Ramage And The Rebels

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Dutch shopkeepers and their families, along with most other people living on the Otrabanda side, had spent most of the day moving over to Punda with as many of their valuables as they could carry or persuade the boatmen to take on board. The rowing boats, laden with furniture on which the owners perched precariously, crossed the channel with the occupants cursing, joking or being reassured in shrill Dutch or Papiamento, the local language which was a curious mixture of Dutch, Spanish, English and African dialects. Southwick noted to Aitken that it was probably the first time that so many people in Amsterdam had exerted themselves in the blazing midday sun; usually they retired to cool and curtained rooms for a siesta lasting until three o'clock.

Now, half an hour after darkness, the Calypso's boats were landing the last of the eight companies on the Otrabanda quay. Rennick's Marines were formed up as though awaiting the Colonel - Commandant's inspection on the parade ground at Chatham; Lacey was prowling round the thirty men he had brought from La Creole. Aitken stood at the head of his group, which he had formed up in three columns each of ten men, and was silent, no doubt congratulating himself that Southwick had lost the argument that the first lieutenant should stay behind in command of the ship, not the master. Ramage had ruled that marching long distances across the Curacao countryside - and probably running, too - was for youngsters; that masters over sixty with pot - bellies and short of breath could only be rated youngsters if they lived in one of the new charitable homes for old folk. Wagstaffe had his men in four columns of seven men, with a leading seaman ahead and astern. Lacey, Baker and Kenton copied Aitken, who had in turn used the same system as Ramage.

Ramage was thankful that there was still a breeze and knew that with luck it would hold the whole night As usual it had been cool out in the Calypso, but the moment he landed on Otrabanda the heat soaked into him, as though the earth had been storing it all day and would be slowly releasing it through the night. Mosquitoes landed on him like droplets of water in fog and, thwarted at the ankles by his high boots, they made up for it by whining assaults on his wrists and face. The red - hot needle jabs of sandflies showed that Curacao was not free from the tiny midges which elsewhere the seamen called 'no - see - 'ems'.

Now, as the men scrambled out of the last boat and joined Kenton's company, Ramage checked his own men. Choosing his thirty had been difficult only because it meant refusing at least another thirty. Jackson was the second in command, with Stafford and Rossi. Another dozen or so had been chosen because they had served with him in the Kathleen while most of the rest had been in the Triton. It had been a case of choosing thirty men out of a hundred or so that, like children expecting a treat, were shouting, 'Me! Me!'

After giving it some thought, Ramage finally had no compunction about risking being accused of favouritism. He had no set plan for the attack (that was impossible until he could see the rebels' position) but he knew that in the darkness it was more likely that he would have to do something special with his own company because of the difficulty of passing orders to one of the others. That being the case, he wanted men around him who would understand his intentions without a lot of explanation. Someone like Jackson, who as a youngster had fought for the rebels in the American War of Independence and probably knew a good deal more than Rennick about this sort of fighting, which was a matter of ambushes, sudden attacks and vanishing again before the victims recovered. Never, in other words, remaining still long enough for an enemy to take aim. Rennick was by training a man of march and countermarch by files, complicated outflanking movements, brave beyond belief but limited by the drill manual, which dealt with routine situations where men fired to order and battalions and armies, friendly and enemy, moved as though in some gigantic quadrille. It was not, Ramage thought wryly, a case of eager seamen scrambling through the night . . .

In the darkness, though, it seemed that he had a small army formed up, but Rennick's suggestion that the first men landed should include one from each company, who would act as a marker - a marker buoy, in fact - and avoid confusion in the dark as the rest of the men landed, had worked perfectly.

Ramage started his inspection at the head of the column, which was led by Rennick's company and followed by the Marine sergeant's. Then came Ramage's company, followed by Kenton and Baker, Lacey and Wagstaffe, with Aitken bringing up the rear. One hundred and eighty seamen and forty Marines - more than two hundred and twenty men, and all silent except for the muted slapping at mosquitoes. The danger in all operations like this was that a man hoarding his tots of rum would get drunk on the march and become rowdy, but each man boarding a boat had to pause at the Calypso's gangway and be inspected by Southwick on one side and the master-at-arms on the other. The master-at-arms had growled as he checked each man: 'Breathe out . . . pistol or musket ... cutlass or pike ... yer got any rum hidden on yer?' Only after the test had been passed was the man allowed to go over the side, sober and properly armed.

