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

CHAPTER FOUR

Sarah put the triangular red scarf round her head and knotted the ends under her chin. Then coquettishly she spun round a couple of times so that her heavy black skirt swirled out and up, revealing knee-length and lace-edged white cotton drawers.

Ramage frowned and then said judiciously: 'Yes, there's a certain rustic charm, despite the revolutionary scarf. Your complexion is just right: you have the tan of a country wench who helps with the harvesting.'

'You are a beast! You know very well this is the remnants of a tropical tan!'

'I do, yes,' Ramage teased, 'but I was thinking of the gendarmes you might have to charm.'

'You don't think my accent is adequate?'

'Oh yes - thanks to Gilbert's coaching you are a true Norman from Falaise. Just remember, in case they question you, that William the Conqueror was born in the castle there, his wife was Matilda, and the Bayeux tapestry is very long!'

She walked round him. 'You don't look right, Nicholas. That hooked nose looks far too aristocratic for you to have survived the guillotine, although I admit your hair looks untidy enough for a gardener. Those trousers! I'm so used to seeing you in breeches. Isn't it curious how the revolutionaries associated breeches with the monarchists? Personally I should have thought trousers are much more comfortable than culottes. If I was a man I think my sympathies would be with the sans-culottes. I'd cry "vive les pantalons! To the bonfires with the culottes'."'

She inspected his hands. 'You have worked enough earth into the skin, my dear, but they still don't look as if they've done a good day's hoeing or digging in their entire existence. And there's something missing ... Ah, I have it! Slouch, don't stand so upright! When you stand up stiffly peering out from under those fierce eyebrows, you look just like a naval officer dressed for a rustic f#234;te. Ah, that's better.'

'Now surely I must look like the henpecked husband of a Norman shrew.'

'Yes,' she agreed, 'why don't you bear that in mind. Think of me as la m#233;g#232;re. With this red scarf round my head, I must say I feel the part!'

Gilbert slipped into the room after his usual discreet knock on the door. He excused himself and inspected Sarah closely. Finally he said: 'The shoes, milady ... they are most important.'

Sarah gestured to the pair of wooden clogs. 'And they are most uncomfortable!'

'Yes, milady, but you must wear them so that they seem natural. We are extremely lucky that Estelle had a pair which fitted you, even if those that Louis found for...'

'Even if Louis has enormous feet and I feel as though I'm wearing a couple of boats," Ramage grumbled.

'Yes, sir, but the socks?'

'The extra socks do help,' he admitted. 'I had to put on three pairs, though.'

'But the coat and pantalons - perfect. You have adopted to perfection the, how do you say, the stance, of a man of the fields.'

Ramage glared at Sarah, defying her to make a facetious comment.

Gilbert himself was dressed in black. The material of the trousers was rough, a type of serge; the coat had the rusty sheen denoting age and too much attention from a smoothing iron. He looked perfect for the role he was to play, the employer of a young couple who was taking them to market.

He was carrying a flat canvas wallet, which he unbuttoned as he walked over to the table. 'Will you check through the documents with me, sir? From what Louis reports, we might have to show them half a dozen times before we get back here.'

With that he took out three sets of paper and put one down on the table as though dealing playing cards for a game of patience.

'The passeports,' he explained. 'Foreigners need one type, and every Frenchman visiting another town needs a different sort: he has to get it from the local Committee of Public Safety, and it is valid only for the journeys there and back. Now, milady, will you examine yours.'

Sarah picked it up. The paper was coarse and greyish, and at the top was printed the arms of the Republic. The rest comprised a printed form, the blank spaces filled in with a pen. She was now Janine Rib#232;re, born Th#233;naud in Falaise, wife of Charles, no children, hair blonde, complexion jaun#226;tre. (Jaun#226;tre? She thought for a few moments, combing her French vocabulary. Ah, yes, sallow. Well, certainly Gilbert was not trying to flatter her!) Purpose of journey: multiple visits to Brest to make purchases of food from the market. She nodded and put the page down again.

Gilbert gave her another which had a seal on it and a flourish of ink which was an unreadable signature. It was smaller, had a coat of arms she did not recognize, but bore the name of the department beneath it.

'This, madame, is a certificate issued in Falaise, and saying, as you can see, that you were born there, with the date. And beneath the pr#233;fet's signature is a note that you removed to the province of Brittany on your marriage. And beneath that the signature of the pr#233;fet of Brittany.'

'All these signatures!' Sarah exclaimed. 'Supposing someone compares them with originals?'

Gilbert smiled and took the sheet of paper. 'If he does he will find they are genuine. Pr#233;fets sign these papers by the dozen and leave them to underlings to fill in the details.'

'But how did you get them?'

'That's none of our business,' Ramage said. 'Where did we get them from officially?'

