Ramage's Devil (14 page)

To fish or not to fish? He looked slowly round the horizon. No other boats were following them out of the Penfeld; the nearest ships to the
Murex
were half a dozen frigates and ships of the line at least half a mile beyond. Various boats moved under oars (and he could see one under sail making poor progress because of the light wind) taking officers and men out to the ships. None had that purposeful, marching sentry movement of a guard-boat: the war, he guessed, was too new for the French to have started regular patrols in the Roads, and anyway lookouts along the coast (at Pointe St Mathieu, for instance) would most likely have reported that the English had not yet resumed the blockade; that no English ships were on the coast.

He coughed to attract their attention and as a way of accepting the transition announced by Auguste. “I think madame can throw that bait over the side; she must be tired of the smell.”

A clatter showed Sarah had not waited to hear if anyone disagreed.

“Good, now let's get our oars on board, before someone lets go and we lose a quarter of our speed. Auguste, can you issue the weapons you have hidden up there?”

The Frenchman scrambled forward, fumbled for a minute or two, and then stood up again, clutching several objects.

“Cutlasses,” he said. “Here, Gilbert, take a couple before they slip from my arms. Ah, and one for you, Captain, and one for me. I shall put mine under my thwart. Careful with your feet when you sit down again, Gilbert.”

With that he bent down and burrowed under the coils of lines again. “Four knives …” his voice was muffled as he dropped them behind him, “… and the pistols.”

“You have six, I believe,” Ramage said. “We'll have one for madame.”

“Of course!” Auguste said. “I remember Gilbert telling me she is a fine shot. I shall load it for her myself. Now …” he pulled the coil of lines to one side, “… ah, the flask of powder … and the priming powder … and the box of balls and wads. Here, Gilbert, pass things aft, starting with the knives.”

For the next five minutes the men were busy checking the flints, flipping them to make sure they gave a good spark, but hiding them under a piece of cloth to conceal their unmistakable flashing. Then they loaded the pistols, putting them on half-cock.

Louis and the two brothers were wearing high fishermen's boots and slid their knives down into them. Ramage and Gilbert wore shoes and so had to tuck the knives into the waistband of their trousers. Ramage was thankful the cutlasses had come with belts, but decided against slipping his over his right shoulder and instead pushed it under the thwart.

“You were right about muskets being too bulky, Captain,” Auguste commented. “With knife, pistol and cutlass, I have all the weapons I can handle.”

“Yes—but everyone remember: use the pistol only to save your life: shots might arouse the sentries in another ship, or alarm a passing boat.”

“Is madame content with her pistol?” Auguste inquired. Sarah said: “Yes, it is much like the English Sea Service pistol: clumsy and heavy!”

“Yes, but remember how roughly the sailors treat them,” Auguste said, beating Ramage to it, “and when you've fired, you can always throw it at the next target.”

By now, Ramage was having second thoughts about his original plan. If a sentry challenged, they could probably gain several important seconds by innocently protesting that they were fishermen; seconds which could be converted into yards, and a closer approach.

“Auguste, what would you be using out here—a seine or long lines?”

Auguste thought for a few moments. “Long lines, I think.”

He guessed what Ramage had in mind and added: “One could use either, and I doubt if a sentry would know anyway! And it won't matter that we have no bait!”

Although they were not rowing, and there was very little wind, the château was slowly drawing astern and the western bank where the Penfeld ran into Le Goulet was now closer, showing the direction the boat was drifting.

“The ebb has started,” Ramage said. “The rest of us can start rowing again while Auguste puts over some lines.” He moved into the fisherman's seat.

Sarah took the tiller and gave occasional directions to the four oarsmen as Auguste struggled with the lines. “Hold up the lantern, madame,” he said finally, “otherwise I shall be the only fish these lines catch.”

“You need only two or three,” Ramage said. “No one will notice.”

“That's true,” Auguste said and put over one and then another, feeding out the lines expertly. “Shall I sit aft and pretend to watch?”