It was eight o'clock and they had at least ten miles to cover. Ramage finished the inspection, went back to the head of the column and said to Rennick: 'Where are the Dutch guides?'

The Marine indicated the two men standing at the head of the column.

'One had better come with me; there's no point in both being with you.'

They both speak English, sir,' Rennick said thankfully.

Ramage called one of the guides, gave the order for Rennick to move off and with the guide hurried back to the head of his own company and followed the Marines. His orders to his lieutenants had been simple enough - follow the company in front.

The road out of Amsterdam was cobbled for a few hundred yards past the last house, but after that it was dried earth, so that the marching men made almost no sound. The moon had not risen - nor would it for several hours - but there was very little cloud so the stars were brilliant. And somewhere along the road, dose to Amsterdam, Dutch soldiers would be watching them pass - the Governor still had a platoon of soldiers scattered round the west side of Amsterdam to intercept any spies or sympathizers who might try to sneak out of the city to warn the rebels that the British were landing troops and seamen.

Less than a mile up the road Ramage felt the muscles in his shins beginning to tighten up with the unaccustomed marching, and the jarring of his heels was giving him a headache. The road turned inland and then turned west again to form the spine of the island. The figure appearing suddenly in the darkness was Rennick, acting as whipper - in, making sure the companies were keeping closed up.

An hour and a half later, when the guide reckoned that the village of Daniel was only three miles away, Ramage was hot, sticky and tired. His heels were raw, his feet felt swollen to twice their normal size. His jacket was sodden with perspiration, his stock chafing his neck and the band of his hat like an iron strap being tightened with a thumbscrew every half a mile. It was time to call a halt, their second, and a few minutes later the whole column was resting on the side of the road, most of the men lying down with their feet in the air, quietly cursing the blisters but admitting this tip given them by Lieutenant Rennick really worked.

Rennick had just loomed up in the darkness, apparently full of energy and with feet that never swelled or blistered, when the faint popping of muskets stifled every groan. It continued for ten or twelve seconds, by which time Ramage was on his feet and looking in the direction from which the sound came. Then, just as he was refocusing his eyes in the darkness on what seemed to be a faint pink glow low on the horizon, there were several tiny flashes at the base of it, like fireflies, followed by more popping.

Rennick, clicking his heels as if indicating to Ramage that he was speaking officially, gave his verdict: 'Muskets being fired without using ball, in my opinion, sir.'

And Ramage realized that the Marine was right: distant musket fire always sounded unreal, little more than a pop, but the last ones had been fired with the muskets pointing in their direction - that was clear from the brightness of some of the flashes - and the pop was more like the sound of corks leaving bottles. If the muskets had been loaded with shot one would expect a sharper note. That was where Rennick's military training came in useful: he knew instinctively what Ramage might well not have noticed.

Now, Ramage realized, Rennick expected an explanation of the pink glow. Well, it was a fire, obviously, but it was a steady glow. The few houses that Ramage had seen burning in darkness at a distance, tended to flare up and die down, then flare again as the flames found fresh wood to consume. This steady glow seemed to indicate a fire that was being fed regularly - a large bonfire, for instance, that had been burning several hours.

'How far away were those shots?'

Two miles at the most, sir.'

And it was about the fourteenth of July. Then there were more musket shots.

'Round up our other company commanders,' Ramage said. 'I'd better have a word with them.'

It was surprising how the military phrases crept in - com pany commanders, indeed! But it sounded better, when giving orders to as keen and competent a sea soldier as Rennick, to call the lieutenants and sergeant 'company commanders', even though their companies were no bigger than platoons. However, Ramage thought idly as he waited for them to arrive, it was wiser when you put sailors on shore to divide 'em into companies (after all, they were always known as 'the ship's company'; it was only fishing boats and privateers that had 'crews'). Referring to them as platoons risked a lot of ribaldry. Finally Aitken, Wagstaffe, Baker and Kenton, Lacey and the sergeant reported themselves and gathered round, blurs in the darkness, waiting to hear what their captain had to say. Ramage, unused to meeting his officers on land, was suddenly reminded of Mr Wesley's preachers conducting services on Cornish roadsides (and having large congregations, too!). He coughed, as much to stifle a laugh as draw their attention.

