Ramage and the Freebooters r-3

by Dudley Pope

  And the fear was like a fogbank: it penetrated everywhere and extended an unknown distance. It could last an hour or a week, and no man caught in it could drive it away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Southwick watched Ramage's hand. Both men were bending over the chart spread on the table in Ramage's cabin and the Triton had long since picked up the men from the cutter and got under way again to pass the entrance to the Beaulieu River, where four years earlier, the brig had been built under old Henry Adams's supervision at Buckler's Hard.

  As he waited for Ramage to speak the Master wondered if old Adams was still alive. In view of some of the rubbish they were hammering together these days and calling ships, he reflected, it's a comfort to be in one that old Harry kept his eye on. Planked with oak cut from the New Forest, her ironwork wrought at the works at Sowley Pond just near the shipyard— aye, there wasn't much to worry about as far as the Triton's hull was concerned. And give him another day or two with the masts, spars and rigging and there'd be no worry on that score either.

  Ramage's hand moved to pick up the dividers. After opening them against the latitude scale he 'walked' them across the chart from the Needles to Ushant, the island just off the northwestern tip of France. He held one point of the dividers on Ushant and as he spoke Southwick noted the hand was rock solid: not a tremor to reveal nervousness or excitement.

  'It's a hundred and eighty miles from the Needles to Ushant.'

  'Aye, sir, and I'll put my money on the wind staying northwest.'

  Ramage nodded. 'The cloud's well broken up now, and we carry the ebb for another four or five hours.'

  That hand ought to be trembling a bit, Southwick thought enviously. The lad's been given orders tough enough to challenge an experienced frigate captain, and has just got under way in circumstances that'd daunt an admiral backed up by half a dozen companies of loyal Marines.

  Who'd have thought of forcing a crew to make sail by cutting the cable and giving them the option of drowning or carrying out his orders? Now he's starting off on a four-thousand-mile voyage with a sullen and still mutinous crew. Why, he can't even be sure he'll see the night out: there's precious little to stop them from slitting his throat as soon as it's dark and running the ship across the Channel to Cherbourg or Le Havre—neither's more than about sixty miles away, and they'd have a soldier's wind ...

  'It's just as likely to veer as back,' Ramage said. 'So we'll take a chance it stays northerly, and make our departure from the Lizard, which is...'

  He walked the dividers again.

  '... just about a hundred and fifty miles.'

  'Seems a pity to lose all that southing since the wind's fair.'

  'I agree; but it'd be madness to round Ushant too dose. Privateers, a couple of frigates... there's bound to be Frenchmen hovering off there to snap up something like the Triton. They know despatches for the squadrons are sent by cutters and such like. And they know small vessels like to cut the comers, instead of keeping well out.'

  'Suppose so,' Southwick said gloomily. 'But the Lizard to Ushant's nearly ninety miles: we have to sail that much extra —more if the wind backs south-west and heads us.'

  'Since we've more than four thousand to cover altogether, logging another ninety shouldn't be too much of a strain.'

  'No, I didn't mean that,' Southwick said hurriedly. 'I was thinking of the time. Could cost us a day; make us a day late finding the squadrons off Brest and Cadiz.'

  'Well, trying to save a day might end up with us in Brest as prisoners, and the Triton a French prize.'

  'There's that to it,' Southwick admitted.

  'And by the time we're off the Lizard,' Ramage said casually, 'we'll know a bit more about the crew...'

  'You mean, if they're still mutinous we could put into Plymouth?'

  'Yes—and they're less likely to do anything mutinous while they know the English coast is just to the north, and as far as they're concerned there's more than a chance of us meeting a frigate—or even a sail of the line—coming over the horizon bound for Plymouth or Spithead. But if they knew the French coast was only a few miles to leeward...'

  'Quite so,' Southwick agreed, 'but if I was a mutineer I'd have a go tonight: I'd sooner make for Cherbourg or Le Havre than Brest... Still, I admit I never did like taking Ushant too dose. With gales springing up in a couple of hours, that's the most iron-bound coast in Christendom. Just look at it.' His finger jabbed the chart where, between Ushant and Brest, dozens of crosses marked shoals and individual rocks.

  Ramage snapped the dividers shut.