“As long as you have your cutlass and knife ready under the thwart,” Ramage said. “In fact you can take over as coxswain from madame, and start by giving me a distance.”

Sarah quickly pointed out the
Murex
to the Frenchman, who exclaimed: “Why, we are close! Much closer than I thought!”

“That's the ebb taking us down.” Ramage then glanced over his shoulder and was also startled to find the brig now only about five hundred yards away: already her masts and yards were standing stark against the stars like winter trees with geometrically precise branches. “Auguste, we'll row past at about a pistol shot and then, if nothing happens, turn under her bow and even closer under her stern and then if we still see no one, board this side.”

Sarah suddenly murmured in English: “Nicholas, I am frightened. The
Murex
looks more like a house full of ghosts.”

“I'd prefer ghosts to French
matelots,
” he said lightly, while Gilbert, who had understood, gave a reassuring laugh.

“How are you going to get on board?” she asked, reverting to French. She undid the knot of scarf round her head, took it off and shook her hair free.

“I don't know at the moment,” Ramage said, his sentences punctuated as he leaned forward and then stretched back with each oar stroke. “There might be a ladder hanging over the side or a rope. Otherwise, it'll probably be a scramble up the side.”

Sarah was silent for a moment and then said quietly in English: “There's a light on deck. A lantern, I think. It gets hidden as rigging and things get in the way.”

“Speak in French,” Ramage said, trying to hide his disappointment. “We don't want our friends to think we have any secrets.” He turned away towards them and repeated Sarah's report.

“A warm night, so they're drinking on deck,” Auguste commented. “It would be natural. That cabin we saw—the ‘gunroom' I think you called it, Captain—was very small. It would get very hot down there.”

Ramage saw his ideas being thrown aside like men caught on deck by a blast of grapeshot. Five Frenchmen up on the
Murex
's deck drinking with weapons to hand, and two more guarding the prisoners below, would be more than a match for the five of them down in the rowing boat: the
matelots
would have the advantage of height, as well as numbers. But despair, fear, alarm—all were contagious, so Ramage laughed. “It'll soon be hot on deck for them too!”

They continued rowing in the darkness at the speed set by Auguste, with an occasional “left” and “right.” Auguste said he was not using the seamen's terms because not all of them understood them and anyway, facing aft, they would only get muddled.

“We are two ship's lengths from her,” Auguste muttered. “How close before we begin our turn to pass?”

“One,” Ramage said. That would be thirty yards, or so. Close enough for Ramage to see what was happening on deck; close enough for any French seaman to see a fishing-boat passing. Or perhaps to show whether or not rum fumes would allow French
matelots
to see that far.

“No lights showing at the stern—what does that mean?” asked Auguste.

“They're not using the captain's cabin.”

Sarah said: “There are several men on deck sitting round the lantern—do you see them, Auguste?”

The Frenchman grunted and then counted aloud as an explanation why he had said nothing. “… three, four … five. Two missing. Are they guarding the prisoners?”

“They could be fetching more rum or lying drunk on the deck,” Louis said. “Perhaps we should row round for another hour and keep counting. As soon as seven have fallen down drunk, we can board!”

Ramage only just managed to stop himself making the usual joke about one Englishman being equal to three Frenchmen. These men, apart from not being trained seamen, were good: they had the right spirit and they hated the régime. Do not, he told himself, underestimate hate: it drives men to show the kind of bravery they never thought themselves capable of, yet it can just as easily warp their judgement.

“She's close on our bow—we're just beginning our run down her starboard side,” Auguste reported to Ramage, his voice punctuated by the creaking of the four oars, the slap of the oar blades in the water, and hiss of the stem as the boat drove on.

“Ho!
Ohé,
that boat!” The hail from the
Murex
's deck was definite: the voice was sober. “Answer!” Ramage told Auguste, whose voice carried better and had a local accent.

“Ho yourself!” Auguste shouted back. “I don't like
rosbifs
shouting at me.” His voice sounded genuinely offended.

