Ramage's Devil

'Deck there, mainmasthead here!'

'Deck here,' Aitken bellowed up, not bothering with the speaking trumpet.

'There's a strange little craft ahead of us, sir: through the glass it looks like a canoe with a sail on a sprit. Four men in it.'

'Very well, keep reporting it,' Aitken said and turned back to Ramage. 'That'll be your pilot, sir,' he said with a first lieutenant's usual lofty disdain for local pilots.

'Heave-to to leeward of them so they can drop down to us. Now, our colours are stowed. Mr Southwick, tell the men no one is to speak English while the pilot boat is near. Nor is any bosun's mate to use his call. There's no need for the pilot to mistake us for an English frigate ...'

'Mistake us?' Southwick repeated the phrase and then took his hat off, scratched his head, and ran his hand through his hair before jamming his hat back on. He took up the speaking trumpet and bellowed the length of the ship. Without much apparent effort his voice carried Ramage's order to every man.

'Now stand by to back the foretopsail, Mr Aitken,' Ramage said and could have bitten his tongue. Aitken knew what to do, and giving him unnecessary orders must be irritating.

Now he could see the pilot boat with the naked eye. Yes, it was a large dugout canoe, with a stubby mast and, like a canted boom, a sprit stuck out diagonally, holding out the square sail. And it was an old sail obviously sewn up from odd pieces of cloth. But for all that the canoe was skimming along, and through the glass he could now see there were three blacks actually handling the boat while a white man tried to sit in a dignified manner. But, judging from the urgency with which one of the others scooped water over the side using a calabash shell as a bailer, he must be sitting in a few inches of water.

The movement of the pilot canoe so intrigued him that Ramage did not notice that the Calypso was turning head to wind to heave-to until her bow swung and the canoe and Île Royale suddenly shifted from the larboard bow to amidships on the starboard side.

Ramage walked over to the skylight above his cabin and called down in French. He listened to the reply, laughed and looked round for Louis and Albert, who were still waiting by the taffrail.

'Wait for Gilbert and Auguste at the top of the gangway,' he told them in French. 'You really understand what I want you to do?'

'Indeed we do, sir,' Louis said. 'We are proud to be able to do it!'

Ramage nodded and grinned. One Englishman was usually reckoned to be equal to three Frenchmen, but not these Frenchmen. What had changed them? Gilbert and his three friends probably held their own political views as strongly as a Revolutionary sailor in Bonaparte's Navy. Was it leadership? He shrugged because he had no idea: it was so, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

The pilot canoe was only a hundred yards off, and he walked back to the skylight and warned Gilbert and Auguste, but there was no reply and a moment later he saw them joining Louis and Albert at the gangway.

Ramage took off his coat and untied his stock, bundling both up with his hat and stuffing them under one of the guns.

'Mr Aitken ... Mr Southwick ...' he pointed at what he was doing, and each man hurriedly removed his hat, coat and stock.

Now the master, his white hair caught by the wind, could pass for - well, a rural dean, an amiable grocer, a tenant farmer who was now leaving the heavy work to his sons ...

'You still don't look like a Republican, sir,' Southwick said doubtfully. 'Perhaps the hair? Too tidy?'

Ramage ran his fingers through it. 'You have the advantage of me, I must admit,' he said wryly.

'The breeches and silk stockings, sir?' Southwick said, his voice still doubtful. 'Don't forget those whatever they're called, the sans cullars.'

'Sans-culottes. No, don't worry, we don't need to dance on top of the hammock nettings!'

With that Ramage left Aitken and Southwick on the quarterdeck and went down to the entryport where Auguste stood watching the canoe, which was now beginning to round up to come alongside, one of the men casting off the sheet and stifling the sail by standing up and clasping it to him as he reached for the mast. The other two blacks picked up paddles and began paddling the canoe the last few feet in the calm water provided by the Calypso's bulk.

Ramage gestured to Auguste, who took the telescope Ramage held out to him. Tucking it under one arm and straightening his shoulders, the Frenchman said with a grin: 'I shall find it hard to be an ordinary seaman again, sir.'

Ramage stood to one side beside a gun while Auguste went back to the entryport and Gilbert, Louis and Albert stood close to him.

There was a faint hail and Albert hurried forward with the coil of rope he was holding. From the top of the hammock nettings he threw an end down to the canoe and one of the blacks seized it. The canoe was almost level with the entryport when the pilot began to stand up.

Auguste leaned over slightly to shout down at him. 'M'sieu, listen carefully. This frigate and the one astern have come from Brest, and a third is due any day - we lost company with her.'

'Very well, captain,' the pilot answered. 'There is plenty of room in the anchorage. You bring us many prisoners, eh?'

'We bring you possible sickness and death,' Auguste said sadly. 'Brest has la peste. We lost five men from it the day after sailing. The other frigate' - he gestured astern - 'lost nine. I dare not think what has happened with the third frigate: I suspect we lost sight of her because she had so much sickness...'

'The plague? Brest a plague port? Nine - no, fourteen - dead? Quarantine! You must stay at anchor! No one to come on shore. Six weeks from the last case. Here, cast off!' he snapped at the seaman, who let go of the rope as though it was a poisonous snake.

As the canoe drifted away the pilot stood up and shouted: 'I will report to the governor, but six weeks you stay -'

Auguste and Gilbert screamed back at him: it was an injustice, it was mocking their misery, it would leave them short of medical supplies and provisions ...

Louis and Albert joined in. There was no wine and very little water left. Now they would get the black vomit, as well as having the plague, and anyway what authority had the pilot to give such orders?

'I'll show you!' the white-faced pilot screeched back as the canoe drifted away. 'No one is to come near the shore: you stay on board. Tell the second frigate and the third when she comes in because I am not coming out again for six weeks. I know the governor will order sentries to shoot at anyone approaching the shore. That's an order; I have the authority!'

'Assassin, cuckold, pederast, Royalist traitor!' Auguste bawled and stood aside to give the others a chance while he thought up more insults.

'You wait until the Minister of Marine hears of it!' Gilbert bellowed. 'Then you'll be a prisoner here, not the pilot!'

The pilot knew he was far enough away to be at a disadvantage shouting against the wind, but he took a deep breath. 'Perhaps - if you live long enough to get a message to Brest. But you'll all leave your bones on the beach over there ...'

'Your mother was a careless whore!' Auguste yelled and then shook his head. 'It's a waste,' he grumbled, 'he's too far away.' He handed the telescope back to Ramage. 'Was that satisfactory, sir?'

A grinning Ramage patted him on the back. 'Perfect. As I watched you all it was obvious the Calypso had at least four captains!'

'Sir,' Aitken called anxiously, 'we're running out of sea room!'

'Bear away and anchor when you're ready!' Ramage shouted and hurried back to the quarterdeck, passing Southwick on his way to the fo'c'sle. By now the pilot was a quarter of the way to a jetty which was just coming into view on the south side of Île Royale.