Ramage & the Guillotine

by Dudley Pope

  Suddenly Dyson vanished and a moment later began swearing violently. “Me ankle!” he shouted. “I slipped and wrenched it! I can’t even stand up again!”

  Ramage was nearest to the hatch. “Hold tight,” he told the men, “I’ll go down and fetch him out.”

  He lowered himself, carefully feeling with his feet so that he landed astride Dyson, who was lying on the cabin sole, groaning and cursing.

  “Left leg, sir,” he muttered. “That’s it—ow! Cor, I think it’s busted. Oow,” he screeched, as Ramage ran his hand over it.

  It was broken, and how the devil were they to hoist Dyson out of this mess?

  “Where’s the brandy?”

  “Locker by the step,” Dyson grunted.

  A few moments later Ramage pulled the cork out and gave Dyson the bottle.

  Jackson was peering down into the cuddy. “Is it broken, sir?”

  “Afraid so,” Ramage said. “Find some light line and take this locker lid: smash it up and give me a piece of wood for a splint.” The American disappeared and a few moments later Ramage heard thudding as he broke up the lid.

  “You’ve had enough of that brandy, Dyson.”

  “Just another sip, sir, it ‘urts cruel ‘ard.”

  “I know it does, but I don’t want you being sick over everything; it’s difficult enough down here as it is.”

  Dyson gave him the bottle and he corked it. “Another tot when we get you up on deck.”

  Jackson handed down a strip of wood and several lines. “Shall I come down and give you a hand, sir?”

  “There’s no room; Dyson’s lying here like a couple of sacks of potatoes.” Ramage braced himself, tucking all but one of the lines under a knee. “Now, this is going to hurt, Dyson, but we can’t move you until I’ve got a splint on it.”

  Dyson grunted from time to time but he did not say a word. Ramage was not sure if the brandy was taking effect or whether the man realized that cursing and complaining would only cause delay. And time, he thought to himself as he gently knotted the first line, is getting short: the frigate’s boarding party will soon be here.

  The Marie was now rolling more violently: probably the water was getting shallower and the uneven bottom was kicking up an awkward swell with the wind against an ebb tide.

  “How are you up there with that boom?” he shouted to Jackson.

  “Trying to secure it with the mainsheet, sir. The topping lift’s carried away. We’ve got to move it back across the hatch for a minute; we can’t get at the bitter end: the boom’s jamming the cleat.”

  “Carry on but hurry; it’s hot down here!”

  The little cabin exaggerated every noise on deck; the boom being dragged a few feet sounded as if the hull was collapsing.

  Ramage reached for another line and carefully slid it under Dyson’s leg, trying to wedge his own body so that the rolling did not dislodge him. He tied a reef knot and took the third line. That passed round easily and he reached for the fourth, wishing Jackson would hurry and get the sail off the hatch.

  Suddenly there was a heavy thud against the hull, a babble of voices, and a startled exclamation in French by Louis. Almost at once Jackson was shouting in English and Stafford joined in. The frigate’s boat had got alongside without the men, busy securing the main boom, seeing them.

  Many feet were pattering over the deck overhead; someone—he sounded like an excited midshipman—was giving shrill orders.

  “Hold on a minute,” Ramage told Dyson and stood up, clawing at the canvas and finally thrusting his head and shoulders clear. There was at least a dozen men on board, all with cutlasses or boarding pikes pointing at Jackson and his men.

  “Ahoy there!” Ramage bellowed, “we are—” he broke off as he sensed a movement above him, a swift movement which showed against the stars: it looked like the butt of a pistol coming—

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HIS head was thudding as if someone was beating it with IP heavy drumsticks; his body was lying horizontally and swaying, as though suspended between sky and sea. Slowly he forced his eyes open and found himself looking up at the deck-head of a ship. His wrists seemed to be curiously angular and jammed in the pit of his stomach, and then he realized that they were locked in irons. Cautiously he tried to move his ankles, but he was held in leg irons, too. In irons and in a hammock …

  The effort was too much and he lost consciousness again, and what seemed hours later woke up to the sound of distant shouting: shouting in English; orders for clewing up sails. Another shout echoed through a speaking-trumpet and an anchor splashed into the sea and a minute later there was a smell of burning from the friction of the cable running out through the hawsehole.

