Ramage And The Rebels

CHAPTER TEN

Bazin could hardly 'believe his eyes when, a few moments before La Perle's bow crashed into the Calypso's quarter, the prize frigate suddenly began to move over to starboard, as if deliberately moving over so that La Perle could come alongside without a collision.

At the same moment a seaman by the mainmast began shouting at the quarterdeck something about the Calypso's gun ports, and Bazin saw that they were opening, and her guns were being run out. It is all very strange, he thought; first they drop the Tricolour and now they run out the guns. And here is Roget, the second lieutenant, his face as white as a sheet and shaking him by the shoulder and screaming at him, his teeth bared like a mad dog. But the words are slurred - by fear, though there's no need to be scared now, there will be no collision. 'Control yourself, Roget; speak slowly.'

Roget swallowed hard, took a deep breath - and Bazin gave him credit for the way he controlled himself - and then said, very distinctly: 'It's a trap. She's English.'

'Don't be stupid I She made the correct challenge. And all the signals!'

'She's English, I tell you - she's dropped the Tricolour, there's just the English flag now. Look, you fool! It was a ruse de guerre.' At that moment the two ships touched, hull against hull, like a fat couple walking down a narrow alley, and the second lieutenant turned and ran to the quarterdeck rail, shouting at the seamen to stand by to repel boarders, but even as Roget shouted Bazin saw grapnels flying through the air on the end of ropes, and as the crunching and banging ended with La Perle stopped alongside the Calypso, he also saw the bulwarks of both ships suddenly become alive with men: seamen from the Calypso, waving cutlasses and pistols, and wielding long boarding pikes, and shouting weird cries.

It is indeed a trap, Bazin realized, his brain in a fog, and someone is hailing in French from the Calypso's quarterdeck. Surrender? Of course he surrendered; how could he fight? He turned to tin cleat on which the halyard of the Tricolour was made up, but Roget was already undoing the figure of eights made by the rope and a moment later the flag came down. What will Captain Duroc say, he wondered. Where is he? Why didn't he shout a warning?

And men Bazin found himself staring at the point of an enormous sword held by a red - faced Englishman with a big paunch and flowing white hair. Not an officer, because he wore only a shirt and trousers. Then he remembered everyone on the Calypso's quarterdeck was wearing shirts and trousers, which was another reason why he had fallen into the trap.

The Englishman was shouting something in English - aw rendre?. That made no sense, but the man was sheathing his sword as if in disgust, and waving to men in blue uniforms. These must be the famous English Marines.

Bazin felt it was all a dream as he was taken across to the Calypso and lined up with his two officers on the quarterdeck. There was that fat man with white hair, looking very pleased with himself. And a pale - faced officer, who would never tan. And this other man, obviously the captain.

An aristo, too, that was certain; one had only to look at him, the slightly hooked nose, the high cheekbones, the tanned face, the dark hair bleached by the sun, the arrogant way he stood there, just looking at his prisoners. He too wore a shirt and trousers, but it was all part of the trap. Then Bazin looked carefully at the man's face and found himself staring at deep - set brown eyes that seemed to bore into him. He had to glance away because he knew those eyes would set him trembling. For the first time, Bazin realized, he was facing an aristo who could kill him. For years he had lived in an atmosphere where aristos - or men simply accused of being royalists - were hunted down like sheep and killed. Now a live one was looking at him - and, he realized, speaking in French and giving his name, Ramage. That word meant the song of the birds. The music of birds, rather. A pleasant word. Then he pronounced the name the English way, with a hard 'g', Ram - aidge, and he suddenly felt dizzy: this was the man, the famous English milord, Lord Ramage, although he had just given his first name, not the title. The Lord Ramage, the mad English aristo whose most recent escapade had been to capture two frigates off Diamond Rock only a few weeks ago, and sink two more, and seize the entire convoy on which Martinique was depending.

And Bazin suddenly knew why the Calypso had seemed familiar, a French ship. She was one of the frigates this milord Ramage had captured at Martinique. And that schooner towing her - Bazin remembered that two French schooners from Fort de France had been captured by this assassin a few days before the convoy arrived.

This milord was looking at him curiously. Oh yes, he had to surrender his sword. He was careful to hand it hilt - first, just in case one of those Marines thought he was threatening the captain.

'Et le vaisseau,' this milord was saying.

Had he the authority to surrender the ship? Yes, of course; there was no one else to do it, now Captain Duroc was not here.

'Oui, et le vaisseau, milord.'