'All of you heard the musketry and can see the fire. There's no village in that direction and a plantation house would not burn so steadily - or for so long. I think our rebel friends and the privateersmen are beginning a celebration party: we know, from the Dutch patrols, that they have been rounding up cattle. My guess is that they are roasting the carcases on that fire - which is why it is burning so steadily. The musketry is simply firing volleys for fun, celebrating the fall of the Bastille. They're starting early because it's not the fourteenth of July for a few hours yet. So by midnight . . .'

'Aye,' Aitken said, with a wealth of contempt in his voice for men who were not only revolutionaries and drinkers but, until recently at least, avowed Catholics, 'they'll be so besotted by midnight it'll be like picking apples.'

'But we're not taking prisoners, are we, sir?' Kenton asked, obviously shocked and clearly thinking Aitken was referring to plucked apples in a basket 'Well take them if they come to hand,' Ramage said evenly, remembering the Tranquil's victims. 'Now, your men had better put the bands of cloth round their heads now, so there are no mistakes, and tell 'em once again that anyone without a white headband is an enemy.

'And don't let's forget that whether those rebels are drunk or sober, they outnumber us more than two to one. But we have some advantages, so listen carefully while I explain them.

First, we can't hope to kill them all. Our first objective is to drive diem away from Amsterdam, so when we attack we want to make sure that the survivors try to escape to the westward.

'Second, from whichever direction we attack, they are against the light of the bonfire. The wind, such as it is, seems unable to make up its mind whether to be south - east or east, but the point is that the smoke is blowing to the west. If we attack from the windward side - from the east, this side - we can reasonably expect the survivors to run away to the west.'

'But sir,' Baker asked, 'supposing they don't bolt to the west but stand and fight?'

Then we'll bolt to the east,' Ramage said lightly, but added as soon as the others had stopped chuckling: Though it is a good question to which there's no answer except that we must make sure they do.

'Now, Rennick, the Marines are the sharpshooters. As the rebels bolt I want your men to pick off as many as possible with muskets and, using your own judgement about numbers, chase the first group. There will be some smoke and a ragged column, I imagine, with our seamen becoming mixed up with the tail of them, which is why we've taken so much of the purser's white duck to make headbands.

'So your Marines will be out on each side of the bonfire while the six companies of seamen attack from this side, driving the rebels past your men, like beaters at the butts. Volleys first from muskets and pistols; then close in with pike and cutlass.'

'Can we be sure the rebels will be gathered this side drinking and eating, sir?' Wagstaffe asked cautiously.

Rennick laughed. 'Spoken like a true Londoner!'

'Well, finish the answer,' Ramage said, laughing with Rennick and Aitken.

'It's a hot night and anyway no one sits on the lee side of a huge bonfire I They'll all be up to windward, clear of the smoke and beat Even the men tending the roasting carcases will be up to windward.'

'Aye, but they won't be roasting whole carcases on a bonfire like that,' Aitken said. The outside flesh would get charred long before the rest was cooked. They'll be roasting nice cuts on long poles, if I know anything about it. A whole carcase means a spit and someone to turn it - and it takes hours. And to feed five hundred or more .. . better to cut up the carcases and issue raw meat and leave it to individuals to do their own cooking.'

'Very well,' Ramage said, 'the main thing is that we don't kill each other accidentally. We all have watches, and the bonfire means we can see the time.' He took out his watch and saw it wanted three - quarters of an hour to midnight 'We'll allow an hour and a quarter for us to get into position. So at half past midnight, the moment you hear three musket shots one after another at one - second intervals, you all open fire. The three shots should be enough to make the sleepers and the drunks sit up to see what's going on, providing you with more targets, and reveal where the sentries are. One hundred and eighty musket balls, followed by one hundred and eighty pistol balls, should kill a few, because Rennick's Marines have only forty muskets and forty pistols to bring down the rest'

That's only four hundred and forty shots, sir, and you said there are five hundred rebels and privateersmen!' Aitken said.

True enough,' Ramage said with mock seriousness, 'but you speak as a seaman. Rennick's sea soldiers reckon to make one ball go through at least two men at night and three in daylight.

