Ramage & the Guillotine (40 page)

“Rossi, give him a couple of feet on that jib sheet,” Ramage said. “Easy now, mind it doesn't run away with you. Here, Stafford, tail on the end!”

Almost at once the
Marie
came to life; the sluggishness vanished and she was as skittish as a fresh horse, her bow rising and falling gracefully as she drove to windward across the crests and troughs, her stem bursting random wavetops into sheets of spray.

Ramage tapped Dyson on the shoulder as he hunched to one side of the tiller. “I didn't know she had it in her; she's a real thoroughbred!” And Dyson knew how to get the best out of her, that was clear enough. Not only get the best out of her, Ramage suddenly realized, but how to sneak her past the frigates! He had probably been doing it once a week for several years! Ramage felt a bit sheepish at his earlier fears and was thankful he had kept them to himself. Not that this was the time to relax—the frigates would be patrolling very close in to Boulogne, since that was nearly every blockade-runner's destination. Down here, where the coast was a series of bays and headlands, they would be patrolling a much wider band, since blockade-runners might try to stand several miles out or creep along a mile off the beach.

Ramage gestured to the seamen. “Stafford and Rossi—you keep a sharp lookout to larboard; Jackson and Louis—take the starboard side. We're small enough to stand a chance of spotting someone else before they see us, so we'll be able to dodge.”

The jail cell at Amiens seemed a lifetime away now; the time he and Stafford had spent hunched over the candle in the hotel room opening those seals was so remote that it might have happened to someone else. Soon, all being well, they would be working their way into Folkestone. No, not Folkestone! It would be too complicated trying to explain to the Revenue men why there were two identical smacks called
Marie
in the same port! If they made for the Downs, it would give him time to explain things to Lord Nelson. Then, perhaps, the Admiralty would write a discreet letter to the Board of Customs, and after a few expressions of outraged indignation, the Customs might agree …

“Fine on the larboard bow, sir!” Stafford hissed. “A schooner or summat: hundred yards away an' convergin'.”

“Bear away!” Ramage snapped. “Let the sheets run, lads!”

Rakish hull, two masts, fore-and-aft rig—that much Ramage could see as the
Marie
began to turn away and then he was momentarily blinded by a ripple of flashes along the stranger's bulwarks. Above the squealing of the sheets running through the blocks, the flogging of the heavy sails and the creak of the gaff jaws on the
Marie
's mast, he heard the dull popping of muskets.

Thank goodness the
Marie
turned on her heel like a dancer. A French
chasse-marée!
Damnation, that was what the frigate had been hunting! He dodged across the
Marie
's deck to keep her in sight as the fishing-boat headed inshore again, and saw that both hull and sails were shortening: she was turning after them: any moment she would wear and, with the wind right aft, she would be down on them long before they could get into shallow water.

Where the devil was that frigate now, he thought bitterly as he watched first the big mainsail and then the foresail swing over on the
chasse-marée.
They were in no hurry because they had their quarry in sight and knew they had the legs of her. The
Marie
had only one advantage, and that slight enough: she could tack and wear more swiftly, jinking like a snipe in front of a sportsman's gun.

If the
Marie
waited until she was nearly on her, until the
chasse-marée
's damnably long bowsprit was almost poking down their collars, then wore right across her bow at the last moment, risking a collision? It might catch the French ruffians unawares because they would expect the
Marie
to turn the other way. Not much of a surprise really, except that the men with the muskets would be waiting on the starboard side, and would have to dash over to the larboard as the
Marie
suddenly ducked under her bow.

The
chasse-marée
Captain must be out of his mind, risking revealing his position to a British frigate by firing a lot of muskets at a fishing smack, for the flashes could be seen a long way off. Unless the Frenchman did not know the frigate was around … But surely he must have seen the flash of her warning shot at the
Marie?

