Ramage's Devil (37 page)

Hart made up in bulk and loudness of voice what he lacked in intelligence, and this resulted in him being, at six feet two inches tall and sixteen stone, the largest of the
Calypso
's Marines with a bellow that sounded like a bull with spring fever.

Ferris, now commanding the Marine detachment in
La Robuste,
was thankful that Hart was an amiable man. This was due less to his nature than the fact that it was almost impossible to insult him. When he accidentally trod on someone's foot and was promptly called a “bloody great big oaf,” Hart would grin and say proudly: “Ah, I am big, ain't I?” Hart had been a Marine for more than a year before he discovered to his surprise that an oaf was neither a special sort of promise nor a swear word.

“Let's have one more go, men,” Ferris said, although he knew the twenty Marines in his party understood that he was using “men” instead of “Hart” because the man was liable to sulk if he thought he was being singled out. Hart, who was also left-handed, was not difficult or dangerous when he sulked but it was, as Mr Rennick once remarked, like having a stunned elephant lying at the foot of the stairs.

“The idea is this. We have one hundred and sixty Marines and seamen, an' that's dragging in every man that can wield a cutlash or fire a pistol.”

To Sergeant Ferris a cutlass was always a cutlash, no matter how many times he heard Mr Rennick and the
Calypso
's officers pronounce it correctly. On one occasion Rennick had taken him to one side and explained that it might be bad for discipline if privates heard such an ordinary word mispronounced. Ferris, a great believer in pipeclay and discipline, agreed wholeheartedly. “So,” Rennick said, promptly sweeping into the linguistic breach, “it's pronounced ‘cutlass.'”

“S'right, sir,” Ferris agreed, “cutlash, like I always say.”

Ferris looked round at his twenty men, careful not to glare at Hart. “Now the captain reckons that eighty men (that's half the total: half one side and half the other) is too many to h'act h'as a disciplined force.”

Anyone except Hart who had served under Ferris knew that under stress (except of course in action), the sergeant sprinkled his sentences with both too many and too few aitches. He was not particular where they fell: a word with a vowel at its threshold was always a convenient spot.

“So h'it h'as been decided to divide the entire force, one hundred and sixty Marines and seamen, h'into eight parties each of twenty men. “‘Ow h'about that, ‘art, do you understand?”

“Yus, Sergeant,” Hart said, nodding his head like a bear trying to disperse buzzing flies.

“Right. Now h'each party will ‘ave its h'own h'objective.”

Hart was not alone in sorting out the sergeant's aspiration.

“Ours will be the starboard gangway. We clear h'it. I do not want”—he spaced the words and emphasized them—”h'any of the h'enemy left alive on the starboard gangway.”

“Wot about the fo'c's'le, sergeant?” Hart asked lugubriously.

“None of your affair, my man: you just confine your h'activities to the starboard gangway.”

Hart digested this and then asked: “Wot about the quarterdeck, sergeant?”

Ferris took a deep breath. They were a good crowd, he had to admit that. They did not quarrel among themselves or try to dodge sentry duty in the more cramped parts of the ship, and they all agreed that Hart when possible should be the sentry at the water butt on deck, when it was in use, rather than, say, sentry at the captain's cabin, where the headroom was five feet four inches, leaving Hart with a surplus of ten inches. But why Hart? What had Ferris ever done, he asked himself, to have a Hart?

“None of your affair, my man,” he repeated firmly, “you just confine your h'activities to the starboard gangway.”

“But sergeant, what happens when we've done ‘em all in on the starboard gangway? Don't seem fair that the fo'c's'le and the quarterdeck men and the rest of ‘em get a bigger share than us. After all, we are Marines.”

Ware, Ferris suddenly remembered. In Hertfordshire. That was where Hart came from. “Where?” “Ware.” Yes, Ferris could remember that puzzling conversation with Marine Hart years ago.

But for once Hart was asking a good question. Once they'd cleared the gangway, were they expected just to stand there? Toss bodies over the side? Or what? Anyway, it gave him a chance to encourage Hart.

“That is a very pertinent question, my good man, and I'll raise it with Mr Wagstaffe.”

