Ramage's Prize (23 page)

An hour later the boat returned with the mate and another Frenchman who sat on a thwart wrapped in a blanket, and who had to be helped on deck. After he had been taken below the French mate came back on deck to demand, “Who is Mr Much?” When the mate stepped forward he said, “Your Captain and the Surgeon are staying on board the
Rossignol
as prisoners. You are responsible for the
Lady Arabella
's men. I see you've made a start on the repairs. Now, point out Mr Bowen.”

“He's below.”

“Fetch him!”

As soon as Much left, the Frenchman turned to the group of passengers and then looked at a list in his hand.

“Tell me your names.” As each of them spoke, he checked them against his list.

“Ramage—which is Ramage? Ah—you know what your name means in French? The song of the birds, that is
‘ramage.'
No, perhaps ‘music' is better. A suitable prisoner for the
Rossignol,
eh?” He laughed softly. “Well, Captain Stevens says you can speak for the passengers. You are prisoners, of course. You will stay on board this ship, which I am going to sail back to her new home port.”

“Might we ask where that is?” Yorke asked.

The Frenchman smiled: he was under thirty, small and well built, blue-eyed with curly black hair and the spare, strong face typical of a certain type of Frenchman.

“St Malo, the home of the corsairs.”

“The men of Dunkerque will argue about that,” Ramage said.

“And Brest, too,” the Frenchman said, “but they are wrong!
Alors,
Mr Bowen?”

The Surgeon stepped forward.

“Your colleague Mr Farrell is incompetent, so you have a patient awaiting you in the saloon, Mr Bowen. He is our—how do you say—accountant. Not purser—almost an
agent
for the owner. He is very ill. He did not have confidence in Farrell. So now it is your responsibility that he reaches St Malo alive.”

Bowen glared at the Frenchman. “I'm responsible only for the treatment, not the original sickness. If your friend is dying …”

“The responsibility is yours. He must live. He is the
armateur
's son.”

“I'll do my best,” Bowen snapped. “But as far as I'm concerned he gets the same treatment whether an able seaman, an admiral or the son of an
amateur.
”

“Armateur,”
the Frenchman corrected, “but I understand; you are a man of ethics. We too believe in equality. Indeed, you may have heard of our Revolution,” he added dryly.

With that he looked round at them. “You are all officers, I see”—he waved his list—”and it's up to you whether you complete your journey in comfort, or in irons. If you give me your
parole
… otherwise you will be locked up.”

Ramage shook his head, and the others murmured, “No … no parole …”

Again the Frenchman shrugged. “Then I regret, gentlemen, that I must assume you'll try to recapture the ship, so you'll be locked up as soon as I select suitable cabins. I'll introduce myself: Jean Kerguelen. My brother Robert commands the
Rossignol.
Now, my men will finish the splicing and then we can get under way.”

While he had been talking, the privateersmen had been herding the
Lady Arabella
's crew below, searching each man carefully before he went down the hatch. Kerguelen called to one of the men, and said politely to the group of Britons, “You have refused your parole, so please submit to be searched.”

Ramage felt the seaman's nimble fingers and thought that they were more interested in finding valuables in pockets than pistols or knives. After much argument among their captors, they ended up in the passengers' cabins: Kerguelen decided it was easier to guard them there than anywhere else, much to the annoyance of some of the privateersmen, who had obviously been looking forward to a comfortable voyage back to St Malo.

Ramage and Yorke were locked in their original cabin but had Southwick and Bowen as well, so the four men would have to share the two bunks, two chairs and the cabin sole. As soon as Bowen joined them half an hour later, Ramage looked up expectantly.

“An
armateur,
” Bowen said as the sentry slammed the door and locked it again, “is a backer, the man who puts up the money to finance a privateering voyage.”

“I know that,” Ramage snapped and then, remembering Bowen had earlier mistaken the word for “amateur,” added, “He can also be the owner, or manager.”

“Well,” Bowen said, “the sick man is his son.”

“So Kerguelen said. What's wrong with the fellow?”