  He tried to sit up but a hand pushed him back in the hammock. He tried to look round, but his head seemed to be stuck in a cloth helmet. “Who is that?”

  “Never you mind,” said a surly voice. “Just you lie there nice and still.”

  “Fetch an officer! I am Lieutenant Ramage!” His voice was little more than a croak.

  “And I’m Father Christmas, and I don’t want no trouble!”

  The man had moved round so that by turning his head slightly Ramage could distinguish a Marine uniform.

  “Where are the other prisoners?”

  “All secure in irons, except the one with the bad leg: the Surgeon’s still working on ‘im.”

  “What’s tied round my head?”

  The Marine came closer and stared at him curiously. “It’s a bandage. You was hit on the ‘ead.”

  “So I was,” Ramage muttered. “What ship is this?”

  “The Calliope frigate.”

  It took a befuddled Ramage a moment to recognize the name because the Marine pronounced it Cally-oh-pee. “And where have we just anchored?”

  ‘Ere, matey, you want to know a lot for a traitor, don’t you! The Downs, that’s where we are—” he paused as a boat was hoisted out, “and that’ll be the Capting going over to tell Admiral Nelson we ‘ad a good night’s hunting. They’ll have you and your mates ‘anging from the yardarm by Monday,” he added without apparent malice. “Very ‘ard on traitors they are.”

  “Quick,” Ramage said, trying to sit up and again being pushed flat, “fetch an officer! Dammit, man, I am a King’s officer: tell him Lieutenant Ramage wants to see him urgently!”

  “A King’s officer, eh?” the Marine said sarcastically. “Well, all I can see is a face that ain’t been shaved fer a week, topped off by a bloodstained rag. Yer clothes is in tatters and yer stink like a farmyard. When did yer last wash?”

  Ramage dared not try to sit up again: the sudden thrust back made his head spin. As he tried to think of a way to persuade the Marine to fetch an officer, the man said phlegmatically: “The sergeant said I was to guard you an’ fetch you a clout if there was any monkey business.”

  “Didn’t he say you were to report when I recovered consciousness?”

  “Yes,” the man said patiently, “he did, but there ain’t anyone else ‘ere, and I ain’t leaving you alone; it’s no good you trying that trick on me.”

  Pleading, cajoling, bullying: what the devil would work with a man like this?

  “Listen, this is extremely urgent. You hail until someone comes. Then send him to tell the officer-of-the-watch that one of the prisoners is Lieutenant Ramage.”

  “Ramage, eh,” the Marine said conversationally. “There was an officer of that name in a cutter called the Kathleen—”

  “Did you serve in her?” Ramage exclaimed.

  “No, my mate did. Quite a lad, that Ramage was.”

  “But I’m the same one!”

  “Ah,” the Marine said, “then why did you ask me if I served in her? If I did, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

  “Damnation, yes I would, but it’s almost dark down here and I haven’t had a chance of looking at you: every time I try to sit up, you push me down again!”

  “You certainly sound like an officer,” the Marine admitted. “But you
was in that French fishing smack, so you can’t be.”

  Ramage felt like weeping with frustration. “Look, just hail someone—you’ll look a fool if they find you are guarding a British officer!”

  “Aye, but I’ll look a bigger fool if I start shouting that a man my sergeant says is a traitor is a British officer: I can just guess what my sergeant will say!”

  Then Ramage remembered: “Perkins—that’s the name of your Captain; stocky man, red face, comes from Devon—”

  “Dorset,” the Marine said. “See, you’re wrong again.”

  “Don’t be stupid! Do you think a French fisherman would speak English like me and know about your Captain?”

  “Belike he would; you can’t trust Frenchies. Anyway, no one says you’re French. That Lieutenant Ramage’s father was in the Navy—an admiral,” the man said conversationally. “Served with him once, years ago.”