'Madame had this issued to her by the mairie in Falaise and it was signed in Caen (the pr#233;fet gives the name). Then she had the addition made at the pr#233;fecture here. The passeport, too, comes from the pr#233;fecture in Brest. I shall point it out to you.'

He took a second set of papers. 'These are yours, milord. The same kind of documents but you see there is one extra - your discharge from the Navy of France. Dated, you will notice, one month before your wedding. The ship named here was damaged in a storm at Havre de Gr#226;ce and is still there. You were discharged and were making your way home when you met a young lady in Caen and you both fell in love...'

Gilbert tapped the paper which had the anchor symbol and the heading 'Ministry of the Marine and Colonies' and, like the others, was a printed form with the blanks filled in. 'You are of military age, so you will have to show this everywhere.'

'And you? Have you the correct documents?' Ramage asked. 'You aren't taking any extra risks by coming with us?'

Gilbert shook his head. 'No, because I have all the necessary papers to go shopping in Brest. I am well known at the barri#232;res. You have told madame about the difference between foreigners and French people passing the barri#232;res?'

'No. We've been busy making these clothes fit and I would prefer you to explain. My experience in Republican France is now several years old: I'm sure much has changed.'

Gilbert sighed. 'To leave the ancien r#233;gime and go to England ... then to return to Republican France. Now it is the guillotine, the tree of liberty, gendarmes every few miles, documents signed and countersigned ... no man can walk or ride to the next town to have a glass of wine with his brother without a passeport ... few men dare quarrel with a neighbour for fear of being denounced out of spite, for here the courts listen to the charge, not the defence -'

'The barri#232;res,' Ramage reminded him.

'Ah yes, sir. Well, first there is the curfew from sunset to sunrise: everyone must be in his own home during the hours of darkness. To travel - well, one has the documents you have seen. You need plenty of change - at every barri#232;re there's a toll. The amount varies, depending on the distance from the last barri#232;re, because they are not at regular intervals.'

'A large toll?' Ramage asked.

'No, usually between two and twenty sous. It wouldn't matter if the money was spent on the repair of the roads - which is what it is supposed to be for - but no one empties even a bucket of earth into a pothole. But luckily we have our own gig because travelling by postchaise is very expensive. Before the Revolution a postchaise from here to Paris was about 250 livres; now it is 500. No highwaymen, though; that's one triumph of the Revolution!'

'Highwaymen!' Sarah exclaimed. 'You mean that France now has none?'

'Very few, ma'am, and the reason is not particularly to our advantage. We now have many more mounted gendarmes stopping honest travellers, and instead of money and jewellery they demand documents. Truly "money or your life" has now become "documents or your life". So as well as the gendarmes at the regular barri#232;res, there are ones who appear unexpectedly on horseback, so no one dares move without papers. But,' he added, tapping the side of his nose, 'there are so many different documents and so many signatures that forgery is not difficult and false papers unlikely to be discovered.'

'How many barri#232;res are there between here and Brest?' Ramage asked.

'Three on the road, and then one at the Porte de Landerneau, the city gate on the Paris road. We could avoid it by going in along the side roads, but it is risky: if we were caught we would be arrested at once.'

'Whereas our documents are good enough to pass the Porte without trouble?'

'Exactly, sir. Now, if I may be allowed to remind you of a few things. As you know, the common form of address is "Citizen", or "Citizeness". Everyone is equal - at least in their lack of manners. "Please" and "thank you" are now relics of the ancien r#233;gime. Rudeness is usually a man's (or woman's) way of showing he or she is your equal - although they really mean your superior. Many gendarmes cannot read - they know certain signatures and have them written on pieces of paper for comparison. But don't be impatient if a gendarme holds a paper upside-down and "reads" it for five minutes - as if it has enormous importance. They are gendarmes because they have influence with someone in authority. Neither the Committees of Public Safety nor the pr#233;fets want illiterates, but often giving a job to such a man is repaying a political debt from the time of the Revolution.'

Gilbert paused and then apologized. 'I am afraid I am talking too much...'

'No, no,' Ramage said quickly. 'And you must get into the habit of giving orders to "Charles" and "Janine". Lose your temper with me occasionally - I am a slow-thinking fellow. Poor Charles Rib#232;re, he can read slowly and write after a fashion, but ... even his wife loses her patience with him!'

A smiling Gilbert nodded. He found it impossible to toss aside the natural politeness by which he had led his life. Since he had been back in France, some Frenchmen had called it servility: why are you so servile, they had sneered: man is born free and equal. Yes, all that was true, but man also had to eat, which meant he had to work (or be a thief, or go into politics). Working for the Count was very equable: he lived in comfortable quarters, ate the same food as the Count and his guests, but in his own quarters without the need (as the Count often had) to let the food get cold as he listened to vapid gossip. But for these revolutionary fools he could have expected a comfortable old age with a good pension from the Count, and probably a cottage on the estate, here or in England.

