Ramage's Devil Read online

  “I shall put the six French guards in the open boat we came out in, and cast them adrift so that they can row into Brest Harbour with one oar and report what’s happened. That will save us guarding prisoners, and there’s been enough killing for tonight.”

  There was some murmuring from three men who Ramage guessed were the lieutenants and the master. Very well, he would deal with them in a moment.

  “The guards will report that the Murex has been recaptured by the English and sailed. Anyway that will be obvious to anyone standing on the beach. So, within ten minutes at the most of those irons being unlocked, I want this ship tacking down the Gullet under topsails. We’ll let the anchor cable run to save time.

  “Two more things. My wife is on deck.” He then let a hard note come into his voice. “Any orders I give will not be questioned. I have taken command of this ship. I do not have my commission but it is dated September 1797. Nor do I have orders from the Admiralty, but anyone doubting my authority can go off in the boat with the French guards and become a prisoner of war.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE DESCRIPTION of him dressed in a French fisherman’s smock and trousers, and standing on the quarterdeck of one of the King’s ships with his wife beside him wearing a badly torn dress cobbled up with sailmaker’s thread, would soon, Ramage mused, be another story added to the fund of bizarre yarns which already seemed to surround him.

  At least a westerly gale was not screaming over the ebb tide and kicking up the hideous sea for which Brest Roads were notorious; at least the stars were out and the moon had risen. And if there had been no war, he would regard this as the start of a pleasant voyage. But now in an instant it could all turn out very difficult. If one of those anchored French ships opened fire and the three forts lining the cliffs along the Gullet followed suit, then in this light wind the Murex would be battered …

  He picked up the speaking-trumpet and the coppery smell seemed to complete the series of memories taking him back to the Calypso, to the Triton, and then to the Kathleen.

  “Let that cable run, Mr Phillips … Foretopmen there: let fall the foretopsail … Stand by, maintopmen!”

  Strange orders, but ones carefully phrased because he had so few seamen. That delivery of potatoes had saved him—knowing how many men he would have available to handle the ship had allowed him to work out a rough general quarter, watch and station bill for two lieutenants, master and eleven seamen.

  And what a bill! Seven sail-handlers: four seamen for letting fall the foretopsail, three for loosing the maintopsail. Then the foretopmen had to slide down swiftly from aloft to haul on the halyards, and as soon as the yard was up, they had to hoist the jibs and staysails. The maintopmen in turn had to race down to tend their own halyard and then help the four remaining seamen who were to haul on sheets and braces to trim the yards and sails.

  Of those four, two would have been helping the second lieutenant, Bridges, to let the anchor cable run … The master, Phillips, would be on the fo’c’s’le, making sure that the cable ran out through the hawse without snagging, and the headsails and their sheets did not wrap round things in that tenacious embrace so beloved of moving ropes. And he wondered if Swan, the young first lieutenant who was now waiting at the wheel, could remember how to box the compass in quarterpoints! It was something he would have known when he took his examination for lieutenant and, having passed, would have forgotten it …

  Damnation, this wind was light … Better not too strong with such a tiny crew, but he needed enough breeze to get those topsails drawing and give him steerage-way over the ebbing tide—by the time the Murex was drawing level with Pointe St Mathieu he would have dodged enough rocks and reefs to sink a fleet. The first of them was just abreast Fort de Delec, the dark walls of which he could already see perched up on the cliff on his starboard hand.

  Ah! At last the foretopsail tumbled down as the men slashed the gaskets. He had made sure they had knives (it meant raiding the galley) to save valuable time: untying knotted gaskets (it was sure to be the last one that jammed) could cost three or four minutes.

  Two men were coming down hand over hand along the forestay! The other two were coming down the usual way, using the shrouds. A puff of wind caught the sail so that it flapped like a woman shaking a damp sheet. To Ramage’s ears, by now abnormally sensitive to noise, it seemed every ship in the anchorage must hear the Murex’s foretopsail sounding like a ragged broadside.