Now Lord Ramage was turning to Roget, and Bazin realized that several times he had said 'milord', using the English word. It was the first time he had ever called any man 'lord', and here he was, only too anxious to say it to a foreigner. He knew he wanted to do anything to please this man, but he was not quite sure why, except that it was not only a desire to please. In France they guillotined the aristos, but here, under this blazing tropical sun, with English seamen aloft in La Perle, furling the topsails, it was not France; here the aristos could guillotine him - or order it with a snap of finger and thumb.

They were marched down to the lowerdeck, and made to stand by the mainmast, and all that fool Roget could say was: 'I told you so.'

Told me what, cretin?'

That it was a trap!'

'Ah yes, the moment before we crash alongside you scream at me like a girl defending her virginity. It would have helped if you had made that discovery five minutes earlier.'

'You were in command,' Roget retorted.

"I can't be watching everything!' Bazin snarled.

'You have to, if you're the captain.'

'You know who that man was?'

The one with the eyes?'

'Yes, the captain,' Bazin said.

'Why should I know who he is?'

'You've heard of milord Ramage?'

Roget went pale. That's him? I didn't recognize the name when he said it.'

That's him! He pronounces it differently.'

'He'll have us shot. . .'

'Probably,' Bazin said. 'Duroc's already dead.'

'How do you know?'

'I just know. These aristos - as soon as they get their hands on a true republican it is like that!' He made a chopping motion with his hand.

Roget, the colour coming back to his face, shrugged his shoulders. 'I suppose it's only fair.'

'What's fair?' Bazin asked suspiciously.

The aristos killing republicans. After all, every aristo I've ever seen was hauled off to the guillotine, or shot.'

That's different.' Roget irritated him; Bazin was the first to admit that. Only a fool like Roget could make that sort of argument.

'Sometimes I think you are a royalist at heart, Citoyen Roget.'

'Just because I point out that if we kill every aristo we find we can't blame the aristos if they kill any republicans they find?'

'Yes. Aristos are criminals. Like murderers. You have to see justice done. We republicans have the duty of administering it.'

'Well, that milord doesn't look like a murderer to me. I'm glad my wife can't see him; she'd fall in love with him at once.'

There you are,' Bazin said triumphantly, 'they run off with our women, and when they've had enough they cast them off. Like Moorish pashas. This one probably has a harem, too.'

'I envy him, then,' Roget said unexpectedly. 'If I was a milord I would have a dozen women. One of them would be Chinese. I saw a Chinese woman once. What eyes! No bosoms to speak of, I admit, but the eyes ... A Chinese, an Italian, perhaps a Creole, and - now, let me see . . .'

Bazin listened, wide - eyed. Roget was a royalist; he had just given himself away with all that talk about a harem. But what did he mean about the Chinese woman? Did none of them have bosoms, or just the one that Roget saw? The Italian women (some of them, anyway, when they were young) were nearly as beautiful as French women. But black women, certainly not - though there are many in Martinique, tall and slim, their skins like ebony. Yet there are only a few white women out here that one can bear to look at - most have skins dried, voices shrill, always nagging at their husbands. Still, Roget was a royalist, although no one had previously suspected it. '

And now that Marine lieutenant had come down the ladder and was looking at them. And he was pointing and beckoning. One of the sentries pulled him by the arm. Now Bazin knew they were going to shoot him. He turned to Roget. 'I forgive you,' he said, 'but for my sake stop this royalist talk.' He looked at the third lieutenant. 'Courage,' he said, like a benediction. With that he braced his shoulders and began to climb the steps. After the second step his knees had an unfortunate tendency to fold, like shutting a pocket knife, but he managed to continue climbing. This was how the aristos felt when they climbed up to the platform of the guillotine . . .

On deck the sun was dazzling, and he followed the Marine lieutenant. He glanced astern, but no sentry followed. nor could he see the firing squad. Up the quarterdeck ladder La Perle's topsails were now neatly furled and the two ships were still drifting alongside each other - and now down the companionway. This, Bazin knew, led to the captain's quarters.

At the foot of the companionway there was a Marine sentry who stood smartly to attention and saluted as the Marine officer passed, and he called some word into the cabin. Then Bazin was in the cabin, his head bent sideways to avoid hitting the beams overhead, and facing him, sitting at a desk, was this milord Ramage, who waved towards a settee and told him to sit down. The door shut and Bazin glanced up to see that the Marine lieutenant had left the cabin. He was alone with the milord. And his uniform was sticking to him and the perspiration was turning cold, and fresh beads of perspiration sprouting from his upper lip and forehead were cold, too, like rain on a glass window, and his breathing was shallow and he felt as though he was going to faint 'Lieutenant Bazin, I must apologize for the ruse.'

