Ramage & the Renegades

by Dudley Pope

  Riley followed with his prisoner and by then Ramage’s man was scrambling to his feet, assuring Martin and Ramage that he too had surrendered, and his pistol was still in the folds of his hammock.

  Outside, in what was in fact a lobby, Ramage saw several prisoners lying crumpled on the deck and before he could say a word one of the Calypsos had landed Martin’s prisoner a savage punch that drove him to his knees, as though praying for mercy. A moment later a second punch sent him sprawling.

  Ramage stood and watched. Eight guards captured and only one of them killed. He knew that every one of the Calypsos was filled with a fierce hatred for the privateersmen because they knew the eight men were on board the Earl of Dodsworth for one reason only—to murder the hostages if they thought it necessary. Men who could murder women in cold blood, Jackson had commented hours ago, should not expect too much mercy when their turn came …

  A Calypso hurried down the companion-way, dragging the end of a rope. “Here, cut off what lengths you want: the rest of the coil’s on deck—it’ll kink if I pitch it down.”

  It took about five minutes to tie up the men. Ramage was just going to call to the passengers that all was well and they could leave their cabins if they wished, when they remembered the dead man.

  “Rossi—take a couple of men and get your privateersman up on deck. Wrap him in a hammock so you don’t spill blood everywhere.”

  “When we have him on deck, sir?”

  “I’m not reading a burial service over a man waiting to murder women,” Ramage said bluntly.

  “Si, va bene;—capito Commandante.”

  “Orsini, take three or four men and bring down those two privateersmen stowed under the guns. Jackson, drag these men back into the cabin as soon as they’re secured: we’ll use it as a cell for the time being. Martin, unhook the ends of those hammocks and collect up any pistols you find. I’ll hold this lantern so you can see what you are doing.”

  The cabin was a strange sight: six hammocks, each suspended at one end but with the other hanging down on the deck, looked like sides of beef suspended from hooks in a slaughterhouse—an effect heightened by the large black stain surrounding the body lying among them, and which Rossi was beginning to turn over.

  Suddenly Ramage began to shiver, his body feeling frozen although he had only just wiped perspiration from his brow and upper lip.

  “It’s cold, sir,” Jackson commented conversationally, and Ramage realized that several of the men were also shivering. The long swim, the excitement, the relief that now it was all over? Ramage began chafing his body with his hands; it was enough that they felt cold; the devil take the reasons.

  “The Amethyst …”

  “Yes, sir, I was wondering about her,” Jackson said, and Ramage realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “If anything went wrong, I think we’d have heard shots by now. Nothing else for us to do tonight. Let’s hope tomorrow night goes as well as this.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ARATHER embarrassed Ramage, after carefully adjusting his stock, walked nearly naked along the corridor and, knocking on each door, repeated like a litany: “This is Captain Ramage, of the Calypso frigate: you are all free now, but please do not go up on deck.”

  Several people called their thanks; he heard one man begin a prayer in a firm, clear voice. He turned after knocking at the last door and walked back towards the cabin, which was now a cell containing seven bound prisoners guarded by three Calypsos who, armed with cutlasses, were sitting on chairs just inside the door.

  As he went to pass the next to last door on his right, it opened and a woman in a gown came out, her face hidden in the shadow thrown by a lace scarf over her head.

  “You must be cold,” she said, “and still damp. Come, I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

  She held his arm and opened the door of her cabin.

  “Can we borrow that lantern?” she pointed to the one back on its hook, now that the Calypsos in the cabin had their own. He walked over and lifted it down as she asked: “Where is everyone? It sounded as though there were scores of you!”

  “Most of them are up on deck now. The privateersmen are tied up and under guard in that cabin opposite.”

  She led the way into her cabin. “And no one was wounded?”

  “None of my men. One of the privateersmen was killed.”

  “Good,” she said, without bitterness. “They are truly wicked men. They were going to murder us.”

  “Well, only if we tried to rescue you!”