'Now, I want the second company of Marines under the sergeant to go to the rear of our column, then well be approaching in the order we attack. Your company will be to the south, Rennick, at the end of the bonfire, then mine, then Baker, Lacey, Kenton and Wagstaffe, who will be roughly in the middle, then Aitken, with the sergeant and the second company of Marines beyond. Any questions or suggestions?' The earth was baked as hard as pottery by scorching sun, with no rain for many days, and (it seemed to Ramage) liberally covered with small, sharp rocks that dug into hips and elbows and made cutlass hilts dank with the slightest movement Ramage pulled out his watch and held it up so that he could read the dial by the light of the great long bonfire burning less than a hundred yards away. Twenty minutes past twelve; ten minutes to wait His wrists seemed swollen to twice their normal size, the flesh itching in a fiery torture, and mosquitoes were landing boldly on his face.

The bonfire was a good twenty yards long, but low now, the rebels had obviously started off with a great blaze in the afternoon and then kept it stoked so that the whole mass glowed red, just right for roasting. Dozens of shadowy figures moved about, lit up by flames spurting up from time to time as more tree branches and brushwood were flung on.

Many rebels were lying on the ground, holding out long sticks - they might well be boarding pikes - with cuts of meat cooking on the end, like men fishing from a river bank. There were few sentries; Ramage could see only one in front of his position, a man squatting down with a musket clasped in his arms.

The rebels were drinking - one could see bottles being passed round, and men were occasionally filling jugs from some casks propped up dear of the ground, well to windward of the flames. Occasionally they burst into snatches of revolutionary songs, but the heat, the wine, the mosquitoes and sheer sleepiness seemed to be draining their martial ardour. As far as Ramage could make out, only a quarter of the rebels were actually asleep, dark shadows lying like sheep in a meadow forty yards or so in front of the bonfire.

He wriggled and carefully moved a sharp stone thai was numbing his left thigh. He looked at his watch again. Only three minutes had passed. He was sure that if he looked again he'd find the watch was going backwards. Jackson was lying to his left, musket in' front of him, the butt ready to slide against his shoulder, Stafford was to his right, with Rossi beyond. The rest of the men were lying to left and right, so that Ramage was in the middle of the line, the best place to shout orders both ways.

Rennick and one company of Marines should be hidden over there on the left, to one side of the bonfire, while Baker, Lacey, Wagstaffe and Kenton were on die right, parallel with the bonfire, with Aitken at the end and the Marine sergeant's company along the right - hand edge. There had been no messengers so he presumed they were in position. He had shocked Rennick by saying he did not want runners bringing messages that all was well; that they should be reserved for bad news. Every movement risked them being spotted by the rebels, so 'Qui vive?'

The challenge was from over to the right, in front of Baker's company.

'Qui va la?'

The French sentry, obviously a privateersman, sounded certain that he had spotted someone.

Then Ramage saw the sentry: he was standing bolt upright, staring into the darkness, a darkness which was emphasized by the light of the bonfire behind him. Then suddenly the man raised his musket to his shoulder and fired.

At once scores of rebels began rousing themselves in front of the fire. Now for the signal!

'Jackson, Stafford, Rossi . . . Well attack now. Ready, Jackson? Fire! ... Stafford, fire! ... Rossi, fire!'

To Ramage's right the British muskets fired in a ragged drumroll with the muzzle flashes flickering like summer lightning. Against the bonfire he saw men collapsing like half - filled sacks tossed from a granary steps, while others went down flat in a dive, showing they were unwounded and seeking safety.

Ramage had a pistol in each hand as he scrambled up and began to run towards the fire. 'Forward, men! Pistols when you're within range, then cutlass and pike I'

He was shrieking with excitement, but he knew it; there was no need for self - control now - he wanted his one hundred and eighty men to rout five hundred, and an excited, shouting and howling dash might do it!

Jackson to one side, Stafford the other - and out of the corner of his eye he could see a dark line rising up on his right and sweeping forward. Ahead there were fast - moving shapes against the flames and red glow: startled rebels scrambling up, flashes here and there as flames reflected on sword blades. A few flashes from pistols or muskets, but Ramage knew they must be through the line of sentries.

Cock the left pistol, now the right; cutlass slapping against his left leg. Don't trip and sprain an ankle. Paolo somewhere over to the right, with Aitken, and for Gianna's sake ... but the boy was excitable and keen and likely to run ahead of the rest Some of the rebels crouching now, aiming pistols: several tiny eyes winking in red flashes which only the targets saw. Thirty yards - too far for half - drunk, drowsy and frightened men to aim accurately. And the rebels are half - blinded anyway because they have been in the bright light of the bonfire for hours while the British, the targets, are sweeping in from a dark background.

