the pumping, and Ramage had stopped to chat with several of them. A few grumbled about blistered hands and aching backs from the hours they had spent at the pumps, but the only real complaint was the heat: it was the heat that was exhausting them. Curiously enough, no one had asked what was going to happen to them, yet with several of the men—the Master, carpenter and bosun, for example—Ramage had chatted for some time, with none of them realizing that he was the
Calypso
's Captain.

An hour to midnight, and there was
La Créole
's lantern: Lacey had been on board the
Calypso
to receive his orders and was obviously delighted with them. Ramage recognized the expression on Lacey's face when he realized he was going off on his own—or, rather, would be free of his senior officer for a few days. How in the past Ramage himself had prayed for such orders, and luckily Lacey had grasped the need to obey them implicitly. If there was any sign that
La Perle
was trying to make for anywhere but the agreed stretch of the Main, he was to warn her by firing a shot across her bow, and, if that was not sufficient, he was at once to rake her with broadsides until she obeyed or was a wreck.

On the other hand, if she was obviously going to sink before reaching the Main, Lacey could leave them two of his own boats because the frigate had more men than her own four boats could carry. Aitken had already made sure that two of
La Perle
's boats had compasses. None had water, though; the breakers were left in them, but the French Master had been warned that they were empty and, in any emergency, would first need filling.

Once again Ramage looked at his watch. The two frigates had drifted well to the west of Curaçao now, and there was half an hour to go before
La Perle
would be cast off. Now was the time to give Duroc his instructions, and to spring the final (and, he admitted, quite malicious) surprise on Citizen Bazin.

He went to his cabin after passing the word that Duroc was to be brought up, but without the other prisoners seeing him. At the moment the Frenchman knew absolutely nothing, other than what he could have guessed from the evidence of his own ears. Ramage had not been down to talk to him; the Marine sentries guarding him in Aitken's cabin had been warned to say nothing, in case Duroc could in fact speak English. Bazin and the other lieutenants did not know he was there; they knew nothing of him.

The man brought into Ramage's cabin by two Marines was a shrunken version of the burly braggart sent below under guard before
La Perle
was captured. The dim light of the lantern emphasized the deep lines of worry, marking his face like crevices in a cliff, and he was licking his lips nervously like someone caricaturing a nervous man. His shoulders were hunched, as if unconsciously hiding his neck from a guillotine blade.

Ramage kept him standing so that the man had to cock his head to one side.

“Ah, Captain Duroc, you know what has happened to your ship?”

“You captured her. I hear her alongside. And the pumps, I hear them working.”

Ramage nodded. “Your men are still on board her. The five who were wounded have been treated and put back on board—their wounds were slight.”

“Five? How many dead?”

“None.”

“And now, sir?” Duroc's eyes revealed his fears of what would happen when the French Ministry of Marine in Paris heard those figures. The Captain not on board, no one killed, the ship lost to the enemy—it could only mean treason to minds so accustomed to finding or manufacturing it.

Ramage handed him the chart which Southwick had drawn. “Sit down there, on that settee. You can read the chart—there is enough light? Good. Now, you know your ship is sinking?”

Duroc nodded miserably.

“But you are confident your pumps can keep up with the leaks?”

Again Duroc nodded. “Yes, but if they get worse …”

“Quite, you risk the leaks getting worse, and your men are becoming exhausted. That was why you were making for Curaçao, to careen her?”

Duroc nodded for the third time, studying the chart.

“Your destination is now changed. You will be put back on board your ship in a few minutes, and you will have that chart, and water for all your men for two days. There is no powder, the guns are spiked, and my schooner will escort you to Spanish waters.”

Duroc looked up at him, accepting the situation but obviously assuming some trap. “We shall not be prisoners, then?”

“Only of yourselves and your ship. For two days the leaks and the pumps will be your guards.”

The Frenchman used his fingers to measure distances. “One day, perhaps two,” he said, almost to himself. “Yes, that is good. But …”

“Have you any questions?”

“Yes,
m'sieur.
Why are you freeing us?”

“I don't want three hundred prisoners,” Ramage said frankly. “I have orders from my Admiral and I need all my men.”

Duroc made no secret of his relief: he believed the answer, perhaps because it was a logical one, and said: “I do not know your name,
m'sieur.
You are being very fair to us. I would like to know to whom I am indebted.”

The Frenchman had spoken very formally and was obviously sincere. Ramage remembered Bazin and said casually, giving his name the English pronunciation: “Nicholas Ramage,
capitaine de vaisseau.
”

Duroc nodded and repeated the name. Suddenly he looked up, wide-eyed. “Lord Ramage?”

Ramage nodded.

“
Merde!
Then this is a trap!”

The change was so sudden Ramage was unsure whether to be flattered or insulted. “What do you mean, a trap?”

Clearly Duroc was now a very frightened man; he was folding and refolding the chart like a nun with a rosary. “Well, you—why, it is well known that …”

“That what?”

“I don't know,” Duroc admitted lamely. “But capturing that convoy off Martinique, and the frigates …”

“I could of course smash
La Perle
's chain pump, stave in all the boats, and cast you adrift. The ship would sink and you'd all drown in—half an hour?”

“Less. And I cannot swim.”

“But instead I have left you water and boats, given you a chart so that you can sail to safety, and provided an escort. This ‘trap' has a strange bait, Captain Duroc. I wonder if you would be as generous if our positions were reversed?”

“No, forgive me,” Duroc said. “I spoke hastily. It was the shock of finding out who you are. You have a certain—well, a certain reputation.”

“Not for cruelty, I trust.”

“Oh no! Nothing to your discredit, milord.”

Ramage waved to one of the sentries. “Fetch the French officer called Bazin.”

He sat down at his desk and turned the chair so that he could see the door, telling the Marine sentry: “Take this prisoner into the coach, and keep him there until I call you. You won't need a lantern; just keep your cutlass pressing against his shoulder blades.” He then explained to Duroc that he would have to wait in the next cabin.

Bazin, in contrast to Duroc, had regained some of his courage or, Ramage thought, more likely he had been goaded by the other two lieutenants into truculent belligerency.

“Sit down,” Ramage told him. “The time has come for us to say farewell.”

“I expected nothing more,” Bazin sneered.

“Nothing more than what?”

“You haven't shot us; I presume you will now throw us over the side.”

“Yes,” Ramage could not resist saying, “you are all going over the side in a few minutes.”

“Ha! I knew from the first you were an
assassin!
”

“Tell me, how did you discover that?”

“The way you murdered Captain Duroc.”

“Oh,
that!
” Ramage said in an offhand voice, suspecting that the Frenchman in the next cabin would be amused. “What else did you expect? Surely such a man does not deserve to live?”