  “No,” she said quietly. “Several days before you arrived, they decided there was no hope of getting ransom from us. Or, rather, it would take too long. So they decided to kill us on the day they took all the prizes away. When you arrived they realized they could use us as hostages to stop you capturing them.”

  Suddenly Ramage realized the cunning of Tomás and Hart, and he hoped that Aitken and his men would have the same difficulty as Rossi.

  As though she guessed what he was thinking she asked, as she unlocked a trunk: “What about the passengers in the other ships?”

  “I hope by now those in the Amethyst have been rescued by some of my men.”

  “And the rest—in the Heliotrope and the Friesland?”

  “We tackle them tomorrow night. Tonight, I mean.”

  “Do you mean to swim across to them?” She stood up and looked at him, but the shawl still threw a shadow over her features.

  “Yes. Obviously we’d be seen if we used boats.”

  “But surely you have done enough, saving us.”

  Deliberately misunderstanding her, he said: “The Earl of Dodsworth is merely one of four with passengers, although the other privateer—yes, there is a second one—may bring in more any day.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” she said. “You said one of your lieutenants was dealing with the Amethyst. I meant, cannot more of your lieutenants go to the other two ships? Is it usual for a frigate captain to swim around naked doing everything?”

  “I am not naked,” he said stiffly, “and you offered …”

  “Of course!” she lifted the lid of the trunk. “Forgive me, I know nothing of naval ways and was curious. The colonel commanding a battalion is not expected to lead every patrol, that I do know.”

  “You have the advantage of me there,” Ramage said ironically. “I know nothing of how the Army goes about its business.”

  “Well—” she tossed a pair of breeches across to him, and followed it with a shirt and a uniform jacket which was of a very dark colour, difficult to distinguish with the lantern, probably green, with heavy frogging across the front “—you are going to look like a soldier for the rest of the day. It will all fit. Do you want shoes? They’re in another trunk. Hose, a clean stock—I don’t imagine you will want to continue wearing your own—and do you want to try a hat? No? It would have suited you.”

  He had put the lantern down on a table as he caught the garments she threw to him. That deep, vibrant voice: one did not hear it with the ears alone, and as he watched her he was thankful he could hold the bundle of clothes in front of him.

  “You seem—er, knowledgeable, about men’s wear, ‘Miss for now.’”

  “Yes.” She was not being unpleasant; it was a matter-of-fact agreement with what he had just said. She shut the lid of the trunk. “Now, to see if some shoes fit you. Come and sit on this trunk; the other one is here next to it.”

  She unlocked it and by the time he was sitting she had selected a pair of shoes which, he noticed, had heavy silver buckles already fitted. Half a dozen other pairs, which she had taken out and put down on the deck, also had the buckles fitted. The owner must be a wealthy man; most people transferred the buckles when they changed shoes.

  “These fit comfortably.”

  “They look rather large.”

  “They’ll be just right once I am wearing hose.”

  “Of course,” she said, obviously irritated with herself for forgetting and moving Ramage to search throu
gh the first trunk. “Well, have we forgotten anything else?”

  “No, I’m now well equipped. Will you please thank the owner for the use of part of his wardrobe?”

  “That won’t be possible, so you can thank me. I’ll leave you this cabin as a dressing room. I shall be next door. Perhaps you would knock when you’ve finished.”

  With that she was gone, and he still had very little idea of what she looked like. A definite sense of humour—she was enjoying telling him nothing about the ownership of these clothes and she neatly evaded any hint that they belonged to a husband or a brother. A young man, he noted, glancing at the waistband of the breeches. Not her father nor an uncle. He examined the buttons on the jacket. They had a curious design carved into them—were they ebony? Anyway, not the usual number indicating one of the foot regiments, yet the sword he had seen in the second trunk was not a cavalryman’s sword. Well, he had all day to find out more about her …

  Breakfast brought the first crisis. Stafford lit the galley fire at the regular time noted by Southwick, sunrise, while Rossi searched everywhere for food for the passengers. Ramage and Orsini were planning to serve them with an elaborate meal to celebrate their release, and Aitken had already signalled that he had taken the Amethyst.