His accent was perfect He must have lived in France before the war - no foreigner could speak French like a Frenchman without living in France. The accent of Paris. In Lyon he would pass for a Parisian, Bazin was sure of that. But ruse?

'What ruse, milord?' There was the damned 'milord' again: it seemed so natural when talking to him, but he must guard his tongue against it.

The flags, M. Bazin. But I am sure you know perfectly well that it is a legitimate ruse de guerre to fly another flag as long as it is lowered and one's own flag hoisted before opening fire.'

Bazin was puzzled. 'Yes, of course. We always do it when we sight an English merchant ship, or a privateer.'

'You do? So you have no ill - feelings about me doing it?'

Ill - feelings? What is he talking about? Bazin knew it was his own fault that he had not grasped the significance of the Calypso's Tricolour coming down at the run. He shrugged his shoulders. And this milord was smiling, as though pleased. Bazin felt less chilly, but wondered if all this polite talk was not the prelude to another trap, another pat at the mouse by the cat's paw before the end came in a flurry of pain and blood.

'La Perle was a few hours late in leaving Aruba, M. Bazin?'

What a curious question. 'Several hours. In fact we nearly didn't leave at all.'

'Oh. Why was that?'

The leak, of course. Touching that reef made it a lot worse.

The captain waited for some time before we left to make sure the pumps could hold it'

'And they could, of course.'

'Only just, but there was no point in waiting in Aruba because we couldn't careen there to make repairs. Curacao is the nearest safe place - and of course it would have to be to windward. That's why Captain Duroc was not going to stop for you - but he was curious when you made the signal.'

The milord was looking at him strangely now. He was leaning forward slightly in the chair that he had twisted round to face the settee. 'You had all your pumps going?'

'Oh yes - chain pump, deck wash pumps and men with buckets. Every available man took his turn.'

'And you were just holding the leak.'

'Yes, just. It was getting no worse, thank goodness. If only we could have reached Curacao we'd have saved her.' '

The milord stood up slowly and walked out through the door, and the Marine sentry came into the cabin to guard him. He heard the milord's shoes clattering up the companionway. He had gone to arrange for the firing squad. He will not bother to question Roget or the third lieutenant. He would bother to question only the man who had been commanding La Perle (admittedly very briefly).

Bazin was proud that, with the firing squad only minutes away, he had kept control of himself and told this milord nothing. Nothing except that they were going to Curacao, and that was obvious enough to anyone who saw which way the ship was heading.

A few minutes later the milord came back again and the sentry left the cabin. The milord still had this pleasant smile on his face; the smile the cat has as it plays with the mouse. However, no aristo was going to fool Jean - Pierre Bazin with a smile.

The privateers are waiting for you in Curacao, M. Bazin.'

This is an obvious trap. 'Are they, milord?'

'I saw ten of them a few days ago. Perhaps more have arrived by now.'

'Very interesting, milord. There might be fifty, then.' That would worry him, Bazin knew. 'But they can get on quite well without La Perle, because we did not intend to call there. Not until we sprang this leak, rather.'

'Forgive my ignorance about all this, M. Bazin: I did not have time to talk to Captain Duroc.'

Look at those eyes: Bazin now knew what an assassin looked like. He had large brown eyes, the son that would fool a woman like Roget's wife, and they were sunk deep below bushy brows, and he smiled such a friendly but false smile. No, milord had not bothered to talk to Duroc before murdering him, so he did not know that Duroc was making a desperate rush to get to Curacao to careen the ship in the hope of finding the leak. No one was very optimistic, though; the whole garboard seam on the starboard side was leaking, and it seemed the entire transom was working loose because all the butt ends of the planks were weeping, although the caulking was still in the seams. The carpenter was puzzled and Duroc was frightened and he - ah, a chain pump had just started working somewhere this very moment because he could hear the distant clank - and - thump. And running water, like a distant stream. Now the clank of a head pump, and a second one has just started up. And a third and fourth, which was strange because La Perle had only two.

The milord was speaking again; something about La Perle working with the privateers. It was hard to concentrate, worrying about that leak, and he repeated the question.

'Does La Perle really not work with the privateers at Curacao?'

Did this milord, this rosbif cretin, really think that lieutenant de vaisseau Bazin was going to give away secrets? 'No, she does not.' Nor did she, but there was no point in giving the enemy information.

This patrol of La Perle's, M. Bazin - might one ask if you were co-operating with the Spanish or the Dutch?'

