"Ramage's Devil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pope Dudley)

CHAPTER TEN

An hour later the brig and the frigate crossed tacks, the Murex passing half a mile ahead.

'No signals flying,' Swan commented.

'So I see. But now we are to windward of her, so hoist her pendant and make number 84.'

Swan snapped out an order to two seamen, who began hoisting the three flags forming the Calypso's pendant numbers, and told two more to hoist eight and four.

'Pass within hail, isn't it, sir?' Swan asked. 'You have the book,' he said apologetically, 'but I'm presuming it hasn't been changed.'

'Yes, but whether or not Captain Bullivant chooses to obey is another question. He might assume a brig is still commanded only by a lieutenant.'

'I think if I was him and a brig tacked across my bow and gave a peremptory order, I'd assume she had a senior officer on board!'

'We'll see,' Ramage said. 'In the meantime, have 173 bent on and ready for hoisting, and have number one gun on the larboard side loaded with a blank charge. There's no need to send the men to quarters: have Bridges and a couple of men do it. Here's the key to the magazine. It was still in the desk drawer.'

Swan was enjoying himself hoisting flag signals with orders for Bullivant, that much was obvious, and his enjoyment revealed more about Bullivant than his earlier comments. Ramage handed him the Signal Book, knowing that the first lieutenant could not remember the meaning of 173.

He quickly leafed through the pages, which were cut at the side with the signal numbers printed in tens.

'Ah,' Swan said, 'a gun and that should produce results!'

'Yes, we'll tack again; they're ignoring 84.'

Ramage saw Bridges and two men running to the forward gun on the larboard side, where seamen in answer to Bridges' earlier shouted order were already casting off lashings.

Out came the tompion; a man held the flintlock in position and hurriedly tightened up the wing nut to clamp it down. The gun was quickly run in and a cartridge slid down the bore and rammed home. The gun was run out again, a quill tube pushed down the vent and priming powder shaken into the pan.

Bridges held up his hand in a signal to Ramage, who was watching the Calypso as she sailed on, approaching their starboard bow.

'Mr Swan, we'll pass very close across the Calypso's bow...' Ramage gestured to the two seamen who had bent on the three flags representing the signal 173, Furl sails.

Ramage watched the Calypso out of the corner of his eye and said to the seamen: 'Leave up the pendant numbers but lower 84.'

By now Swan was bellowing orders and the brig's bow was turning to starboard, canvas slatting, the ropes of sheets and braces flogging, spray flying across like fine rain as the bow sliced the tops off. waves. Then, with Swan giving the word to haul, the yards were braced round and sheets trimmed so the sails resumed their opulent curves. The Murex began to leap through the water again - right across the Calypso's bow.

'Oh, nicely, nicely!' Swan exclaimed. 'Less than half a cable - we'll be able to throw a biscuit on to her fo'c'sle as we pass across her bow!'

'Stand by,' Ramage shouted, and saw the gun captain kneel with his left leg thrust out to one side, the triggerline taut in his right hand.

The Calypso was a fine sight, bow-on and just forward of the Murex's beam. Men were peering over the bulwarks; Ramagethought he saw the lookout at the foremasthead gesturing down to the deck.

'Hoist 173!' Ramage said to the seamen and watched the three flags soaring upwards. He turned forward. 'Mr Bridges, fire!'

The gun spurted flame and smoke, and a moment later came the flat 'blam' of an unshotted gun firing, the standard signal drawing particular attention to a hoist of flags.

Ramage watched the Calypso for the first sign that she was altering course or clewing up sails. There was only one more signal that he could make (108, Close nearer to the Admiral) but if Bullivant ignored that too, what next?

Were the luffs of the courses fluttering slightly? As the Murex passed across the Calypso's bows the frigate's masts had for a few moments been in line, but now the brig was hauling out on the Calypso's beam and it was hard to distinguish an alteration of course. But... yes ...

Swan exclaimed: 'She's bracing her courses sharp up, sir! Yes, I can see men going up the ratlines. There, she's starting to clew up!'