“We're not
rosbifs!
” the voice answered indignantly. “We are honest Frenchmen
guarding
the
rosbifs.
”

“You speak French like a
rosbif,
” Auguste said sourly.

“Watch your tongue: I come from Besançon. Now, why do you fish so close to us?”

“Ha!” Auguste called back contemptuously. “So you think you own the whole sea, eh? Why, you are even standing on the deck of a
rosbif
ship, not a good French ship.”

“Answer: why do you fish so close?” This time it was another, harsher voice: Ramage thought he recognized it as belonging to the bosun.

“To catch fish!” exclaimed Auguste. “You're no seaman if you can't see that!”

“What do you mean? I'm the bosun; I command this ship!”

“For the time being,” Auguste said contemptuously. “But you've not yet learned that fish always gather round a ship at anchor. They feed off all the weed and things growing on the bottom. They like the shade on a sunny day—”

“And from the light of the moon too, I suppose. Afraid it will drive them mad, eh?”

“And they like to eat the scraps you all throw over the side. Salt beef and salt pork may not seem very tasty to you, but to a fish it is a banquet.”

By now the boat was within a few yards of the
Murex
's side.

“To save all this rowing, with my back giving me trouble again,” Ramage said in a lugubrious voice, “can't we fish from your decks? Then our hooks go where the fish are thickest.”

The bosun answered quickly. “Yes—but you have to give us a quarter of your catch!”

“You're a hard man,” Ramage complained. “Five wives and eleven children depend on what we catch.”

“You should have thought of that before you got married,” the bosun sneered. “A quarter of your catch and I'll let you on board.”

“Oh very well,” Ramage said grudgingly, and Auguste, in an appropriately officious voice, gave the orders to the men at the oars which brought the boat alongside.

Ramage murmured: “Pistols if you can hide them; otherwise just knives.”

“The bait bucket,” Sarah whispered. “Put the pistols in the bait bucket and I'll carry it with my scarf on top.”

Louis called up to the bosun: “I'm coming on board with the painter while they coil our fishing lines.” He touched Ramage to get his approval.

Ramage turned to Sarah. “You go after Louis and flirt with the bosun. I'll bring the bucket and give it to you to hold as soon as I can.”

He glanced up and saw that none of the French guards were looking over the rail. Swiftly he pushed a knife and its sheath down the inside of his trousers and made sure the belt was tight enough to hold it. It was a pity that the cutlasses would have to be left under the thwarts, but Gilbert and Albert were putting the loaded pistols into the bucket with the deftness of fishwives packing sprats. Sprat—improbably, he remembered, it was the same word in both English and French.

“Your scarf, madame,” Gilbert whispered, and Ramage said loudly, “Now are we ready? Gilbert—supposing you go up, and then you and Louis can help the lady at the top.”

As soon as Gilbert started climbing the battens fitted like thin steps up the
Murex
's side, Sarah began cursing, using words which would be familiar to a fisherman's wife but which Ramage was startled to find that she not only knew but used as though they were commonplace.

“Such steps—why no rope ladder? In this skirt? Do the
rosbifs
never have women on board? It's fortunate I wear no corset. Look away, you lechers; I am tucking my skirt in my belt.”

She grabbed the hem of her skirt and Ramage glimpsed long slim legs as she tucked in the cloth. “This will occupy their thoughts!” she murmured to Ramage, and before he had time to reply she had grabbed the highest batten she could reach and started climbing.

“Forgive me, Captain,” Auguste murmured to Ramage, and then called in a raucous voice to Louis and Gilbert on the
Murex
's deck: “Why you went aloft too soon! From here one sees
la citoyenne
quite differently!”

“Keep your eyes down, you old dog,” Ramage said hotly in what he hoped was the correct tone for an aggrieved husband, but he found himself continuing to watch Sarah's progress. A young woman's legs in the moonlight: certainly they did not help concentration. And since the sight made his own throat tighten he could guess the effect on Auguste.

A jab in the ribs from the bucket and a casual, “Your turn, and tell Louis and Gilbert to stand by to take the lines,” came from Auguste.