  But no food. When an embarrassed Rossi reported that he could find only seamen’s fare, Ramage realized that he would have to go below and ask “Miss for now.” He had purposely remained under the half-deck, out of sight from any other ships, because his Army garb was unmistakable and Southwick had never reported seeing anyone being exercised in such a uniform. He had intended meeting the passengers formally after they had breakfasted and the tables in the great cabin had been cleared.

  By now daylight was penetrating below, making the lantern-light weak and yellow. The wind had not come up yet and he found the air below was still and stale, thick with the sooty smell of burning candlewicks.

  He felt self-conscious in his strange uniform. The Calypsos were already dressed in their usual shirt and trousers—a bag on the raft (already hoisted on board out of sight) had been used as a travelling trunk by the seamen who, Ramage thought ruefully, had had more foresight than himself. He nodded to the men guarding the prisoners and knocked on her door, expecting to wait for a few minutes while she dressed. She would be hard put to try to hide her face now, he thought, but he had persuaded himself that the reason for the shawl over her head had been because she knew she was plain, and was enjoying the unexpected and brief flirtation with the Captain of the frigate. She would have a long, horsy face, straight hair, a large bulbous nose that went red in cold weather, and a mouth with thin lips. She would smile readily, of course, in that eager-to-please way of an elderly woman’s companion …

  By now the door had opened and the face smiling at him was beautiful. It was as if he was standing within inches of a Lely portrait, the doorway being the frame. It would be called La Belle Inconnue.

  “You should not stare,” the voice said.

  “I’m not staring, I’m stunned,” Ramage said without feeling any connection between his voice and the words. “Breakfast,” he added lamely.

  “Oh, you are hungry? It’s Mrs Donaldson’s turn with me this morning. It takes about half an hour to prepare.”

  Ramage pulled himself together and gave a brief bow. “Ma’am, you—”

  “‘Took me unawares,’” she supplied.

  “—took me unawares,” Ramage repeated gratefully and grinned. “I came to ask ‘Miss for now’ where my men can find the food to prepare the passengers’ breakfast.”

  “In a ‘John Company’ ship the passengers supply their own victuals.” She obviously enjoyed using such professional words. “And dress visitors, too, when necessary,” she added mischievously. “I’ll collect Mrs Donaldson. I’m afraid your unexpected arrival has upset the routine we had to start when the pirates took all the crew ashore.”

  “On shore,” he could not help teasing her. “People go on shore; only ships go ‘ashore,’ usually accidentally.”

  “Captain, you must give me lessons in the nautical language; it will be invaluable when I return to the land of drawing-room chatter.”

  And the devil of it was that he did not know if she was serious or teasing him. She smiled and walked past him along the corridor to tap on a door and call: “Mrs Donaldson … it’s our turn to prepare breakfast, and we have a guest.”

  “Three guests,” Ramage called, remembering Martin and Paolo. As she waved to acknowledge that she had heard he thought of Gianna, and suddenly she seemed even more distant in both time and space.

  The great cabin of the Earl of Dodsworth was impressive. Athwartships, in front of the sternlights, was a long table with a smaller one at each side of the cabin running parallel to the centreline and leaving a hollow square between for stewards using the big sideboard at the forward side of the cabin.

  As Ramage walked through the door, Martin and Paolo behind him, he saw that half a dozen people were sitting at the big table—clearly “the captain’s table”—while six more sat at one side table and two couples at the other. He saw her walking across the cabin towards him, obviously acting as the hostess.

  The light from the stern windows was behind her. She was wearing a light mustard-coloured morning dress, nipped in at the waist and tight across the bust, but flaring out from the hips. Her hair was not quite blonde—tawny perhaps—but the light reflecting on it showed it was brushed out loosely, not braided.