“Oh Sergeant,” Hart said hastily, “I wasn't trying to be pertinent: it just seemed we was being discrimbulated against.”

Not being pertinent? Ferris's brow wrinkled. He had never seen Hart so apologetic. What was wrong with “pertinent”? It was a sergeant's word, like “my man” was a sergeant's phrase. Suddenly he added two letters and saw the reason for Hart's apology.

“H'oh no, ‘pertinent' and ‘impertinent' are two h'utterly different words. ‘Pertinent' means—well, it's a good question. ‘
Im
pertinent' is being rude to someone of a higher station, like a sergeant, or a lieutenant.”

That left “discrimbulated.” Who would dare discrimbulate against Sergeant Ferris's party of men? That would risk a flogging. At least, it sounded as if it would. But … well, that word had a sort of left-handed sound about it. Then Ferris sighed.

“Hart, my good man, you mean ‘discriminate.' Believe me, no one's trying to discriminate against us. Mr Rennick was there when Mr Ramage drew a diagram of the ship's deck h'on a sheet of paper, and he divided it h'up into fo'c's'le, main deck, starboard gangway, and larboard, quarterdeck and lower deck. Obviously most people are going to be on the main deck, so four parties go there, one to the fo'c's'le, one to the quarterdeck, and one to each gangway: eight parties, one hundred and sixty, plus a few under Midshipman Orsini to rescue the Royalists.”

“If you say so, Sergeant,” Hart said. He did not understand, he was not convinced, nor, Ferris firmly believed, did the big ox want to be convinced. Like a bull giving an occasional bellow for no reason, and not because of any bad temper, Hart had these mild attacks from time to time.

On board the
Calypso,
Ramage filled in the last couple of lines of the day's entry in his journal. He had a strange “someone-else-is-writing-this” sensation when he noted the
Calypso
's position, under the “Bearings and distance at noon” column as “Western extremity of Île Royale bearing north by east 3/4 east five cables.” Nor was it often one could be so exact, but here in the lee of the islands the sea was calm and the wind steady, and as the French pilot book gave the heights of the three islands Paolo had been set to work with sextant and tables working out the distance. His first two attempts put Île Royale eleven and then seven miles away, but by the fifth sextant reading and set of calculations his answer coincided with Southwick's.

Ramage usually left the “Remarkable Observations and Accidents” column empty, and the events of today, the first complete day after they had arrived and anchored, were so far unimportant, but if there was a court martial the record might be important. He made an abbreviated entry:

“French pilot's canoe came within hail mid-afternoon inquiring number of
déportés
on board both frigates and intended for island. Told 62 and more due in third frigate. Told that governor's orders are for both frigates and third when she arrives to remain at anchor in quarantine for six weeks after death or complete recovery of last case of cholera. Lieutenants Martin and Kenton returned on board until
L'Espoir
arrives. Ships' companies employed A.T.S.R.”

He hated the initials for “As the Service required” but at this rate he would soon run out of space. There was no need to describe it as meaning scrubbing decks, setting up or replacing rigging and whippings, mending sails, and all the thousand and one jobs a sailor in a ship of war (or any ship for that matter) was heir to. And the sudden torrential rains that seemed to arrive out of a reasonably clear sky at three-hourly intervals meant that the quarterdeck awning was stretched with one corner dropped to catch water. If they could fill butts at the present rate each man would have something like a gallon of fresh water a day—something he had never experienced before. He could drink as much as he wanted; more important, he could rinse his clothes properly. Using the urine collected in the tubs in the head gave enough ammonia to bleach clothing, a rinse in salt water always meant that everything dried only to get damp on a humid day.

It would soon be necessary to send a boat to the mainland one night: the purser was complaining that he had only nineteen wreaths of twigs left for the cook to light the galley fire, and there was precious little wood left. So a wooding party would have to be sent out. And green wood needed more twigs to get it burning … Curious how planning the rescue of the Count of Rennes was built on the foundations of wreaths of twigs. “Wreaths” was an absurd name, yet in the Navy Board's list of “Tonnage with respect to stowage,” forty wreaths of twigs were noted as weighing a ton. Out of curiosity he searched through a drawer and found the list—yes, 6 jars of oil, 40 bushels of oatmeal, 252 gallons of wine, 1,800 pounds of cheese in casks, 450 pieces of beef, 900 pieces of pork, 200 empty sacks, wooden hoops for 420 hogshead or 600 kilderkins, 240 gallons of vinegar, forty wreaths of twigs … each item weighed a ton. Wreaths—did the gypsies call them that when they went from door to door in towns selling kindling?