Ramage judged distances and times. Better than Bullivant he knew how long it would take to clew up the big forecourse and the maincourse, the lowest and largest sails in the frigate; then, as the Calypso slowed down the foretopsail would be backed, the yard braced sharp up so that the wind blew on the forward side. With well trained crew and Aitken and Southwick, she could be hove-to a good deal faster than the smaller but undermanned Murex.

'She's heaving-to,' Ramage told Swan. 'Cross her bow again and then as soon as we're to windward, heave-to.' Was there any point in sending the Murex's men to general quarters? Ten guns, five each side, and only a dozen or so of the men had ever fired them. No one would know his position in a gun's crew. No, there would be chaos, and ten guns against the Calypso, with her well trained, experienced crew, would do about as much harm as the shrill cursing of bumboat women.

'As soon as we've hove-to, I want the cutter hoisting out to take me across to the Calypso.'

Swan looked anxious, his eyes flickering from Ramage to the frigate. 'Sir, Bridges and Phillips are quite competent to handle this ship. May I come with you to the Calypso? Not because I'm being nosy,' he added hastily, 'but I'd be happier if you had an escort.'

Ramage had been thinking not of an escort but of something that might prove more necessary. 'Yes - but you'll be coming as a witness. Keep your eyes and ears open. Try and remember exact phrases. I can't tell you more than that because I don't know what the devil we're going to find.'

As the cutter surged down and rounded up alongside the Calypso, Ramage recognized several of the faces watching from over the top of the bulwark, but no one was waving a greeting and no one was standing at the entryport.

Aitken? Southwick? Young Paolo? They must be on board, and although they could never expect to find their old captain arriving alongside in a brig's cutter, surely some of them would have recognized him by now, since he had deliberately stood up in the sternsheets of the cutter for the last hundred yards. Surely someone would be watching through a telescope. The whole episode of a brig making peremptory signals to a frigate was unusual enough to make the cutter's arrival a matter of considerable importance.

It seemed only a moment later that the cutter was alongside and Ramage leapt for the battens just as the cutter rose on a crest. He sensed that Swan was right behind him. A rope snaked down from the Calypso to serve as a painter.

No sideropes, so the Calypso was not extending the usual courtesy to the commanding officer of another ship o' war, but perhaps there had not been time to rig them. There had, of course, and Ramage knew it, but he also knew that when Aitken and Southwick proposed it, Bullivant might have refused.

Up, up, up... cling to the battens with your fingers, keep your feet flat against the side of the ship to prevent the soles of your shoes from slipping ... Yes, that gouge in the wood there was so familiar and that scarph in the plank there ... He could remember the actions in which the hull had been damaged.

Suddenly his head came level with the deck and a moment later he was through the entryport, standing on the deck itself and staring into the muzzle of a pistol held by a man he had never seen before but who was wearing the uniform of a post-captain. He had a single epaulet, showing he had less than three years' seniority, Ramage noticed inconsequentially.

'Stop!' the man bellowed. He was young, stocky, with a round face mottled with - was it anger? The pistol in his right hand was beautifully made, the barrel damascened, the silver and gold tracery of inlaid patterns catching the sun. The silver tankard in his left hand also had an intricate design worked all round it. And the man, who seemed too excited to string together a coherent sentence, took a pace forward as Swan stepped on deck.

'Stop, both of you!' He gestured with both hands as though shooing a hen back into her coop, and an amber liquid spilled from the tankard.

'You see, pirates! Look at him, a sans-culotte!A Republican pirate. And the other one ...' he paused, catching his breath and then unexpectedly took a long drink from the tankard. '... He's wearing the ... the King's uniform ..."

Ramage saw that the speech was becoming more slurred and the man's eyes were glazing. The man - Ramage guessed it must be Bullivant - turned and pointed. Ramage recognized the lieutenant in Marine's uniform as Renwick, now white-faced, fear showing in the way the lips were drawn back. Ramage had seen Renwick facing broadsides, muskets fired at close range, pistols from a few feet, dodging the slash of cutlasses, but the Marine officer always grinned because he loved battle. Fear? A moment later he realized why.

'Shoot these men!' Bullivant screamed. 'Come on, you have your file of Marines ready! The devil's work... that's what these French swine are doing...' His speech was slowing and Ramage glanced round.