  'Watch and watch about for you and me tonight, Mr South-wick. You can have the Master's Mate with you. I'm glad Appleby managed to catch that cutter in time.'

  'You'll have Jackson, I hope, sir?'

  'Yes. And I must get down to making up the general quarter, watch and station bill. I wonder how many ships have gone through the Needles without one?'

  Southwick laughed as he took some courses off the chart. 'So far we haven't needed it, thanks to your axemanship!'

  'I'm glad they didn't fell me,' Ramage said as he left the cabin and went up the companionway. Walking up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck he was glad of a few minutes of peace: it was good to be at sea again.

  The Triton, helped along by the ebb, had been making all of ten knots as she surged past Hurst Castle at the western end of the Solent and began to butt into the swell waves from the open sea. But the wind was offshore and the sea did little more than kick up a popple on top of the swell so the Triton's bow only occasionally sliced off the top of a crest and sent it showering up in a cloud of spray.

  Looking around him—nodding to Appleby, who tried to disguise his nervousness at being left alone at the conn while the captain and master went below, and did not bother to hide his relief when the former came back on deck—Ramage could sense rather than see the men were sullen. Most of them, anyway. The former Kathleens no, they weren't sullen; more likely they were frightened. Poor devils—the Tritons could murder the lot of them in the dark.

  Soberly he counted up the men he could rely on, whatever happened. First came Southwick, then Jackson, the cockney Will Stafford, the Suffolk fisherman Fuller... yes, and the Genoese, Alberto Rossi, and that sad Welsh bosun's mate, Evan Evans. And probably Maxton, the West Indian. The young Master's Mate, Appleby, had only been on board a couple of hours and seemed nervous, but since he was only waiting for his twenty-first birthday to take his examination for lieutenant his loyalty was certain. Eight men...

  And the more he thought about it, the more he thought Southwick was right. Tonight the French ports of Cherbourg and Le Havre would be to leeward: mutineers could find either without being able to read a chart... If he was a mutineer, it'd be tonight or never...

  Forward on the larboard side, standing casually between the first and second carronade, Jackson and Stafford were looking over towards the English coast, talking in low voices and without moving. To an onlooker they were apparently just taking a last look at the land before the sun set.

  'Wotcher fink, Jacko?'

  'If they try anything, it'll be tonight.'

  'Why t'night? Blimey, we ain't 'ardly clear of Spit'ead. I fink they'll wait 'til tomorrer night, or even later, when we're clear o' the chops of the Channel.'

  'Tonight we're closer to good French ports; Cherbourg's less than seventy miles dead to leeward. Easy to find; easy to enter. No blockade. And Le Havre. After that it'd have to be Brest and they'd never get in without running up on some rocks.'

  'But they can't think Mister Ramage won't be on guard t'night, surely?'

  'Doesn't make much difference, does it? Just him, Mr Southwick and the Master's Mate. Appleby's only a kid anyway. The new surgeon'll be drunk—he's a soak; he'd got the shakes when he came on board. Three against nearly sixty.'

  'What'll we do, Jacko?'

  Jackson saw the knuckles of the cockney's hands whiten as he spoke. 'I don't know. I've been thinking all day and I just don't k
now.'

  'Had the chance of a word wiv Mister Ramage?'

  'No—and I daren't risk being seen trying.'

  The cockney swore in a flat, hard voice.

  'What about the rest of us Kathleens?'

  'Rossi's sound, but not much use because they know he won't stand any nonsense: he's already told 'em that. That means if they rise Rossi'll be the first to go. Evans, Fuller, Maxton—I'm sure of them.'

  'An' me 'n' you.'

  'Yes: six of us if Rossi stays alive. Nine with the Captain and Mr Southwick and the Master's Mate.'

  'Count the kid out: he don't know nothink about nothink. What'll we do, Jacko: this is our last chance to talk a'fore they pipe "Down hammicks"?'

  Jackson said nothing and Stafford continued: 'So help me, what a bleedin' mess. Never thought I'd ever see a ship mutiny, let alone the 'ole Fleet. The claims are fair—no arguin' against that. But 'ere we are on the side of the orficers...'

  'Not the officers, the way you mean it. Just Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick. If it was anyone else it'd be different.'