'Servility' - yes, that was what these Republican fools called it. Elsewhere, particularly in England, it was called good manners. Please, thank you, good morning, good evening - according to the Republicans these were 'servile phrases'. A true Republican never said please or thank you. But he had never listened to the Count, either: the Count always said please and thank you and the suitable greeting every time he spoke to one of his staff. In fact, a blind man would only know who was servant and who was master because the Count had an educated voice: his grammar, too, betrayed his background of Latin and Greek, and English and Italian. Gilbert had once heard him joking in Latin with a bishop who laughed so much he became nearly hysterical. No Committee of Public Safety would ever understand that normal good manners were like grease on axles - they helped things move more smoothly.

'I think Edouard will have the gig ready for us by now,' Gilbert said, making a conscious effort to avoid any 'sir' or 'milord'. 'We are going to buy fruit - our apples have been stolen - and vegetables: the potatoes have rotted in the barn. And indeed they have. We need a bag of flour, a bag of rice if we can buy some, and any vegetables that catch your fancy. I am tired of cabbage and parsnip, which is all we seem to grow here. A lot of salt in the air from the sea makes the land barren, so Louis says, but I think it is laziness in the air from the Count's good nature.'

Gilbert gestured towards two wicker baskets as they reached the back door. 'We take these to carry our purchases - you put them on your laps. I have all the documents here and will drive the gig, because your hands are occupied.' He winked and then looked startled at his temerity in winking at a milord and a milady. Ramage winked back and Sarah grinned: the grin, Ramage thought in a sudden surge of affection, of a lively and flirtatious serving wench being impertinent. Impudent. Adorable. And what a honeymoon - here they were setting off (in a gig!) at the beginning of an adventure which could end up with them all being strapped down on the guillotine. So far, the Committee of Public Safety (though perhaps the Ministry of Marine would step in, but more likely Bonaparte's secret police under that man Fouch#233; would take over) could accuse Captain Ramage of disobeying the order to report to the local pr#233;fet as an otage, because to call them detainees and not hostages was polite nonsense. Then of course he was carrying false papers and dressed as a gardener - proof that he was a spy. And he was lurking around France's greatest naval base on the Atlantic coast ... Yes, a tribunal would have only to hear the charges to return a verdict. And Sarah? A spy too - did she not carry false papers? Was she not assisting her husband? Was she not also an aristo by birth, as well as marriage? Alors, she can travel in the same tumbril, and that valet, too, who was a traitor as well as a spy.

As he helped Sarah up into the gig and heard a disapproving grunt from Gilbert (husbands might give wives a perfunctory push up, but they did not help them), he thought bitterly that their luck had been unbelievably bad. First, that the war had begun again while they were on their honeymoon - after all, the peace had held for a year and a half. Then that they should be staying with Jean-Jacques. Admittedly they would have been arrested if they had been staying at an inn, but the point was that they were now involved with L'Espoir and trying to think of a way of rescuing the Count of Rennes. Noblesse oblige. He was becoming tired of that phrase - his first love, the Marchesa di Volterra, was back in Italy because of it, and possibly already one of Bonaparte's otages, too. An otage if she had not yet been assassinated.

So, heavily involved with keeping himself and Sarah out of the hands of the local Committee of Public Safety, trying to rescue Jean-Jacques, and getting all of them (including the faithful and enterprising Gilbert) back to England, it was not just bad luck, it was damnable luck which brought the Murex through the Chenal du Four and into Brest with a mutinous crew on board.

Or, he allowed himself the thought and at once felt almost dizzy with guilt, why did the mutineers not put the officers and loyal seamen in a boat and let them sail back to England? Why keep them on board and bring them into Brest, where the French had anchored the ship, landed the mutineers and left the officers and loyal men on board the brig with an apparently small French guard? Now every gendarme in the port would be on the alert in case one of the loyal men escaped from the Murex; every fishing boat would be guarded - perhaps by soldiers - so that the chance of stealing one and getting back to England would probably be nil. Damn and blast the mutineers - and her captain, for not preventing the mutiny! He was not being fair and he found he had no wish to be fair: he wanted only to find someone to blame for this mess.

Lord St Vincent! The name slid into his thoughts as Gilbert flipped the reins so that they slapped across the horse's flanks and started it moving. Yes, if Lord St Vincent had not given him, as his first peacetime orders, the task of finding a tiny island off the Brazilian coast and surveying it, he would never have met Sarah. If they had never met they would never have fallen in love and from that it followed they would never have married or be here on a prolonged honeymoon through France. Which, he admitted, was as disgraceful a thought as any man should have so near breakfast.

