Dudley Pope - Ramage's Devil

Forward of these cabins the Marines had their tables and forms, and at night slung their hammocks, and forward of them was what was usually called the 'messdeck', because the seamen forming the rest of the ship's company lived there, six or eight men to a table or 'mess' and slinging their hammocks at night.

Right in the bow, most of the time with a leg in irons, were the Calypso's half of La Robuste's prisoners, guarded by a couple of Marines with muskets. For a couple of hours in the morning the French prisoners were freed for exercise but, as Ramage had told Renwick, it was unlikely they would be kept on board for more than a few days; not enough to worry about them being in irons.

In the gunroom, with the day's work in the ship completed and only the anchor watch, lookouts and prisoners' guard to keep men from their hammocks and cots, the ship's lieutenants sat in their cabins or at the table.

The cabins were tiny and airless - there was room only for the cot, a canvas or metal bowl for washing, a trunk usually up-ended, a leprous mirror stuck in the best place to catch what little light squeezed through the skylight under the half deck, and a rickety canvas chair which usually collapsed when the ship rolled violently, forcing the occupant to retreat to the forms, which were bolted to the deck.

Kenton, the red-haired and freckle-faced third lieutenant, was the smallest of the ship's officers but his chair had recently broken completely and it was only the suddenness of the collapse that saved him trapping any fingers. Now, as he waited for a carpenter's mate to make him a new chair, he had to sit on a form, munching the last piece of fruit cake he had brought with him from home, and which was edible only after he had scraped off a thick layer of mildew.

William Martin, the fourth lieutenant and son of the master shipwright at Chatham, was in his cabin behind Kenton and softly played his flute. Kenton did not particularly like the tune that 'Blower' was playing and called to Aitken, who was sitting in his cabin filling in reports on provisions which should have been handed to the captain's clerk last week.

'When does the captain reckon L'Espoir will arrive?'

He rubbed his nose while waiting for a reply. Kenton, like Renwick, never tanned and the tropical sun meant his face was always scarlet and usually peeling. He had tried rubbing the skin with butter, goose grease (which was awful: his clothes reeked of it for days) and soap, but nothing helped.

'The captain doesn't "reckon". He can only guess, like you or me. He's hoping, obviously, but he's trying not to be influenced by the fact that one of the prisoners is a close friend.'

'Yes, what's that all about?' Kenton asked.

'I thought you knew.' Aitken was always careful to separate information that the officers should know from gossip. Sometimes the dividing line was thin.

'No, I've only heard what Southwick's said.'

'Well, the captain and Lady Sarah were on their honeymoon in France and staying with this friend, the Count of Rennes, when the British ambassador left Paris. Bonaparte's police arrested many Royalists before they knew the war had started again.'

'Why didn't they arrest the captain and Lady Sarah at the same time?'

'Oh, that's how we came to have those four Frenchmen on board: Gilbert managed to hide the captain and his wife; then with the other three retook the Murex.'

'Yes, I heard some of the seamen saying that her Ladyship shot dead a Frenchman.'

'She did. Saved all their lives, I gather.'

Kenton sighed, a deep sigh that seemed to go on as a descant to Martin's flute. 'What a lovely lady she is. The captain certainly finds 'em. I used to think the Marchesa was the loveliest woman I ever saw until Lady Sarah came along. I'm glad I didn't have to choose between them!'

'Keep your voice down; there's no need for Orsini to hear you going on about his aunt.'

'She went back to Italy, didn't she? Hey!' Kenton sat up suddenly. 'Do you suppose the French arrested her as well?'

'Arrested or assassinated?' Aitken said sourly. 'No one knows yet. She reached Paris and left for Volterra, but there's no proof she ever reached Italy.'

'I don't like this making war on women.'

'At least some of the women make war on the French,' Aitken commented. 'Think of Lady Sarah!'

'Yes. I'm sorry we missed that. That's the first time the captain's been in a scrap without us for a long time.'

'Ha, a long time!' Southwick rumbled from his cabin, where he was stretched out on his cot. 'You're a new boy! I've been with him since he was given his first command!'

'Yes,' Kenton said. 'That was the Kathleen cutter, wasn't it? Tell us about the first time he came aboard and what you thought of him.'

'Corsica, that's where it was,' Southwick said, a nostalgic note in his voice. 'Bastia. Nice harbour with all those fortifications. Commodore Nelson - well, he was only a commodore then - gave orders that -'

A hammering on the deckhead had all the officers grabbing their swords and pistols from the racks over their doors and hurrying for the companionway, Kenton muttering: 'I thought I heard a hail!'

The sun was setting, and within half an hour it would plunge below the mangrove swamps and distant hills lining the mainland. Already Île Royale and Île St Joseph seemed to have changed shape as the shadows lengthened and moved round, the sun lighting the crest of fresh hills and darkening valleys.

The captain was on deck: they all knew that because when he wanted to spend some time alone pacing up and down, he had told Martin, who was officer of the deck, that he could go below for an hour.

They looked questioningly at the captain as they reached the quarterdeck, and he simply gestured seaward.

There, like a grey swan gliding on the far side of a lake, a frigate had just come in sight round the end of Île Royale.

'She looks French-built,' he said, and told Orsini: 'Go aloft with a bring-'em-near and see what you make of her. You, Kenton and Martin, had better get over to LaRobuste.'

Ramage then looked again at the approaching ship, at the Île Royale which was a grey, black-streaked monster crouching close by, and at LaRobuste, anchored abeam. From pacing the quarterdeck he knew the wind was steady from the southeast at ten to fifteen knots.

Speeds and distances. Although the approaching frigate had at first been hidden behind the Île Royale, now she had drawn clear he could see she had only three miles to reach the point where she would expect the pilot canoe to be waiting.

I command L'Espoir and am at the end of the long and potentially dangerous voyage across the Atlantic, he told himself. My pilot book tells me where to anchor (there, where two frigates are already anchored) and that I should find the pilot just off the western end of Île Royale.

However, there is no pilot. I curse because, apart from anything else, the sun is too low to penetrate the water enough to show reefs and rocks, and the sea is too smooth in this lee to break. And soon it will be dark. What do I do?

Obviously I assume the two anchored frigates have seen me approaching. The pilot book tells me where the bank of dangerous rocks is, and the two frigates indicate the anchorage. One or both of the frigate captains will notice that the pilot does not meet me and if I try to get to the anchorage they will have warning guns ready. So I shall creep in under topsails, and if I get too near the bank a frigate's guns will warn me, and if it gets too shallow my own leadsman will warn me.

Yes, Ramage told himself, that is what he would be thinking and doing himself, and he was damn'd sure that is what the French captain was thinking and doing. The Frenchman would be concentrating his thoughts first on the outlying rocks and reefs and then on the shallow banks with soft muddy bottoms. And at the back of his mind there would be the prospect of a good supper at the governor's house with fresh meat instead of salt tack, and fresh fruit and fresh vegetables.