'With neither.' That would puzzle him. This evil man could not imagine that La Perle was on an ordinary patrol, having arrived in Martinique from France with dispatches and being sent on a patrol of the eastern end of la mer des Antilles on her way back to France. But La Perle had first begun to leak a few days after leaving Brest; they had pumped her across the Atlantique to Fort de France; they had careened her there and the caulkers had hammered away at their cotton and the pitch had been heated and poured. And the leaks were stopped, but Duroc, always anxious to please and always impatient, had left for the patrol and for France without trials, and the leaks had started again the minute the frigate had sailed beyond the lee of the islands and reached the full strength of the Trades. Why Duroc called at Aruba no one knew, and the reef they hit was not shown on the chart - or, rather, it was shown with more water over it, but more coral must have grown. Anyway, the leak was now twice as bad, and the nearest careenage was Curacao. However, you know nothing about all that, milord aristo.

Ramage found that after five minutes' conversation with Bazin he felt grubby. The man had a face which was startlingly like a weasel's; his manner, way of talking, and probably his way of thinking was the same. No doubt he was quick to pounce and bully or kill a weaker animal; but he was ingratiating when in the company of a stronger. And a fool, too; he had seen the Tricolour being hauled down, leaving only a British ensign flying, and he had thought nothing of it.

Out of curiosity it might be worth talking to the other two French lieutenants, just to find out their view of Citizen Bazin, but Ramage felt he could guess. And now Bazin was below again, under Marine guard, and no doubt quite certain that he had told the rosbif captain nothing . . .

Ramage went up on deck again and found both Aitken and Southwick waiting for him, shamefaced and looking like naughty schoolboys caught red - handed.

'I'm sorry, sir,' Aitken said. 'Southwick and the carpenter were just going on board her when you came up and told us about the leak, but - '

'But they should have finished their examination by then...'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you've no explanation for this lapse.'

'No, sir," Aitken said contritely. 'None at all.'

'Ill give you one,' Ramage said, 'and it's a lesson we've all just learned. Just because no shots have been fired, don't assume a prize isn't damaged and sinking.'

'Aye,' Southwick said, 'and it's worse than that, sir: they could have scuttled her - they should have done, in fact - and I just leaned on the quarterdeck rail and looked at her. I even noticed she rolled more than we did and had less freeboard, but I never thought the reason was that she had several feet of water in her.'

"Well, how's the pumping going?'

Southwick grinned cheerfully. 'With three hundred prisoners and our own pumps on board as well, it's no problem. No man has more than a quarter of an hour at a pump, but he has to work like a madman. It's the only way we'll get the level down.'

'She's making seven feet an hour,' Ramage said.

'Yes, but if we can empty her while she's alongside us, then the French can hold her with their own pumps without much trouble. We've got all the Frenchmen pumping - purser, bosun, sailmaker, captain's steward, everyone is taking a turn.'

Aitken was still rather chastened, and he said to Ramage: 'After we've pumped her dry and left the French prisoners to hold their seven feet an hour, what are we going to do with her, sir?"

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. 'After capturing her for the price of some cloth to make flags, it seems a pity to let her sink; but our orders are to deal with those privateers. I can't spare fifty men to take La Perle to Jamaica. More than fifty, because the prizemaster would need enough men to sail her and enough to guard three hundred Frenchmen and keep them busy pumping.'

'But losing a prize like this, sir!' Southwick protested.

The chances of her reaching Jamaica with these leaks even if I put a hundred of our men on board are remote.'

'How so, sir?'

The leaks are getting worse. I don't think she's just spewing her caulking; I'm sure she's rotten and the fastenings are going. The planks are loosening as the hull works in anything of a sea and popping 'em out The next thing will be the butt ends of planks suddenly springing, and then shell sink in ten minutes.'

Southwick scratched his head. 'Well, we can't take three hundred prisoners on board, that's certain. Still, we could put 'em on shore right here, in Curacao. Land 'em on that beach there.'

'And give the privateers in Amsterdam another thirty men each?'

'I hadn't thought of that,' Southwick admitted. 'But if we don't bring 'em on board and don't put 'em on shore . . . ?'

Ramage began walking up and down the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back. If all revolutions replaced uncomfortable breeches and white stockings which showed every dirty mark with loose - fitting trousers, he thought wryly, then officers would be well advised to change their politics. With La Perle captured he had no excuse for not going down to his cabin and putting on his uniform. The same applied to the rest of the Calypso's officers. Perhaps they were waiting for the captain to give a lead, afraid of offending him by appearing in uniform when he still wore trousers. Perhaps (and much more likely) they were as comfortable as he was and in no hurry to return to the uncomfortable and hot smartness of breeches.

