Ramage's Devil (40 page)

The boat came clear of the
Calypso
's stern and Ramage had his first glimpse of
L'Espoir
from sea level. She seemed huge, black and menacing. No, perhaps not menacing—there were several lanterns casting yellowish cones of light on deck and reaching up to the under side of the yards which poised over the ship like eagles waiting to plunge.

Beyond he could just distinguish
La Robuste
in the distance; specks of dim light showed her position. At this very moment Wagstaffe should be leading four boats towards
L'Espoir.
Ramage was not too concerned that the two groups of boats arrived simultaneously because if one attacked before the other the French would concentrate on trying to beat it off and the second would take them by surprise. Hopes and fears: at this time they ran through one's thoughts like a pair of playful kittens.

In England it would be about half past eleven o'clock at night. Sarah would be in bed. Asleep? Probably, but perhaps lying awake thinking about him. If she was awake, he knew she was thinking about him. That was not conceit. It would have been if he had thought it before their honeymoon, but since then he had discovered that she needed him as much as he needed her, and that he occupied most of her life just as she occupied what was left of his after the navy's demands were satisfied. Loneliness, he had realized, was something no bachelor really understood. Loneliness was a happily married man (or woman) sleeping alone, the absence of a loved one. Gianna … In Volterra it must be about half past one o'clock in the morning. Tomorrow morning, as far as they were concerned here. What was she doing? How was she? Where was she?
Was
she? He tried to drive the thought away. Was Paolo, sitting next to him in the sternsheets, thinking about his aunt? Was he wondering if Bonaparte's secret police had murdered her, or had her securely locked up, something which for a woman like her would be a kind of death—

“Qui va là?”

The challenge from the deck of
L'Espoir
was casual: there was no alarm in the sentry's voice. Nor, Ramage realized as his body unfroze from the first shock of the hail which had brought him back from Volterra, London, warm nights with Sarah at Jean-Jacques' château near Brest, anything but friendly expectancy.

And casually, a comforting and confident casualness, came Auguste's amiable reply, his Breton accent deliberately more pronounced than usual.

“Our captain is visiting your captain, citizen. Did you have a good voyage from Brest?”

Some night birds fussed in the distance and he recognized the squawk of a night heron. And another. They must be flying from Île Royale to the mangroves on the shore. And that squeakier note—and again. Oystercatchers? Perhaps. What about that damned sentry? Twenty yards to go. Would he be watching just this one boat he had first sighted? Or would he look beyond and see three more that, however stupid he was, would give the lie to Auguste's reply?

“One gale and five days of calm. What ship?”

“We are
L'Intrépide,
and that's
La Robuste
over there.”

“Your captain's name, citizen?”

Ramage hissed: “Keep rowing: lay us alongside, whatever happens.”

“Citizen Camus, and who is he visiting?”

“Who is he visiting?” asked the puzzled sentry. “Why our captain you said, citizen.”

“And what's your captain's name, you mule?” Auguste asked crossly.

“Magon,” said a deeper voice. “I am the captain of
L'Espoir.
But rest on your oars …” the voice sounded harsh yet uncertain. “
L'Intrépide,
you say? That wasn't
L'Intrépide
that I saw. And Camus—I don't know that name.”

Would Auguste pull it off, delay for a couple of minutes? “Pretend you're the captain!” he hissed at Gilbert. “Interrupt in a moment!”

“I don't expect you do; we're bound for Brest from Batavia,” Auguste said, repeating the story Ramage had given him earlier.

“But even so,” the doubting voice said from
L'Espoir
's deck, “I don't even remember ‘Camus' as a lieutenant.”

“Merde!”
exclaimed Gilbert angrily, as though he was the Camus in question and whose patience was now exhausted. “I haven't heard of ‘Magon' either, and
L'Espoir
hasn't exactly distinguished herself, has she; you probably spent all the last war safely blockaded in Brest. Took a peace treaty to get you out again, eh? Now you're at sea”—Gilbert paused a moment and Ramage thought he too had heard a shout from the other side of the ship—”you've forgotten your manners. Good night, citizen. I'm not sitting here in my boat listening to that sort of welcome when I come to pay a visit!”

