Ramage & the Rebels (23 page)

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 the 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 then 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—
surrendre?
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 lower deck, 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.”

“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.

And now that Marine Lieutenant had come down the ladder and was looking at them. And he was pointing and beckoning. One of the sentries pulled him by the arm. Now Bazin knew they were going to shoot him. He turned to Roget. “I forgive you,” he said, “but for my sake stop this royalist talk.” He looked at the Third Lieutenant.
“Courage,”
he said, like a benediction. With that he braced his shoulders and began to climb the steps. After the second step his knees had an unfortunate tendency to fold,

like shutting a pocket knife, but he managed to continue climbing. This was how the aristos felt when they climbed up to the platform of the guillotine …

On deck the sun was dazzling, and he followed the Marine Lieutenant. He glanced astern, but no sentry followed, nor could he see the firing squad. Up the quarterdeck ladder
La Perle
's top-sails were now neatly furled and the two ships were still drifting alongside each other—and now down the companion-way. This, Bazin knew, led to the Captain's quarters.

At the foot of the companion-way there was a Marine sentry who stood smartly to attention and saluted as the Marine officer passed, and he called some word into the cabin. Then Bazin was in the cabin, his head bent sideways to avoid hitting the beams overhead, and facing him, sitting at a desk, was this milord Ramage, who waved towards a settee and told him to sit down. The door shut and Bazin glanced up to see that the Marine Lieutenant had left the cabin. He was alone with the milord. And his uniform was sticking to him and the perspiration was turning cold, and fresh beads of perspiration sprouting from his upper lip and forehead were cold, too, like rain on a glass window, and his breathing was shallow and he felt as though he was going to faint.

“Lieutenant Bazin, I must apologize for the ruse.”

His accent was perfect. He must have lived in France before the war—no foreigner could speak French like a Frenchman without living in France. The accent of Paris. In Lyon he would pass for a Parisian, Bazin was sure of that. But ruse?

“What ruse, milord?” There was the damned “milord” again: it seemed so natural when talking to him, but he must guard his tongue against it.

“The flags, M. Bazin. But I am sure you know perfectly well that it is a legitimate
ruse de guerre
to fly another flag as long as it is lowered and one's own flag hoisted before opening fire.”

Bazin was puzzled. “Yes, of course. We always do it when we sight an English merchant ship, or a privateer.”

“You do? So you have no ill-feelings about me doing it?”

Ill-feelings? What is he talking about? Bazin knew it was his own fault that he had not grasped the significance of the
Calypso
's Tricolour coming down at the run. He shrugged his shoulders. And this milord was smiling, as though pleased. Bazin felt less chilly, but wondered if all this polite talk was not the prelude to another trap, another pat at the mouse by the cat's paw before the end came in a flurry of pain and blood.

“
La Perle
was a few hours late in leaving Aruba, M. Bazin?” What a curious question. “Several hours. In fact we nearly didn't leave at all.”

“Oh. Why was that?”

“The leak, of course. Touching that reef made it a lot worse. The Captain waited for some time before we left to make sure the pumps could hold it.”

“And they could, of course.”

“Only just, but there was no point in waiting in Aruba because we couldn't careen there to make repairs. Curaçao is the nearest safe place—and of course it would have to be to windward. That's why Captain Duroc was not going to stop for you—but he was curious when you made the signal.”

The milord was looking at him strangely now. He was leaning forward slightly in the chair that he had twisted round to face the settee. “You had
all
your pumps going?”

“Oh yes—chain pump, deck wash pumps and men with buckets. Every available man took his turn.”

“And you were just holding the leak.”

“Yes, just. It was getting no worse, thank goodness. If only we could have reached Curaçao we'd have saved her.”

The milord stood up slowly and walked out through the door, and the Marine sentry came into the cabin to guard him. He heard the milord's shoes clattering up the companion-way. He had gone to arrange for the firing squad. He will not bother to question Roget or the Third Lieutenant. He would bother to question only the man who had been commanding
La Perle
(admittedly very briefly).

Bazin was proud that, with the firing squad only minutes away, he had kept control of himself and told this milord nothing. Nothing except that they were going to Curaçao, and that was obvious enough to anyone who saw which way the ship was heading.

A few minutes later the milord came back again and the sentry left the cabin. The milord still had this pleasant smile on his face; the smile the cat has as it plays with the mouse. However, no aristo was going to fool Jean-Pierre Bazin with a smile.

“The privateers are waiting for you in Curaçao, M. Bazin.” This is an obvious trap. “Are they, milord?”

“I saw ten of them a few days ago. Perhaps more have arrived by now.”

“Very interesting, milord. There might be fifty, then.” That would worry him, Bazin knew. “But they can get on quite well without
La Perle,
because we did not intend to call there. Not until we sprang this leak, rather.”

“Forgive my ignorance about all this, M. Bazin: I did not have time to talk to Captain Duroc.”

Look at those eyes: Bazin now knew what an
assassin
looked like. He had large brown eyes, the sort that would fool a woman like Roget's wife, and they were sunk deep below bushy brows, and he smiled such a friendly but false smile. No, milord had not bothered to talk to Duroc before murdering him, so he did not know that Duroc was making a desperate rush to get to Curaçao to careen the ship in the hope of finding the leak. No one was very optimistic, though; the whole garboard seam on the starboard side was leaking, and it seemed the entire transom was working loose because all the butt ends of the planks were weeping, although the caulking was still in the seams. The carpenter was puzzled and Duroc was frightened and he—ah, a chain pump had just started working somewhere this very moment because he could hear the distant clank-and-thump. And running water, like a distant stream. Now the clank of a head pump, and a second one has just started up. And a third and fourth, which was strange because
La Perle
had only two.

The milord was speaking again; something about
La Perle
working with the privateers. It was hard to concentrate, worrying about that leak, and he repeated the question.