  Now the maintopsail flopped down with the elegant casualness of canvas in light airs.

  A rapid thumping, as though a great snake was escaping from a box, ended with a splash and a cheerful hail from Phillips: “Cable away, sir!”

  “Very well, Mr Phillips,” Ramage called through the trumpet and warned Swan at the wheel, “Be ready to meet her—the bow will pay off to starboard but for the moment the ebb has got her!”

  The brig, with her bow now heading north as though she wanted to sail up the Penfeld river and into Brest, was in fact being swept sideways by the ebb down the Gullet towards the wide entrance, a dozen miles away and stretching five miles or so between Pointe St Mathieu on the starboard side and the Camaret peninsula to larboard.

  The seamen were like ants at the base of each mast. Up, up, up! The heavy foretopsail yard inched its way upwards on the halyard and then a bellowed order saw it settle and the sheets tautening, giving shape to the sail.

  The wind was still west; the feathers on the string of corks forming the telltale on the larboard side reassured him about that as they bobbed in the moonlight.

  “I can feel some weight on the wheel now, sir,” Swan reported, as Ramage saw the maintopsail yard begin its slow rise up the mast. Damnation take the foretopmen, they had to make haste with those headsails: brigs were the devil to tack without jibs and staysail drawing, and already the Murex was gathering way as though she wanted to run up on the rocks in front of the château.

  Ramage lifted the speaking-trumpet. He had to make them get a move on without frightening them into making silly mistakes.

  “Foretopsail sheet men—aft those sheets! Brace men—brace sharp up!” Strangely-worded orders, but he had no afterguard.

  Now he could see the sail outlined against the stars and it was setting perfectly, and Swan was cautiously turning the wheel a few more spokes.

  “Maintopsail sheet men, are you ready? Take the strain—now, run it aft! Another six feet! Heave now, heave. Fight, belay that! Now, you men at the braces, sharp up!”

  The flying jib, jib and staysail were crawling up their stays—with this light breeze and their canvas blanketed by the foretopsail, three of the four seamen were hauling a halyard each …

  “Amidships there! Hands to the headsail sheets … Take the strain …” He watched as the sails slowed down and then stopped their climb up the stays. “Right, aft those headsail sheets … Foretopmen, pass them the word because I can’t see a stitch of the canvas from here!”

  Cheerful shouts from forward and the moonlight showing the topsails taking up gentle curves indicated that his unorthodox method of getting under way and passing sail orders to a handful of seamen, all of whom would normally be doing just one of those jobs, was working.

  “Don’t pinch her, Mr Swan,” Ramage warned the first lieutenant. “Just keep her moving fast, and then we’ll have control. We’ll have to put in a few dozen tacks before you put the helm down for Plymouth.”

  Ramage paused and wiped the mouthpiece of the speaking-trumpet, which was green with verdigris.

  “You nearly ran down the matelots in the fishing-boat as you were setting the maintopsail,” Sarah said. “They hadn’t made much progress.”

  “I didn’t hear you reporting,” Ramage teased.

  “No, you didn’t,” she said shortly. “I didn’t start the Revolution or the war.”

  “Remind me to tell you how much I am enjoying our honeymoon, but first we must tack.”

  And, he thought to himself, if the Murex hangs in irons we’ll drift
on to the rocks on the headland in front of the arsenal and opposite the château: the current sets strongly across them on the ebb.

  A quick word to Swan had the wheel turning, and he could hear the creak of rudder pintles working on the gudgeons, an indication of a quiet night.

  Then he gave a series of shouted commands to the men at sheets and braces and slowly (too slowly it seemed at first, convincing him he had left it too late) the Murex’s bow began to swing to larboard, into the wind …

  “Not too much helm, Mr Swan, you’re supposed to be turning her, not stopping her …” A first lieutenant should know that. Now the jibs and staysail were flapping across.

  “Headsail sheets, there!”

  The men knew what to do; that much was obvious in the way the sails had been set. So now he need give only brief orders, which took care of the trimming.