There they all were, in a circle of men with fear on their faces: Aitken, the Scots first lieutenant, Wagstaffe, the red-haired and freckle-faced Kenton, his face red and peeling from the effect of wind and sun, young Martin, the fourth lieutenant, and old Southwick, his white mop of hair as usual trying to escape his hat and suddenly reminding Ramage of straw sticking out from under a nesting hen. And Paolo, his normally sallow face now white, his hooked nose bloodless, as though he was some young Italian model for a Botticelli painting.

Then Ramage saw that every one of the men on deck, seamen and Marines, was watching him, horrified by Bullivant's words. Renwick was making no move. The sergeant of Marines stood firm. Yes, they must be thinking, their old captain has by some magic come back, dressed as a French fisherman, and their new captain has just given orders to shoot him.

Now the signal for the physician of the fleet made sense: Bullivant had been driven mad by drink and presumably Aitken had hoisted that signal at a time when Bullivant could not see it - when he was below.

Where was the surgeon, Bowen? Even as Ramage glanced round once again, he saw the surgeon coming up the companionway, carrying a big flask. Now everyone was watching Bowen, and Bullivant was smiling: it was the vapid smile of an idiot, ingratiating and welcoming.

'Ah, Mr Bowen ... Welcome, you bring me sustenance ... you see the demons I face.' He waved both pistol and tankard towards Ramage and Swan. 'Here, you are just in time. ' He held out the tankard and Bowen poured liquid from the flask. Bullivant took a sip, swallowed and then gulped like a calf at a cow's udders.

Swan, pressing with his elbow, caused Ramage to look down. The Murex's first lieutenant had a Sea Service pistol tucked in the waistband of his breeches and was trying to draw Ramage's attention to it while Bullivant, head back and tankard to his lips, had his eyes closed.

This situation was what every officer dreaded. Relieving a captain of his command was juggling with the risk of being charged with treason. What was madness on the high seas could appear to be perfectly sane behaviour when the captain soberly described it to a row of hard-faced officers forming a court-martial in the peace and quiet of a guardship's cabin in Plymouth or Portsmouth. The whole edifice of discipline was built on the authority of a senior officer - a seaman obeyed a bosun's mate who obeyed the bosun who obeyed a lieutenant who obeyed the captain who obeyed a captain senior to him or an admiral who obeyed the Admiralty: it was all in the Articles of War... Many covered every aspect for maintaining command - numbers XIX, XXII (carrying the death penalty for anyone even lifting a weapon against a superior), and XXXIV ... and of course, XXXVI, the so-called captain's cloak, covering 'all other crimes' not covered by the Act. None provided the means of depriving a man of command...

Bullivant was not just senior to all the officers and men of the Calypso; his commission appointing him to command the Calypso, signed by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, and which he would have read out aloud to the ship's company when he first came on board ('reading himself in'), would have enjoined everyone to obey him, and given warning that they failed to do so 'at their peril'.

Only one thing could save them all from a crazed captain, and that was a more senior officer. There was no signal in the book that Aitken (as the second-in-command) could make to warn the admiral; he could only, Ramage realized, ask for the physician of the fleet and rely on him to declare the captain unfit to command.

That was the only thing unless a senior officer came on board ... and that was why Admiral Clinton had made sure Ramage was higher up the Captains' List than Bullivant. Ramage was senior. A higher link in the chain of command...

Ramage pulled the pistol clear and held it out of sight behind him. All this might be of significance at a court-martial charging that Bullivant was first threatening an unarmed senior officer with a pistol. To this, Ramage realized, Bullivant at the moment had the perfect defence: he did not know Ramage, who was not in uniform, and genuinely mistook him for a Frenchman.

The hell with courts-martial and niggling points of law; this was the Calypso and Renwick had just been told by his captain to order his Marines to shoot Ramage. Now was the time to act, while everyone was paralysed by the outrageousness of the order.

Ramage waited until Bullivant lowered the tankard and then stepped forward.

'Captain Bullivant, I believe?'

'Yes, I am. Listen, Bowen, this dam' fellow speaks passable English!'

'I am Captain Ramage, and I have been ordered by Admiral Clinton to board your ship and satisfy myself on certain matters.'