  'Yus, s'pose that's it. But wot abaht the rest of the Kathleens—why the "ell can't they make up their pudden minds?'

  'They have,' Jackson said shortly. 'They're for Mr Ramage —but they can do arithmetic, too. They just look at the few men on one side and three dozen on the other. I'll bet everyone of 'em is thinking of the chap in the next hammock, if he's a Triton. Every one of 'em knows a Triton's only got to reach over in the dark with a knife in his hand... If it was just a question of those for Mr Ramage lining up on the larboard gangway and those against him on the starboard, then you could count on 'em coming out in the open.'

  'Well, looks as if you an' me and Rossi and the uvvers'd better stay aft ternight.'

  'Can't—they'd see we weren't in our hammocks and know a mutiny was expected. We've got to avoid bloodshed.'

  'Well then, fink o' sumfink else,' Stafford said impatiently.

  'I'm trying to, but you keep nagging at me. Hey! Remember what Mr Ramage always says—"Use surprise". Like he did with the San Nicolas—and today, cutting the anchor cable?'

  'Yus, but 'e'd got a haxe—aye, an' "e knew 'e 'ad a cable to cut. Where's our cable? Wot've we got fer a haxe?'

  'I don't know, but we're thinking the wrong way. We're thinking of defending the quarterdeck against these mad bas tards. We've got to attack first.'

  'Ho yus, I'm all fer that. One glorious charge from one end of the lower deck ter the uvver, choppin' all their big toes orf wiv a tommyhawk an' smacking their 'ands wiv the flat of a cutlass blade an' tellin' 'em to be'ave. Yus, that's a real good plan, Jacko. Extra tot fer you, me lad.'

  'Oh stow it,' Jackson said wearily. 'As a crowd they don't count; they can't even talk without leaders, let alone do anything. One leader, anyway; that fellow Harris.'

  Two others as well'

  'Oh? Who?'

  The cook's mate and the captain o' the foretop.'

  'I've been wondering about them. Any others?'

  'I'm not sure, but they're the ones that matter. I saw 'em clacking away at dinner. They're all in number six mess.'

  'Three of them,' mused Jackson. 'So the odds are on our side—unless we wait too long.'

  'What the 'ell you talkin' about? Odds are on our side? That's as likely as rum comin' from Aldgate Pump!'

  'Six of us against three of them.'

  'Three of—oh, I see. We gets 'em on their own. Cor, Jacko, you've------'

  'Keep your voice down—and keep still!'

  'Yes. Listen Jacko, maybe it's even easier'n you think. That Rossi, he moves like a cat an' he's diabulolical with a knife------'

  'Diabolical.'

  'S'wot I said. An' Maxton, 'e's the same. If 'e luffs up to weather o' bruwer 'Arris an' Rossi to loo'ard, an' each of 'em gently tickles 'is ribs wiv a knife, an' makes 'im swear he------'

  'What? That won't stop 'em mutinying tonight, will it? Making Harris and his two mates swear to be good boys! You think they'd keep their promises?'

  'Yes,' Stafford muttered dejectedly. 'No, I mean, yer can't trust no one, an' that's a fade.'

  Tact.'

  Tact,' Stafford repeated automatically. 'Orlright, Jacko, what's 'appened to our odds, then?'

  Jackson looked at his fingertips and then scratched his head.

  'Put yourself in the Tritons' places. They suddenly find out the three men who're supposed to lead the mutiny when it gets dark have disappeared. Like that. Magic. One minute they're there, next minute they've gone. Vanished. Not even a puff of smoke. What'd you do?'

  'Stay in me 'ammick an' keep me bleedin' 'ead down,' Stafford said promptly.

  'Me too. So brother Harris and the other two must vanish. No noise, no puff of smoke. Just vanish.'

  'Over the side?'

  'There's got to be no bloodshed, Staff. This is going to be a long voyage. Once we're over this bit o" trouble, we've got to mess with these jokers. They'll forget all about it, once they're down south in the sunshine. No, they've got to vanish just long enough for us to get the rest of the Kathleens out in the open—so the Tritons can see it's no go.'

  'But they'll get another chance unless we make 'Arris into shark bait.'

