Ramage & the Rebels (37 page)

“Two miles at the most, sir.”

And it was about the fourteenth of July. Then there were more musket shots.

“Round up our other company commanders,” Ramage said. “I'd better have a word with them.”

It was surprising how the military phrases crept in—company commanders, indeed! But it sounded better, when giving orders to as keen and competent a sea soldier as Rennick, to call the lieutenants and sergeant “company commanders,” even though their companies were no bigger than platoons. However, Ramage thought idly as he waited for them to arrive, it was wiser when you put sailors on shore to divide ‘em into companies (after all, they were always known as “the ship's company;” it was only fishing boats and privateers that had “crews”). Referring to them as platoons risked a lot of ribaldry.

Finally Aitken, Wagstaffe, Baker and Kenton, Lacey and the sergeant reported themselves and gathered round, blurs in the darkness, waiting to hear what their Captain had to say. Ramage, unused to meeting his officers on land, was suddenly reminded of Mr Wesley's preachers conducting services on Cornish roadsides (and having large congregations, too!). He coughed, as much to stifle a laugh as draw their attention.

“All of you heard the musketry and can see the fire. There's no village in that direction and a plantation house would not burn so steadily—or for so long. I think our rebel friends and the privateersmen are beginning a celebration party: we know, from the Dutch patrols, that they have been rounding up cattle. My guess is that they are roasting the carcases on that fire—which is why it is burning so steadily. The musketry is simply firing volleys for fun, celebrating the fall of the Bastille. They're starting early because it's not the fourteenth of July for a few hours yet. So by midnight …”

“Aye,” Aitken said, with a wealth of contempt in his voice for men who were not only revolutionaries and drinkers but, until recently at least, avowed Catholics, “they'll be so besotted by midnight, it'll be like picking apples.”

“But we're not taking prisoners, are we, sir?” Kenton asked, obviously shocked and clearly thinking Aitken was referring to plucked apples in a basket.

“We'll take them if they come to hand,” Ramage said evenly, remembering the
Tranquil
's victims. “Now, your men had better put the bands of cloth round their heads now, so there are no mistakes, and tell ‘em once again that anyone without a white headband is an enemy.

“And don't let's forget that whether those rebels are drunk or sober, they outnumber us more than two to one. But we have some advantages, so listen carefully while I explain them. First, we can't hope to kill them all. Our first objective is to drive them away from Amsterdam, so when we attack we want to make sure that the survivors try to escape to the westward.

“Second, from whichever direction we attack, they are against the light of the bonfire. The wind, such as it is, seems unable to make up its mind whether to be south-east or east, but the point is that the smoke is blowing to the west. If we attack from the windward side—from the east, this side—we can reasonably expect the survivors to run away to the west.”

“But sir,” Baker asked, “supposing they don't bolt to the west but stand and fight?”

“Then
we'll
bolt to the east,” Ramage said lightly, but added as soon as the others had stopped chuckling: “Though it is a good question to which there's no answer except that we must make sure they do.

“Now, Rennick, the Marines are the sharpshooters. As the rebels bolt I want your men to pick off as many as possible with muskets and, using your own judgement about numbers, chase the first group. There will be some smoke and a ragged column, I imagine, with our seamen becoming mixed up with the tail of them, which is why we've taken so much of the purser's white duck to make headbands.

“So your Marines will be out on each side of the bonfire while the six companies of seamen attack from this side, driving the rebels past your men, like beaters at the butts. Volleys first from muskets and pistols; then close in with pike and cutlass.”

“Can we be sure the rebels will be gathered this side drinking and eating, sir?” Wagstaffe asked cautiously.

Rennick laughed. “Spoken like a true Londoner!”

“Well, finish the answer,” Ramage said, laughing with Rennick and Aitken.

“It's a hot night and anyway no one sits on the lee side of a huge bonfire! They'll all be up to windward, clear of the smoke and heat. Even the men tending the roasting carcases will be up to windward.”