All this thinking about trousers and breeches was wasting time; he had to make up his mind as soon as possible about La Perle and her three hundred men. Very well, state the problem. Well, three problems, sir. I can't spare a prize crew to sail (and pump) her to Jamaica, and anyway she'd probably sink in the first gale she met But, problem two, I can't leave her drifting. She has to be sunk - or set on fire. That leaves me with problem three, the three hundred prisoners whom I daren't land in Aruba or Curacao, because they'll immediately become privateersmen.

Given that La Perle was eventually bound back to France and would have sunk on the way, her meeting with the Calypso is hardly a stroke of good fortune for the British, least of all the Calypso, which loses prize money and head money, and whose captain will have to face the wrath of Admiral Foxe-Foote, who is not going to like losing his share of the prize money.

Very well, milord, as that wretched Bazin insisted on addressing you, with true republican regard to ingratiating himself, reduce the problems to their simplest terms. God it's hot; the deck throws up waves of heat. No sails set to cause a cooling downdraught, no awning stretched to make some shade. And here is Jackson with a straw hat for me to wear. A thoughtful act: he felt as though his brains were already frying, and his eyes seemed scorched from the glare.

The problem, he reminded himself, tipping the hat farther forward so that it shaded his eyes more completely, the problem is really quite simple: how to dispose of a French frigate without drowning her ship's company or handing them over to the French privateersmen in Curasao.

Quite simple, milord: turn both ships and men over to the Dons.

He stopped in mid - stride. That was the answer 1 Where it came from he was far from sure; probably lurking inside this straw hat. The French could land from La Perle on the Spanish Main, but they must not be able to repair the ship. His head buzzed with ideas, but none was any use until he looked at a chart He glanced over at La Perle and saw clear streams of water pouring out of her scuppers and from the hoses of head pumps rigged on the sides. La Creole was tacking back and forth to windward; the two frigates were drifting slowly to leeward, westward along the coast of Curacao. The weather seemed set fair. The only really miserable men on board the Calypso should be Duroc, Bazin and the two junior lieutenants.

Down in his cabin he pitched the straw hat on to the settee and pulled a chart out of the rack, unrolling it on his desk and holding it down flat with weights. The nearest part of the Main was in fact a long semicircle stretching from the tip of the Peninsula de Paraguana, the hatchet - shaped piece of land forming one side of the Gulf of Venezuela and leading down to Maracaibo, round to (for practical purposes) San Juan de los Cayos, a hundred and fifty miles to the eastward. Notes on his chart showed that there was not a port along that stretch where La Perle could be careened and repaired, nothing on the Peninsula apart from a mountain range topped by Pan de Santa Ana, a peak nearly 3000 feet high and visible for sixty miles on a clear day - which meant that any ship sailing south - west from Curacao would sight it within a few hours. Just where the hatchet - handle joined the mainland was La Vela de Coro, a large village on the bay. A soft mud bottom, frequent breakers, a sea whipped up by almost any breeze . . . Yes, hardly the place to careen a fishing smack, let alone a frigate/ Then came Cumarebo, which although the Spanish gave it the name 'Puerto' was simply an open roadstead in front of the town. After that was another small village, and then nothing for a dozen miles to Punta Zamuro, a coastline formed by sandy beaches, clay bluffs, shallow water . . . Punta Aguida had a red clay bluff and shallows of less than three fathoms more than a mile offshore . . . And, after a long stretch, the Bay of San Juan. The point sheltered it from the Trade winds coming from the east and north - east, but there was only twenty feet of water a mile offshore. As long as La Perle was not half full of water, she could get fairly dose in, but she would not careen . . . Now for the distances. He opened the dividers. Fifty miles would bring La Perle to anywhere on the Peninsula; a hundred miles would take her down to San Juan de los Cayos. The wind would be on the beam so she would make a fast passage, but give her the benefit of the doubt and say she averaged only three knots and went to San Juan de los Cayos. Thirty - three hours, a day and a half at the outside.

He called to the Marine sentry to pass the word for the first lieutenant, lieutenant of Marines, master and purser. The purser was the last to arrive, looking alarmed at suddenly being summoned to the captain's cabin.

Ramage decided to deal with him first, to put him out of his misery. Tell Mr Southwick the quantity of water needed for two days by three hundred men working extremely hard in this climate.'

'Water, sir? You don't mean beer?'

'No, nor cheese nor butter. Just water.'

Rowlands's lips moved as he did some mental arithmetic. Finally he gave a figure. Ramage thanked him and the man left the cabin.

'Remember that figure, Mr Southwick. Now, gentlemen, at midnight La Perle leaves us, escorted by La Creole, bound for the Main - anywhere between the entrance to the Gulf of Venezuela and San Juan de los Cayos. Come and look at this chart and refresh your memories.'

