An hour later the boat returned with the Mate and another Frenchman who sat on a thwart wrapped in a blanket, and who had to be helped on deck. After he had been taken below the French Mate came back on deck to demand, "Who is Mr Much?" When the Mate stepped forward he said, "Your captain and the surgeon are staying on board the Rossignol as prisoners. You are responsible for the Lady Arabella's men. I see you've made a start on the repairs. Now, point out Mr Bowen."
"He's below."
"Fetch him!"
As soon as Much left, the Frenchman turned to the group of passengers and then looked at a list in his hand.
"Tell me your names." As each of them spoke, he checked them against his list.
"Ramage - which is Ramage? Ah - you know what your name means in French? The song of the birds, that is 'ramage'. No, perhaps 'music' is better. A suitable prisoner for the Rossignol, eh?" He laughed softly. "Well, Captain Stevens says you can speak for the passengers. You are prisoners, of course. You will stay on board this ship, which I am going to sail back to her new home port."
"Might we ask where that is?" Yorke asked.
The Frenchman smiled: he was under thirty, small and well built, blue-eyed with curly black hair and the spare, strong face typical of a certain type of Frenchman.
"St Malo, the home of the corsairs."
"The men of Dunkerque will argue about that," Ramage said.
"And Brest, too," the Frenchman said, "but they are wrong! Alors, Mr Bowen?"
The surgeon stepped forward.
"Your colleague Mr Farrell is incompetent, so you have a patient awaiting you in the saloon, Mr Bowen. He is our - how do you say - accountant. Not purser - almost an agent for the owner. He is very ill. He did not have confidence in Farrell. So now it is your responsibility that he reaches St Malo alive."
Bowen glared at the Frenchman. "I'm responsible only for the treatment, not the original sickness. If your friend is dying ..."
"The responsibility is yours. He must live. He is the armateur's son."
"I'll do my best," Bowen snapped. "But as far as I'm concerned he gets the same treatment whether an able seaman, an admiral or the son of an amateur."
"Armateur," the Frenchman corrected, "but I understand; you are a man of ethics. We too believe in equality. Indeed, you may have heard of our Revolution," he added dryly.
With that he looked round at them. "You are all officers, I see" - he waved his list - "and it's up to you whether you complete your journey in comfort, or in irons. If you give me your parole ... otherwise you will be locked up."
Ramage shook his head, and the others murmured, "No ... no parole..."
Again the Frenchman shrugged. "Then I regret, gentlemen, that I must assume you'll try to recapture the ship, so you'll be locked up as soon as I select suitable cabins. I'll introduce myself: Jean Kerguelen. My brother Robert commands the Rossignol. Now, my men will finish the splicing and then we can get under way."
While he had been talking, the privateersmen had been herding the Lady Arabella's crew below, searching each man carefully before he went down the hatch. Kerguelen called to one of the men, and said politely to the group of Britons, "You have refused your parole, so please submit to be searched."
Ramage felt the seaman's nimble fingers and thought that they were more interested in finding valuables in pockets than pistols or knives. After much argument among their captors, they ended up in the passengers' cabins: Kerguelen decided it was easier to guard them there than anywhere else, much to the annoyance of some of the privateersmen, who had obviously been looking forward to a comfortable voyage back to St Malo.
Ramage and Yorke were locked in their original cabin but had Southwick and Bowen as well, so the four men would have to share the two bunks, two chairs and the cabin sole. As soon as Bowen joined them half an hour later, Ramage looked up expectantly.
"An armateur," Bowen said as the sentry slammed the door and locked it again, "is a backer, the man who puts up the money to finance a privateering voyage."
"I know that," Ramage snapped and then, remembering Bowen had earlier mistaken the word for "amateur", added, "He can also be the owner, or manager."
"Well," Bowen said, "the sick man is his son."
"So Kerguelen said. What's wrong with the fellow?"
"It's hard to say. A fever. He is very debilitated."
"You can cure him?" Ramage asked.
"I don't know, but Kerguelen's silly threats don't make a scrap of difference."
"I know that; I was just curious."
"There's a strange attitude towards the agent," Bowen said. "As though the men like him well enough, but are suspicious."
"The backer's son and the accountant - a glorified purser," Ramage said. "No ship's company likes the purser. They probably think this fellow is the backer's spy, put on board to make sure they don't cheat."
"By the way, sir, I had to treat Much."
"Oh, what's wrong?"
"He had a quarrel with one of the Frenchmen. Ended up with a tap on the head from a pistol butt."
"Badly hurt?"
"I don't think so. With these cases, though, it's sometimes difficult to be sure about damage to the cranium - often several hours pass before anything manifests itself."
"And then what?"
"Collapses, pallor, heavy perspiration..."
"Supposing that happened to Much: where would you nurse him?"
"There's nowhere," Bowen said, "apart from the cabin he's sharing with Wilson."
"It would be more convenient to have him in here, wouldn't it?"
Bowen saw Ramage wink and smiled: "Yes, sir. Much more. Do you want me to arrange it?"
"I badly want to have a chat with our Mr Much. A suitablecollapse and a request to Kerguelen should do the job." Southwick was scratching his head and Ramage guessed that the locked door with an armed sentry outside was affecting the old Master, who asked, "What do you reckon our chances are of being recaptured, sir?"
"Very slight, if these Frenchmen can handle her properly. Sounds as though they've finished the splicing. They'll have her under way soon."
Breakfast next morning was a piece of bread - the Navy's euphemism for tough biscuit - and a bowl of thin watery onion soup whose only merit was its temperature. Yorke was the first to finish his bowl. "I wish I'd soaked this bread a lot more: I'm sure they've chosen the hardest for us."
Ramage offered his bowl. "Pop it in there for a few minutes; that'll soften it."
"I suppose what annoys me most is that we're paying for their food."
There was a banging on the door and the key turned in the lock. "Here," Ramage said to Yorke, "grab your bread; they're probably collecting up the bowls."
But it was Kerguelen, who came into the cabin and said to Bowen, "Go with the seaman outside: that Mate of yours has collapsed."
As the surgeon left, Kerguelen sat down on the bunk.
"You are comfortable?"
Ramage smiled wryly. "Let's say we appreciate you asking the question!"
Kerguelen was tired: his sallow skin had the grey waxiness of strain and weariness.
Yorke asked conversationally, "You and your brother are having a successful cruise?"
The Frenchman made a face. "My comrades in other privateers seem to have cleared the game from the fields. You are only our second prize in more than two weeks."