“Aye, but they won't be roasting whole carcases on a bonfire like that,” Aitken said. “The outside flesh would get charred long before the rest was cooked. They'll be roasting nice cuts on long poles, if I know anything about it. A whole carcase means a spit and someone to turn it—and it takes hours. And to feed five hundred or more … better to cut up the carcases and issue raw meat and leave it to individuals to do their own cooking.”

“Very well,” Ramage said, “the main thing is that we don't kill each other accidentally. We all have watches, and the bonfire means we can see the time.” He took out his watch and saw it wanted three-quarters of an hour to midnight.

“We'll allow an hour and a quarter for us to get into position. So at half past midnight, the moment you hear three musket shots one after another at one-second intervals, you all open fire. The three shots should be enough to make the sleepers and the drunks sit up to see what's going on, providing you with more targets, and reveal where the sentries are. One hundred and eighty musket balls, followed by one hundred and eighty pistol balls, should kill a few, because Rennick's Marines have only forty muskets and forty pistols to bring down the rest.”

“That's only four hundred and forty shots, sir, and you said there are five hundred rebels and privateersmen!” Aitken said.

“True enough,” Ramage said with mock seriousness, “but you speak as a seaman. Rennick's sea soldiers reckon to make one ball go through at least two men at night and three in daylight.

“Now, I want the second company of Marines under the sergeant to go to the rear of our column, then we'll be approaching in the order we attack. Your company will be to the south, Rennick, at the end of the bonfire, then mine, then Baker, Lacey, Kenton and Wagstaffe, who will be roughly in the middle, then Aitken, with the sergeant and the second company of Marines beyond. Any questions or suggestions?”

The earth was baked as hard as pottery by scorching sun, with no rain for many days, and (it seemed to Ramage) liberally covered with small, sharp rocks that dug into hips and elbows and made cutlass-hilts clank with the slightest movement.

Ramage pulled out his watch and held it up so that he could read the dial by the light of the great long bonfire burning less than a hundred yards away. Twenty minutes past twelve; ten minutes to wait. His wrists seemed swollen to twice their normal size, the flesh itching in a fiery torture, and mosquitoes were landing boldly on his face.

The bonfire was a good twenty yards long, but low now, the rebels had obviously started off with a great blaze in the afternoon and then kept it stoked so that the whole mass glowed red, just right for roasting. Dozens of shadowy figures moved about, lit up by flames spurting up from time to time as more tree branches and brushwood were flung on.

Many rebels were lying on the ground, holding out long sticks—they might well be boarding-pikes—with cuts of meat cooking on the end, like men fishing from a river bank. There were few sentries; Ramage could see only one in front of his position, a man squatting down with a musket clasped in his arms.

The rebels were drinking—one could see bottles being passed round, and men were occasionally filling jugs from some casks propped up clear of the ground, well to windward of the flames. Occasionally they burst into snatches of revolutionary songs, but the heat, the wine, the mosquitoes and sheer sleepiness seemed to be draining their martial ardour. As far as Ramage could make out, only a quarter of the rebels were actually asleep, dark shadows lying like sheep in a meadow forty yards or so in front of the bonfire.

He wriggled and carefully moved a sharp stone that was numbing his left thigh. He looked at his watch again. Only three minutes had passed. He was sure that if he looked again he'd find the watch was going backwards. Jackson was lying to his left, musket in front of him, the butt ready to slide against his shoulder; Stafford was to his right, with Rossi beyond. The rest of the men were lying to left and right, so that Ramage was in the middle of the line, the best place to shout orders both ways.

Rennick and one company of Marines should be hidden over there on the left, to one side of the bonfire, while Baker, Lacey, Wagstaffe and Kenton were on the right, parallel with the bonfire, with Aitken at the end and the Marine sergeant's company along the right-hand edge. There had been no messengers so he presumed they were in position. He had shocked Rennick by saying he did not want runners bringing messages that all was well; that they should be reserved for bad news. Every movement risked them being spotted by the rebels, so—

“Qui vive?”

The challenge was from over to the right, in front of Baker's company.

“Qui va là?”