The smell of roast beef makes the feeling of hunger nudge out fear. They are all running towards rebels with pistols but the British seamen are still obeying orders to hold their fire to be sure of hitting: it takes several moments for an excited man to stop running, aim with any accuracy, and then fire.

A crackling to his right: some of the seamen are firing their pistols. And now movement on the left of the bonfire. Like maggots squirming in rotten meat, dozens of rebels are bolting round the left - hand edge of the bonfire, yelling and tripping, some swaying because they are too drunk to do anything more than follow their friends. In a few moments they will run into a murderous fire from Rennick's Marines. Yes, there go the muskets.

But still there are scores of men in front of the bonfire; men who are not bolting. Far too many for playing around with pistols, he decided, and jamming them back in his waistband as he ran he grabbed his cutlass.

Ten yards to the first men: smells of roast beef, garlic, spilled wine and urine, and the almost aromatic smell of woodsmoke. One man crouching with a pistol, another half cowering with a cutlass, as though trapped by fellow privateersmen each side and the bonfire behind, a dozen more each side ready to fight and Jackson and Stafford shouting wild threats at the top of their voices as they run and Rossi screaming most of the curses developed over the centuries in a country renowned for its blasphemy.

And then - the first man was thick - set, a round head on broad shoulders with no neck, face shiny from the heat, eyes dark holes because the bonfire was behind him. His arm swung out sideways, sword blade flashing in the flames, a great scything movement as he tried to cut Ramage down in a blow which should have decapitated him.

Ramage thrust his sword upwards across his body, deflecting the Frenchman's blade high into the air and bringing the two men face to face, bodies touching. Foul breath, the stench of stale wine, a piggish face unshaven for days, and Ramage chopped his sword down diagonally again and the man grunted as he fell, blood spurting from his neck.

A moment later a metallic flash warned Ramage of a sword thrust coming from his right. He parried, fighting sideways to avoid standing with his back to more privateersmen between him and the bonfire. This man was big, his face brutish, and he was dressed in the remnants of an officer's uniform. His mouth was moving; Ramage sensed rather than heard in the uproar that the man was cursing him.

A sudden downward slash - a typical sabre blow. The man knew something of swordplay, and Ramage held up his blade horizontally, covering his head and shoulders in the classic parry of quinte. Ramage lunged at the man's chest but his sword jarred against the parry of prime. The Frenchman was a moment late as Ramage switched to the most basic of all positions, called by the fencing masters 'Hit with the point', and a moment later Ramage was dragging at the sword as the Frenchman, the point of the cutlass into his chest just where the ribs divided, collapsed on top of him. The man was too big for Ramage to avoid; together they landed heavily on the ground and a winded Ramage found himself gasping desperately for breath. The pain in his stomach was agonizing, but after a few moments he managed to roll clear of the Frenchman, his cutlass gone and feeling his stomach for the wound. There was none; the only dampness was from perspiration, not blood, and the pain was from the winding.

A moment later Jackson was beside him, helping him to his feet, not asking questions which required breath to answer Ramage was alive and unwounded.

'My cutlass,' Ramage gasped, and Jackson wrenched one from the dying Frenchman's hands.

Then Ramage was on his feet again, conscious of the scorching heat of the bonfire, but realizing that there were no more rebels between him and the great bed of glowing red embers; instead, muskets were crackling at either end - the two companies of Marines were firing into the Frenchmen as they fled to leeward, to the west, away from Amsterdam.

This was a vital moment, and Ramage was glad to see that his six companies - now scattered men but forming a phalanx - had remembered their orders not to chase helter-skelter after fleeing Frenchmen because this would risk them being shot down by the Marines. In the first rush of fleeing Frenchmen the Marines must have a clear field of fire.

He listened and the shooting was dying down at each end: the Marines had used both muskets and pistols. Now was the time for the chase, using only cutlass or pike.

'Calypsos,' he bawled, and the shout was taken up along the line as the men, hearing the single word that told them the chase had begun, started running round the bonfire, shouting as they went As he began to run, leading the way round the left end of the bonfire, Ramage saw for the first time that scores of bodies were lying like stocks of corn scattered by a sudden storm. Then, with his company round him, men still bellowing 'Calypsos! Calypsos!' he passed the end of the bonfire and plunged into the darkness, momentarily blinded and instantly aware that the French now had the advantage, with their pursuers outlined against the bonfire's glow. It was only a glow now, enormous but throwing none of the bright flames made by new branches flaring in the enormous heat He ran and caught up with more men wearing white bands round their heads, men in Marine uniforms. Then he heard Rennick's voice bellowing orders. There was no clash of steel; although the Marines were trotting along purposefully, there were no groups of men fighting.