  'No—after that we leave it to Mr Ramage.'

  'What'll 'e do?'

  'I don't know. He'll do something, though.'

  Then, keeping his voice low, the American explained his plan.

  *

  While Southwick was on watch Ramage sat at his desk with i large sheet of lined paper in front of him which was divided into many columns, and the muster book was open beside him, giving the name of every man in the ship. He'd written 'General Quarter, Watch and Station Bill' across the top of the page and now, without knowing anything about more than half the men, had to fill in the rest of it.

  It took more than an hour to complete because each man had several different tasks, depending on whether the ship was weighing anchor; setting, reefing or furling sails; going into battle or going into harbour.

  Each man was given a number, and the completed Bill listed all the tasks to be carried out in the course of various evolutions with a number beside each of them.

  To make sure he hadn't made any mistakes, Ramage chose a number at random and checked it on the Bill. Number eight —he was in the larboard watch; in battle he was one of the two loaders at number five carronade on the larboard side; he was one of the boarding party, and under arms had a cutlass and tomahawk; when furling or reefing sails he worked on the fore-topsail, but when the order was given to loose sails— which needed fewer men—his post was at the capstan ready to weigh anchor. When the brig tacked or wore, he would be down on deck, hauling on the bowlines, trimming the sail...

  Ramage's eye ran across the line. No, number eight was not expected to be in two or three places at once—the usual mistake made when drawing up a new Bill. He chose other numbers, checked them, and found they were correct. So Southwick could read it to the men before evening quarters.

  No—on second thoughts there'd be no evening quarters! For the moment he wanted to avoid giving any orders to the whole ship's company because it gave them a chance to defy him. Orders to a few men at a time, yes; to a group, no.

  In the meantime copies of the Bill could be made, ready to be pinned up where the men could read them.

  He called for his clerk, gave the instructions, and then sat back in the chair, his feet up on the desk, rubbing the scar on his brow.

  Southwick was right: if the men planned anything, it'd happen tonight. It'd be silent and swift. He, Southwick and Appleby would be killed—the mutineers wouldn't dare let them stay alive. Even handing them over to the French authorities as prisoners would be too dangerous because prisoners were often exchanged. Mutineers might get caught —serving in a French warship, in a privateer, maybe in a fishing boat. And an exchanged prisoner would give damning evidence at the court martial...

  He, Southwick and Appleby could—no they couldn't; there was no w
ay of training a carronade forward so the recoil wouldn't hurl it through the transom into the sea. And it was the wheel, the quarterdeck, that had to be defended. Not because they could steer the ship if the mutineers wanted to prevent them—all they had to do was cut the tiller ropes, brace the yards round or even furl the sails. But as long as Ramage could himself destroy the wheel and compass, he could stop the mutineers steering for France until they'd completed lengthy repairs. But, but, but... he was fooling himself. The three of them could do nothing that mattered much; nothing the mutineers couldn't make good in a few hours. And there was nothing he could do beforehand. He was checkmated by pawns.

  Ramage sat up with a start, then recognized Southwick's characteristic rat-tat-tat, rat-tat knock on the door. As soon as he came in Ramage pointed to the chair by the table.

  'Trouble, sir,' the old man announced, running his hands through the white hair which, freed from the confines of his hat, sprang out over his head like a new mop. 'I don't know what it is but...'

  He stood up and opened the door suddenly, looking to see if anyone was outside eavesdropping.

  He sat down again. 'Sorry, sir. But Jackson's passed me a weird message for you. As near as I can recall, tonight he wants you to keep people away from the companionway, keep the wardroom door shut, and keep everyone—including yourself, sir—clear of the breadroom scuttle because there'll be three guests in the breadroom tonight. Oh yes, and he'd be glad for you to find 'em there in the morning an' take the necessary action. It sounds balmy,' Southwick added, 'but he isn't drunk sir—leastways, I don't think he is. And that reminds me, he said could you leave a bottle or two of rum by the breadroom scuttle, and a lantern.'

  'That's all he said?'

  'That's all, sir,' Southwick said, pulling his nose. "When I eased over close to ask what he was talking about—there were several men around—Stafford whispered something about the cook's mate keeping too close under their lee to say any more.'