'Captain Ramage? Absurd. Ramage is on the Continent. Prisoner of Bonaparte. With his new wife. Ramage's, not Bonaparte's. Spy, that's what you are. Rich, Ramage is dam' rich; he wouldn't wear fisherman's clothes. That brig - I ask you, where has she come from, eh? Shoot you and sink her, doing my duty. Says he is Captain Ramage, Bowen, what do you think of that, eh?'

'He is Captain Ramage, sir,' Bowen said loudly and clearly. 'I have served with him for several years, and so have all the ship's officers, and they recognize him too.'

'Well, I don't. I command this ship. Admiralty orders. Have m'commission. I read it out loud when I first came on board. Death, that's what happens if you disobey me -'

Ramage said crisply: 'I have identified myself to you and been recognized by all your officers. Now, I relieve you of your command, Captain Bullivant. You are a sick man. You will go to your cabin and place yourself in the surgeon's care while I take this ship to the admiral.'

Bullivant flung the tankard at Ramage. It spun through the air, spilling a tail of liquor, and crashed against the bulwark. He then lifted the pistol and, his face creasing with the effort of concentration, said carefully: 'You are the Devil dressed ... as a French fisherman ... You want me ... to surrender this ship, Satan ... but I shall shoot first...'

He tried to pull back the hammer with his thumb to cock the pistol but, glassy-eyed, it was obvious that he could probably see at least two, perhaps more, flints. And Ramage, although holding a pistol behind his back, was helpless: he could not shoot a besotted man.

It might work, Ramage thought. Suddenly he realized it was exactly the hint that Bowen was trying to give. He cursed himself for being so slow and turned and said casually to a seaman: 'Jackson, pick up that tankard and give it back to Captain Bullivant.'

Yes, Bowen had the idea; Bowen, of all people, the man who regularly drank himself senseless until Ramage and Southwick cured him by using a ruthlessness neither had thought the other capable of: Bowen would know. Bowen knew - or could guess - what was going on in Bullivant's befuddled mind, and Bowen had already removed the cap of the flask ...

Jackson, holding out the tankard, approached Bullivant, whose face was streaming with perspiration, and said as though unaware that the man was wrestling with a pistol: 'Your tankard, sir.'

'Wha'? Wha's that? Oh, tankard, eh? I've got a set like that. No good empty.'

But Bullivant's attention was now on the tankard; he had lowered the pistol but being right-handed was obviously wondering how he could take the tankard. By then Bowen was beside him, holding up the flask.

'I'll fill it for you, sir. Now, Jackson, hold it steady.'

Ramage heard the suck and gurgle of the liquid as it ran from the flask and Bullivant watched with the fascination of a rabbit cornered by a stoat.

'There we are, sir, almost full. I'll have to refill this flask, though. Now, if I take the pistol you'll have a hand free for the tankard, sir...'

In a moment Bullivant was sucking greedily at the tankard while Bowen tucked the pistol inside his coat. He motioned to Ramage and Jackson to keep still.

It was then Ramage realized that every man in the ship seemed to be staring at Bullivant and holding his breath: it was as though there had been complete silence for an hour. Instead, Ramage knew he had been on board only a very few minutes and a frigate lying hove-to made a good deal of noise: canvas slatted, the waves slopped against the hull, the backed foretopsail yard creaked its protest at being pressed hard against the mast. It seemed that all these noises started again when Bullivant began drinking.

But what was Bowen waiting for? There was nothing to stop Ramage ordering Renwick to detail a file of Marines to take Captain Bullivant down to his cabin: he had the authority by virtue of his seniority and, much more important, the confidence of knowing that at the court-martial that was bound to follow, each one of these officers would give evidence of precisely what happened: none would back and fill to save his own skin from possible reprisals from Bullivant's cronies or people over whom Bullivant's father had influence. Aitken, Wagstaffe, Kenton, Southwick, Renwick, Martin, every seaman - they would be only too anxious to tell a court on oath exactly what had happened in these few minutes - and what had happened in the preceding few days. He had led these men in and out of action, he had been wounded several times alongside them, he had saved Jackson's life more than once and Jackson had saved his twice as many times.

