Ramage & the Rebels (24 page)

“Does
La Perle
really not work with the privateers at Curaçao?”

Did this milord, this
rosbif crétin,
really think that
lieutenant de vaisseau
Bazin was going to give away secrets? “No, she does not.” Nor did she, but there was no point in giving the enemy information.

“This patrol of
La Perle
's, M. Bazin—might one ask if you were co-operating with the Spanish or the Dutch?”

“With neither.” That would puzzle him. This evil man could not imagine that
La Perle
was on an ordinary patrol, having arrived in Martinique from France with despatches and being sent on a patrol of the eastern end of
la mer des Antilles
on her way back to France. But
La Perle
had first begun to leak a few days after leaving Brest; they had pumped her across the
Atlantique
to Fort de France; they had careened her there and the caulkers had hammered away at their cotton and the pitch had been heated and poured. And the leaks were stopped, but Duroc, always anxious to please and always impatient, had left for the patrol and for France without trials, and the leaks had started again the minute the frigate had sailed beyond the lee of the islands and reached the full strength of the Trades. Why Duroc called at Aruba no one knew, and the reef they hit was not shown on the chart—or, rather, it was shown with more water over it, but more coral must have grown. Anyway, the leak was now twice as bad, and the nearest careenage was Curaçao. However, you know nothing about all that, milord aristo.

Ramage found that after five minutes' conversation with Bazin he felt grubby. The man had a face which was startlingly like a weasel's; his manner, way of talking, and probably his way of thinking was the same. No doubt he was quick to pounce and bully or kill a weaker animal; but he was ingratiating when in the company of a stronger. And a fool, too; he had seen the Tricolour being hauled down, leaving only a British ensign flying, and he had thought nothing of it.

Out of curiosity it might be worth talking to the other two French lieutenants, just to find out their view of Citizen Bazin, but Ramage felt he could guess. And now Bazin was below again, under Marine guard, and no doubt quite certain that he had told the
rosbif
Captain nothing …

Ramage went up on deck again and found both Aitken and Southwick waiting for him, shamefaced and looking like naughty schoolboys caught red-handed.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Aitken said. “Southwick and the carpenter were just going on board her when you came up and told us about the leak, but—”

“But they should have finished their examination by then …”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you've no explanation for this lapse.”

“No, sir,” Aitken said contritely. “None at all.”

“I'll give you one,” Ramage said, “and it's a lesson we've all just learned. Just because no shots have been fired, don't assume a prize isn't damaged and sinking.”

“Aye,” Southwick said, “and it's worse than that, sir: they could have scuttled her—they should have done, in fact—and I just leaned on the quarterdeck rail and looked at her. I even noticed she rolled more than we did and had less freeboard, but I never thought the reason was that she had several feet of water in her.”

“Well, how's the pumping going?”

Southwick grinned cheerfully. “With three hundred prisoners and our own pumps on board as well, it's no problem. No man has more than a quarter of an hour at a pump, but he has to work like a madman. It's the only way we'll get the level down.”

“She's making seven feet an hour,” Ramage said.

“Yes, but if we can empty her while she's alongside us, then the French can hold her with their own pumps without much trouble. We've got all the Frenchmen pumping—purser, bosun, sailmaker, captain's steward, everyone is taking a turn.”

Aitken was still rather chastened, and he said to Ramage: “After we've pumped her dry and left the French prisoners to hold their seven feet an hour, what are we going to do with her, sir?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “After capturing her for the price of some cloth to make flags, it seems a pity to let her sink; but our orders are to deal with those privateers. I can't spare fifty men to take
La Perle
to Jamaica. More than fifty, because the prizemaster would need enough men to sail her and enough to guard three hundred Frenchmen and keep them busy pumping.”

“But losing a prize like this, sir!” Southwick protested.

“The chances of her reaching Jamaica with these leaks even if I put a hundred of our men on board are remote.”

“How so, sir?”

