'Here,' a voice called down in French and the tail of another rope curled down. 'Secure that somewhere there as a spring.'
He saw that Gilbert was already making up another rope as a spring, so that the fishing boat was held securely against the brig. A glance aloft then showed that some British seamen, prisoners, were working slowly and obviously resentfully under the shouts and gesticulations of a French bosun, who was becoming more and more exasperated that he could not make himself understood as he tried to get them to rig a staytackle to hoist the sacks of potatoes on board.
Again Ramage counted. More than a dozen prisoners, though some of the men reeving the rope through the blocks were officers. Obviously the French guards were practising égalité.
Another shout from the Murex's deck brought a stream of curses from Gilbert and the vegetable seller (Ramage had established his name was Auguste), and something landed with a thump on the deck beside him. It was a heavy rope net.
'Spread it out flat on the deck, then put two sacks in the middle,' the bosun shouted. 'Hurry up, or this ship will never sail!'
Ramage hurried with the net and found it easy to make the job last twice as long as necessary while appearing to work with ferocious energy. While he was untangling the thick mesh he slowly inspected the Murex.
She had been out of the dockyard for only a few weeks: that much had been obvious as the fishing boat had approached because the brig was rolling at anchor enough to show that her copper sheathing was new, each overlapping edge of a sheet helping make a mosaic still bright and still puckered where the hammers driving home the flat-headed sheathing nails had dented the metal.
Her hull, a dark grey with a white strake, showed that her captain was a wealthy man: he had been prepared to pay for the paint himself, because the dockyard's meagre ration was black, Some captains who wanted a particularly smart ship paid for the gold leaf to line out the name on the transom, and pick up decorations on the capstan head. The captain of the Murex was one of them.
With the net spread out on the only flat part of the fishing boat's deck, the tiny fo'c'sle, Ramage climbed down into the little fish hold and hauled a couple of sacks up to the coaming. The stench was appalling: whoever had to eat these potatoes would think they had been grown in Billingsgate fish market.
Auguste's lopsided face appeared over the edge of the coaming. 'You are doing well,' he muttered. 'A clumsier oaf straight from the farm never set foot in a fishing boat.'
'How many guards, do you reckon?'
'Seven, but we'll know for sure when we get on board.'
'Can we manage that?' Ramage asked.
'The knot I shall use to secure the net for the staytackle hook is almost impossible to undo - and I am an impatient man! Here, sling up that sack!'
Gilbert arrived to help haul the first two sacks to the net, and the two Frenchmen gathered up the four corners. Auguste produced a short length of rope to secure them together while Ramage played the simpleton with the dangling end of the staytackle, using it to swing on until one of the French guards quickly slacked it so that Ramage suddenly dropped to the deck with a yell of alarm. That established his position as far as the French guards were concerned: he was the buffoon, the man who fell down hatches and on to whose head sacks of potatoes dropped.
Auguste knotted the corners of the net, took the staytackle and hooked it on, and shouted up to the Murex's deck to start hauling. There was a delay, the French guards were not going to haul sacks of potatoes aloft, but Ramage saw equally clearly that their British prisoners, tailing on to the tackle, would have the French bosun demented by the time the last sack was on board.
'Don't stand under the net,' he warned Auguste and Gilbert, and a moment later the net and two sacks came crashing down on the deck again, making the little fishing boat shudder as it caught the forestay a glancing blow and set the mast shuddering.
Auguste sent up a stream of curses and warned the French bosun that he, the commandant of the port, the Navy, and the Minister of Marine himself would all be responsible for any damage done to the boat. A moment later the bosun was swearing in French at the British seamen, who were swearing back in the accents of London, the West Country and Scotland. One man, they were protesting, had tripped and brought the rest of them down, but the French bosun, not understanding a word, was threatening them with the lash, the noose, the guillotine and prison, and as he ran out of ideas, Auguste restated his warning, adding that it was not worth losing a fishing boat for the profit on a few sacks of potatoes.
Finally, amid more shouting than Ramage had thought possible from so few men, the net and its sacks were slowly rehoisted and hauled on board the Murex. A run-amok choir, Ramage thought, well primed with rum, could not do better.
Auguste gestured to Ramage and the two men scrambled up the brig's side, followed by Gilbert. The bosun and two French seamen were crouched over the net, struggling to undo Auguste's knot. Ramage and Gilbert were by chance within four or five feet of the British seamen who had been hauling on the tackle.
As all the French guards hurried to help the almost apoplectic bosun undo the knot, Ramage hissed at the nearest man, who from his creased and torn uniform must be one of the brig's lieutenants: 'Quickly - don't show surprise and keep your voice down: I am Captain Ramage. How many loyal men are there on board?'
The lieutenant paused and then knelt as if adjusting the buckle of his shoe. 'Captain, two lieutenants, master, eleven seamen.'
'And French guards?'
'Seven. They keep half of us in the bilboes while half are free.'
'Who commands?'
'Lieutenant Rumsie.'
'Where do the French keep you?'
'At night all of us are kept in irons in the manger.'
'The guards?'
'Two sit with muskets, the rest sleep in our cabins and use the gunroom.'
Gilbert suddenly called to Auguste, asking if he needed help with the knot, and Ramage realized that a French seaman with a musket was walking along the deck towards them, not suspicious but simply patrolling where the prisoners were working.
Ramage decided there was time for one last question.
'Are the mutineers coming back on board?'
'No, and the French are asking Paris what to do with us prisoners and keeping us on board until they hear.'
With that the net opened, the two sacks were hauled clear, and the perspiring bosun signalled to the Britons to hoist again.
Auguste scrambled back on board the fishing boat, followed by Gilbert and Ramage, who once again, climbed down into the fish hold as the two Frenchmen unhooked the net and spread it on the deck again.
As they came to the coaming to lift out the sacks, Auguste muttered: 'Did you find out anything?'
'From the English, yes.'
'What do you want to know from the bosun?'
'Are they taking the job of guarding very seriously?'
'I can tell you that without asking. It is a holiday - they have jars of rum in the gunroom and one of them was boasting to me that most of them stay drunk all day and sleep it off at night. The bosun is so drunk at the moment he sees two nets, four knots and eight sacks each time we hoist.'
'Good, then just find out how long they expect - here, you'd better hoist up this sack while I get the other ready.'
When Auguste's head appeared at the coaming again Ramage finished the question: '- expect to be guarding these men and what the French Navy intend doing with the Murex.'