He looked at his watch. By now the
Calypso
's parties of men should be waiting on the lower deck. Wagstaffe had just arrived on board from
La Robuste
and Aitken, Kenton, Martin and Rennick would be ready. Very well,
aux armes, citoyens.

It was hot down on the lower deck but eighty seamen and Marines stood to attention as Aitken barked an order when Ramage came down the ladder, once again wearing his French trousers and a white shirt—with a powerful glass it was possible for anyone on the hill of Île Royale to inspect the ship's deck, so neither Marines nor officers could wear anything but what would be usual on board a French ship of war. Ramage was delighted that his stockings, breeches and coat were back in the trunks, and Silkin was now busy stitching up white duck bought from the purser into shirts and trousers. It was not seemly, Silkin had complained, that the captain should be wearing trousers cobbled up from “pusser's duck.”

Ramage looked round at all the faces and found most of them were grinning. He had never before had such a large group muster on the lower deck, and the presence of the lieutenants and the ship's present position accounted for the air of excitement which was as heady as the smell of hops to leeward of a brewery.

“Fall out the officers,” Ramage said, “and all of you make yourselves comfortable.” Unaware of Sergeant Ferris's problem he added: “I am going through all this once. Then if there's anything someone doesn't understand, ask questions.”

He looked round at the men again and said in level tones: “What is the difference between an axe and a hammer? Let's say the head of each is a chunk of metal weighing eight pounds. If you hit a plank with the hammer, you get a dent. But if you hit a plank with an axe, you get a deep cut the length of the blade.

“Why a dent with one and a deep cut with the other? Well, you've already guessed that the hammer's eight pounds when it hits the plank is spread over an area of the head likely to be twice the size of a guinea. But the eight pounds of the axe is concentrated on the blade—say four inches long by less than the thickness of a sheet of very thin paper. That's why you use an axe to fell a tree, not a hammer. Obviously you wouldn't use an axe blade to drive in a nail, either; you want the energy spread out over the flat head.”

He looked round at the sailors. Yes, they understood the similes, even though they were puzzled why the captain was suddenly sermonizing like one of Mr Wesley's men.

“Now supposing you want to smash a plank of wood into kindling. You can have an eight-pound hammer or you can have an eight-pound axe—you have the choice. Or you can have eight one-pound axes or hammers.

“Supposing you were in a hurry: instead of an hour you had only five minutes to smash that plank into kindling. Wouldn't you be better off using your eight pounds of weight by chopping with eight one-pound axes rather than one axe weighing eight pounds?”

Several men immediately said yes, and the rest of them quickly muttered their agreement.

Ramage looked round and spotted Stafford. He pointed at the Cockney. “Why would we be better with eight smaller axes, Stafford?”

“Well, sir, stands ter reason, dunnit: eight blades choppin' away at eight different places is better than one big blade—that's if you want the plank as kindlin'.”

“Exactly. For chopping down a tree …”

“Oh well, sir, the one big blade, o'course.”

“Good. You all notice I am talking of a plank and not the tree: if it was a tree we'd be using the big axe to chop
in the same place;
because it's a plank for kindling we use eight small axes chopping
in several places.
”

Most of the men were nodding, reminding Ramage of a flock of pigeons. This business of speaking to them in parables was, in this instance anyway, a good one. And anything that helped maintain some sort of discipline in the heat of battle was all to the good. He found it difficult to control himself in the roar, smoke, flame and shouting of battle afloat, so he could not blame the seamen for regarding action on board an enemy ship as a concentrated group of men fighting a series of hand-to-hand actions, cutlass against cutlass, boarding-pike against pistol, tomahawk against musket. This was the hammer method, and usually it worked: the owner of any unfamiliar face was killed or taken prisoner.