by Dudley Pope
Here was the companionway from the fo'c'sle down to the maindeck. He stood at the top and stared aft. Just the flickering lantern: no voices, no movement. Somewhere there a guard or two must be standing or sitting. A guard or a lookout or a privateersman doing both jobs. Eight guards - surely there must be at least two on watch?
The bottom rung creaked, but there was enough swell to make the Earl of Dodsworth pitch slightly, so that she gave a slight bow every minute or two, just enough movement for the masts to creak as they strained the shrouds and to make the yards grumble as they tried to swing round against the pull of the braces. But for the creaks, he thought, he could be moving through a graveyard: lockers, hatches, hen coops and scuttles looked in the darkness like tombs and gravestones, the rising moon, in its last quarter, beginning to give enough light to make the white paint look like marble.
Keeping close against the bulwark, just far enough away to clear the breeches of the guns, Ramage crept aft. Past the foremast and all its dozens of ropes forming the shrouds, halyards, topping lifts . . . Past the third gun, and the roundshot in racks round the hatch coamings, man-of-war fashion, each shot like a black orange resting in a cup-shaped depression cut into the wood.
Halfway to the mainmast he crouched down behind the breech of a gun and concentrated on the lantern. It lit a cone about ten feet in diameter on the deck, and it was set on a low table. Several things glinted to one side, like winking glass eyes. A cut-glass decanter and glasses? Ramage could think of nothing else that would flash in that fashion as he moved his head slightly.
Then, each side of the table, he picked out two easy chairs. The shape of them was indistinct - then he could just make out the figure of a man sprawled in each one. Not just lying back asleep but sprawled in the shapeless lump of a drunken man who had passed out.
The two guards on watch? It seemed likely. That left six others who would presumably be sleeping peacefully until the next pair were roused by these two. Well, the half-dozen were going to get a good long sleep, from the look of it.
He kept still for a few more moments. The hens in the coops forward clucked and then went back to sleep. Finally he was certain these were the only two men on deck, so six privateersmen should be sleeping somewhere below, and so were sixteen passengers, who would be locked in their cabins or bundled all together in a large cabin that could be guarded easily.
Would there be more guards on duty somewhere below? Was it likely? Why put the passengers in a separate cabin when they could be locked in their own cabins? In turn, that meant the other six guards would be sleeping near the passengers' accommodation, ready in an instant should anyone try to escape.
What were these two doing on deck, then? Presumably they were really lookouts; men whose task it was to watch for a boarding party from the Calypso. Could these men be the key to capturing the Earl of Dodsworth? It seemed so; they were (as far as the Lynx and the six guards off watch were concerned) the ones who would raise the alarm, whether the Calypso or the passengers made a move.
They were also, he realized, two of the men who would massacre the hostages in cold blood if they saw any rescue attempt being made from the frigate. At that moment Ramage found that he could cut their throats without a moment's hesitation.
He stood up and walked softly along the deck towards them, keeping well over against the guns so that if the lantern threw any shadow of him in the last few paces it would be seen only from over the side.
In a few moments he was standing beside the nearest man, breathing an unpleasant stench of rum and sweat. Beside him on the deck were an empty decanter and a glass, both on their side, both sparkling as the lantern flame danced and flickered. The man was lean with a narrow face, and he was breathing heavily with his mouth wide open to reveal at most three blackened teeth. The top of his head was bald but the hair growing on each side and the back was long, so that it resembled a mangy black cat curled up asleep. The second man was plumper, his hair tied in a queue, and there were several gold rings on the fingers of his hands, which were clasped across his stomach. There was an empty decanter and glass on the deck beside him, too.
On the table, opposite each man, gleaming dully in the lanternlight, was a pistol. Each was cocked. Each could be reached without the man standing up.
Cut their throats as they sagged back in a cloud of rum fumes? When he thought about the hostages, Ramage guessed he could do it - but was it necessary? He reached out for the nearest pistol, opened the pan and shook out the priming powder, blowing gently to remove the last trace. He repeated it with the second pistol. They still looked ready for use, but anyone squeezing the triggers would be disappointed; there would not even be a flash in the pan.
There was some rope a few feet away, neatly coiled, and in half an hour at the most the Calypsos would be on board. He picked up a pistol by the barrel and hit the nearest man on the side of the head with the butt. He took three steps to the other and hit him, careful not to bang anything with his cutlass, which he had transferred to his left hand.
The startling thing was that the men hardly moved. Perhaps they had slid further down in their chairs, but they still looked as though they had subsided in a drunken stupor, which of course they had, having exchanged in the last few moments one kind of stupor for another.
Ramage quickly pulled a length of rope from the coil, slashed it with his cutlass and then pulled off a second length. It took longer than he anticipated to roll the first man out of his chair and tie his arms and ankles. The second was equally difficult. Each was completely relaxed, as though every bone in his body had turned into calves-foot jelly.
Ramage dragged the two men to the guns, pushing each one into the deeply shadowed area under a barrel. Then, pausing as he decided to leave the lantern there, swinging its door open for a moment to straighten out the wick, he crept over to the main companionway and made his way down the steps.