  He was deliberately avoiding looking at her face: he had seen every man and woman in the cabin was watching him and the men were rising—and yes, the women were clapping gently!

  She gave a little curtsy and said: “Because I am the only person who has really met you …” She paused for a moment and Ramage glanced up: there was no mistaking her meaning. “… I have been given the task of introducing you—all three of you,” she corrected herself, “to everyone present.”

  Ramage took Paolo’s arm. Now he would hear her name! “May I present Lieutenant Martin and Midshipman the Count Orsini.”

  Paolo took her hand and kissed it.

  “Ah, we have been reading about the Count’s exploits in a recent copy of the Gazette,” she said and no one but Ramage seemed to notice that she had not offered her name.

  She led the way to the top table and introduced him first to the elderly man who had come from the next cabin, and the grey-haired woman sitting next to him, a woman whose fine-boned face still had an almost haunting mature beauty.

  “The Marquis of Rockley, the Marchioness: may I present Captain Ramage, Lieutenant Martin and Midshipman the Count Orsini …”

  Rockley? Somewhere in Cambridgeshire. Friends of the Temples and of Pitt. As he went through the ritual of being introduced, Ramage tried to place the couple more exactly, but in a few moments he was being introduced to the next couple. He recognized the name as belonging to a Kentish landowner active in Parliament. The last man was an officer in the military service of the Honourable East India Company, and Ramage apologized for his borrowed uniform, admitting to be uncertain to which regiment it belonged. The man laughed a little too loudly at the idea of a naval officer in a soldier’s uniform, but the woman with him looked embarrassed.

  Ramage managed to glance at “Miss for now” but she was looking away, deliberately it seemed. What was unusual about this uniform?

  Finally, with the last introduction completed, and before the woman had shown them to their chairs, the old Marquis stood up and tapped a glass with a knife to get everyone’s attention.

  “If I may have a moment … you all know the identity of the gallant Captain who gave us a sleepless night and at dawn presented us with our freedom. I know you want me to give him our thanks, and ask him to thank his officers and men as well. We know he and his men have more work to do tonight, and our prayers will be with them.”

  No reply was needed and amid clapping and hearty “Hear, hears” Ramage sat at the head of the table, finding the
Marquis on his right and “Miss for now” on his left. Just as he noted the white cloth and napkins and was wondering what was going to happen next, Rossi marched in carrying a huge silver tea urn, followed by Jackson and Stafford with trays of various dishes.

  She was smiling at his bewilderment. “A surprise for you: we hatched it up while slaving round the galley fire!”

  “I don’t get such service in my own ship,” Ramage protested mockingly. “I have one incredibly slow steward …”

  “The terms of the peace treaty,” the Marquis said. “Could you give me some idea … ?”

  Ramage, realizing that this would be the first information from anything approaching an official source that the Marquis had heard, apologized for not having mentioned it earlier and told him all he could remember.

  “A sad business,” the Marquis commented. “We won the war and now we’ve lost the peace. Still, Bonaparte will try again. Now tell me what brings your ship to this strange island?”

  Ramage described the omission in the Treaty and the British government’s intention of taking advantage of it. The Marquis nodded. “I should not care to be one of the garrison,” he commented.

  A few moments later he asked: “Do you know India, Ramage?”

  Ramage shook his head. “Their Lordships have kept me in the West Indies and the Mediterranean, I’m afraid.”

  “Breakfast tends to be a more social occasion out there than in England. It is not unusual to have guests arriving unexpectedly for breakfast.”

  “It is not unknown in the Ilha da Trinidade,” “Miss for now” said, laughing easily.

  “I hope you have made our apologies for not sending out the proper invitations, Sarah,” the Marquis said, smiling.

  “His Lordship hasn’t left cards yet, father.”

  She was watching him and he saw that she was a woman who could smile with her eyes. And talk, too, and at this moment her eyes were saying: “There—now you know my first name, and you have met my parents, but you wonder about that uniform you are wearing.”