“It's hard to say. A fever. He is very debilitated.”

“You can cure him?” Ramage asked.

“I don't know, but Kerguelen's silly threats don't make a scrap of difference.”

“I know that; I was just curious.”

“There's a strange attitude towards the agent,” Bowen said. “As though the men like him well enough, but are suspicious.”

“The backer's son and the accountant—a glorified purser,” Ramage said. “No ship's company likes the purser. They probably think this fellow is the backer's spy, put on board to make sure they don't cheat.”

“By the way, sir, I had to treat Much.”

“Oh, what's wrong?”

“He had a quarrel with one of the Frenchmen. Ended up with a tap on the head from a pistol butt.”

“Badly hurt?”

“I don't think so. With these cases, though, it's sometimes difficult to be sure about damage to the cranium—often several hours pass before anything manifests itself.”

“And then what?”

“Collapses, pallor, heavy perspiration …”

“Supposing that happened to Much: where would you nurse him?”

“There's nowhere,” Bowen said, “apart from the cabin he's sharing with Wilson.”

“It would be more convenient to have him in here, would it not?”

Bowen saw Ramage wink and smiled: “Yes, sir. Much more. Do you want me to arrange it?”

“I badly want to have a chat with our Mr Much. A suitable collapse and a request to Kerguelen should do the job.”

Southwick was scratching his head and Ramage guessed that the locked door with an armed sentry outside was affecting the old Master, who asked, “What do you reckon our chances are of being recaptured, sir?”

“Very slight, if these Frenchmen can handle her properly. Sounds as though they've finished the splicing. They'll have her under way soon.”

Breakfast next morning was a piece of bread—the Navy's euphemism for tough biscuit—and a bowl of thin watery onion soup whose only merit was its temperature. Yorke was the first to finish his bowl. “I wish I'd soaked this bread a lot more: I'm sure they've chosen the hardest for us.”

Ramage offered his bowl. “Pop it in there for a few minutes: that'll soften it.”

“I suppose what annoys me most is that we're paying for their food.”

There was a banging on the door and the key turned in the lock. “Here,” Ramage said to Yorke, “grab your bread; they're probably collecting up the bowls.”

But it was Kerguelen, who came into the cabin and said to Bowen, “Go with the seaman outside: that mate of yours has collapsed.”

As the Surgeon left, Kerguelen sat down on the bunk.

“You are comfortable?”

Ramage smiled wryly. “Let's say we appreciate you asking the question!”

Kerguelen was tired: his sallow skin had the grey waxiness of strain and weariness.

Yorke asked conversationally, “You and your brother are having a successful cruise?”

The Frenchman made a face. “My comrades in other privateers seem to have cleared the game from the fields. You are only our second prize in more than two weeks.”

“My condolences!” Yorke said ironically.

The Frenchman gave a half bow and grinned. “Yes, and you were the more welcome.”

“Why?”

“The first was small—little more than a drogher—and gave us bad news.”

“Might one ask … ?” Ramage said.

“Your Channel Fleet is at sea. There seems a possibility of an attack on Brest.”

Ramage felt there was more to it than that—at least as far as Kerguelen was concerned. “And so … ?”

“And so we are going to have to stay out of the Channel and the Bay of Biscay for a while.”

“You don't mean …”

“No, don't worry, I won't spend a month lying-to in the Atlantic! We haven't enough provisions for that. No, I'm going to Lisbon. It'd be a pity to return to St Malo with empty holds, small as they are in this wretched little ship. Thanks to your blockade, France is very short of just about everything needed to fit out ships. You saw the new rope in the
Rossignol?
That's from our first prize. So a few tons of rope and canvas from Lisbon will be very welcome in St Malo. Fetch a high price, too.”

“Also thanks to the British blockade,” Ramage said.

“Ah, of course! But we won't sell all of it: we'll re-rig this ship, make a new suit of sails, and send her to sea privateering. She's just fast enough—and your frigates will recognize her as a packet brig and who knows, perhaps they won't be too inquisitive. Anyway, you'll be able to spend a month or so looking at Lisbon—from the anchorage, of course.”

