Ramage & the Renegades

by Dudley Pope

The startling thing was that the men hardly moved. Perhaps they had slid further down in their chairs, but they still looked as though they had subsided in a drunken stupor, which of course they had, having exchanged in the last few moments one kind of stupor for another.

  Ramage quickly pulled a length of rope from the coil, slashed it with his cutlass and then pulled off a second length. It took longer than he anticipated to roll the first man out of his chair and tie his arms and ankles. The second was equally difficult. Each was completely relaxed, as though every bone in his body had turned into calves-foot jelly.

  Ramage dragged the two men to the guns, pushing each one into the deeply shadowed area under a barrel. Then, pausing as he decided to leave the lantern there, swinging its door open for a moment to straighten out the wick, he crept over to the main companion-way and made his way down the steps.

  There was another lantern hanging from the deckhead and it lit a row of doors, eight of them, four on each side. The first was open, the entrance to a black cavern; the rest had keys sticking out of them like tiny branches. The noise of several people snoring was coming from the first cabin. He tried to count the different tones. At least four people.

  He crept closer to the door and listened again. Five. Yes, and there was another faint one, little more than steady but heavy breathing: six. The key was in the door, which was made of thick mahogany. The lock was solid brass and until recently had been polished—the Honourable East India Company ships were built of the best of everything. He swung the door gently until it closed and then turned the key. If the men inside were serious about escaping, they could probably break the lock with a few pistol shots, but they would be unlikely to try it in pitch darkness, when the risk of being hurt by a ricocheting ball was considerable.

  Ramage decided to unlock the opposite cabin and rouse one of the hostages, to warn him of what was about to happen and leave him to release and warn the others, who would know and trust his voice and could then lock themselves in the safety of their cabins. He put down his cutlass carefully to leave both hands free and made sure the knife was loose in its sheath. As he slowly turned the key he wondered how the Calypsos were going to secure those six guards without a shot being fired. A shot … it needed only one. The moment the guards in the other ships heard a single shot, they would massacre the hostages, 24 men, women and children (assuming the sixteen in this ship were safe). That was why he had emptied the priming powder from the two pistols on deck; that was the reason none of the Calypsos had firearms, even though muskets and pistols could have been wrapped in oiled silk and canvas and carried on the rafts.

  He was almost startled when the door pressed against him; then he realized he had turned the key and was pulling the handle. Quickly he opened the door wider, noted in the dim light from the lantern that there was a single bed in the middle of the cabin, shut the door behind him in case it swung and banged, and crept towards the bed. He wanted all the hostages warned without raising the alarm among the guards, and the only way of ensuring that the alarm was not raised was by everyone acting as though the door to the guards’ cabin was still open.

  His outstretched hand touched the foot of the bed. Curious that they did not give passengers swinging cots, because it must be difficult to stay in a bed in anything of a sea, even though the bed must be bolted to the deck.

  The cover was a smooth material he could not identify. Shantung? A John Company ship would be furnished in exotic materials from the East. Now, if he was lucky the fellow in this bed would be an Army officer—or, rather, an officer in the company’s military service. If his luck was out, the man would be some pompous and panicky nabob who would need a good deal of convincing. In fact it might be easier to leave him and try the next cabin.

  He ran his hand along the bed as he crept softly towards the head of the bed, listening for breathing to determine where the sleeper’s mouth was. Here was the body and he ran the tips of his fingers lightly along it to get some idea of where the man’s head was, in case he shouted. Then his hand was cupped over a yielding mound of bare flesh; a mound topped by a firmer summit. It took him a moment to realize he was holding a woman’s bare breast in his left hand but a moment later his right hand was on her face, pressing down on her mouth.

  She started wriggling as he grasped a shoulder with his left hand and hissed: “Don’t scream, don’t struggle, I’m from the—”

  At that moment she bit the heel of his palm but he risked another bite, whispering urgently: “From the British frigate. English … don’t make a noise!”