The country round the ch#226;teau was bleak. Or, rather, it was wild: it had the harsh wildness of parts of Cornwall, the thin layer of soil sprinkled on rock, rugged boulders jutting up as though scattered by an untidy giant. The small houses built of tightly-locked grey stone, some long ago whitewashed, roofed by slates, a small shelter for a horse or donkey, a low wall containing the midden. Life here was a struggle against nature: crops grew not with the wild profusion and vigour of the Tropics - to which he had become accustomed over the past few years - but because men and women hoed and dug and ploughed and weeded from dawn to dusk.

Gilbert became impatient with the horse, a chestnut which looked as though it was not exercised enough and heartily resented being between shafts. Perhaps, Ramage thought sourly, it was a Republican and resented having to work (if jogging along this lane rated the description 'work') for Monarchists.

'Pretend to be asleep - or sleepy, anyway,' Gilbert said as they approached the first village. Ramage inspected it through half-closed eyes, and for a moment was startled how different it was from all the villages he had seen up to now. A few moments later he realized that the village was the same but his attitude had just changed. He had been a free visitor when he had seen all the other villages on the roads from Calais to Paris, south across Orl#233;ans and the Bourbonnais, among the hills of Auvergne, and to the northwest up towards Finisterre through Poitou and Anjou ... Towns and villages, Limoges with its superb porcelain and enamels, the fourth-century baptistry of the church near Poitiers which is France's earliest Christian building ... Clermont-Ferrand, where Pope Urban (the second?) sent off the first Crusade in 1095 (why did he remember that date?), the ch#226;teaux and palaces along the Loire Valley ... Angers with the ch#226;teau of seventeen towers belonging formerly to the Dukes of Anjou, and no one now willing to discuss the whereabouts of the tapestries, particularly the fourteenth-century one which was more than 430 feet long. And Chinon, on the banks of the Vienne, where Joan of Arc prodded the Dauphin into war. No, all these towns had been impressive and the villages on the long roads between them for the most part interesting (or different, anyway), but they had been at peace - with England, at least.

With England: that, he suddenly realized, was significant, and he wished he could discuss it with Sarah but it had to be talked about in English, not French, and it was too risky talking in English when they could be overheard by a hidden hedger and ditcher.

The French had been at peace with England but not yet with themselves. He had been surprised to see that the enemy for the people of all the villages, towns and cities of France was now their own people: the members of the Committees of Public Safety at the top of a pyramid which spread out to gendarmes enforcing the curfew and standing at the barri#232;res demanding passeports, the old enemies denouncing each other in secret, the banging on doors in the darkness, when no neighbour dared to look to see who the gendarmes were bundling away.

Libert#233;, Egalit#233;, Fraternit#233; - fine words. They had stretched France's frontiers many miles to the north, east and south, but what had they done for the French people? Now every able-bodied young man would have to serve again in the Army or Navy, and there was no harm in that if they were needed to defend France. But France would be attacking other countries: earlier France was everywhere the aggressor, even across the sands of Egypt.

That was looking at the phrase in its broadest sense, yet the picture those three words summoned up for him was simple and one that fitted every place in every city, town and large village in France.

The picture was stark and simple: two weathered baulks of timber arranged as a vertical and parallel frame, and a heavy and angled metal blade, sharpened on the underside, sliding down two grooves. A bench on which the victim was placed so that his or her neck was squarely under the blade, a wicker basket beyond to catch the severed head. Weeping relatives and wildly cheering onlookers - that dreadful melange of blood and hysteria. Of the three words, the guillotine must stand for fraternit#233; and #233;galit#233; because libert#233; was represented by the other part of the picture. This was the rusted metal representation of the Tree of Liberty. Usually it was little more than an example of the work of a hasty blacksmith and always it was rusty. And sometimes on the top was placed a red cap of liberty, faded and rotting, rarely recognizable as a copy of the old Phrygian cap.

And the gig had stopped and Gilbert was getting out and saying something in a surly voice, using a tone Ramage had never heard before. Yes, they had arrived at the barri#232;re. It was in fact simply three chairs and a table in the shade of a plane tree on one side of the road. Three gendarmes sat in the chairs and one had called to Gilbert to bring over the documents. Gilbert was carrying not just the canvas wallet but a bottle of wine.

Pretending to be asleep, hat tilted over his face, Ramage watched. Gilbert took out the papers - leaving the bottle on his side of the table, as though putting it there to leave his hands free - and handed them to the gendarme, who still sat back in his chair and gestured crossly when Gilbert first placed the papers on the table. To pick them up the gendarme would have to lean forward, and this he was reluctant to do. Gilbert put the documents in the man's hand, and the gendarme glanced through them, obviously counting. He then looked across at the gig and handed the papers back, holding his hand out for the bottle.

Gilbert walked back to the gig, resumed his seat, slapped the reins across the horse's rump and the gig continued its slow journey towards Brest. The other two gendarmes, Ramage noticed, had never opened their eyes.

Beyond the village, Gilbert turned. 'You saw all that - obviously they are not looking for any escapers. That is the routine, though: two sleep while the other reaches out a hand.'