  “Braces! Altogether now, haul! Now the sheets!”

  A glance ahead showed the brig now steady on the other tack.

  “Mr Swan,” Ramage said quietly, walking over to the wheel, “I think you can get another point or two to windward …”

  He watched the luff of the mainsail and then the leech.

  “And another couple of spokes?”

  Swan turned the wheel two more spokes but his movement lacked certainty: he was clearly nervous.

  “Come now, Mr Swan,” Ramage said, a sharper note in his voice. “I don’t expect to have to give the first lieutenant compass courses to steer to windward. Now look’ee, you can lay the Pointe des Espagnols—that’s the headland on your larboard bow.”

  With that he turned away and said to Sarah, “Can you see L’Espoir over there at anchor? I think she’s gone: sailed while we were having our trouble with the bosun.”

  She turned and looked over the larboard quarter at all the ships moonlit against the black line of low cliffs with the town of Plougastel in the distance. Unused to allowing for a change in bearings she took two or three minutes before finally reporting: “No, she’s not there. But she can only be …”

  “Yes,” Ramage said, “half an hour or so,” and noted it was time to tack again: the brig was moving along well and the ebb was helping hurry them seaward. He went over to Swan and gave him the new heading for when they had gone about.

  “Follow the cliff along from Brest. You see the village of Portzic? Now, just beyond that next headland—you see the building? That’s Fort de Delec. You should be able to lay it, but if a messenger has reached them they’ll open fire. And just beyond, on top of the cliff, is the Lion Battery. If the fort and battery begin firing at us, we’ll tack over to the other side.”

  There was no need to tell Swan that on the other tack they would be heading for the Cornouaille Battery on the Camaret peninsula, and if the fire from that became hot enough to force them to tack north-westward again back to the Pointe St Mathieu side, they would be steering for the next fort, at Mengam, with three isolated and large rocks also waiting in the fairway for them …

  The Murex went about perfectly: the headsails slapped across as the bow came round and were swiftly sheeted in; both topsails were braced sharp up on the larboard tack; Swan moved the wheel back and forth three or four spokes and then reported: “I can lay a bit to windward of the Lion Battery, sir.”

  Already the château was dropping astern fast and Ramage watched the irregular shape of Fort de Delec. Distance was always hard to estimate in the darkness, but a mile? At night an object usually seemed closer—so to the French gunners the Murex would seem to be just within range. Just? Well within range, and Sarah murmured: “I imagine Frenchmen staring along the barrels of guns …”

  It seemed to be tempting fate to make a reassuring comment, and anyway she was not frightened. “If they’re going to open fire, it’ll be in the next two or three minutes,” he said.

  She held his arm in an unexpected gesture, and he was startled to find she was trembling. “Will it look bad if I go below if they start shooting?”

  He gripped her hand. “Of course not. But it will be more frightening.”

  “More frightening? I don’t understand.”

  “Dearest, if you stay on deck and see where the shot fall, you’ll see there’s no danger. If you go below you’ll be waiting for the next shot to come through the deck and knock your head off!”

  “I feel cold and shaky all of a sudden,” she said. “Not frightened exactly. Apprehensive, perhaps.”

  “When you shoot a man with a pistol you usually feel shaky afterwards,” Ramage said dryly, and added: “I feel cold and shaky every time after I’ve been in action. I think everyone does.”

  He looked up at Fort de Delec again. He felt he could see down the muzzles of the guns. Yes, there was the straight line of the walls; there were the embrasures. The moon had risen high enough now that he knew he would see the antlike movement of people if the guns were being loaded and trained round. It was a confounded nuisance commanding a ship which had no nightglass and no telescopes. No log or muster book for that matter—the telescopes had presumably been looted, and all the ship’s papers would have been taken away by the French authorities. And charts—well, the only relevant one he had glanced at by lantern light just before getting under way, “A Draught of the Road and Harbour of Brest with the adjacent Coast,” must have been copied from a captured French one, but even then gave only one line of soundings from the town of Brest right along the Gullet, stopping as it reached the first of the three rocks, Mengam, and the man at the lead could be calling out twenty fathoms amidships as the bow hit the rock.