Yet why were they all standing there? It was a curious scene, unreal, yet he thought he would never forget it. Bullivant, cocked hat now awry, breeches and white silk stockings stained - from urine rather than brandy, it seemed - and face streaming with perspiration. The eyes closed now, even when he lowered the tankard and took a few breaths ... Bowen quite calm, looking as if he was just waiting for a patient to don an overcoat, Jackson with his sandy and thinning hair tidy as usual, shaven yesterday if not today, and wearing a blue jersey and white duck trousers, Southwick like a jovial bishop unable to avoid listening to a stream of blasphemy, Aitken with colour back in his face and watching Ramage like a hawk, waiting for orders, Paolo the same - in fact Ramage realized the boy was holding a long and narrow dagger which he must have drawn while Bullivant was fumbling with the pistol: Paolo's complexion was once again sallow, and although the boy was still balanced on the balls of his feet ready to move quickly, it was clear from his expression he knew he would not now be using the dagger and Ramage knew him well enough to gauge the boy's disappointment. Wagstaffe, Kenton, Martin ... and the seamen, Stafford and Rossi, who were closer than he realized, and he guessed that somehow they had closed in stealthily once they recognized their old captain.

Then nearly two hundred men groaned. No, not a groan, it was a sigh, everyone breathing out after holding their breath, and a startled Ramage looked back at Bullivant in time to see him sitting on the deck and then slowly bending backwards, like a carpet unrolling, until he was sprawled flat, his cocked hat lying to one side, the tankard still clasped in one hand and the remains of the brandy spreading a slow stain across the planks of the deck.

Bowen gestured to the Marines, but before he could say anything Ramage had stepped forward. It would matter at a trial who gave the next orders, and although Ramage knew he did not give a damn for himself, the future of the officers could be damaged unless he was careful.

'Bowen, Captain Bullivant seems to have lost consciousness...'

The surgeon knelt beside the man, rolled back an eyelid, loosened the badly-tied stock and stood up again. 'He is unconscious, sir,' he said formally, 'and in my opinion -'

'In your opinion,' Ramage interrupted, 'is he capable of carrying out his duties as captain of this ship?'

'No, sir, under no circumstances. Nor will he be for several -'

'Days?'

'- for several days, sir.'

'Have him taken below to his cabin for treatment,' Ramage said.

Now the formalities were over and, while Bowen called over some Marines, Ramage turned first to Southwick. As a warrant officer, the master was junior to the lieutenants, but he was old enough to be the father, even the grandfather, of any of them, and the bond between him and Ramage could not be measured by normal standards.

As Ramage reached out to shake the old man's hand he was startled to see tears running down the weathered cheeks, although the kindly mouth was smiling. 'Sir... sir... when your head came up the ladder I thought I was dreaming ... where were -'

'We'll exchange news later; now we have work to do!' He shook hands with the lieutenants, Paolo and several of the seamen who rushed up, still hard put to believe their own eyes and anxious to touch him, as though that would make everything a reality. Then he beckoned to Swan, and together they walked aft.

'What a five minutes, sir!' Swan exclaimed. 'You look down the muzzle of a pistol like a man looking in a window. My blood ran cold even though he wasn't aiming at me!'

'He saw five or six of me and wasn't sure which one to shoot at.'

'Even so,' Swan said, 'five to one are not good odds!'

'Well, it's over now. If I hand over the Murex to you and give you orders to rejoin the flagship, can you manage? No one will ever know if you don't feel up to it, so don't be afraid to say.'

'No, sir, thanks but I'll be all right. If you'll just give me the latitude and longitude of the rendezvous.'

'You can sail in company with us. I have to take this ship to the admiral. Do you want some more men?'

Swan shook his head. 'No, sir, so I'll get back to the Murex. What about her Ladyship? Shall I send the cutter back with her?'

'No, we can't spare the time, but as long as you make sure no one else overhears, you can tell her what you saw.'

'Any other message for her Ladyship, sir?'

'Tell her that Southwick, Stafford, Jackson and Aitken - no, just tell her that all the officers and ship's company of the Calypso send her their regards.'