'So our papers are not -'

The thud of horses' hooves behind them brought the sudden command from Gilbert: 'Don't look round - mounted gendarmes. Pretend to be asleep!'

A moment later two horsemen cut in from the left side, then two more passed on the right and reined their horses to a stop, blocking the narrow road.

'Papers!' one of the men demanded, holding out his hand.

'Papers, papers, papers,' Gilbert grumbled. 'We have only just showed them back there, now the four horsemen of the Apocalypse want to look at them again...'

One of the gendarmes grinned and winked at Sarah. 'We like to check up on pretty girls on a sunny morning - where are you going, mademoiselle?'

'Madame,' Sarah said sleepily. 'To Brest with my husband.'

Her accent and the tone of voice was perfect, Ramage realized. The gendarme was flirting; she was the virtuous wife.

The gendarme looked through the papers. 'Ah, Citizeness Rib#232;re, born twenty-two years ago in Falaise. You look younger - marriage must suit you.' He looked at Ramage. 'Citizen Rib#232;re? Off to Brest to buy your wife some pretty ribbons, eh?'

'Potatoes and cabbages, and rice if there is any,' Ramage said with glum seriousness. 'No ribbons.'

The gendarme laughed, looked at Gilbert's passeport and handed the papers back to him. 'You buy her a ribbon, then,' he said, and spurred his horse forward, the other three following him.

'Was that normal?' Ramage asked.

'Yes - but for, er Janine, I doubt if they would have bothered to stop us.'

They passed the next couple of barri#232;res without incident, although at the second two of the gendarmes were more concerned with their colleague who was already incoherently drunk but unwilling to sleep it off out of sight under the hedge. He had spotted the bottle that an unsuspecting Gilbert had been clutching as he alighted from the gig and probably saw a dozen. Finally, while Gilbert waited patiently at the table, the other two dragged the man away, returning five minutes later without apology or explanation to inspect the papers.

As they jogged along the Paris road into Brest, Ramage spotted the masts of ships in the port. Some were obviously ships of the line and most, he commented to Sarah, had their yards crossed with sails bent on. The French seamen had been busy since the two of them had spent the afternoon at Pointe St Mathieu.

Five gendarmes lounged at the Porte de Landerneau, the gate to the port, but they were too concerned with baiting a gaunt priest perched on an ancient donkey to pay much attention to three respectable citizens in a gig, obviously bound for the market.

The road ahead was straight but the buildings on each side were neglected. No door or window had seen a paintbrush for years; the few buildings that years ago had been whitewashed bow seemed to be suffering from a curious leprosy.

'This leads straight down to the Place de la Libert#233; and the town hall,' Gilbert had explained in French. 'Just beyond that is the H#244;tel du Commandant de la Marine. Then we carry on past it along the Rue de Siam to the river. While we jog along the Boulevard de la Marine you'll have a good view of the river as it meets Le Goulet, with the arsenal opposite. Then to the Esplanade du Ch#226;teau. There we'll stop for a glass of wine under the trees and you can inspect the Ch#226;teau.'

He laughed to himself and then added: 'From the Esplanade it is only two minutes' walk to the Rue du Bois d'Amour ... in the evenings the young folk dawdle under the trees there and look down Le Goulet at the ships and perhaps dream of visiting the mysterious East.'

'But now, the young men have to be careful the press gangs don't take them off to the men o' war,' Ramage said dryly.

'Yes, I keep forgetting the war. Look,' he said absently, 'we are just passing the cemetery. The largest I've ever seen.'

'I'll keep it in mind,' Ramage said in a mock serious voice. 'For the moment I have no plans to visit it.'

Gilbert finally turned the gig into the open market place, a paved square, and told Ramage and Sarah to alight. Sarah looked at the stalls while Gilbert secured the horse and groaned. 'Potatoes ... a few cabbages ... more potatoes ... a few dozen parsnips ... Louis may be right about the soil at Finisterre!'

There were about twenty stalls, wooden shacks with tables in front of which the sellers spread their wares and gossiped.

Gilbert said: 'We'll walk to the end stall; I have a friend there.'

Despite the lack of variety, the sellers were cheerful, shouting to each other and haggling noisily with the dozen or so buyers walking along the line of tables. The man at the end stall proved to be one Ramage would normally have avoided without a moment's thought. His face was thin and a wide scar led across his left cheek, a white slash against suntanned skin. His hair was unfashionably long and tied behind in a queue. He wore a fisherman's smock which seemed almost rigid from frequent coatings of red ochre, which certainly made it waterproof and, Ramage thought ironically, probably bulletproof too.

He shook hands with Gilbert, who said: 'I am not introducing you to my friends because - to onlookers - we all know each other well.'

The Frenchman immediately shook Ramage's hand in the casual form of greeting taking place all over the market as friends met each other for the first time in the day, and he gave a perfunctory bow to Sarah, saying softly: 'The Revolution does not allow me to kiss your hand, which is sad.'