“No, no, you misunderstand me, citizen,” Magon said hastily, “it's—”

He broke off as two pistol shots snapped across the frigate's deck and in the distance Ramage heard the night herons squawk in alarm. “Alongside!” he shouted. “Stand by to board, men!”

It seemed only a moment later that men were tossing oars and the cutter slammed against the frigate's hull and suddenly he could smell the humid, almost sickly smell of the weed that had grown along her waterline, and there was the reek of garlic, even down here.

Ramage leapt for the battens and both ahead and astern heard shouting in English and the thud, thud, thud of the spiked heads of tomahawks being driven into the hull planking to make steps for the men to board.

Bellowing and shouting he climbed, fingers gripping the edges of the battens, feet pressing sideways for footholds and his legs heaving and thrusting him up. Suddenly he was standing on
L'Espoir
's deck and a man he guessed to be Captain Magon was wresting a musket from the sentry, who was clearly paralysed by the shouts and shots suddenly disturbing the tropical night.

Ramage dragged a pistol from his waistband and cocked it as he aimed at Magon, but the man pitched forward as another pistol firing beside him left Ramage's ears ringing. Ramage just had time to see in the light of the lantern hanging in the shrouds that Magon was bearded, then he turned towards the quarterdeck, shouting to his men.

There was a lantern on the binnacle: as he ran up the steps towards it, cutlass in his right hand, pistol in his left, he saw the one man on the quarterdeck, probably the officer keeping an anchor watch, running towards him, the blade of a cutlass he held over his head glinting in the dim light. The man was shouting almost hysterically and from three feet away he slashed downwards.

Ramage held up his own cutlass horizontally, the parry of quinte, and the man screamed and stepped back to slash again. He must have been a butcher before going to sea, Ramage thought, noting that the man had bared his right side. A quick lunge, a gurgle, and he was leaning over the collapsed man desperately tugging his cutlass free. How many times had he shouted at men under instruction that a cutlass was a slashing weapon: using the point was a quick way of getting cut down as you tried to withdraw from a body which invariably wrapped itself round your blade.

Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and more than a dozen other men now stood round him but, except for the body at Ramage's feet, the quarterdeck was now empty. “The gunroom!” Ramage shouted and led the way down the companion-way, which would bring them out first by the door to the captain's cabin and beside the second companion-way to the gunroom.

Aitken and Rennick's boats had come alongside just ahead of Ramage's cutter, and the first lieutenant, uttering wild Scottish battle cries, scrambled down from the gangway on to the main deck where French seamen, hurrying up from the lower deck where they had been having supper, found themselves running straight into bitter fighting.

Rennick's men were dropping down on to the main deck from further forward just as Aitken, realizing the value of lanterns, seized one and held it aloft and began the desperate game of hide-and-seek among the guns.

Paolo and his four Frenchmen, who had run along the larboard gangway to the forward end, dropped down and hid behind a couple of guns as dozens of yelling Frenchmen came rushing up the forehatch ladder, some of them—Paolo guessed them to be petty officers—pausing to open up arms chests and throw cutlasses on the deck for the men to grab.

The captain had been most emphatic, so Paolo did not mind hiding behind the gun with Auguste, while Gilbert, Albert and Louis crouched under the barrel of the next one forward. “Orsini,” the captain had said, and Paolo could hear the words even now, “you are not to get involved in the fighting: I have enough fighters; I want talkers!” But it was hard just crouching here and watching those men giving out cutlasses. The five of them could—but no, the captain had been emphatic.

He heard a dreadful screaming from right aft amid the shouting and cursing of a dozen men yelling in both French and English. Pistol shots, the clang of cutlass blades—
accidente,
the worst noise was coming from the gunroom: all the ship's officers and warrant officers must have been trapped there and, Paolo knew only too well, they would have swords and pistols in racks outside their cabin doors. But with all these wretches rushing up from below and snatching up cutlasses it was not a question of cutting off the snake's head …

Southwick had scrambled up over the starboard bow, helped by a couple of seamen and thankful that the anchor cable was thick because it was a struggle to get up on to the fo'c's'le. A French seaman emerged from the head, protesting loudly at being interrupted, but within moments he had been cut down and his body thrown over the side.