  Another couple of minutes and they would tack again and then he wanted plenty of lookouts. With luck he would be able to leave Mengam safely to one side so that on the next tack to the north-west he could pass close to the last of the three rocks, which was in fact a small reef appropriately named Le Fillettes.

  The Cornouaille Battery was silent, but that was to be expected: a boat would have to be sent over to the Camaret peninsula to raise the alarm, although they would pick it up from the other forts. This next tack would bring them within range of Fort de Mengam. Was the fort named after its silent ally in the middle of the Gullet, or the other way about?

  He lifted the speaking-trumpet as Sarah murmured: “Anyone raising the alarm at these forts and batteries would use the same road we rode along that afternoon from Pointe St Mathieu.”

  “Now my dear, you can understand my interest in the number of guns each of them mounted.”

  “You didn’t explain,” she said.

  “I’m always interested in French forts. I hardly expected we’d be sailing out in these circumstances!”

  She shivered and turned to look back at the town and harbour. “No, you were hoping eventually to sail your own ship in, on some wild escapade.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, “one never ignores a chance to learn about an enemy, but I prefer having my wife beside me!”

  “You are being more polite than a new husband needs to be: I am a nuisance!”

  He began shouting orders through the speaking-trumpet and once again the Murex’s bow swung across the eye of the wind to the south-west: once again straining men hauled at the sheets and braces to trim the topsails. If only he could set the courses as well; then with more than double the amount of canvas drawing the brig would be out of the Gullet and into the Atlantic, passing the Pointe St Mathieu to starboard and the shoals to larboard off the Camaret peninsula, like a stoat after a rabbit.

  He walked up to the mainmast, partly to leave Swan on his own and help him gain a confidence which had probably been badly battered by the mutiny, and partly to place extra lookouts. He called for Auguste, Albert and Louis.

  “You know the Mengam?” he asked.

  “Yes, Captain, I was just coming to warn you: it is very near.”

  “And the one beyond, and then Les Fillettes?”

  “Yes, I know them all; I have fished around them dozens of times. In fact the Mengam is fine on the bow. You—yes, you can se
e it. Look …”

  He stood beside Ramage, who saw they would pass clear and instructed the three Frenchmen to watch for other rocks. He walked aft to point it out to Swan, who seemed to have benefited from being left alone at the wheel. He had more life in him; he said, in the first time he had spoken except in answer to a question: “I thought it’d be the batteries we’d be dodging, sir, not the rocks.”

  Ramage then remembered that the Murex had been brought in while it was still daylight. “You were able to watch the scenery as you came in?”

  “No choice, sir: we—those who had not mutinied—were all penned up on the fo’c’s’le.”

  “What about the mutineers?”

  Swan laughed at the memory. “Well, the French who came on board drove them all below. You see, sir, I was the only person in the ship who spoke any French, so when the French boarded us and asked why we were flying a white flag, I said some of the men had ‘misbehaved.’”

  “So they thought we—the officers and the loyal ship’s company—were bringing the ship in and handing her over, and the mutineers had been trying to stop us. So for a couple of hours or so the mutineers were knocked around—until we anchored off Brest and English-speaking Frenchmen came out!”

  Ramage calculated that they would be clear of the Gullet on the next tack, and Sarah joined him as he walked forward to pick up the speaking-trumpet. As he gave the first orders for the tack which would turn the Murex to the north-west, Auguste came up and pointed ahead.

  “Sir, Les Fillettes are ahead. You will pass clear when you tack.”

  “Thank you, Auguste. Ah yes, I see them.”

  There was no reason to point them out to Swan, who was now giving the appearance of enjoying himself. The moonlight was strong enough to give a clear picture of the deck, and as they tacked the men were quicker at freeing a rope or making it fast on cleat, kevil or belaying pin.