  Finally she seemed to be wide awake and her hands were pushing him away, but without the violence or urgency of a terrified woman.

  “Do you understand?”

  He felt her trying to nod and experimentally lifted his palm half an inch from her mouth.

  “I understand, but don’t suffocate me!”

  The voice was calm, musical and verging on deep, but quite firm, and asking: “Who exactly are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter, but I want you to—”

  “My dear man, I’m not given to the vapours, but although I can see nothing I have the impression I am in the grasp of a naked man. A naked Englishman, so he says, although what difference that makes …”

  “Madam,” Ramage whispered desperately, conscious of the minutes slipping by, “my name is Nicholas Ramage, and I command the British frigate. A couple of dozen of my men are swimming over here and will be climbing on board in a few minutes. It is absolutely vital that they overcome the guards without a shot being fired, and I want you to unlock their doors and warn the rest of the hostages—the passengers, I mean—to stay in their cabins no matter what happens.”

  “I’ll warn them. You must have swum over; you feel devilish damp. I’ll give you a towel in a moment.”

  “Listen,” Ramage said urgently, “you do understand what you have to do? Each of the cabins is locked with the key still on the outside. The point is, people will recognize your voice, so—”

  “I understand perfectly! What about the scoundrels in the cabin opposite?”

  “They’re asleep and locked in. But if they wake up they might start shooting.”

  “And the two guards on deck?”

  “Unconscious and tied up.”

  “You have been busy. Very well—stand back and let me get out of bed.”

  “Let me help you, ma’am.”

  “Please stand back. It’s so hot in here that I sleep—well, without the encumbrance of a nightdress, as you probably realized!”

  Drunken guards, barracudas, bare breasts, a cabin full of snoring pirates … even in the urgency of the situation Ramage had most certainly registered the breast—a fine one, that much was certain—but he had been too tense to make the obvious deduction that in this hot and airless cabin the rest of the body was almost certainly naked.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he whispered. “Incidentally, I am not entirely naked.”

  “It’s—well, let’s say ‘miss’ for now. And nakedness is of little consequence in the dark.”

  “There’s a lantern outside,” Ramage said and could have bitten off his tongue.

  “Thank you for the warning.”

  He heard the rustle of material and then she whispered: “Lead me to the door, I can’t see a thing.”

  “Keep whispering or I’ll never find you.”

  “Ramage … Ramage … Captain Lord Ramage … damp and smelling of seaweed …” The teasing whisper led him to her. So she had known the name. Well, for the moment he was concentrating on remembering where the door was, because it fitted so well and the lantern was so dim that no light penetrated a crack.

  “I don’t use my title,” he said, suddenly bumping into her. To stop falling they both held each other tight as though embracing.

  “Good morning, Captain,” she said, gently disengaging herself, “you are really not properly dressed for paying social calls.”

  Ramage took her arm and led her to the do
or. “I’m tempted to take you hostage.”

  “You’ll have to make an exchange with the privateersmen. At the moment they claim me.”

  He opened the door but she was through it and turning left to the other cabins before he could glimpse her face, and before he could catch up she had unlocked the first door and slipped inside.

  The best thing he could do was wait beside the guards’ cabin until she returned. A minute or two later he saw a blur of white as she came out of the cabin and went to the next. Finally, after she left the last cabin, he walked across the corridor to wait at the door of her cabin, but she slipped into the next one and a minute or two later a middle-aged man with muttonchop whiskers came out, faintly absurd in a gown, and whispered: “Ramage—everyone has been warned. We’ll wait in our cabins with the doors locked. And—thank you!”

  With that the man went back into his cabin after removing the key. Ramage then saw that all along the corridor people were removing the keys, to lock the doors from the inside.

  He hurried back up the companion-way and went to the ship’s side, listening for the sound of swimmers. There was no sound and no swirls of phosphorescence. A rolled-up rope ladder lay on top of the bulwark; he untied the lashing, let it unroll and heard the end land in the water with a splash. On the other side he found a similar ladder and unrolled that.