The three men inspected it, and Rennick said: 'All the Marines on board her as guards, sir?'

His face fell when Ramage shook his head and said: There'll be no guards. The Frenchmen will be alone on board: just La Creole to keep them company.'

Aitken was the first to grasp what Ramage had said. 'But, sir, what's to stop them making for Martinique?'

'Or attacking us?' added Southwick. 'No good putting them on parole; they'd never keep their word.'

'Sit down,' Ramage said. 'You all have jobs to do, so pay attention. La Perle sails at midnight under the command of Duroc, and he has the choice of the destinations I've just shown you, and - '

'But what's to stop him going somewhere else?' Southwick interrupted.

'Because all his charts will have been removed,' Ramage said patiently. 'Removed by you. And your mates will comb the officers' cabins for anything resembling a chart And just before he boards La Perle you will present him with an accurate but not overly - detailed copy of this section of the chart - ' Ramage tapped the chart on his desk. This section only. That means he has little choice of destinations. He could go to Aruba, but he left there because there was nowhere to careen La Perle. It is unlikely he knows the coast of the Main - this section, anyway - so he won't know there's nowhere there for him to careen, either.'

'He doesn't need a chart to get up to Martinique,' South - wick pointed out. 'He knows the latitude of Fort Royal . . .'

That won't help him. Hell have only two days' water on board because you, Southwick, will empty the rest of the casks and that fresh water will be pumped over the side with the salt. With three hundred men and water for only two days, he needs to get somewhere in two days, which rules out Martinique by several days. You will also dispose of all the wine and spirits - over the side, of course.'

'Sir,' Rennick said anxiously, 'the guns . . .'

'Aitken will supply you with a working party and you will flood the hanging magazine. I don't want an ounce of usable powder in the ship. All the great guns are to be spiked and you'll cut the breechings. All the locks for the guns are to be brought on board the Calypso, along with all flints, muskets, pistols, cutlasses, tomahawks and pikes.

'Leave the shot in the locker - we don't have time to get them out, and anyway we are not concerned in reducing her draught - but all those on deck can be hove over the side.'

Southwick combined a doubtful sniff with a vigorous scratching of his head, and Ramage smiled as he looked at the master. 'What's worrying you, Mr Southwick?'

'Well, sir, I still can't see why this fellow Duroc has to make for the Main, and what good it does when he gets there.'

'He has water for only two days,' Ramage repeated patiently. 'Obviously that limits his range for two days' sailing. But, more important, his ship is making seven feet of water an hour. That means with every man taking his turn at the pumps and bailing with buckets he can just keep her afloat But for how long can he pump and bail? The men have to get some rest, quite apart from sailing the ship - and in this heat they have to drink a lot of water.'

'But when he arrives off the Main - say, at La Vela de Coro - and anchors, he can get fresh water from the Dons and careen the ship."

Ramage shook his head. 'Even supposing Duroc can get water, he has only enough casks for two days - hell never get more locally - he's still tied to a radius of two days' sailing from La Vela. Don't forget Martinique is almost dead to windward, six hundred miles or more, and that much punching to windward will double the leaks. So he's condemned to stay and pump wherever he first anchors, and my guess is hell end up so exhausted hell have to run the ship ashore - or land his men in the boats and let the ship sink. He has no other choice. But whatever happens, we're rid of her and the three hundred men.'

'And La Creole, sir?' Aitken prompted.

'She's our insurance. She keeps La Perle company until Duroc is anchored somewhere. Lacey has nothing to fear from the Spanish and the French frigate will not have even a pistol on board. Drilling out the spikes in the great guns will be beyond them - tell the carpenter to take off all suitable drill bits and small awls, Mr Aitken. Lacey could batter her to pieces in an hour or two, if Duroc tried any tricks.'

By an hour before midnight the two head pumps and hoses from the Calypso were being brought back on board from La Perle and Southwick reported that the French frigate's own pumps were holding the leaks. Ramage had gone through the ship in the last of the daylight, inspecting the nails which had been hammered into the touchholes of all the great guns to spike them, the heads cut off, the ends riveted to make it impossible to pull them out. Only drilling would make the guns usable again - many hours of patient work with the proper tools which only an armourer would have. La Perle's armourer did have them, but his elaborately carved and brass - bound box of tools was now on board the Calypso, whose armourer was walking round with the unbelieving smile of a small boy given the Christmas present about which he dreamed but never thought to get. Water casks had been smashed and the hoops thrown over the side, the staves lying about in the holds like dozens of pieces of melon rind. A few casks had been left untouched: the two days' supply of water for the three hundred men. The hanging magazine, a lathe - and - plaster - lined cabin whose deck was three feet below the normal deck level so that it could be flooded with hoses, was now a small rectangular pond, the water slopping as the ship rolled, with scores of what seemed like dead cats floating in it - the cartridges for the guns. Casks of powder had their bungs removed; the grey powder they contained was sodden and some had washed out so that the water had the consistency of a thin grey soup.

