Ramage's Devil

'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.'

Southwick was puzzled. 'I hope young Wagstaffe doesn't run on the mud. Soft mud and a lee shore. Think of the suction on that hull...'

Laughing at the thought, Ramage said casually: 'We can always use the boats to lay out an anchor or two for him; then all hands to man the capstan. With the fiddler standing on top to set them trotting, we'd soon have him off!'

Southwick looked like a bishop to whom the suffragan's wife had just made a very improper suggestion, but Ramage saw no point in explaining everything in detail because there was a good chance he would have to abandon the plan. Which plan? There were two now and he was muddling himself. Well, he meant the one he had just explained to Gilbert and his men, the one which had occurred to him only a couple of hours ago. Call that the first plan, even though it was the last to arrive in his head. The second plan, which followed only if the first was successful, was the original idea, the one that had come like a wind shadow, and it was surrounded with ifs as thick as a blackthorn hedge intended to keep boys out of an apple orchard. The second plan did not even begin until L'Espoir hove in sight. Providing the first worked, and providing L'Espoir hove in sight, then there would be plenty of time to tell Southwick all about the second.