“The leaks are getting worse. I don't think she's just spewing her caulking; I'm sure she's rotten and the fastenings are going. The planks are loosening as the hull works in anything of a sea and popping ‘em out. The next thing will be the butt ends of planks suddenly springing, and then she'll sink in ten minutes.”

Southwick scratched his head. “Well, we can't take three hundred prisoners on board, that's certain. Still, we could put them on shore right here, in Curaçao. Land ‘em on that beach there.”

“And give the privateers in Amsterdam another thirty men each?”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Southwick admitted. “But if we don't bring ‘em on board and don't put ‘em on shore … ?”

Ramage began walking up and down the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back. If all revolutions replaced uncomfortable breeches and white stockings which showed every dirty mark with loose-fitting trousers, he thought wryly, then officers would be well advised to change their politics. With
La Perle
captured he had no excuse for not going down to his cabin and putting on his uniform. The same applied to the rest of the
Calypso
's officers. Perhaps they were waiting for the Captain to give a lead, afraid of offending him by appearing in uniform when he still wore trousers. Perhaps (and much more likely) they were as comfortable as he was and in no hurry to return to the uncomfortable and hot smartness of breeches.

All this thinking about trousers and breeches was wasting time; he had to make up his mind as soon as possible about
La Perle
and her three hundred men. Very well, state the problem. Well, three problems, sir. I can't spare a prize crew to sail (and pump) her to Jamaica, and anyway she'd probably sink in the first gale she met. But, problem two, I can't leave her drifting. She has to be sunk—or set on fire. That leaves me with problem three, the three hundred prisoners whom I daren't land in Aruba or Curaçao, because they'll immediately become privateersmen.

Given that
La Perle
was eventually bound back to France and would have sunk on the way, her meeting with the
Calypso
is hardly a stroke of good fortune for the British, least of all the
Calypso,
which loses prize-money and head-money, and whose Captain will have to face the wrath of Admiral Foxe-Foote, who is not going to like losing his share of the prize-money.

Very well, milord, as that wretched Bazin insisted on addressing you, with true republican regard to ingratiating himself, reduce the problems to their simplest terms. God it's hot; the deck throws up waves of heat. No sails set to cause a cooling downdraught, no awning stretched to make some shade. And here is Jackson with a straw hat for me to wear. A thoughtful act: he felt as though his brains were already frying, and his eyes seemed scorched from the glare.

The problem, he reminded himself, tipping the hat farther forward so that it shaded his eyes more completely, the problem is really quite simple: how to dispose of a French frigate without drowning her ship's company or handing them over to the French privateersmen in Curaçao.

Quite simple, milord: turn both ships and men over to the Dons.

He stopped in mid-stride. That
was
the answer! Where it came from he was far from sure; probably lurking inside this straw hat. The French could land from
La Perle
on the Spanish Main, but they must not be able to repair the ship. His head buzzed with ideas, but none was any use until he looked at a chart.

He glanced over at
La Perle
and saw clear streams of water pouring out of her scuppers and from the hoses of head pumps rigged on the sides.
La Créole
was tacking back and forth to wind-ward; the two frigates were drifting slowly to leeward, westward along the coast of Curaçao. The weather seemed set fair. The only really miserable men on board the
Calypso
should be Duroc, Bazin and the two junior lieutenants.

Down in his cabin he pitched the straw hat on to the settee and pulled a chart out of the rack, unrolling it on his desk and holding it down flat with weights. The nearest part of the Main was in fact a long semicircle stretching from the tip of the Peninsula de Paraguana, the hatchet-shaped piece of land forming one side of the Gulf of Venezuela and leading down to Maracaibo, round to (for practical purposes) San Juan de los Cayos, a hundred and fifty miles to the eastward. Notes on his chart showed that there was not a port along that stretch where
La Perle
could be careened and repaired, nothing on the Peninsula apart from a mountain range topped by Pan de Santa Ana, a peak nearly 3000 feet high and visible for sixty miles on a clear day—which meant that any ship sailing south-west from Curaçao would sight it within a few hours. Just where the hatchet-handle joined the mainland was La Vela de Coro, a large village on the bay. A soft mud bottom, frequent breakers, a sea whipped up by almost any breeze … Yes, hardly the place to careen a fishing smack, let alone a frigate.

