Ramage's Devil (16 page)

The sailor pointed to the second lieutenant's cabin and followed Gilbert into it. The two men took up all the space and Ramage stood at the doorway, with the point of the knife just resting on the base of the
matelot
's spine, so that he moved slowly and very obviously kept clear of Gilbert and the lantern.

Finally he reached round very slowly, offering four large keys to Ramage, like an acolyte at communion. “These are the ones, sir.”

“You carry them. Call to the other two guards and warn them to put their weapons down, or you'll die. Now we go and undo those padlocks.”

The next cabin was empty. “The captain was here,” the matelot said hastily, “but he was so ill they took him to the hospital yesterday.”

Ramage felt a surge of relief. He had not looked forward to interviewing a captain who drove his crew to mutiny, whatever his state of health.

The two guards were collapsed in a drunken stupor and the prisoners were lying at the fore end of the lower deck. Iron rings protruded from the deck so that metal rods through leg irons needed only a padlock at one end—the other was too bulbous to pass through the eye—to secure each of the four rows of men. They all looked up, and although blinking and squinting in the lantern light, all were wide awake, obviously roused by the pistol shot.

Ramage decided it would be easier to ensure their attention if he left them prone on the deck for a few more minutes so he waved the
matelot
to one side, telling him to be ready.

“Gentlemen,” Ramage said loudly. “I am Captain Ramage, of the King's Service. I spoke to one of your lieutenants while delivering potatoes—ah,” he pointed, “it was you. Very well, in a few minutes you will all be free. I have this fellow here and three other French seamen on deck as prisoners and the bosun is dead—you heard the shot. But listen carefully: in addition to this man”—he gestured towards Gilbert—”there are three other Frenchmen up there, dressed in fishermen's clothes. Two of them do not speak English but all three are responsible for your rescue. So be very careful.

“I shall put the six French guards in the open boat we came out in, and cast them adrift so that they can row into Brest Harbour with one oar and report what's happened. That will save us guarding prisoners, and there's been enough killing for tonight.”

There was some murmuring from three men who Ramage guessed were the lieutenants and the master. Very well, he would deal with them in a moment.

“The guards will report that the
Murex
has been recaptured by the English and sailed. Anyway that will be obvious to anyone standing on the beach. So, within ten minutes at the most of those irons being unlocked, I want this ship tacking down the Gullet under topsails. We'll let the anchor cable run to save time.

“Two more things. My wife is on deck.” He then let a hard note come into his voice. “Any orders I give will not be questioned. I have taken command of this ship. I do not have my commission but it is dated September 1797. Nor do I have orders from the Admiralty, but anyone doubting my authority can go off in the boat with the French guards and become a prisoner of war.”

T
HE DESCRIPTION of him dressed in a French fisherman's smock and trousers, and standing on the quarterdeck of one of the King's ships with his wife beside him wearing a badly torn dress cobbled up with sailmaker's thread, would soon, Ramage mused, be another story added to the fund of bizarre yarns which already seemed to surround him.

At least a westerly gale was not screaming over the ebb tide and kicking up the hideous sea for which Brest Roads were notorious; at least the stars were out and the moon had risen. And if there had been no war, he would regard this as the start of a pleasant voyage. But now in an instant it could all turn out very difficult. If one of those anchored French ships opened fire and the three forts lining the cliffs along the Gullet followed suit, then in this light wind the
Murex
would be battered …

He picked up the speaking-trumpet and the coppery smell seemed to complete the series of memories taking him back to the
Calypso,
to the
Triton,
and then to the
Kathleen.

“Let that cable run, Mr Phillips … Foretopmen there: let fall the foretopsail … Stand by, maintopmen!”

Strange orders, but ones carefully phrased because he had so few seamen. That delivery of potatoes had saved him—knowing how many men he would have available to handle the ship had allowed him to work out a rough general quarter, watch and station bill for two lieutenants, master and eleven seamen.