Southwick and Aitken had made a thorough job of limiting La Perle's range. Bags of bread had been ripped open and the hard tack they contained soaked with salt water, taking care that none of the resulting mash went into the bilge, where it would plug the strainers and block the pumps. Casks of cheese, jars of oil, barrels of sauerkraut (which accounted for the vile smell), sacks and casks of oatmeal - all had been smashed, cut open, or the contents spoiled with salt water.

All the books and papers from the cabins of the captain and the master - they included another signal book, and the order book giving every order Duroc had received since before leaving France - were now stacked in Ramage's cabin, while the charts were in Southwick's, At the purser's suggestion, only a couple of dozen candles had been left in the ship. It was a very good idea but Ramage had been amused at the reason behind it. In the Royal Navy the purser had to pay for and supply free all the candles used in a ship, and now the Calypso had a windfall of several hundred, admittedly thin and of poor quality. No doubt Rowlands was hoping - though he would not dare suggest it - that the captain would not mention the acquisition in the Calypso's log. This would, Ramage noted wryly, make the purser the only man to make a financial profit from La Perle's capture.

The French prisoners were quite cheerful, despite the pumping, and Ramage had stopped to chat with several of them. A few grumbled about blistered hands and aching backs from the hours they had spent at the pumps, but the only real complaint was the heat: it was the heat that was exhausting them. Curiously enough, no one had asked what was going to happen to them, yet with several of the men - the master.

carpenter and bosun, for example - Ramage had chatted for some time, with none of them realizing that he was the Calypso's captain.

An hour to midnight, and there was La Creole's lantern: Lacey had been on board the Calypso to receive his orders and was obviously delighted with them. Ramage recognized the expression on Lacey's face when he realized he was going off on his own - or, rather, would be free of his senior officer for a few days. How in the past Ramage himself had prayed for such orders, and luckily Lacey had grasped the need to obey them implicitly. If there was any sign that La Perle was trying to make for anywhere but the agreed stretch of the Main, he was to warn her by firing a shot across her bow, and, if that was not sufficient, he was at once to rake her with broadsides until she obeyed or was a wreck.

On the other hand, if she was obviously going to sink before reaching the Main, Lacey could leave them two of his own boats because the frigate had more men than her own four boats could carry. Aitken had already made sure that two of La Perle's boats had compasses. None had water, though; the breakers were left in them, but the French master had been warned that they were empty and, in any emergency, would first need filling.

Once again Ramage looked at his watch. The two frigates had drifted well to the west of Curacao now, and there was half an hour to go before La Perle would be cast off. Now was the time to give Duroc his instructions, and to spring the final (and, he admitted, quite malicious) surprise on Citizen Bazin.

He went to his cabin after passing the word that Duroc was to be brought up, but without the other prisoners seeing him. At the moment the Frenchman knew absolutely nothing, other than what he could have guessed from the evidence of his own ears. Ramage had not been down to talk to him; the Marine sentries guarding him in Aitken's cabin had been warned to say nothing, in case Duroc could in fact speak English. Bazin and the other lieutenants did not know he was there; they knew nothing of him.

The man brought into Ramage's cabin by two Marines was a shrunken version of the burly braggart sent below under guard before La Perle was captured. The dim light of the lantern emphasized the deep lines of worry, marking his face like crevices in a cliff, and he was licking his lips nervously like someone caricaturing a nervous man. His shoulders were hunched, as if unconsciously hiding his neck from a guillotine blade.

Ramage kept him standing so that the man had to cock his head to one side.

'Ah, Captain Duroc, you know what has happened to your ship?'

'You captured her. I hear her alongside. And the pumps, I hear them working.'

Ramage nodded. 'Your men are still on board her. The five who were wounded have been treated and put back on board - their wounds were slight' 'Five? How many dead?' 'None.'

'And now, sir?' Duroc's eyes revealed his fears of what would happen when the French Ministry of Marine in Paris heard those figures. The captain not on board, no one killed, the ship lost to the enemy - it could only mean treason to minds so accustomed to finding or manufacturing it.

Ramage handed him the chart which Southwick had drawn. 'Sit down there, on that settee. You can read the chart - there is enough light? Good. Now, you know your ship is sinking?' Duroc nodded miserably.

'But you are confident your pumps can keep up with the leaks?'