The French sentry, obviously a privateersman, sounded certain that he had spotted someone.

Then Ramage saw the sentry: he was standing bolt upright, staring into the darkness, a darkness which was emphasized by the light of the bonfire behind him. Then suddenly the man raised his musket to his shoulder and fired.

At once scores of rebels began rousing themselves in front of the fire. Now for the signal!

“Jackson, Stafford, Rossi … We'll attack now. Ready, Jackson? Fire! … Stafford, fire! . . Rossi, fire!”

To Ramage's right the British muskets fired in a ragged drum-roll with the muzzle flashes flickering like summer lightning. Against the bonfire he saw men collapsing like half-filled sacks tossed from a granary steps, while others went down flat in a dive, showing they were unwounded and seeking safety.

Ramage had a pistol in each hand as he scrambled up and began to run towards the fire. “Forward, men! Pistols when you're within range, then cutlass and pike!”

He was shrieking with excitement, but he knew it; there was no need for self-control now—he wanted his one hundred and eighty men to rout five hundred, and an excited, shouting and howling dash might do it!

Jackson to one side, Stafford the other—and out of the corner of his eye he could see a dark line rising up on his right and sweeping forward. Ahead there were fast-moving shapes against the flames and red glow: startled rebels scrambling up, flashes here and there as flames reflected on sword blades. A few flashes from pistols or muskets, but Ramage knew they must be through the line of sentries.

Cock the left pistol, now the right; cutlass slapping against his left leg. Don't trip and sprain an ankle. Paolo somewhere over to the right, with Aitken, and for Gianna's sake … but the boy was excitable and keen and likely to run ahead of the rest.

Some of the rebels crouching now, aiming pistols: several tiny eyes winking in red flashes which only the targets saw. Thirty yards—too far for half-drunk, drowsy and frightened men to aim accurately. And the rebels are half-blinded anyway because they have been in the bright light of the bonfire for hours while the British, the targets, are sweeping in from a dark background.

The smell of roast beef makes the feeling of hunger nudge out fear. They are all running towards rebels with pistols but the British seamen are still obeying orders to hold their fire to be sure of hitting: it takes several moments for an excited man to stop running, aim with any accuracy, and then fire.

A crackling to his right: some of the seamen are firing their pistols. And now movement on the left of the bonfire. Like maggots squirming in rotten meat, dozens of rebels are bolting round the left-hand edge of the bonfire, yelling and tripping, some swaying because they are too drunk to do anything more than follow their friends. In a few moments they will run into a murderous fire from Rennick's Marines. Yes, there go the muskets.

But still there are scores of men in front of the bonfire; men who are not bolting. Far too many for playing around with pistols, he decided, and jamming them back in his waistband as he ran he grabbed his cutlass.

Ten yards to the first men: smells of roast beef, garlic, spilled wine and urine, and the almost aromatic smell of woodsmoke. One man crouching with a pistol, another half cowering with a cutlass, as though trapped by fellow privateersmen each side and the bonfire behind, a dozen more each side ready to fight and Jackson and Stafford shouting wild threats at the top of their voices as they run and Rossi screaming most of the curses developed over the centuries in a country renowned for its blasphemy.

And then—the first man was thick-set, a round head on broad shoulders with no neck, face shiny from the heat, eyes dark holes because the bonfire was behind him. His arm swung out sideways, sword blade flashing in the flames, a great scything movement as he tried to cut Ramage down in a blow which should have decapitated him.

Ramage thrust his sword upwards across his body, deflecting the Frenchman's blade high into the air and bringing the two men face to face, bodies touching. Foul breath, the stench of stale wine, a piggish face unshaven for days, and Ramage chopped his sword down diagonally again and the man grunted as he fell, blood spurting from his neck.

A moment later a metallic flash warned Ramage of a sword thrust coming from his right. He parried, fighting sideways to avoid standing with his back to more privateersmen between him and the bonfire. This man was big, his face brutish, and he was dressed in the remnants of an officer's uniform. His mouth was moving; Ramage sensed rather than heard in the uproar that the man was cursing him.