  Ramage tried to control himself. “I’ll tell you about him: then you’ll see. My father is Admiral the Earl of Blazey; he’s tall with brown eyes and his nickname is ‘Old Blazeaway.’ If you tell me where you served with him, I’ll tell you the name of the ship.”

  “He was a Rear-Admiral then, on the Leeward Islands station.”

  “The Phoenix,” Ramage said promptly.

  “You’re right, too. Now what do I do?” the Marine muttered, clearly overcome by his discovery.

  “Hail until someone comes, then pass the word for the officer-of-the-watch.”

  “Just my luck to get a duty like this,” the Marine grumbled as he moved out of Ramage’s sight and a moment later began bellowing towards the hatch. A seaman must have appeared and was sent off to fetch the sergeant of Marines.

  Ramage groaned: the chain of command …

  Finally he found a Marine sergeant looking down at him while the sentry whispered. The sergeant turned on his heel without a word.

  “You’ll be all right now, sir,” the sentry murmured confidentially. “One of the best, our sergeant. He was the one what clouted you across the head.”

  “I’m glad to meet him,” Ramage said, and closed his eyes.

  “Will you say something, please—sir,” a shrill voice said nervously, and Ramage looked over the edge of the hammock at a young midshipman, who had obviously been sent by the officer-of-the-watch.

  “Young man,” Ramage said heavily, “I am going to say this once, and then you report it immediately to the officer-of-the-watch. I am Lieutenant Ramage, I have been working under the direct orders of Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson, and I was escaping from France in the French fishing vessel which you captured during the night. Now, look lively!”

  The boy vanished and the Marine sentry moved close again.

  “Don’t you fret, sir,” he said soothingly, “everything’ll be all, right: we’ll have you out of those irons in a minute, but watch that ‘ead of yours; if I know the sergeant, he give you a fair old clout!”

  Suddenly he sprang to attention and Ramage saw a lieutenant eyeing him.

  “Good morning,” Ramage said wearily, “I’m now saying this for the third or fourth time. I’d be glad if you would report it at once to Captain Perkins.” Once again he described who he was and under whose orders he had been working.

  The Lieutenant listened, and when Ramage finished he said: “I’m inclined to believe you; but the Captain is with his Lordship at this moment. I’d be grateful if you’d wait a few minutes until he gets back …”

  Ramage could not blame him; even as he told his story he knew it sounded improbable.

  “Tell me what happened to the rest of the men in the smack.”

  “Oh, they’re all in irons. All except the one whose leg or ankle was broken: the Surgeon’s been attending to him.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Let me see—there was twenty-seven from the chasse-marée and six from the smack.”

  “What happened to the chasse-marée?”

  “She sank: when her foremast went by the board it stove in the bulwarks and opened up some planking.”

  “And the Marie—the smack?”

  “We towed her in; in fact we’re just getting her anchored now.”

  A midshipman came up and whispered to the Lieutenant who, before he left, said: “The Captain is coming back on board.”

  Five minutes later Captain Perkins, a couple of lieutenants and the Marine sergeant were helping Ramage out of the hammock, with the Captain shouting angrily for the master-at-arms to bring the key to the irons.

  Ramage was too dizzy to stand and they sat him on the deck. Captain Perkins knelt beside him.

  “I’m sorry, Ramage; you realize we had no idea—?”

  Ramage nodded and regretted it a moment later as his head began spinning again.

  “I was just reporting to his Lordship,” Captain Perkins continued, “and happened to mention the name of the smack. His Lordship—well, he became rather excited and told me I was to send you on board at once!”

  Ramage pointed to his torn clothes and unshaven face, but Perkins said: “His Lordship was most emphatic that I sent you over immediately if in fact you had been on board the smack. I told him you would want to clean yourself up, but his Lordship has already got his lieutenants finding you clothes—ah, here’s the master-at-arms. Hurry, man! Don’t fumble with those keys!”

  Fifteen minutes later a shaky, unshaven and smelly Ramage was waiting in the Admiral’s cabin on board the Minerva frigate. Outside the door the sentry suddenly stamped to attention; a moment later the Admiral walked into the cabin, a small, slim man who had no need to bend his head to avoid bumping the deckhead. His empty right sleeve was pinned to his coat; his good eye was bright. He smiled the moment he saw Ramage hurriedly getting up from the chair.