There was another lantern hanging from the deckhead and it lit a row of doors, eight of them, four on each side. The first was open, the entrance to a black cavern; the rest had keys sticking out of them like tiny branches. The noise of several people snoring was coming from the first cabin. He tried to count the different tones. At least four people.
He crept closer to the door and listened again. Five. Yes, and there was another faint one, little more than steady but heavy breathing: six. The key was in the door, which was made of thick mahogany. The lock was solid brass and until recently had been polished - the Honourable East India Company ships were built of the best of everything. He swung the door gently until it closed and then turned the key. If the men inside were serious about escaping, they could probably break the lock with a few pistol shots, but they would be unlikely to try it in pitch darkness, when the risk of being hurt by a ricocheting ball was considerable.
Ramage decided to unlock the opposite cabin and rouse one of the hostages, to warn him of what was about to happen and leave him to release and warn the others, who would know and trust his voice and could then lock themselves in the safety of their cabins. He put down his cutlass carefully to leave both hands free and made sure the knife was loose in its sheath. As he slowly turned the key he wondered how the Calypsos were going to secure those six guards without a shot being fired. A shot... it needed only one. The moment the guards in the other ships heard a single shot, they would massacre the hostages, twenty-four men, women and children (assuming the sixteen in this ship were safe). That was why he had emptied the priming powder from the two pistols on deck; that was the reason none of the Calypsos had firearms, even though muskets and pistols could have been wrapped in oiled silk and canvas and carried on the rafts.
He was almost startled when the door pressed against him; then he realized he had turned the key and was pulling the handle. Quickly he opened the door wider, noted in the dim light from the lantern that there was a single bed in the middle of the cabin, shut the door behind him in case it swung and banged, and crept towards the bed. He wanted all the h
ostages warned without raising the alarm among the guards, and the only way of ensuring that the alarm was not raised was by everyone acting as though the door to the guards' cabin was still open.
His outstretched hand touched the foot of the bed. Curious that they did not give passengers swinging cots, because it must be difficult to stay in a bed in anything of a sea, even though the bed must be bolted to the deck.
The cover was a smooth material he could not identify. Shantung? A John Company ship would be furnished in exotic materials from the East. Now, if he was lucky the fellow in this bed would be an Army officer - or, rather, an officer in the company's military service. If his luck was out, the man would be some pompous and panicky nabob who would need a good deal of convincing. In fact it might be easier to leave him and try the next cabin.
He ran his hand along the bed as he crept softly towards the head of the bed, listening for breathing to determine where the sleeper's mouth was. Here was the body and he ran the tips of his fingers lightly along it to get some idea of where the man's head was, in case he shouted. Then his hand was cupped over a yielding mound of bare flesh; a mound topped by a firmer summit. It took him a moment to realize he was holding a woman's bare breast in his left hand but a moment later his right hand was on her face, pressing down on her mouth.
She started wriggling as he grasped a shoulder with his left hand and hissed: 'Don't scream, don't struggle, I'm from the -'
At that moment she bit the heel of his palm but he risked another bite, whispering urgently: 'From the British frigate. . . English . . . don't make a noise!'
Finally she seemed to be wide awake and her hands were pushing him away, but without the violence or urgency of a terrified woman.
'Do you understand?'
He felt her trying to nod and experimentally lifted his palm half an inch from her mouth.
'I understand, but don't suffocate me!'
The voice was calm, musical and verging on deep, but quite firm, and asking: 'Who exactly are you?'
'That doesn't matter, but I want you to -'
'My dear man, I'm not given to the vapours, but although I can see nothing I have the impression I am in the grasp of a naked man. A naked Englishman, so he says, although what difference that makes...'
'Madam,' Ramage whispered desperately, conscious of the minutes slipping by, 'my name is Nicholas Ramage, and I command the British frigate. A couple of dozen of my men are swimming over here and will be climbing on board in a few minutes. It is absolutely vital that they overcome the guards without a shot being fired, and I want you to unlock their doors and warn the rest of the hostages - the passengers, I mean - to stay in their cabins no matter what happens.'
'I'll warn them. You must have swum over; you feel devilish damp. I'll give you a towel in a moment.'
'Listen,' Ramage said urgently, 'you do understand what you have to do? Each of the cabins is locked with the key still on the outside. The point is, people will recognize your voice, so -'
'I understand perfectly! What about the scoundrels in the cabin opposite?'
'They're asleep and locked in. But if they wake up they might start shooting.'
'And the two guards on deck?'
'Unconscious and tied up.'
'You have been busy. Very well - stand back and let me get out of bed.'
'Let me help you, ma'am.'
'Please stand back. It's so hot in here that I sleep - well, without the encumbrance of a nightdress, as you probably realized!'
Drunken guards, barracudas, bare breasts, a cabin full of snoring pirates . . . even in the urgency of the situation Ramage had most certainly registered the breast - a fine one, that much was certain - but he had been too tense to make the obvious deduction that in this hot and airless cabin the rest of the body was almost certainly naked.
'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' he whispered. 'Incidentally, I am not entirely naked.'
