by Dudley Pope
He glanced back at La Perle: already her towering jibboom was abreast the Calypso's quarterdeck but passing it. Now the bow, and he could see the black paint peeling, rust weeps from iron fittings, stains where garbage was thrown carelessly over the side. Now the foremast . . . French seamen just standing there or peering over hammock nettings, astonishment or fear showing on their faces, but none wielding a cutlass or aiming a musket.
Now La Perle's sails flogging overhead, not drawing, and the sloshing of water as waves rebounded between the two hulls. But, Ramage realized, no orders being shouted across the French ship's deck.
La Perle's mainmast passing now. She is slowing down appreciably, her sails not drawing, and she is very close: you could lob a grapeshot on to her deck. The sheer to starboard is working well: the two ships are now on almost identical courses but just slightly converging, and both are slowing down: La Perle because a desperate first lieutenant has braced up the yards too much and starved the sails of wind, the Calypso because the cable has been cut and La Creole has let the rest go and is already wearing round, determined not to miss the next few minutes.
Then the crash. For a moment Ramage, nearly flung off his feet, thought they had hit a rock, but the rending of wood as La Perle's hull scraped along the Calypso's told the story.
Crisp shouts along the Calypso's decks showed the junior lieutenants had their men in control. Grapnels Sew through the air to hook into La Perle's rigging and hold the two ships together, and then there was no more movement of the ships: La Perle was stopped alongside, her transom level with the Calypso's quarterdeck rail so that Ramage could see her three officers, one of them no doubt the first lieutenant, standing rigid on the quarterdeck, looking more like statues. They were all watching the Calypso's quarterdeck, as though expecting the devil to appear.
Ramage held the speaking trumpet to his mouth and shouted forward: 'Away boarders 1'
'Sir!' Southwick said pleadingly, and Ramage nodded, and the master ran down the quarterdeck ladder to join the boarding parties streaming over the bulwarks.
In the meantime the two ships began swinging to starboard: La Perle had more way on when she bit and she was slowly turning the Calypso to starboard, away from the beach. And that, Ramage realized, was what he wanted: the Calypso would end up to leeward of the French ship and, by letting fall her sails and cutting the lines to the grapnels, could get clear.
The shouting on board La Perle was unbelievable but, Ramage noted thankfully, there had been no pistol shots so far. The metallic clang of cutlass against cutlass was dying out - he'd heard only a few, less than a dozen. And all along the larboard side of the Calypso the guns' crews waited in their respective positions trying to see what was going on, and no doubt frustrated at not being allowed to fire even one broadside before the boarders were ordered away.
Ramage now aimed the speaking trumpet at La Perle's quarterdeck and shouted in French: 'Do you surrender?'
The French first lieutenant must be the tall, thin man, and he looked dazed. He had heard Ramage and turned to stare at him, jaw slack and puzzled. But he was giving no orders. In fact, Ramage suddenly realized, the poor fellow probably had not noticed the Calypso's Tricolour coming down at the run several minutes earlier, and at the very moment the Calypso's boarding party streamed over the bulwarks he had been expecting to hear a stream of abuse from Captain Duroc . . .
Jackson called to him, pointing almost overhead. Ramage looked up to see La Perle's Tricolour coming down, and hauling at one end of the halyard was one of the officers. The man he thought was the first lieutenant was watching; not with interest but with the same fascinated stare of a rabbit facing a ferret 'What,' Southwick grumbled, 'are we going to do with three hundred French prisoners?'
The two frigates, still alongside each other, were slowly drifting westward off the coast of Curacao with La Creole circling them like an anxious mother hen worrying over her chicks that were now fully grown.
Tint we attend to the ceremonial,' Ramage said, nodding to where Lieutenant Rennick, a sergeant and six Marines were climbing back on board the Calypso with three French officers in their midst. The officers were wearing their swords and once they were on the Calypso's deck, with Rennick leading and shouting brisk orders and the Marines stamping their feet as they marched in time, they walked along nervously in the centre, trying to get into step.
Rennick and his Marines were enjoying themselves, and Ramage waited until the three French officers were standing to attention in front of him on the quarterdeck, covered by the Marines, and Rennick was reporting in a stentorian voice the presence of French officers who wished formally to surrender. At least, he added in an outburst of honesty, he did not speak French but he thought that was what they meant.