'Now,' Gilbert said, 'I shall inspect your potatoes, which are small and old and shrivelled and no one but a fool would buy, and ask you what is happening in the Roads.'

'Ah, very busy. The potatoes I have here on display are small and old because I have already sold twenty sacks to the men from the H#244;tel du Commandant de la Marine, who were here early. Paying cash, they are. They tried buying against notes de cr#233;dit on the Navy, but suddenly no one in the market had any potatoes, except what were on these tables.'

'Why the Navy's sudden need for potatoes?'

'You've heard about the English mutineers? Yes, well, you know the English exist on potatoes. All the mutineers are now billeted in the Ch#226;teau and demanding potatoes. On board their brig there are still prisoners and their guards, demanding potatoes - it seems the ones they have are mildewed. And that frigate over there, L'Espoir, is leaving for Cayenne with d#233;port#233;s, and they want more potatoes...'

'Who had your sacks?' Ramage asked.

'Nobody yet. They paid extra to have them delivered - it seems that with so many ships being prepared for sea, with the war starting, they're short of boats. So I pay a friend of mine a few livres to use his boat and the Navy pays me many livres!'

Ramage thought a moment. 'Are you going to carry all the sacks on your own?'

'I was hoping my nephew would help me when he's finished milking.'

Ramage glanced at Gilbert then at the man. 'Two of us could help you now.'

The Frenchman pulled at his nose. 'How much?'

Ramage smiled as he said: 'Our services would be free.' He looked at Gilbert, seeking his approval. 'We could carry the potatoes down to the jetty in the gig.'

Gilbert nodded enthusiastically. 'Then Janine can look after it while we go out to the Murex.'

'The loyal men who are prisoners of war in the English ship do not speak French,' the man said pointedly.

'If I needed to speak to them, it would be in whispers.'

The man nodded. 'It would have to be,' he said. 'Much discretion is needed.'

Gilbert walked away from the tiller and took a rope thrown down from the Murex's deck. As he turned it up on a kevil he shouted forward at Ramage in well simulated anger: 'Hurry up! Not so tight - you'll jam our bow into the Englishman. We want to lie alongside her, not butt her like a goat!'

'Yes, citizen,' Ramage called aft in a remorse-laden voice. 'These ships, I am used to a cart with wheels...'

Several French seamen lining the Murex's bulwarks roared with laughter and in a glance Ramage counted them. Seven, and the fellow at the end, probably the bosun, had been giving orders. Was that all the French guard, seven men? It seemed likely, though he would soon know.

'Here,' a voice called down in French and the tail of another rope curled down. 'Secure that somewhere there as a spring.'

He saw that Gilbert was already making up another rope as a spring, so that the fishing boat was held securely against the brig. A glance aloft then showed that some British seamen, prisoners, were working slowly and obviously resentfully under the shouts and gesticulations of a French bosun, who was becoming more and more exasperated that he could not make himself understood as he tried to get them to rig a staytackle to hoist the sacks of potatoes on board.

Again Ramage counted. More than a dozen prisoners, though some of the men reeving the rope through the blocks were officers. Obviously the French guards were practising #233;galit#233;.

Another shout from the Murex's deck brought a stream of curses from Gilbert and the vegetable seller (Ramage had established his name was Auguste), and something landed with a thump on the deck beside him. It was a heavy rope net.

'Spread it out flat on the deck, then put two sacks in the middle,' the bosun shouted. 'Hurry up, or this ship will never sail!'

Ramage hurried with the net and found it easy to make the job last twice as long as necessary while appearing to work with ferocious energy. While he was untangling the thick mesh he slowly inspected the Murex.

She had been out of the dockyard for only a few weeks: that much had been obvious as the fishing boat had approached because the brig was rolling at anchor enough to show that her copper sheathing was new, each overlapping edge of a sheet helping make a mosaic still bright and still puckered where the hammers driving home the flat-headed sheathing nails had dented the metal.

Her hull, a dark grey with a white strake, showed that her captain was a wealthy man: he had been prepared to pay for the paint himself, because the dockyard's meagre ration was black, Some captains who wanted a particularly smart ship paid for the gold leaf to line out the name on the transom, and pick up decorations on the capstan head. The captain of the Murex was one of them.

With the net spread out on the only flat part of the fishing boat's deck, the tiny fo'c'sle, Ramage climbed down into the little fish hold and hauled a couple of sacks up to the coaming. The stench was appalling: whoever had to eat these potatoes would think they had been grown in Billingsgate fish market.

Auguste's lopsided face appeared over the edge of the coaming. 'You are doing well,' he muttered. 'A clumsier oaf straight from the farm never set foot in a fishing boat.'

'How many guards, do you reckon?'

'Seven, but we'll know for sure when we get on board.'