'It's - well, let's say "miss" for now. And nakedness is of little consequence in the dark.'
'There's a lantern outside,' Ramage said and could have bitten off his tongue.
'Thank you for the warning.'
He heard the rustle of material and then she whispered: 'Lead me to the door, I can't see a thing.'
'Keep whispering or I'll never find you.'
'Ramage ... Ramage ... Captain Lord Ramage ... damp and smelling of seaweed . . .' The teasing whisper led him to her. So she had known the name. Well, for the moment he was concentrating on remembering where the door was, because it fitted so well and the lantern was so dim that no light penetrated a crack.
'I don't use my title,' he said, and suddenly bumped into her. To stop falling they both held each other tight as though embracing.
'Good morning, Captain,' she said, gently disengaging herself, 'you are really not properly dressed for paying social calls.'
Ramage took her arm and led her to the door. 'I'm tempted to take you hostage.'
'You'll have to make an exchange with the privateersmen. At the moment they claim me.'
He opened the door but she was through it and turning left to the other cabins before he could glimpse her face, and before he could catch up she had unlocked the first door and slipped in.
The best thing he could do was wait beside the guards' cabin until she returned. A minute or two later he saw a blur of white as she came out of the cabin and went to the next. Finally, after she left the last cabin, he walked across the corridor to wait at the door of her cabin, but she slipped into the next one and a minute or two later a middle-aged man with muttonchop whiskers came out, faintly absurd in a gown, and whispered: 'Ramage - everyone has been warned. We'll wait in our cabins with the doors locked. And - thank you!'
With that the man went back into his cabin after removing the key. Ramage then saw that all along the corridor people were removing the keys, to lock the doors from the inside.
He hurried back up the companionway and went to the ship's side, listening for the sound of swimmers. There was no sound and no swirls of phosphorescence. A rolled-up rope ladder lay on top of the bulwark; he untied the lashing, let it unroll and heard the end land in the water with a splash. On the other side he found a similar ladder and unrolled that.
Then he picked up the lantern and walked over to stand at the starboard entryport. He was out of sight of all the ships but the Calypso, and he held the lantern so that he could be seen by the swimmers. Almost at once he felt a tug on the bottom of the ladder and heard a faint swishing of water. A minute later Rossi was jumping down from the top of the bulwark, waving an acknowledgement of Ramage's signal warning him to be silent.
'The rest of the men are close behind, sir,' Rossi whispered. 'We went slowly, as you said, so we are not without the breath.' He looked round and said, a disappointed note in his voice: 'Mamma mia, you have not made the capture alone, Commandante?'
'No, I've left the easy part for you.' Ramage smiled and looked down to see two more men already climbing the ladder.
Within three minutes he was counting his boarding party and found them all present, with Martin and Paolo. He looked round for Jackson, pointed to the two men under the barrel of the guns, and whispered: 'They might be coming round soon. Gag them, please.'
The American waved to Rossi and Stafford, pulling his sodden shirt over his head and tearing two strips off the tail. Out of the corner of his eye Ramage saw Jackson lift the first man and bang his head on the deck, and then proceed to gag him. In the meantime another seaman was cleaning the wick of the lantern and stirring the molten wax with the tip of his finger to level it out. The lantern suddenly gave a brighter light and Ramage glanced round nervously: someone watching from the Lynx might well become suspicious of the shadows thrown by the group of men. 'Put the lantern down on deck, under the table,' he said hurriedly.
As soon as Jackson came back to report both men unconscious and gagged - not bothering to mention that one had given signs of recovering - Ramage gathered the men round and in a whisper
now getting hoarse explained the position.
'If the total of eight guards is correct, then the six off watch are sleeping in a cabin below. I've locked the door on them. They'll probably be in hammocks because they prefer them and the passenger cabins are each fitted with one large bed.
'We've got to rush them and make sure they don't fire pistols. You see the two pistols on this table: the two men on watch were sitting here drinking, their guns within easy reach.
'The doorway into the cabin is the standard width. This is how we do it. You, Orsini, will carry this lantern; I'll take the one that's hanging from the deckhead outside the cabin door. Riley,' he said to one of the seamen, 'you will stand by the key of the door. When I signal, you'll unlock the door and pull it open - towards you: it opens outwards.
'I will go in first holding my lantern high and Orsini will follow with his. As soon as I go through the door I want you all to start shouting - anything to make a noise: I just want to confuse those men as they start waking up. Confuse their brains and dazzle their eyes.
'Martin, Stafford, Rossi, Riley - you'll have had time to see into the cabin by now - follow us. Orsini and I will take the two hammocks to the right, the rest of you take the four on the left. Aft, in other words.
'Cut the hammocks down. A good slash with a cutlass should cut the lanyards at the foot or head and tip the occupant out.'
'And then, sir?' Orsini inquired.
'There are so few of them that we can take prisoners,' Ramage said regretfully, 'but kill a man if there's a risk he'll otherwise use a pistol. Now,' he said as Orsini picked up the lantern and turned towards the companionway, 'follow me. And watch your cutlasses - don't let them bang anything.'