“Why a month or so?” Yorke asked.

“Until we hear your Fleet has returned to Plymouth. How long do you think it will stay at sea, Mr Ramage?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine, since neither of us knows what the Commander-in-Chief's orders are.”

“
Alors,
we'll sample the hospitality of the Portuguese.”

Lisbon, Ramage thought; the capital of the only neutral country on the Atlantic coast. He could just imagine the face of the Post Office agent there when he saw not the Lisbon packet from Falmouth coming up the river with the latest mails but the Jamaica packet flying a French Tricolour. Would there be a chance to escape? He pictured himself climbing over the side in the darkness and swimming through the murky water of the Tagus …

One of the guards came into the cabin and whispered to Kerguelen, who stood up and excused himself. “This mate is apparently very ill—your Surgeon wants to see me. I would like to stay and talk, but …”

When he had gone and the door was again locked, Southwick said, “Coincidence, that, sir. Almost as though Much had heard what you were saying last night.”

“I'm just hoping he's not badly hurt. A broken skull could be fatal.”

Yorke said, “This fellow Kerguelen: he's a cut above what I'd expected.”

“Several cuts above,” Ramage said. “But his men …”

“Sweepings of the jails,” Southwick said. “I'd—”

The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Kerguelen waved Southwick to one side and two seamen carried Much into the cabin and put him in one of the bunks.

“You change places,” Kerguelen told Southwick as Bowen entered the cabin, clutching a bag of surgical instruments and his chessboard. “You go to the mate's cabin next door, and he stays here: then the Surgeon is with him all the time.”

The Master left the cabin and Kerguelen said, “It is best, eh?”

“Pity he was hit.”

“Pity? He's lucky to be alive. Usually we take very few prisoners. But your Captain surrendered so swiftly, you can thank him for your lives.”

“Are you always so generous?” Ramage asked curiously.

Kerguelen shrugged his shoulders. “Yes—if a ship surrenders without firing a shot. But usually only these Post Office vessels do, so we can afford to be generous.”

“You speak good English,” Yorke said as Ramage digested the fact that the packets had a reputation among the privateers.

“My mother even better.”

Yorke nodded. Only an English parent or long residence in England could give an accent such polish. Kerguelen looked at Yorke and Ramage, and said coolly, as if warning them against attempts to recapture the ship, “I also understand the English character quite well.”

Bowen said, “If you'll excuse me,” and Kerguelen moved to let him bend over Much, who was lying inert on the bunk, his head and brow swathed in bandages.

“Tell the sentry if you want anything.” With that Kerguelen left the cabin and the door was locked once again.

“How was that?” Bowen whispered. “No sooner said than done!”

“What happened?”

“Much had the same idea or, rather, he wanted to pass the word that he had to talk to you.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

As Bowen began to reply Ramage saw Much open one eye and wink.

“Yes,” Bowen said loudly. “It was a savage attack. The patient will be unconscious for several hours, I fear. I suggest a game of chess while we wait.”

Ramage looked startled but Bowen pointed to the door and mimed a sentry listening at a keyhole. Yes, an hour's chess would probably be enough to lull even the most ardent eavesdropper. Bowen took out the board and box of pieces, explaining they were among the few items the privateersmen had left behind in his cabin, and held out both fists. When Ramage touched the left, Bowen opened his hand to show a white pawn.

“You start,” he said. As soon as they had set the pieces out on the board, Ramage gingerly moved the king's pawn.

“That move is a great comfort to you and Southwick, sir,” Bowen said, “and I can guess your next will be to advance the queen's pawn two squares.”

Ramage nodded. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Bowen said cheerfully. “Only chess is a game of the unexpected; of bluff and attack, long-term trap and quickly exploited opportunity. It's truly the game for you, sir, but you play it like the vicar's wife sipping something she half fears will turn out to be a devil's brew!”

“I have an advantage over the vicar's wife,” Ramage said heavily. “I
know
it's a devil's brew!”