Ramage's Devil

'I wonder if Bonaparte sees any difference in the two sorts,' Southwick commented. 'He's just as likely to put 'em all together.'

'That would mean our fifty would be among perhaps five thousand others; and five thousand prisoners means how many guards?'

Southwick gave one of his famous sniffs. They came of a standard strength, but he could give each one a particular meaning. This one indicated that the whole thing was absurd and not for the serious consideration of grown men.

'Even at one guard for every twenty prisoners, plus all the camp followers and cooks and administration people, we'd never stand a chance,' the master said. 'To find out if L 'Espoir's there we've got to get in sight of that fort on Île Royale, so they'll sight us and we lose surprise.'

'Yes,' Ramage said, and changed the subject, which was thoroughly depressing him. 'Now, we'd better start working out the positions of those reefs and shoals.'

'Aye, I have 'em noted from the pilot book,' Southwick said. 'The main bank is over there, between one and two miles nor'nor'west of Royale.' He pointed over the starboard bow.

At that moment Ramage saw Renwick down on the maindeck and called him up to the quarterdeck. The Marine captain's face was as usual burned a bright red from the sun and the skin of his nose was peeling, but he gave a smart salute.

'How are the prisoners?' Ramage asked.

'Very subdued, sir. They haven't forgotten that man Gilbert. I don't know what he said before they were brought over here, but it frightened them!'

Ramage nodded. 'Keep them subdued.'

Supposing there were no masts. Oh yes, he had this wonderful idea, but what about the pilot? The garrisons on the islands? He shook his head and left a puzzled Renwick standing on the quarterdeck as he clattered down the companionway to the great cabin, nodding to the sentry.

He sat down at his desk and looked at the sketch he had made of the three islands based on the information in the pilot book. Why was he looking at it? He knew the outlines and positions by heart. He pushed the sketch aside and took out the French pilot book and began reading the reference to the Îles du Salut. The words blurred into meaninglessness: he knew them by heart, so why was he reading it yet again? He put the book back in the drawer and stood up impatiently. What the devil was wrong with him? Impatience, he told himself, that's what's wrong. It needs patience to wait until we are closer to the islands so that we can be sure about the masts.

Islands! Even at this distance that was obviously an absurd word for three long lumps of rock lying like broken grindstones half a dozen miles off a flat coastline fringed with mangroves, marshy land and almost stagnant water and buzzing and whining with biting insects.

At least the islands do not suffer from a shortage of water: the rainfall must be so heavy that perpetual dampness and mildew, not drought, is the problem.

Up on the quarterdeck he said to Southwick: 'Hail the lookouts. No, better still, send a man aloft with a glass.'

'Yes, sir,' Southwick said, but added: 'You did say that Royale was 216 feet high, and Diable 131, didn't you, sir?'

Ramage glared at him. 'Yes, and the truck of a frigate's mainmast won't show clear from behind 'em.'

'Yes, sir, so I was thinking ...'

'Nevertheless send a man aloft with a glass.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Southwick knew the strain of waiting. They had left the Channel Fleet how long ago? Nearly three weeks. For twenty days they had looked for L'Espoir and the captain had shown no sign of strain. Now all the tensions and anticipations of three weeks, when everyone had wondered if they would catch L'Espoir or beat her to Cayenne, were being compressed into an hour.

The new lookout soon hailed the quarterdeck. With the bring-'em-near he could make out some buildings on the largest island. They were low down on the seaward side, he added.

Ramage nodded: that would be the fort on Royale, and by now the French lookouts would be reporting the approach of two frigates. Was there one préfet in command of the three islands? Or was he a soldier, a garrison commander? It did not matter a damn, really; Ramage knew he was just trying to keep his mind occupied. He turned and began to walk back and forth along the few feet of deck between the quarterdeck rail and the taffrail, occasionally looking astern at LaRobuste and allowing himself a glance at the islands only once every hundred times he completed the stretch.

Eventually Southwick said: 'We should close the coast a little more to the north, sir. Then we know we'll be clear of that bank of rocks and can stretch down to the anchorage. Unless you want to wait for a pilot.'

'Yes, we'll heave-to and wait for the pilot, if he's not there waiting for us.'

'But... well, sir, won't the pilot realize that... ?'

Southwick did not bother to complete the question.

'If we don't pick him up, he'll come over to us after we've anchored.'

'Yes, I see, sir,' Southwick said and did not understand at all. To him, the prospect of anchoring the two frigates close in under three French islands which were probably bristling with batteries was something that did not bear thinking about.

The Calypso hove-to just long enough for the frigate's cutter to be hoisted out and rowed to La Robuste to collect Paolo, Jackson and the four Frenchmen, and bring them on board. Gilbert and his men had been puzzled and nervous from the moment that Wagstaffe, after reading the instructions delivered by the boat's coxswain, had ordered them away.

They were brought up to Ramage on the quarterdeck and he smiled the moment he saw their long, nervous faces. He led them aft to the taffrail and, speaking quickly in French, gave them their instructions. They talked among themselves, embarrassed, for a couple of minutes and then Auguste nodded reluctantly.

'Me, sir. They've chosen me.'

'Very well,' Ramage said. 'I'm sure you'll do it well. Go down to the great cabin. Silkin is there. Gilbert, you go with him, as translator.'

With the cutter now towing astern - the shallower water brought calmer seas so there was no need to hoist it in again - the Calypso steered for the western end of Île Royale, followed by LaRobuste. Seen from this angle, against the flat land of the shore, the island seemed like the end of a lozenge, crowding Île St Joseph, which was much smaller and only ninety feet high. The resulting channel was wide but the water brown, obviously shallow. Here and there short branches of wood floated on the sea but did not drift, merely moving up and down. Southwick pointed out several to Ramage, who tapped the old man on the shoulder. 'You're lucky to have your navigation confirmed like that - the local fishermen have put their pots down round the bank, and those bits of bough are their buoys. The only trouble is you don't know if the pots are for lobsters and therefore close to rocks, or fish, in which case they'll be further away.'

'All the same to me, sir,' Southwick declared cheerfully. 'I don't want to take us within a mile of that bank! And these islands - I wouldn't want to stay here a week, let alone a year. If I was a Frenchman I'd take care I didn't fall foul of Bonaparte and get sent out here.'

'If you were a Frenchman you might not have the choice. The Count of Rennes just wanted to be left in peace.'

Southwick sniffed in agreement, recognizing that in two sentences the captain had summed it all up.

'At least we beat L'Espoir,' he said, gesturing at the empty anchorage. 'Tell me, sir, did you expect to?'

'Hopes were fighting fears. When it was dark I didn't expect to, but if it was a nice sunny day with a fresh wind - well, I hoped.'

'And now, sir?'

Ramage purposely misunderstood the question. 'We heave-to and wait for the pilot off the western end of the island, then we'll anchor a cable further seaward than he says. Four fathoms, soft mud, single anchor. I told Wagstaffe in the orders I sent across to anchor as far inshore of us as he dared, so the gap between the two ships is at least a cable, preferably two.'