And what a bill! Seven sail-handlers: four seamen for letting fall the foretopsail, three for loosing the maintopsail. Then the foretopmen had to slide down swiftly from aloft to haul on the halyards, and as soon as the yard was up, they had to hoist the jibs and staysails. The maintopmen in turn had to race down to tend their own halyard and then help the four remaining seamen who were to haul on sheets and braces to trim the yards and sails.

Of those four, two would have been helping the second lieutenant, Bridges, to let the anchor cable run … The master, Phillips, would be on the fo'c's'le, making sure that the cable ran out through the hawse without snagging, and the headsails and their sheets did not wrap round things in that tenacious embrace so beloved of moving ropes. And he wondered if Swan, the young first lieutenant who was now waiting at the wheel, could remember how to box the compass in quarterpoints! It was something he would have known when he took his examination for lieutenant and, having passed, would have forgotten it …

Damnation, this wind was light … Better not too strong with such a tiny crew, but he needed enough breeze to get those topsails drawing and give him steerage-way over the ebbing tide—by the time the
Murex
was drawing level with Pointe St Mathieu he would have dodged enough rocks and reefs to sink a fleet. The first of them was just abreast Fort de Delec, the dark walls of which he could already see perched up on the cliff on his starboard hand.

Ah! At last the foretopsail tumbled down as the men slashed the gaskets. He had made sure they had knives (it meant raiding the galley) to save valuable time: untying knotted gaskets (it was sure to be the last one that jammed) could cost three or four minutes.

Two men were coming down hand over hand along the forestay! The other two were coming down the usual way, using the shrouds. A puff of wind caught the sail so that it flapped like a woman shaking a damp sheet. To Ramage's ears, by now abnormally sensitive to noise, it seemed every ship in the anchorage must hear the
Murex
's foretopsail sounding like a ragged broadside.

Now the maintopsail flopped down with the elegant casualness of canvas in light airs.

A rapid thumping, as though a great snake was escaping from a box, ended with a splash and a cheerful hail from Phillips: “Cable away, sir!”

“Very well, Mr Phillips,” Ramage called through the trumpet and warned Swan at the wheel, “Be ready to meet her—the bow will pay off to starboard but for the moment the ebb has got her!”

The brig, with her bow now heading north as though she wanted to sail up the Penfeld river and into Brest, was in fact being swept sideways by the ebb down the Gullet towards the wide entrance, a dozen miles away and stretching five miles or so between Pointe St Mathieu on the starboard side and the Camaret peninsula to larboard.

The seamen were like ants at the base of each mast. Up, up, up! The heavy foretopsail yard inched its way upwards on the halyard and then a bellowed order saw it settle and the sheets tautening, giving shape to the sail.

The wind was still west; the feathers on the string of corks forming the telltale on the larboard side reassured him about that as they bobbed in the moonlight.

“I can feel some weight on the wheel now, sir,” Swan reported, as Ramage saw the maintopsail yard begin its slow rise up the mast. Damnation take the foretopmen, they had to make haste with those headsails: brigs were the devil to tack without jibs and staysail drawing, and already the
Murex
was gathering way as though she wanted to run up on the rocks in front of the château.

Ramage lifted the speaking-trumpet. He had to make them get a move on without frightening them into making silly mistakes.

“Foretopsail sheet men—aft those sheets! Brace men—brace sharp up!” Strangely-worded orders, but he had no afterguard.

Now he could see the sail outlined against the stars and it was setting perfectly, and Swan was cautiously turning the wheel a few more spokes.

“Maintopsail sheet men, are you ready? Take the strain—now, run it aft! Another six feet! Heave now, heave. Fight, belay that! Now, you men at the braces, sharp up!”

The flying jib, jib and staysail were crawling up their stays—with this light breeze and their canvas blanketed by the foretopsail, three of the four seamen were hauling a halyard each …

“Amidships there! Hands to the headsail sheets … Take the strain …” He watched as the sails slowed down and then stopped their climb up the stays. “Right, aft those headsail sheets … Foretopmen, pass them the word because I can't see a stitch of the canvas from here!”

