Ramage And The Rebels

And Bazin suddenly knew why the Calypso had seemed familiar, a French ship. She was one of the frigates this milord Ramage had captured at Martinique. And that schooner towing her - Bazin remembered that two French schooners from Fort de France had been captured by this assassin a few days before the convoy arrived.

This milord was looking at him curiously. Oh yes, he had to surrender his sword. He was careful to hand it hilt - first, just in case one of those Marines thought he was threatening the captain.

'Et le vaisseau,' this milord was saying.

Had he the authority to surrender the ship? Yes, of course; there was no one else to do it, now Captain Duroc was not here.

'Oui, et le vaisseau, milord.'

Now Lord Ramage was turning to Roget, and Bazin realized that several times he had said 'milord', using the English word. It was the first time he had ever called any man 'lord', and here he was, only too anxious to say it to a foreigner. He knew he wanted to do anything to please this man, but he was not quite sure why, except that it was not only a desire to please. In France they guillotined the aristos, but here, under this blazing tropical sun, with English seamen aloft in La Perle, furling the topsails, it was not France; here the aristos could guillotine him - or order it with a snap of finger and thumb.

They were marched down to the lowerdeck, and made to stand by the mainmast, and all that fool Roget could say was: 'I told you so.'

Told me what, cretin?'

That it was a trap!'

'Ah yes, the moment before we crash alongside you scream at me like a girl defending her virginity. It would have helped if you had made that discovery five minutes earlier.'

'You were in command,' Roget retorted.

"I can't be watching everything!' Bazin snarled.

'You have to, if you're the captain.'

'You know who that man was?'

The one with the eyes?'

'Yes, the captain,' Bazin said.

'Why should I know who he is?'

'You've heard of milord Ramage?'

Roget went pale. That's him? I didn't recognize the name when he said it.'

That's him! He pronounces it differently.'

'He'll have us shot. . .'

'Probably,' Bazin said. 'Duroc's already dead.'

'How do you know?'

'I just know. These aristos - as soon as they get their hands on a true republican it is like that!' He made a chopping motion with his hand.

Roget, the colour coming back to his face, shrugged his shoulders. 'I suppose it's only fair.'

'What's fair?' Bazin asked suspiciously.

The aristos killing republicans. After all, every aristo I've ever seen was hauled off to the guillotine, or shot.'

That's different.' Roget irritated him; Bazin was the first to admit that. Only a fool like Roget could make that sort of argument.

'Sometimes I think you are a royalist at heart, Citoyen Roget.'

'Just because I point out that if we kill every aristo we find we can't blame the aristos if they kill any republicans they find?'

'Yes. Aristos are criminals. Like murderers. You have to see justice done. We republicans have the duty of administering it.'

'Well, that milord doesn't look like a murderer to me. I'm glad my wife can't see him; she'd fall in love with him at once.'

There you are,' Bazin said triumphantly, 'they run off with our women, and when they've had enough they cast them off. Like Moorish pashas. This one probably has a harem, too.'

'I envy him, then,' Roget said unexpectedly. 'If I was a milord I would have a dozen women. One of them would be Chinese. I saw a Chinese woman once. What eyes! No bosoms to speak of, I admit, but the eyes ... A Chinese, an Italian, perhaps a Creole, and - now, let me see . . .'

Bazin listened, wide - eyed. Roget was a royalist; he had just given himself away with all that talk about a harem. But what did he mean about the Chinese woman? Did none of them have bosoms, or just the one that Roget saw? The Italian women (some of them, anyway, when they were young) were nearly as beautiful as French women. But black women, certainly not - though there are many in Martinique, tall and slim, their skins like ebony. Yet there are only a few white women out here that one can bear to look at - most have skins dried, voices shrill, always nagging at their husbands. Still, Roget was a royalist, although no one had previously suspected it. '

And now that Marine lieutenant had come down the ladder and was looking at them. And he was pointing and beckoning. One of the sentries pulled him by the arm. Now Bazin knew they were going to shoot him. He turned to Roget. 'I forgive you,' he said, 'but for my sake stop this royalist talk.' He looked at the third lieutenant. 'Courage,' he said, like a benediction. With that he braced his shoulders and began to climb the steps. After the second step his knees had an unfortunate tendency to fold, like shutting a pocket knife, but he managed to continue climbing. This was how the aristos felt when they climbed up to the platform of the guillotine . . .

On deck the sun was dazzling, and he followed the Marine lieutenant. He glanced astern, but no sentry followed. nor could he see the firing squad. Up the quarterdeck ladder La Perle's topsails were now neatly furled and the two ships were still drifting alongside each other - and now down the companionway. This, Bazin knew, led to the captain's quarters.

At the foot of the companionway there was a Marine sentry who stood smartly to attention and saluted as the Marine officer passed, and he called some word into the cabin. Then Bazin was in the cabin, his head bent sideways to avoid hitting the beams overhead, and facing him, sitting at a desk, was this milord Ramage, who waved towards a settee and told him to sit down. The door shut and Bazin glanced up to see that the Marine lieutenant had left the cabin. He was alone with the milord. And his uniform was sticking to him and the perspiration was turning cold, and fresh beads of perspiration sprouting from his upper lip and forehead were cold, too, like rain on a glass window, and his breathing was shallow and he felt as though he was going to faint 'Lieutenant Bazin, I must apologize for the ruse.'

His accent was perfect He must have lived in France before the war - no foreigner could speak French like a Frenchman without living in France. The accent of Paris. In Lyon he would pass for a Parisian, Bazin was sure of that. But ruse?

'What ruse, milord?' There was the damned 'milord' again: it seemed so natural when talking to him, but he must guard his tongue against it.

The flags, M. Bazin. But I am sure you know perfectly well that it is a legitimate ruse de guerre to fly another flag as long as it is lowered and one's own flag hoisted before opening fire.'

Bazin was puzzled. 'Yes, of course. We always do it when we sight an English merchant ship, or a privateer.'

'You do? So you have no ill - feelings about me doing it?'

Ill - feelings? What is he talking about? Bazin knew it was his own fault that he had not grasped the significance of the Calypso's Tricolour coming down at the run. He shrugged his shoulders. And this milord was smiling, as though pleased. Bazin felt less chilly, but wondered if all this polite talk was not the prelude to another trap, another pat at the mouse by the cat's paw before the end came in a flurry of pain and blood.

'La Perle was a few hours late in leaving Aruba, M. Bazin?'

What a curious question. 'Several hours. In fact we nearly didn't leave at all.'

'Oh. Why was that?'

The leak, of course. Touching that reef made it a lot worse.

The captain waited for some time before we left to make sure the pumps could hold it'