  Then he picked up the lantern and walked over to stand at the starboard entry port. He was out of sight of all the ships but the Calypso, and he held the lantern so that he could be seen by the swimmers. Almost at once he felt a tug on the bottom of the ladder and heard a faint swishing of water. A minute later Rossi was jumping down from the top of the bulwark, waving an acknowledgement of Ramage’s signal warning him to be silent.

  “The rest of the men are close behind, sir,” Rossi whispered. “We went slowly, as you said, so we are not without the breath.” He looked round and said, a disappointed note in his voice: “Mamma mia, you have not made the capture alone, Commandante?”

  “No, I’ve left the easy part for you.” Ramage smiled and looked down to see two more men already climbing the ladder.

  Within three minutes he was counting his boarding party and found them all present, with Martin and Paolo. He looked round for Jackson, pointed to the two men under the barrel of the guns, and whispered: “They might be coming round soon. Gag them, please.”

  The American waved to Rossi and Stafford, pulling his sodden shirt over his head and tearing two strips off the tail. Out of the corner of his eye Ramage saw Jackson lift the first man and bang his head on the deck, and then proceed to gag him. In the meantime another seaman was cleaning the wick of the lantern and stirring the molten wax with the tip of his finger to level it out. The lantern suddenly gave a brighter light and Ramage glanced round nervously: someone watching from the Lynx might well become suspicious of the shadows thrown by the group of men. “Put the lantern down on deck, under the table,” he said hurriedly.

  As soon as Jackson came back to report both men unconscious and gagged—not bothering to mention that one had given signs of recovering—Ramage gathered the men round and in a whisper now getting hoarse explained the position.

  “If the total of eight guards is correct, then the six off watch are sleeping in a cabin below. I’ve locked the door on them. They’ll probably be in hammocks because they prefer them and the passenger cabins are each fitted with one large bed.

  “We’ve got to rush them and make sure they don’t fire pistols. You see the two pistols on this table: the two men on watch were sitting here drinking, their guns within easy reach.

  “The doorway into the cabin is the standard width. This is how we do it. You, Orsini, will carry this lantern; I’ll take the one that’s hanging from the deckhead outside the cabin door. Riley,” he said to one of the seamen, “you will stand by the key of the door. When I signal, you’ll unlock the door and pull it open—towards you: it opens outwards.

  “I will go in first holding my lantern high and Orsini will follow with his. As soon as I go through the door I want you all to start shouting—anything to make a noise: I just want to confuse those men as they start waking up. Confuse their brains and dazzle their eyes.

  “Martin, Stafford, Rossi, Riley—you’ll have had time to see into the cabin by now—follow us. Orsini and I will take the two hammocks to the right, the rest of you take the four on the left. Aft, in other words.

  “Cut the hammocks down. A good slash with a cutlass should cut the lanyards at the foot or head and tip the occupant out.”

  “And then, sir?” Orsini inquired.

  “There are so few of them that we can take prisoners,” Ramage said regretfully, “but kill a man if there’s a risk he’ll otherwise use a pistol. Now,” he said as Orsini picked up the lantern and turned towards the companion-way, “follow me. And watch your cutlasses—don’t let them bang anything.”

  The steps of the companion-way creaked, and as he crept down Ramage felt that the ship was suddenly holding her breath and listening: she had stopped her gentle pitching so that there were no groans from the hull and spars to mask the sounds they made.

  The lantern below was burning steadily, the air having the faint sooty smell of untrimmed wick. Glancing down the line of doors he saw that all the keys were now missing except for the first on each side. The key was still on the outside of the cabin in which the “Miss for now” had been sleeping. He knew the shape of one bare breast; he had not the faintest idea whether she was ugly, plain or beautiful. An intriguing voice, a good sense of humour, and very self-possessed in an emergency. She was probably coming home from India after being a teacher, or some old woman’s companion. But for the “Miss” he would have assumed she had been sent out to India to find a husband, succeeded and was now on her way home again …

  Why the devil was he thinking about her at a time like this? He unhooked the second lantern and turned to Orsini and waited while Riley crept to the door and reached out for the key with his right hand, holding the brass knob with his left and glancing over his shoulder to make sure he would not bump into anything as he flung open the door.