But for the fact that the Marines rarely had a chance to show off their drill, Ramage would have cut short the ceremony: La Perle had been taken without a shot being fired from a pistol or one of the great guns, and she had been handled like a bumboat coming alongside with vegetables to sell. The French officers deserved to be bundled below without so much as a nod.
'Please introduce yourselves,' Ramage said in French. 'I am Nicholas Ramage, capitaine de vaisseau, and commanding His Britannic Majesty's ship the Calypso,' At the mention of his name two of the lieutenants glanced nervously at the third, the tall and thin man Ramage had seen earlier on La Perle's quarterdeck and who still seemed to have a fixed stare.
'Jean - Pierre Bazin, lieutenant de vaisseau, formerly second in command of the French national ship La Perle' He drew his sword, making his movements very deliberate, obviously worried in case the gesture might be misunderstood by the Marines. He held the sword hilt - first towards Ramage. 'I surrender my sword.'
'And the ship,' Ramage reminded him.
'Yes, and the ship, milord,' Bazin said hurriedly.
Ramage was puzzled by the 'milord' but turned to the next Frenchman as he handed Bazin's sword to Aitken. The second lieutenant gave his name, surrendered his sword and was followed by the third Lieutenant. The fourth lieutenant, Bazin hastily explained, had died of yellow fever two weeks earlier.
'Do you speak English?' Ramage asked Bazin casually, and when the Frenchman shook his head signalled to Rennick to take them below.
As soon as they were marched off, Ramage turned to Aitken and realized he was still holding the three swords.
'Share them out,' he said, have one yourself. How about you, Southwick?"
The master shook his head. 'I don't need a memento,' he said. 'But just think of it - a French frigate captured without a shot fired and not one man killed or wounded. On our side, I mean. You'll get a Gazette for that, sir. Only ten lines, perhaps, but what a dispatch! Three hundred men and a 34 - gun frigate captured with a 100 - fathom cable)'
'Aye, just look at her.' Aitken gestured at the great bulk of La Perle with his free hand. 'Not a sail to mend nor a bit o' rigging to knot or splice. Not a shothole for the carpenter to plug. Aye, and not a man to be buried either . . . Just one or two Frenchmen for Bowen to stitch up.'
He put the swords down on the deck beside him. He looked embarrassed as he turned back to Ramage; his usually pale face was slightly flushed and now he was not holding the swords he did not seem to know what to do with his hands.
'I think - we, I am sure, sir, the ship's company would want me to say on their behalf - and mine, too, sir - that . . .'
By now Aitken's accent had deepened and he came to an embarrassed halt. Ramage was puzzled and gave the first lieutenant a minute or two to recover, then said: 'Well, Mr Aitken, take a deep breath and finish what you were going to say!'
That-they-appreciate-how-you-managed-to-save-lives, sir.' It came out as one long word, and Southwick nodded as Ramage heard Jackson, the men at the wheel and the crews of the nearest guns murmuring in agreement.
'You took the devil of a chance, if you don't mind me saying so, sir,' Southwick said in his usual blunt way. 'If we'd failed, no court would have believed what
you were trying to do.'
Ramage nodded in acknowledgement to Aitken and said dryly to Southwick: 'If I'd failed we wouldn't have been alive to face a trial.'
'Don't you believe it, sir. Their Lordships have a deputy judge advocate stationed permanently in Hell: he has a quire of paper, a gallon of ink, a bundle of quills, and a copy of the Articles of War.'
'And if I go to Heaven?'
Southwick shook his head. 'Doesn't matter, sin they have another one sitting beside St Peter . . .'
'But!' Ramage said, grinning broadly.
'But what, sir?' The master screwed his eyes up in concentration, knowing Ramage was teasing him and trying not to fall into any trap.
'But we succeeded, so Their Lordships won't worry.'
Southwick gave one of his more - in - sorrow - than - in - anger sniffs, and Ramage said: 'I'm just going down to have a word with that French first lieutenant. Pass the word, please, Mr Aitken, I want him brought to my cabin. And don't be too hard on the French. I wonder if we could have resisted poking our noses in, if we'd seen a small schooner towing a frigate . . .'
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.'
&n
bsp; 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. '