Swan looked puzzled. Ramage could see that the lieutenant was wondering how on earth a captain's new wife could know all the men in his previous ship. 'They saved her life once, Swan. If you have time and if she's agreeable, get her to tell you about it: it'll help you pass the time as we beat back to the Fleet.'

Ramage stood on the fore side of the quarterdeck with Aitken as they watched the Murex brace up the foretopsail yard and then bear away to the rendezvous, the clewed-up courses soon set and drawing.

'Handsome little ships, those brigs,' Aitken said. 'Any nostalgia, sir?' he asked, knowing Ramage had commanded the Triton.

'Yes and no. "Yes" because they are handy - we tacked that one out of the Gullet with only a dozen men, and looking back on it we could probably have made do with eight. "No" because I found it strange being in that particular one, where most of the men had mutinied and handed over the ship (and their loyal shipmates) to the enemy. It's as though treachery rubs off like soot, marking everything and leaving a distinctive smell.'

'Aye, evil has a distinct smell, and all of us can recognize it. In our case it's the smell of brandy.

'It has been bad, eh?'

'Almost beyond belief, sir. We could see no end to it. There's nothing in the Articles of War or the Regulations and Instructions about it. Bowen reckoned medical reasons were the only safe way, but for the first day or so, when the drink wasn't in him, he was bright enough. Cunning and fawning, but shrewd. It seemed to me, sir, that if we took away his command and then he was cunning enough to keep off the liquor for a few weeks before the court-martial, at the trial he could make it all look very different...'

'Yes, that's the danger. When you look at something from different directions, you get different views.'

'And Bowen knew all about the effects of drink. That's how we came -'

Ramage held up a hand to stop him. 'I'm sure the ship's officers didn't conspire against the captain, Aitken, because that's forbidden. As you know, Article XX specifies death as the only punishment for anyone "concealing any traitorous or mutinous practice or design". So don't mention anything resembling conspiracy - the listener immediately becomes guilty as well.'

Aitken grinned. 'I understand that, sir. Well, it's wonderful to have you on board again.'

Ramage nodded and looked across at the Murex, now a couple of miles away. 'I think we can get under way now and rejoin the admiral with the brig. Admiral Clinton is a very puzzled man.'

They walked forward again and Aitken picked up the speaking trumpet. Ramage realized that since he last stood here a couple of months or so ago, as they tacked up the Medway to Chatham, he had married, been to France, escaped capture when the war broke out again, recaptured the Murex brig, and relieved the new captain of the Calypso of his command. What he had not done was try to rescue Jean-Jacques.

'I'm going below to see Bowen and his patient,' he told Aitken. He gave him a folded piece of paper. 'Here is the rendezvous, and you'll sight the fleet before nightfall. Ignore the Blackthorne if she starts making signals - there's no signal in the book to describe what we're doing.'

Below in the great cabin he found Bowen sitting in the chair at the desk while in the sleeping cabin Bullivant, undressed and now in his nightshirt, was breathing heavily in a drunken stupor, his lips flapping like wet laundry each time he exhaled.

Bowen hurriedly stood up as the Marine sentry announced Ramage, who gestured to him to remain seated.

'I'll take the armchair. It's good to see you, Bowen. I wish it was under happier circumstances...'

'Oh, I hope everything will turn out all right, sir,' Bowen said vaguely. 'For the moment we have about an hour before Captain Bullivant recovers consciousness and descends into the hell of delirium tremens.'

'Hell seems the right word: he seems obsessed, with it. He recognized me as the Devil when I came on board.'

'Oh yes, Satan is very real to him. For the past five or six days this ship has reeked of brimstone. The captain had all the lieutenants sprinkling the quarterdeck with holy water laced with brandy in an attempt to exorcize it, but without success.'

'This conversation never took place,' Ramage remarked, 'so tell me the story from the beginning.'

'Well, you know a good deal of the circumstances if you remember how I came to serve with you in the Triton brig,' Bowen said with disconcerting frankness.

'There are two kinds of heavy drinkers: those who drink secretly until they are stupefied, and those who don't give a damn and get drunk openly. Captain Buliivant is a secret drinker, so no one - except perhaps his family and his wife if he is married - knows. But from my own experience I can tell you he has been drinking hard for years. Four or five years, anyway: look at the veins under the skin of his face, at his nose, at his eyes when they are open. And he looks ten or twenty years older than he is.'