  Ramage checked the men behind him: Martin, Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and then the seamen not specifically chosen for the cabin. The cutlass blades shone dully in the lantern light; he noticed Orsini was using his dirk in his right hand but had a long, thin dagger in a sheath at his waist. Jackson had a cutlass and a knife—he had developed Paolo Orsini’s liking for a maingauche.

  He found himself staring at the grain in the mahogany door. “Miss for now.” The passengers were in for a rude shock in a few moments: the bellowing of his men would echo in this confined space, although no one outside the ship would hear. How was Aitken getting on with the capture of the Amethyst? At least he had heard no shots …

  He pointed at Riley, who turned the key with a loud click and flung back the door with a bang. Ramage plunged into the black space as the men behind him started shouting. In a moment the lantern showed hammocks slung from the deck beams at various angles, bulging like enormous bananas.

  He slashed at the lanyards of the nearest one on his right, took a pace to one side to avoid the body that slid out of the canvas tube as it suddenly hung almost vertically, and reached across to cut the lanyards at one end of the next one.

  Orsini, cheated out of a hammock, crouched over the body of the first man, managing to hold up his lantern while pointing his dirk at the privateersman’s throat and shouting blood-curdling threats down at the staring eyes.

  Ramage’s man, caught up in the folds of the canvas, began swearing and obviously thought his shipmates were playing a joke on him until the point of Ramage’s cutlass prodded the fleshy part of his right thigh.

  From the left-hand side of the cabin he heard above the yelling an angry shout end in a liquid gurgle, as though someone’s throat had been cut. The noise made Ramage’s victim try to scramble up, attempting to pull something from the folds of a blanket he had been using as a pillo
w. Ramage gave him another jab with the cutlass. “Keep still, or you’re dead!”

  The man gave a grunt of pain and flopped back flat on the deck. “Wha’s going on?”

  The yelling was dying as the last of the hammocks was cut down, but the thud of a cutlass blade being driven into the deck was followed immediately by a scream of pain, which cut off as sharply as it began.

  Ramage’s lantern was too dim to show him what was going on, and all he could do was to wait for his own men to report. To encourage them he called: “Calypsos—have we secured them all?”

  “I’ve got your man, sir,” said Martin.

  “I’ve got mine, sir,” Orsini muttered. “Alive,” he added, “at the moment.”

  “This stronzo here, I have to kill him,” Rossi grunted. “He have a pistol in his hammock.”

  “Prisoner, sir,” Jackson said, followed by Stafford’s “‘Ad to prod my fellah, sir, but ‘e’ll live.”

  “Prisoner, sir,” Riley said and added, raising his voice in warning, “a dead prisoner, if ‘e don’t keep still.”

  Ramage turned to Orsini, who was nearest the door. “Get your man out into the corridor where the others can secure him.”

  The privateersman yelped as the midshipman prodded him to his feet. “Ow! You’ll do me ‘arm,” the man complained.

  “Yes, I just want an excuse!”

  “You’re just a bloody murderer!”

  “You were ready to kill the hostages,” Orsini said, and to judge from the short, sharp scream the man gave, he must have punctuated his remark with another and stronger prod.

  Ramage watched as Orsini, lantern held up, followed his prisoner through the door, where the man was seized by eager Calypsos.

  “Now you, Jackson …” The American coxswain had an armlock on his prisoner, so the man lurched out of the cabin bent double. “Rossi, you wait a minute. Stafford, are you ready?”

  “Aye aye, sir. Up, you murderous bastard. No, you’re not,” he said in answer to a muttered complaint Ramage could not quite hear, “that was only a prick. Get movin’, or I’ll spit you like a sucklin’ pig ready for the fire!”