'Rennick! Rennick!'

'Here, sir!'

And there was Rennick facing him, his chubby face even redder in the glow of the fire, eyes sparkling, a great grin showing he was enjoying himself. 'Afraid they can run faster than us, sir!'

Chase them in the darkness while the rebels were disorganized? Or wait for daylight, by which time they would have sorted themselves out? By now the odds were more equal, and there was no chance of the rebels attacking Amsterdam. So he would wait for daylight.

'Have the trumpeter recall our men," Ramage told Rennick. 'Well catch up with those rebels in daylight. Now we'll attend to the wounded.'

Back on the windward side of the bonfire Ramage was appalled at what he saw: no mad painter's portrayal of the entrance to hell could be more gory or more terrifying: there were at least a hundred bodies sprawled in a band the length of the bonfire, perhaps fifteen yards, and ten yards wide.

Here and there a wounded man moved; at least one was trying to crawl from under two bodies collapsed across him. Kenton was quietly vomiting, but Aitken stood beside Ramage with Baker, who said bitterly: 'Perhaps I'd feel differently if I hadn't been on board the Tranquil. Those women lying there, their clothes torn and their throats cut: I'll never forget that. In fact - ' he was staring at the wounded - 'I could cut some throats myself and never feel an ounce of guilt'

Kenton had joined them in time to hear Baker's last words. 'I'd help you, even if I've just been sick. This is nothing compared to the Tranquil. There the people looked as though they'd been murdered in their own homes. Here - well, it's a battlefield.'

'And, young man,' Aitken said, 'let this be a warning: proper lookouts would have saved most of these men from our attack.'

True, very true,' Rennick said judicially. The sentries should have been at least two hundred yards away. The two I saw with my nightglass were taking a pull from a bottle every five minutes or so. The one who raised the alarm probably noticed a single man and was so drunk he thought he could see twenty!'

By now all the seamen and Marines had returned. 'Form your men up,' Ramage ordered. 'Check that none is missing.' He raised his voice: 'My company fall in here!'

There was Jackson, grimy and bloodstained, and Stafford. And Rossi, looking like the flayer in a slaughterhouse. Paolo raced up and stood to attention in front of Ramage. Even before the boy spoke, Ramage saw the dark stains on the cutlass he held in one hand and the blade of the midshipman's dirk in the other.

'Sir!' he said, and when Ramage nodded he announced: 'I killed two, sir.'

'Main-gauche?' Ramage enquired.

The second one; not the first, sir."

'Very good; I presume you missed with your pistol, but you must practise. Now rejoin your company.'

'Mama mia,' Rossi murmured. 'In Volterra he had the good education.'

'Wot's a "man goes"?' Stafford enquired.

'Is when you have a dagger in the left hand and a sword in the right. The minute you get the other man's sword pointing away from you and him off the balance, you slip in the dagger.'

'Well I never 1' Stafford's amazement was quite genuine.

"Wot a good idea. Why don't we use "man goes"?'

Jackson surveyed the pile of bodies. 'Savin' Mr Orsini's presence, we seem to do quite well without 'em.'

Ramage counted the men as they fell in behind Jackson. The Dutch guide, whom Ramage had last seen just before the attack started, arrived mopping his face with a large handkerchief and holding a bloodstained sword in the other.

'Good hunting, good hunting,' he grunted to Ramage. 'I do not think they stop again before West Punt. We kill many here. Some rebels are still alive, though.' There was no mistaking the regret in his voice nor the difference he made between Dutch rebels and French privateersmen.

Ramage resumed his counting. Twenty - six ... are you one of my company? I thought so, fall in, and that's twenty - eight. And you two, you're late. Thirty.'

The heat of the bonfire must be awful for some of those French wounded, and he'd do something about it as soon as he could, but his first concern was his own men, none of whom had forgotten the Tranquil. 'Jackson, collect reports from the lieutenants and the sergeant.'