'Can we manage that?' Ramage asked.

'The knot I shall use to secure the net for the staytackle hook is almost impossible to undo - and I am an impatient man! Here, sling up that sack!'

Gilbert arrived to help haul the first two sacks to the net, and the two Frenchmen gathered up the four corners. Auguste produced a short length of rope to secure them together while Ramage played the simpleton with the dangling end of the staytackle, using it to swing on until one of the French guards quickly slacked it so that Ramage suddenly dropped to the deck with a yell of alarm. That established his position as far as the French guards were concerned: he was the buffoon, the man who fell down hatches and on to whose head sacks of potatoes dropped.

Auguste knotted the corners of the net, took the staytackle and hooked it on, and shouted up to the Murex's deck to start hauling. There was a delay, the French guards were not going to haul sacks of potatoes aloft, but Ramage saw equally clearly that their British prisoners, tailing on to the tackle, would have the French bosun demented by the time the last sack was on board.

'Don't stand under the net,' he warned Auguste and Gilbert, and a moment later the net and two sacks came crashing down on the deck again, making the little fishing boat shudder as it caught the forestay a glancing blow and set the mast shuddering.

Auguste sent up a stream of curses and warned the French bosun that he, the commandant of the port, the Navy, and the Minister of Marine himself would all be responsible for any damage done to the boat. A moment later the bosun was swearing in French at the British seamen, who were swearing back in the accents of London, the West Country and Scotland. One man, they were protesting, had tripped and brought the rest of them down, but the French bosun, not understanding a word, was threatening them with the lash, the noose, the guillotine and prison, and as he ran out of ideas, Auguste restated his warning, adding that it was not worth losing a fishing boat for the profit on a few sacks of potatoes.

Finally, amid more shouting than Ramage had thought possible from so few men, the net and its sacks were slowly rehoisted and hauled on board the Murex. A run-amok choir, Ramage thought, well primed with rum, could not do better.

Auguste gestured to Ramage and the two men scrambled up the brig's side, followed by Gilbert. The bosun and two French seamen were crouched over the net, struggling to undo Auguste's knot. Ramage and Gilbert were by chance within four or five feet of the British seamen who had been hauling on the tackle.

As all the French guards hurried to help the almost apoplectic bosun undo the knot, Ramage hissed at the nearest man, who from his creased and torn uniform must be one of the brig's lieutenants: 'Quickly - don't show surprise and keep your voice down: I am Captain Ramage. How many loyal men are there on board?'

The lieutenant paused and then knelt as if adjusting the buckle of his shoe. 'Captain, two lieutenants, master, eleven seamen.'

'And French guards?'

'Seven. They keep half of us in the bilboes while half are free.'

'Who commands?'

'Lieutenant Rumsie.'

'Where do the French keep you?'

'At night all of us are kept in irons in the manger.'

'The guards?'

'Two sit with muskets, the rest sleep in our cabins and use the gunroom.'

Gilbert suddenly called to Auguste, asking if he needed help with the knot, and Ramage realized that a French seaman with a musket was walking along the deck towards them, not suspicious but simply patrolling where the prisoners were working.

Ramage decided there was time for one last question.

'Are the mutineers coming back on board?'

'No, and the French are asking Paris what to do with us prisoners and keeping us on board until they hear.'

With that the net opened, the two sacks were hauled clear, and the perspiring bosun signalled to the Britons to hoist again.

Auguste scrambled back on board the fishing boat, followed by Gilbert and Ramage, who once again, climbed down into the fish hold as the two Frenchmen unhooked the net and spread it on the deck again.

As they came to the coaming to lift out the sacks, Auguste muttered: 'Did you find out anything?'

'From the English, yes.'

'What do you want to know from the bosun?'

'Are they taking the job of guarding very seriously?'

'I can tell you that without asking. It is a holiday - they have jars of rum in the gunroom and one of them was boasting to me that most of them stay drunk all day and sleep it off at night. The bosun is so drunk at the moment he sees two nets, four knots and eight sacks each time we hoist.'

'Good, then just find out how long they expect - here, you'd better hoist up this sack while I get the other ready.'

When Auguste's head appeared at the coaming again Ramage finished the question: '- expect to be guarding these men and what the French Navy intend doing with the Murex.'

'Very well. The bosun will probably invite us all below for a drink anyway, when we've finished loading.'

It was clear no one was really in a hurry: Auguste tied the net withhis special knot and then as soon as the sacks were swayed on board he climbed up to help untie it.

Gilbert and Ramage went on board each time, casually sitting on the breech of a gun close to the prisoners so that Ramage could continue talking to the lieutenant, who had recovered from his surprise sufficiently to have questions of his own.

'Why are you here, sir?'

'Caught in France when the war began again. Trying to avoid capture. Are the rest of your men loyal?'

'They don't want to be prisoners of the French,' the lieutenant said carefully.