“There's a battery on the coast just north of Mers,” Dyson said, as though reading Ramage's thoughts. “That
chasse-marée
probably thought they fired the shot, not the frigate, and came up to have a look. Not our night, it ain't …”

Ramage guessed that that explained why a
chasse-marée
had opened fire on what was apparently a French smack: a shot from a shore battery would tell her that an enemy vessel was around. But there was no more time for idle thoughts: the
chasse-marée
was now racing up astern, her bow wave showing clearly in the patches of moonlight. She was slightly to larboard of the
Marie
's wake and fifty yards away: any minute now those muskets would start popping, trying the range.

“Dyson,” Ramage snapped, “we're going to wear right across this fellow's bow at the very last moment. Just shave his stem. I'll give the word, but be ready. The rest of you, stand by at the sheets. One kinked rope jamming in a block and she'll cut us in half, so have a care!”

He looked back over the
Marie
's larboard quarter but as he turned his head, he caught sight of a large, dark shape: a dark shape topped by a series of rectangles that glowed in the moonlight like distant phosphorescence—the frigate was back, reaching south along the coast and steering to intercept the
chasse-marée,
which seemed to have not yet sighted her.

“Belay all that,” he told Dyson hastily, “here comes the frigate!”

At that moment the
chasse-marée
sighted her and immediately wore round to larboard, her booms and gaffs crashing across with a noise that could be heard from the
Marie,
hardening in sheets at the run and obviously hoping to claw up to windward of the frigate. But it was going to be close. It was the Frenchmen's only chance, and a desperate one, with the
chasse-marée
's Captain gambling that he could pass the frigate so fast on an almost opposite course that their combined speeds would spoil the British gunners' aim.

The frigate's starboard side suddenly dissolved in a blinding flash. The roar and rumble of her whole broadside came across the water and moments later echoed back from the cliffs.

“Cor, that blinded me!” Stafford exclaimed.

“Likely to have done more than that to the Frenchies,” Dyson said. “An ‘ole broadside!”

“Dismasted her,” Jackson said quietly. “I can just see her. She's lying—”

“I see her,” Ramage said, “but that damned frigate's seen us: she's going to leave the Frenchman for a few minutes and deal with us.”

The frigate ploughed on towards the
Marie
and Ramage knew there was now no chance: she would be on them before they were close enough inshore to get her Captain worried about the depth of water under her keel, and with her gunners alert the

Marie
's chances of tacking and wearing her way out of trouble were nil.

Surrender! The frigate would soon heave-to and hoist out boats to deal with the dismasted
chasse-marée,
so there was a chance they would accept the
Marie
's surrender, and that would give him time to identify himself.

“Jackson and Stafford—let go the main halyards! Watch your head, Dyson! Rossi, let the jib halyard run!”

At the same time Ramage jumped over and let the jib sheet fly: the sail started flogging immediately, and he jumped back to the weather side with Dyson as the heavy boom, mainsail and the gaff crashed down like a collapsed tent.

Slowly the
Marie
lost way and paid off with the wind and sea on her beam. A minute or two later the frigate was to windward and Ramage heard shouts and blocks squealing as she tacked, and a voice shouted in bad French: “You surrender?”

“We're British,” Ramage bellowed. “Yes, we'll wait here!”

“You surrender,” ordered the voice, magnified by a speaking-trumpet, in a disbelieving and uncompromising tone. “We'll send a boat in a few minutes.”

With that the frigate bore away and headed back to the
chasse-marée,
now a wallowing hulk, and hove-to just to windward. Ramage could imagine the bustle as boats were hoisted out. One would be enough for the Frenchmen—they would have no fight left in them, and the frigate was perfectly placed to give them another broadside if necessary. And one boat would be enough for the little
Marie!

“Dyson, see if you can get into the cuddy: we need a lantern. It might save a lot of misunderstanding when the boat gets here.”

With that they began hauling the heavy folds of sail away from the hatch. It was hard work, with both boom and gaff sliding a few inches one way and another as the
Marie
rolled. Several minutes later they had cleared enough space for Dyson to slide down into the cuddy while the five of them leaned hard against the boom in case it slipped and crushed him.