  “Ah, Mr Ramage rises from the dead!”

  “Good morning, sir; I must apologize for my appearance.”

  “Don’t apologize; I wanted to see you at once. Hmmm!”

  He eyed Ramage from head to feet. “You don’t have that furtive look of a jailbird yet—but obviously you haven’t been staying in the best hotels! I’m told the knock on the head is not too serious. Ah,” he turned as a tall, heavily built man with a round, cheerful face knocked and walked into the cabin, “here’s Captain Ross. Meet the Calliope’s prisoner, Ross; a desperate-looking rogue, you’ll have to admit.”

  Captain Ross, who commanded the Minerva, gave a friendly grin. “The last we heard of you, young man, was your coxswain—what’s his name? Jackson, was it?—telling us you were in a French jail and about to be hauled off to the guillotine any moment.”

  “Aye,” the Admiral said, “I’m afraid I anticipated your death, Ramage: I didn’t expect the French would let you slip through their fingers!”

  “You anticipated …” a puzzled Ramage broke off lamely.

  “Yes, I wrote a private letter to your father giving him all the news we had. I didn’t say you’d been executed, but the inference was obvious. You’d better send word to him at once—give me the letter and I’ll see it goes up to London in the Admiralty bag tonight.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ramage said, “it was kind of you—”

  “Telling a father his son is probably dead is not a kindness, young man; and I expect the Marchesa has shed a tear or two,” he said, adding in a brisker tone: “Now, sit down and tell me what happened—begin from the time you left me at Dover Castle.”

  At that moment Ramage cursed himself for not having considered how he would describe the roles of people like Simpson, Dyson and Louis. Well, Dyson deserved some kind of recognition for his work, even though he was a deserter, and Simpson deserved to have his anonymity preserved: his smuggling activities were a matter between him and the Revenue men.

  “Well, sir,” Ramage began hesitantly, “to get to France I had to enlist the help of some men who—well, who—”

  “I know all about that,” Nelson said crisply. “I anticipated you would, and your coxswain told me. Don’t back and fill, man, I don’
t care if you emptied Newgate and used the prisoners: I’m not a Revenue officer, and the Admiralty is sufficiently satisfied with the result of your work to take a generous view in the matter of rewards—within reason, of course.”

  The hint was broad enough, and Ramage described all his activities, without naming Simpson. The Admiral was intrigued by the story of Dyson and commented to Captain Ross: “Probably best to leave him to carry on smuggling—he won’t thank us for clearing him: that would mean a court martial and then a pardon. The Admiralty might make a note of his name, in case he is ever picked up—still,” he said to Ramage, “have a talk with the man and see what he wants. He’s done more work for the country as a deserter and smuggler than he’d ever do as a pressed seaman!”

  When Ramage finished his story by explaining why one Marie was now anchored near the Calliope while another was in Folkestone, the Admiral nodded several times. “The Calliope won’t claim her as a prize. Well, you’re a lucky fellow. You realize you lived up to your reputation for disobeying orders, I suppose?”

  Ramage, startled by the sudden change in Lord Nelson’s voice, glanced up quickly, the alarm showing on his face. “I—well, sir, there—”

  “Your orders,” the Admiral said relentlessly, “were to go to Boulogne and make the best estimate you could of the number and type of invasion craft ready for sea and some estimate of their capacity and when they could sail. Is that not so?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ramage admitted nervously.

  “Very well; if you were given those orders, then you could assume that that was what the Admiralty intended you to do. Am I right?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And what did you do? You had a look round Boulogne and then went off to Amiens, no doubt a nice enough town in peacetime but no place for a British officer in wartime.”

  “But sir, Admiral Bruix’s despatch—”

  Suddenly the Admiral was laughing. “Have you ever seen such a long face, Ross? He has a guilty conscience! I’ll bet he looked more cheerful when they sentenced him to the guillotine, eh?”

  “Not surprising, sir, if I may say so,” Captain Ross said mildly. “I suspect you frighten him more than Bonaparte did!”