The master was just about to lead his men in a sweep across the fo'c's'le to clear out the group of men where the gangway met the fo'c's'le when the reflection from a lantern showed a white band.

“Calypso!” Southwick roared and heard a querulous Sergeant Ferris say: “Can't find any more bloody Frenchies, sir! We've cleared the starboard gangway.”

“Calypso!” came a shout from the group on the other side and Southwick discovered Lieutenant Martin complaining that the larboard gangway was clear and he thought Mr Ramage and the rest of them were either aft on the main deck or down on the lower deck.

“Calypsos!” Southwick bellowed, a sudden fear catching him: the fear that there was a good fight going on and he was missing it. “Follow me!” He led the rush aft along the starboard gangway, pausing a moment to look at the main deck and find a rope ladder to scramble down, but he was beaten to it by Martin and Ferris, who jumped.

There were many writhing men but little light on the main deck: Southwick saw a couple of lanterns hooked up on the beams, and then, his eye caught by a dancing light aft, he saw a shouting and a grinning Aitken holding a lantern high with one hand, his cutlass slashing with the other.

Southwick stepped forward, both hands grasping his great sword. He paused a moment to look at the head of the nearest man, saw it had no white band, and swung. The shock of blade on bone jarred and he took a couple of steps forward to the next man.

Wagstaffe shouted to his men to get to the main hatchway but the noise drowned his voice. Wagstaffe realized too late that he and Kenton had made a mistake: the moment they had seen the starboard gangway cleared they should have secured the fore, main and after hatches and cut down
L'Espoir
's ship's company as they scrambled unarmed up to the main deck. Now dozens, scores of Frenchmen, were on the main deck, snatching up cutlasses from the arms chests. Wagstaffe led his men across to the other side of the ship.

God, that noise in the gunroom!

The fighting was now almost entirely on the main deck, with Southwick, Ferris and Martin slashing their way aft along the starboard side to meet Aitken and his men working forward, and Wagstaffe, Kenton, and Rennick slashing and jabbing their way forward along the larboard side. Right aft, one deck lower, Ramage and his men fought through the gunroom with little room to swing a cutlass and all their pistols empty. Ramage eyed the swinging lantern: the remaining Frenchmen could have saved themselves if they had cut that down, but it seemed they dreaded the darkness.

Paolo watched the fore hatch. No one had come up it for two, perhaps three minutes.
“Andiamo!”
he said to the four Frenchmen, and then realized that with his excitement he had lapsed into Italian. “Come on!” he corrected himself, added a very English “Damnation!” and then said:
“Allons, messieurs!”

The lower deck was well lit: candles flickered at the tables and it took him a moment to realize that the curiously stark shadows on the deck were overturned forms. There was a great deal of shouting and cutlass clanging right aft, round the gunroom, but in his imagination Paolo could recall the captain's voice giving him orders.

He turned forward, picking up a lantern, and followed by the four Frenchmen passed the last of the tables.

“Déportés!”
he called, and Gilbert, his voice agitated and cracking with emotion, started to shout but it ended as almost a scream: “
M'sieu le Comte!
Here is Gilbert! Please, are you there!”

Paolo held the lantern higher. They were there all right, row upon row, men next to women, each held flat on the deck by a leg iron round the ankle, and waving near the back was a man who Paolo could see was too overcome with emotion to speak.

Paolo seized Gilbert's arm and pointed and gave him the lantern, and with a gasp of relief the Frenchman stumbled forward, trying to avoid the other prisoners but lurching as his feet caught ankles, eyebolts and the rods linking the leg irons. Now every one of the prisoners seemed to be shouting at once, every one of them and at the top of his voice or her voice. It was absurd; of that Paolo was sure. It was unseamanlike. Ungentle-manly and unladylike, too.

“Silence!” he shouted.
“Silence! Silence!”