Ten minutes later Ramage was listening to the American, scarcely able to believe his ears. Four Marines wounded (one gunshot and three sword cuts); four seamen known to have been killed and three wounded; and seven more missing. Only eighteen casualties, assuming that the seven missing were dead or wounded. Ramage had reckoned on fifty - although the operation was far from complete.

He turned to his company. 'Working in pairs, I want you to find the enemy wounded. Those that can be moved, bring them here, away from the heat but where there's still some light. Jackson, tell Mr Aitken to send the two surgeon's mates in his company to join us here.'

He turned to the Dutch guide. 'Can you find your way back to Amsterdam?'

'Of course, sir.'

'I'll give you an escort. I want you to report what you've seen to the Governor, but first I want you to send out to this place all the horses and carts you can find. Bring straw, mattresses, cloth for bandages - anything that will make the journey easier for the wounded. Some of them,' he added, noting the look in the Dutchman's eyes, 'are our own men. And tell the Governor any surgeons would be welcome - they should ride out at once, bringing bandages and instruments.'

'Yes, sir, but I prefer no escort: I will be faster alone!'

For the next two hours the Calypsos sorted the dead from the living, frequently stoking the bonfire with brushwood to give themselves more light. The moon rose, its light cold and forbidding compared with the yellow flames of the bonfire.

The French casualties round the bonfire would have been horrifying, Ramage thought, but for the Tranquil: ninety - eight dead, forty - two badly wounded and eleven wounded but able to walk. A total of one hundred and fifty - one . . . nearly a third of the rebel force, and enough to man a 32 - gun frigate. Then he reminded himself that it also meant that two - thirds of the enemy had escaped. Three hundred and fifty of them were at this very moment over there to the west, reorganizing themselves . . .

Three Marines guarded the eleven walking wounded, and Ramage decided to question them. If they had come from the western end of the island, the rest of the rebels might now return to the same place. He saw one man whose wounded leg had been bandaged and who was wearing what seemed to be the remnants of a French Navy officer's uniform. He was a young man, his face hard, narrow and angular, unshaven for several days, his sallow complexion seeming darker in the red glow of the fire.

'Your name and rank?' Ramage enquired in French, kneeling beside the man. He noticed one of the Marine sentries move round a yard, or two, so that Ramage did not interfere with his field of fire.

'Brune, Jean Brune.'

For a moment Ramage felt dizzy. "You command the Nuestra Senora de Antigua!' 'No, that is - that was - my brother. I command L'Actif.' 'Your brother - where is he?'

'Adolphe? He is over there.' The man gestured to where the bodies had been carried. 'Murdered. And you, M'sieur, who are you?"

'Captain Ramage. I commanded the attack.'

'Ah, so you are this Ramage, eh? We heard you were on the coast. We might have guessed.'

'Guessed what?'

'That you would attack treacherously, like an assassin in the dark.'

'I found a British merchant ship after your brother had finished with it in daylight. She was called the Tranquil.' 'Yes, he told me of it. A British frigate came in sight.'

'So your brother murdered everyone on board, including several women, who were raped as well, before he fled.'

Jean Brune shrugged his shoulders. 'One woman, but surely not several."

Ramage looked at the sneering face. No remorse, no surprise, and apparently ho regrets. Raping and killing women was unfortunate - because they might have been ransomed.

'Your brother - what does he look like?'

'Very big. Tall and broad, with big moustaches. A man kill him with a cutlass. My brother is - was - a fine swordsman. He must have tripped, for this English sailor to kill him.'

'You saw it happen?"

'Yes, I was lying on the ground, a musket ball in my leg.'

'And your brother fell forward on this British sailor, so they collapsed together?"

'Yes - 1 tell you, he must have tripped. He was a fine man, my brother."

Ramage nodded soberly. 'I killed him, and he didn't trip. I am sorry he is dead.'

'You should be,' Jean Brune said bitterly. 'Such a fine man, my brother. My older brother, you understand; he taught me everything of the sea', from when we were boys in Brittany. And he took me privateering, and later he helped me buy my ship.'

'Yes,' Ramage said quietly, 'I am sorry your brother is dead: I had hoped to have him hanged from a gallows in Port Royal. And you - if any of my men find out you are his brother, your life won't be worth a puff of smoke, so guard your tongue.'

Brune sat up on one elbow, his eyes widening in fear. 'But you must give orders to protect me. As an English officer you would not let one of your prisoners be murdered!'

'Wouldn't I? Your brother did. In fact he ordered it'