Cheerful shouts from forward and the moonlight showing the topsails taking up gentle curves indicated that his unorthodox method of getting under way and passing sail orders to a handful of seamen, all of whom would normally be doing just one of those jobs, was working.

“Don't pinch her, Mr Swan,” Ramage warned the first lieutenant. “Just keep her moving fast, and then we'll have control. We'll have to put in a few dozen tacks before you put the helm down for Plymouth.”

Ramage paused and wiped the mouthpiece of the speaking-trumpet, which was green with verdigris.

“You nearly ran down the
matelots
in the fishing-boat as you were setting the maintopsail,” Sarah said. “They hadn't made much progress.”

“I didn't hear you reporting,” Ramage teased.

“No, you didn't,” she said shortly. “I didn't start the Revolution or the war.”

“Remind me to tell you how much I am enjoying our honeymoon, but first we must tack.”

And, he thought to himself, if the
Murex
hangs in irons we'll drift on to the rocks on the headland in front of the arsenal and opposite the château: the current sets strongly across them on the ebb.

A quick word to Swan had the wheel turning, and he could hear the creak of rudder pintles working on the gudgeons, an indication of a quiet night.

Then he gave a series of shouted commands to the men at sheets and braces and slowly (too slowly it seemed at first, convincing him he had left it too late) the
Murex
's bow began to swing to larboard, into the wind …

“Not too much helm, Mr Swan, you're supposed to be turning her, not stopping her …” A first lieutenant should know that. Now the jibs and staysail were flapping across.

“Headsail sheets, there!”

The men knew what to do; that much was obvious in the way the sails had been set. So now he need give only brief orders, which took care of the trimming.

“Braces! Altogether now, haul! Now the sheets!”

A glance ahead showed the brig now steady on the other tack.

“Mr Swan,” Ramage said quietly, walking over to the wheel, “I think you can get another point or two to windward …”

He watched the luff of the mainsail and then the leech.

“And another couple of spokes?”

Swan turned the wheel two more spokes but his movement lacked certainty: he was clearly nervous.

“Come now, Mr Swan,” Ramage said, a sharper note in his voice. “I don't expect to have to give the first lieutenant compass courses to steer to windward. Now look'ee, you can lay the Pointe des Espagnols—that's the headland on your larboard bow.”

With that he turned away and said to Sarah, “Can you see
L'Espoir
over there at anchor? I think she's gone: sailed while we were having our trouble with the bosun.”

She turned and looked over the larboard quarter at all the ships moonlit against the black line of low cliffs with the town of Plougastel in the distance. Unused to allowing for a change in bearings she took two or three minutes before finally reporting: “No, she's not there. But she can only be …”

“Yes,” Ramage said, “half an hour or so,” and noted it was time to tack again: the brig was moving along well and the ebb was helping hurry them seaward. He went over to Swan and gave him the new heading for when they had gone about.

“Follow the cliff along from Brest. You see the village of Portzic? Now, just beyond that next headland—you see the building? That's Fort de Delec. You should be able to lay it, but if a messenger has reached them they'll open fire. And just beyond, on top of the cliff, is the Lion Battery. If the fort and battery begin firing at us, we'll tack over to the other side.”

There was no need to tell Swan that on the other tack they would be heading for the Cornouaille Battery on the Camaret peninsula, and if the fire from that became hot enough to force them to tack north-westward again back to the Pointe St Mathieu side, they would be steering for the next fort, at Mengam, with three isolated and large rocks also waiting in the fairway for them …

The
Murex
went about perfectly: the headsails slapped across as the bow came round and were swiftly sheeted in; both topsails were braced sharp up on the larboard tack; Swan moved the wheel back and forth three or four spokes and then reported: “I can lay a bit to windward of the Lion Battery, sir.”

Already the château was dropping astern fast and Ramage watched the irregular shape of Fort de Delec. Distance was always hard to estimate in the darkness, but a mile? At night an object usually seemed closer—so to the French gunners the
Murex
would seem to be just within range. Just? Well within range, and Sarah murmured: “I imagine Frenchmen staring along the barrels of guns …”