'Where's the captain?'

'He's under guard in the master's cabin. Sick, I believe.'

'What's his trouble?'

'Rheumatic pains. He can hardly move.'

The net was being hoisted over the side and the three of them climbed down into the fishing boat once again.

Auguste leaped over the coaming to grasp a sack and said: 'Trouble with the English captain.'

'So I've heard.'

'Rheumatic pains. Makes him bad-tempered. Bullied the men and most mutinied.'

'How long do the prisoners stay on board?'

'Who knows? They won't be short of potatoes, anyway,' Auguste said.

As soon as the last sacks were pulled off the net, the French bosun mopped his forehead with a dirty piece of cloth and mumbled drunkenly: 'English rum - we all deserve some. Follow me.' He stumbled aft and went cautiously down the companionway to the gunroom.

Ramage felt he was walking back in time: the Murex was almost identical with his second command, the Triton brig. There was more fancy work covering handrails, all of it well scrubbed until a few days ago, and the captain must have an obsession for turk's heads: the knots were neat but there was one on every spoke of the wheel, whereas usually there was only one on the spoke which was uppermost with the rudder amidships.

The brasswork was dulling now because it had not been polished with brick dust for several days, presumably since the mutiny. The deck was reasonably clean but unscrubbed, stained here and there by the French seamen who chewed tobacco.

He followed the others down the companionway. The gunroom was stuffy because the French did not believe in keeping skylights open. Why did they not use the captain's cabin? Probably not enough chairs: brigs were sparsely furnished and the gunroom made a better centre for meals and card playing. It was a rectangular open space formed by a row of cabins on each side. The cabins were little more than boxes made of canvas stretched across light wooden frames, and the only substantial parts were the doors. Over the top of each door was painted the rank of its normal occupant - the lieutenants, marine officer, master and surgeon.

The table filling the centre of the gunroom was filthy now, spattered with dried soup, crumbs and crusts of bread and dark stains of red wine. The racks above several of the doors had once held the occupants' telescopes and swords, but were now empty - the first Frenchmen to board the mutinous ship must have done well, probably relieving the mutineers of their loot before they were taken on shore.

The bosun gestured to everyone to sit on the two forms beside the table, on which stood a large wicker-covered rum jar whose fumes filled the gunroom.

The bosun and three guards. Four in all, and he had counted seven, a figure confirmed by the lieutenant. So now three Frenchmen were guarding the prisoners. There was a muffled groan from one of the cabins and Auguste, Gilbert and Ramage all looked inquiringly at the bosun, who grinned.

'The English captain. His rheumatism is bad. Saves us guarding him because he can't move.'

Gilbert reached for a battered metal mug and the bosun took the hint, lifting the rum jar and beginning to pour into a sorry collection of mugs. A French seaman said: 'One of the mutineers spoke some French, and before he was taken to the Ch#226;teau he told me the captain had been in his cot since the day after they sailed.'

'Why did they mutiny?'

'The rheumatism made the captain bad-tempered, so this rosbif said. He used to order many floggings. Hurting other people seemed to ease his own pain. He should have tried this,' the seaman said, lifting his mug of rum. 'But they said he did not drink. Prayed a lot, though it didn't seem to ease his problems.' The man gave a dry laugh. 'In fact praying seems to have brought him many troubles!'

'The mutineers - they are Frenchmen now, eh?' Gilbert asked as he raised his mug in a toast to the bosun.

'Frenchmen?' The bosun was shocked. He considered the matter, taking hearty sips of his rum. 'No, not Frenchmen. After all, if they mutinied against their own officers, they could mutiny against us. They have no loyalty to anyone, those buffoons.'

Ramage was startled to hear the man talk such reasonable sense. So, the mutineers were not welcome in Brest.

'But you are glad to have the ship!' he said.

The bosun shrugged. 'For me, it is of no importance: we have enough ships now - you can see the fleet we are preparing. This brig I do not like. It goes to windward slowly.'

'But surely the mutineers will be rewarded?' Ramage persisted.

'Oh yes, they'll be given a few livres each at the Ch#226;teau, and thanked. Who knows, if the English Navy hear that they get a good reception at Brest, perhaps they'll bring in some frigates, or maybe even ships of the line!

'We'll thank them for their ships,' the bosun continued, topping up his mug from the rum jar, 'but I expect we'll make sure the men leave the country after signing up in neutral ships. The Americans will be glad of them - they speak the same language. And the Dutch and the Danes are always glad to get prime seamen.'

'So these men that refused to join the mutiny,' Ramage persisted, managing to introduce a complaining whine into his voice, 'they won't be punished? Not executed or flogged?'

'Of course not,' the bosun said impatiently. 'They'll be taken off to the prison at Valenciennes or Verdun or wherever it is that they keep them. The first prisoners of the new war,' he added. 'Come on now, let's drink to thousands more!'