Again Duroc nodded. 'Yes, but if they get worse . . .' 'Quite, you risk the leaks getting worse, and your men are becoming exhausted. That was why you were making for Curasao, to careen her?'

Duroc nodded for the third time, studying the chart 'Your destination is now changed. You will be put back on board your ship in a few minutes, and you will have that chart, and water for all your men for two days. There is no powder, the guns are spiked, and my schooner will escort you to Spanish waters.'

Duroc looked up at him, accepting the situation but obviously assuming some trap. 'We shall not be prisoners, then?'

'Only of yourselves and your ship. For two days the leaks and the pumps will be your guards.' The Frenchman used his fingers to measure distances. 'One day, perhaps two,' he said, almost to himself. 'Yes, that is good. But 'Have you any questions?'

'Yes, M'sieur. Why are you freeing us?'

'I don't want three hundred prisoners,' Ramage said frankly. 'I have orders from my admiral and I need all my men.'

Duroc made no secret of his relief: he believed the answer, perhaps because it was a logical one, and said: 'I do not know your name, M'sieur. You are being very fair to us. I would like to know to whom I am indebted.'

The Frenchman had spoken very formally and was obviously sincere. Ramage remembered Bazin and said casually, giving his name the English pronunciation: 'Nicholas Ramage, capi-taine de vaisseau.' Duroc nodded and repeated the name. Suddenly he looked up, wide - eyed. 'Lord Ramage?'

Ramage nodded.

'Merde! Then this is a trap!'

The change was so sudden Ramage was unsure whether to be flattered or insulted. 'What do you mean, a trap?'

Clearly Duroc was now a very frightened man; he was folding and refolding the chart like a nun "with a rosary. 'Well, you - why, it is well known that ..."

That what?'

'I don't know,' Duroc admitted lamely. 'But capturing that convoy off Martinique, and the frigates . . .'

'I could of course smash La Perle's chain pump, stave in all the boats, and cast you adrift. The ship would sink and you'd all drown in - half an hour?'

'Less. And I cannot swim.'

'But instead I have left you water and boats, given you a chart so that you can sail to safety, and provided an escort This "trap" has a strange bait, Captain Duroc. I wonder if you would be as generous if our positions were reversed?'

'No, forgive me,' Duroc said. 'I spoke hastily. It was the shock of finding out who you are. You have a certain - well, a certain reputation.'

'Not for cruelty, I trust.'

'Oh no I Nothing to your discredit, milord.'

Ramage waved to one of the sentries. 'Fetch the French officer called Bazin.'

He sat down at his desk and turned the chair so that he could see the door, telling the Marine sentry: Take this prisoner into the coach, and keep him there until I call you. You won't need a lantern; just keep your cutlass pressing against his shoulder blades.' He then explained to Duroc that he would have to wait in the next cabin.

Bazin, in contrast to Duroc, had regained some of his courage or, Ramage thought, more likely he had been goaded by the other two lieutenants into truculent belligerency.

'Sit down,' Ramage told him. The time has come for us to say farewell.'

'I expected nothing more,' Bazin sneered.

'Nothing more than what?'

'You haven't shot us; I presume you will now throw us over the side.'

'Yes,' Ramage could not resist saying, 'you are all going over the side in a few minutes.'

'Ha! I knew from the first you were an assassin]' Tell me, how did you discover that?'

The way you murdered Captain Duroc.'

'Oh, that!' Ramage said in an offhand voice, suspecting that the Frenchman in the next cabin would be amused. 'What else did you expect? Surely such a man does not deserve to live?'

That may be so,' Bazin exclaimed angrily, 'but who are you to kill him?'

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. He was not a true republican.'

'I know that well enough,' Bazin said as he half rose but sank back when he saw the Marine's cutlass. 'But that is no reason for you, an aristo, to murder us.'

'But why should I murder him but spare you?' Ramage enquired mildly.

'Because . . . well, because . . . what I mean is, you should not murder me because I am a true republican; I believe in the freedom and equality of man. But Duroc - he was an opportuniste. He was a bosun before the Revolution. He joined the Revolution only to get promotion!'

Ramage took out his watch and inspected it Ten minutes before midnight, citoyen. For us,' and he could not resist putting a slight emphasis on 'us', 'the new day is about to begin.'

He called to the sentry in the other cabin, and a minute later Duroc stamped through the door. Bazin leapt to his feet like a rocket, white - faced, crashed his head against the beam, and fell flat at Duroc's feet. The French captain looked across at Ramage, a grin on his face. 'He knows all about revolutions. By dawn he'll know all about working a chain pump, too. You have a droll sense of humour, milord, but it brings out the truth at times.'