Then came Cumarebo, which although the Spanish gave it the name “Puerto” was simply an open roadstead in front of the town. After that was another small village, and then nothing for a dozen miles to Punta Zamuro, a coastline formed by sandy beaches, clay bluffs, shallow water … Punta Aguida had a red clay bluff and shallows of less than three fathoms more than a mile offshore … And, after a long stretch, the Bay of San Juan. The point sheltered it from the Trade winds coming from the east and north-east, but there was only twenty feet of water a mile offshore. As long as
La Perle
was not half full of water, she could get fairly close in, but she would not careen …

Now for the distances. He opened the dividers. Fifty miles would bring
La Perle
to anywhere on the Peninsula; a hundred miles would take her down to San Juan de los Cayos. The wind would be on the beam so she would make a fast passage, but give her the benefit of the doubt and say she averaged only three knots and went to San Juan de los Cayos. Thirty-three hours, a day and a half at the outside.

He called to the Marine sentry to pass the word for the First Lieutenant, Lieutenant of Marines, Master and purser. The purser was the last to arrive, looking alarmed at suddenly being summoned to the Captain's cabin.

Ramage decided to deal with him first, to put him out of his misery. “Tell Mr Southwick the quantity of water needed for two days by three hundred men working extremely hard in this climate.”

“Water, sir? You don't mean beer?”

“No, nor cheese nor butter. Just water.”

Rowlands's lips moved as he did some mental arithmetic. Finally he gave a figure. Ramage thanked him and the man left the cabin.

“Remember that figure, Mr Southwick. Now, gentlemen, at midnight
La Perle
leaves us, escorted by
La Créole,
bound for the Main—anywhere between the entrance to the Gulf of Venezuela and San Juan de los Cayos. Come and look at this chart and refresh your memories.”

The three men inspected it, and Rennick said: “All the Marines on board her as guards, sir?”

His face fell when Ramage shook his head and said: “There'll be no guards. The Frenchmen will be alone on board: just
La Créole
to keep them company.”

Aitken was the first to grasp what Ramage had said. “But, sir, what's to stop them making for Martinique?”

“Or attacking us?” added Southwick. “No good putting them on parole; they'd never keep their word.”

“Sit down,” Ramage said. “You all have jobs to do, so pay attention.
La Perle
sails at midnight under the command of Duroc, and he has the choice of the destinations I've just shown you, and—”

“But what's to stop him going somewhere else?” Southwick interrupted.

“Because all his charts will have been removed,” Ramage said patiently. “Removed by you. And your mates will comb the officers' cabins for anything resembling a chart. And just before he boards
La Perle
you will present him with an accurate but not overly detailed copy of this section of the chart—” Ramage tapped the chart on his desk. “This section only. That means he has little choice of destinations. He
could
go to Aruba, but he left there because there was nowhere to careen
La Perle.
It is unlikely he knows the coast of the Main—this section, anyway—so he won't know there's nowhere there for him to careen, either.”

“He doesn't need a chart to get up to Martinique,” Southwick pointed out. “He knows the latitude of Fort Royal …”

“That won't help him. He'll have only two days' water on board because you, Southwick, will empty the rest of the casks and that fresh water will be pumped over the side with the salt. With three hundred men and water for only two days, he needs to get somewhere in two days, which rules out Martinique by several days. You will also dispose of all the wine and spirits—over the side, of course.”

“Sir,” Rennick said anxiously, “the guns …”

“Aitken will supply you with a working party and you will flood the hanging magazine. I don't want an ounce of usable powder in the ship. All the great guns are to be spiked and you'll cut the breechings. All the locks for the guns are to be brought on board the
Calypso,
along with all flints, muskets, pistols, cutlasses, tomahawks and pikes.