Suddenly Dyson vanished and a moment later began swearing violently. “Me ankle!” he shouted. “I slipped and wrenched it! I can't even stand up again!”

Ramage was nearest to the hatch. “Hold tight,” he told the men, “I'll go down and fetch him out.”

He lowered himself, carefully feeling with his feet so that he landed astride Dyson, who was lying on the cabin sole, groaning and cursing.

“Left leg, sir,” he muttered. “That's it—ow! Cor, I think it's busted. Oow,” he screeched, as Ramage ran his hand over it.

It was broken, and how the devil were they to hoist Dyson out of this mess?

“Where's the brandy?”

“Locker by the step,” Dyson grunted.

A few moments later Ramage pulled the cork out and gave Dyson the bottle.

Jackson was peering down into the cuddy. “Is it broken, sir?”

“Afraid so,” Ramage said. “Find some light line and take this locker lid: smash it up and give me a piece of wood for a splint.” The American disappeared and a few moments later Ramage heard thudding as he broke up the lid.

“You've had enough of that brandy, Dyson.”

“Just another sip, sir, it ‘urts cruel ‘ard.”

“I know it does, but I don't want you being sick over everything; it's difficult enough down here as it is.”

Dyson gave him the bottle and he corked it. “Another tot when we get you up on deck.”

Jackson handed down a strip of wood and several lines. “Shall I come down and give you a hand, sir?”

“There's no room; Dyson's lying here like a couple of sacks of potatoes.” Ramage braced himself, tucking all but one of the lines under a knee. “Now, this is going to hurt, Dyson, but we can't move you until I've got a splint on it.”

Dyson grunted from time to time but he did not say a word. Ramage was not sure if the brandy was taking effect or whether the man realized that cursing and complaining would only cause delay. And time, he thought to himself as he gently knotted the first line, is getting short: the frigate's boarding party will soon be here.

The
Marie
was now rolling more violently: probably the water was getting shallower and the uneven bottom was kicking up an awkward swell with the wind against an ebb tide.

“How are you up there with that boom?” he shouted to Jackson.

“Trying to secure it with the mainsheet, sir. The topping lift's carried away. We've got to move it back across the hatch for a minute; we can't get at the bitter end: the boom's jamming the cleat.”

“Carry on but hurry; it's hot down here!”

The little cabin exaggerated every noise on deck; the boom being dragged a few feet sounded as if the hull was collapsing.

Ramage reached for another line and carefully slid it under Dyson's leg, trying to wedge his own body so that the rolling did not dislodge him. He tied a reef knot and took the third line. That passed round easily and he reached for the fourth, wishing Jackson would hurry and get the sail off the hatch.

Suddenly there was a heavy thud against the hull, a babble of voices, and a startled exclamation in French by Louis. Almost at once Jackson was shouting in English and Stafford joined in. The frigate's boat had got alongside without the men, busy securing the main boom, seeing them.

Many feet were pattering over the deck overhead; someone—he sounded like an excited midshipman—was giving shrill orders.

“Hold on a minute,” Ramage told Dyson and stood up, clawing at the canvas and finally thrusting his head and shoulders clear. There was at least a dozen men on board, all with cutlasses or boarding pikes pointing at Jackson and his men.

“Ahoy there!” Ramage bellowed, “we are—” he broke off as he sensed a movement above him, a swift movement which showed against the stars: it looked like the butt of a pistol coming—

H
IS head was thudding as if someone was beating it with IP heavy drumsticks; his body was lying horizontally and swaying, as though suspended between sky and sea. Slowly he forced his eyes open and found himself looking up at the deck-head of a ship. His wrists seemed to be curiously angular and jammed in the pit of his stomach, and then he realized that they were locked in irons. Cautiously he tried to move his ankles, but he was held in leg irons, too. In irons and in a hammock …

The effort was too much and he lost consciousness again, and what seemed hours later woke up to the sound of distant shouting: shouting in English; orders for clewing up sails. Another shout echoed through a speaking-trumpet and an anchor splashed into the sea and a minute later there was a smell of burning from the friction of the cable running out through the hawsehole.