'But when he joined the ship,' Ramage prompted.

'Ah, yes. We had fallen behind in paying off the ship because of difficulties with the dockyard, and just as well. We (that is, Mr Aitken, because of course you were on leave) suddenly received orders to commission the ship at once, and the dockyard commissioner warned us war was likely again any moment. He also said that if you did not return from France in time, the First Lord would appoint a new captain.

'We had the ship ready in what must be record time and Captain Bullivant appeared and read himself in as the new commanding officer. Very brisk, he was, and delighted with everything Aitken and Southwick had done. He made a very good impression on every person who saw him, except one man.'

'And that was you.' It was a comment, not a question.

'Yes, I knew the symptoms which no one else ever recognizes. The constant sweating, the tiny tremor of the fingers when the hands are extended, the slightly glazed appearance of the eyes and the feeling they are never quite in focus, the smell of cashews on the breath ... the apparent temperance and lack of interest in wine and spirits. When his luggage was brought on board, I had a word with Jackson and he made sure each trunk was checked. One clinked - full of bottles, carefully packed and only two loose ones.'

'And after he had read himself in?'

'All went well the next day: orders arrived from the Admiralty to proceed to Plymouth and put ourselves under Admiral Clinton's command. We were off the Nore that night and we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of the Harwich fishing fleet. Aitken sent for the captain, who came up on deck so stupefied he could not stand without holding on to something. That was the first time we heard him see the Devil.'

'What did he look like?' Ramage asked.

'Well, we didn't see him since he only existed in the fumes affecting Captain Bullivant's brain, but we certainly heard where he was: about fifty yards on one bow and then on the other, preparing to rake us.'

'With empty bottles, I suppose.'

Bowen grinned as he shook his head. 'No, he was on the fo'c'sle of a three-decker which was "painted in orange stripes like a glorious sunset" - Captain Bullivant's exact words, though he didn't explain how he distinguished colour in the dark. All this took the lieutenants and Southwick by surprise, sir: I had kept my earlier observations to myself - I had not realized he had reached the stage of recurrent delirium tremens. I was mistaken: I should have warned Aitken.'

'But the Calypso did not sink any of the fishing vessels?'

'No, mercifully. Anyway, eventually I quieted down the captain and got him back to bed. Next morning he was - to the layman's eyes - perfectly normal, but in the secrecy of this cabin he drank himself into a stupor every night until we arrived in Plymouth ... There Aitken talked to me about reporting it all to Admiral Clinton.'

'What was your advice?'

'Well, sir, I thought of my own cunning when you and Southwick were trying to cure me and decided Captain Bullivant was a clever man, well aware of his weakness and with enough influence at the Navy Board through his contractor father to make useless anything we could do. Admiral Clinton was busy getting his fleet to sea, so if Aitken had appeared in the flagship with a story of Satan stalking the Calypso, I suspect we would have been sent a new first lieutenant, not a new captain.'

'So the Fleet sailed. Then what happened?'

'Well, that was all Captain Bullivant was waiting for: he left the entire running of the ship to Aitken. He gave orders that he was "not to be bothered with signals", and that Aitken was to execute all orders from the flagship "without troubling" him. From this we expected he would stay drinking down here in his cabin, but every now and again he would emerge raving about the Devil. He would chase him out of his cabin and up the companionway to the quarterdeck, and would then sight him behind the binnacle, behind a carronade, trying to climb the ratlines...'

'Was there anything you could do?'

'Frankly none of us had the courage. If we had bundled him below and he had later remembered it, any of us - Marine, seaman or officer - could be tried for striking a superior officer, or mutiny. So we all looked for Satan, exorcized the quarterdeck...'

'That signal for the physician?'

'That was when his delirium was reaching the crisis. Yesterday he had the ship's company mustered aft and inspected them.'

'Well, there's nothing unusual about that,' Ramage commented, feeling he ought to say something, however mild, in Bullivant's defence.

'No, sir, unless you are looking for the Devil himself - and find him hiding in the bodies of three men!'

'Which three?' asked a flabbergasted Ramage.

'The seaman Rossi, the Marchesa's young nephew Paolo Orsini - and Southwick!'

'I can understand Rossi and Orsini - they have sallow complexions and black hair. But Southwick - I always think he looks like a bishop.'

'That's exactly what Captain Bullivant said! He denounced Southwick because he said it was impossible for a bishop to be serving as the master in one of the King's ships, therefore he must be the Devil in disguise.'

'But how did this cause a crisis?'

'He swore he would hang a Devil a day until the ship was free of them. Southwick was the first and due to be executed at sunset today.'

'But the men would never haul on the rope!' Ramage said. The whole thing was unthinkable.

'Sir,' Bowen said very seriously, 'the minute he gives anyone an order and is disobeyed, that's a breach of enough Articles of War for a death sentence at a court-martial...'

'So... ?'

'So, I told Aitken that the only way out was to use "medical grounds" to get the admiral involved. I had a plan in case that failed (the signal for the physician of the fleet, I mean) but I couldn't then be sure it would work. Luckily it did when I used it...'

'The tankard of brandy and the flask?'

'Yes, sir. It's the timing that is difficult. To judge how much is needed to tip the man over the edge into oblivion - well, that depends on how much he has drunk in the previous few hours, and whether he has eaten.'

'You timed it perfectly.'

'I thought all was lost when he threw the tankard at your head. Thank goodness you realized what I had in mind.'

'I was very slow. I was surprised to see you offering him more drink. Then, quite honestly, I remembered what used to happen when Southwick and I were curing you.'

'"Completing my medical education" would be a more tactful word, sir, than "curing"!'

'As you wish. Anyway, thank you. On my behalf and the three Devils'!'

'Yes, well, Aitken and young Orsini thought of that signal. I told Aitken we should stake everything on medical grounds, and between them they thought of that signal. Aitken could only keep it hoisted for ten or fifteen minutes at a time.'

'That was long enough. The Blackthorne repeated it and it reached the admiral.'

'And he sent you at once?'

Ramage laughed dryly. 'No, if the majority of the Murexbrig's men had not mutinied and carried the ship into Brest... And had I not been near Brest on my honeymoon... And had not my wife and I had the help of four Frenchmen so we could retake the Murex... And had we not managed to sail out and accidentally meet Admiral Clinton and the Fleet... And had the Calypso not been my old ship ... No, but for all those circumstances, Mr Sawbones, I don't think your signal would have attracted the attention it deserved. Still, all's well...'

'But will all this end well?' Bowen asked anxiously. 'We still have him' - he gestured to the door of the sleeping cabin - 'in there. Supposing the admiral doesn't...'

'Oh, he'll do something about him, I am sure. Who you'll get in his place I do not know. Probably the first lieutenant of the flagship - that's usually the person who gets the first vacant frigate command.'

'But the Calypso's still inside Channel limits.'

'She won't be when the admiral makes the appointment: Brest is outside the limits. He wasn't born yesterday!'

'And you, sir?'

Ramage hesitated, thinking of L'Espoir, which, even while the Calypso and the brig rejoined the Fleet, was ploughing her way towards Cayenne, towards Devil's Island. Everything depended on Admiral Clinton. Would the Prince of Wales's friendship with a French refugee have any effect? Probably not. Almost certainly not. And even if it did, Clinton must have his own favourite frigate captains, and one of them would get orders which could bring him glory or, if he failed, square his yards for ever!

'I expect I'll be taking the brig back to Plymouth and reporting what I know of the mutiny to the Admiralty.'

'And your wife, sir? Is her Ladyship still in France? You mentioned her when you talked of retaking the brig.'

'Yes, we escaped together and she is on board the Murex. She wanted to come with me to board the Calypso, but I was rather worried about what I might find.'

'I hope her Ladyship submitted with good grace.'

'Well, you know her Ladyship, Bowen. I doubt if anyone would call her submissive,' Ramage said.

Bowen laughed and his memories of Lady Sarah Rockley, as she was before her marriage, were of a lively and high-spirited woman of grace and beauty who would captivate all the men in a drawing room and leave the women seeming as flat as ale drawn last week.