Ramage's Signal Page 25

  “Duck!” he shouted. “Crouch down below the thwarts.” At the same moment he launched himself across the body of the man with the broken leg.

  Then pieces of wreckage from the Merle and the French ship of the line began falling from the sky as though an avalanche of trees was sweeping a mountain pass.

  Finally it stopped and, with his night vision completely destroyed by the flash, Ramage was thankful for the moon to give him a sense of direction. The men resumed their places at the thwarts and Ramage found that only one couple had let go of their oar, which was quickly fished back on board.

  “Right, let’s find Mr Southwick and see what he thinks of our firework display.”

  “Beats anyfing I ever saw at Vauxhall Gardens,” Stafford admitted, “but I fink I bin permentually deafened.”

  “‘Permanently,’” Jackson corrected automatically. “No, it’ll soon go, more’s the pity.”

  Southwick and the gig saw the cutter first against the moon and hailed, and five minutes later both boats were lying alongside each other, the two crews exchanging stories.

  Southwick scrambled into the cutter. “I’m sorry, sir, I let you down,” he said sheepishly, “but I swear that reef isn’t on the chart!”

  “I know it isn’t, and it’s lucky we both didn’t hit it. Anyway, we all overestimated the amount of powder needed!”

  “I’m ashamed to say we had the best view, sir,” the Master said. “And we knew you had escaped in time because we caught sight of the cutter in the flash. But the water it threw up—it even drifted down to us, and we’re to windward. And the wreckage! We could see yards and great baulks of timber landing hundreds of yards away. The splashes showed up in the moonlight.”

  “The wreckage missed us,” Ramage said thankfully, “but there were some enormous lumps crashing round. Well, by the time we get to the Calypso I’ll be ready for breakfast.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BY NOON the Calypso’s Surgeon, Bowen, came to Ramage’s cabin to report that Palmer, the seaman with a broken leg,

  was resting comfortably. “I gave him a drop of medicinal brandy, sir.”

  “Ah, so much better than the ordinary sort.”

  “Ah, yes indeed; it eases the pain like other spirits, but the seamen taste it so rarely that its effect seems magical,” Bowen said with a straight face.

  Ramage thought back. How long ago? It had been two or three years since Bowen had joined Ramage’s ship and proved to be an alcoholic. A brilliant surgeon, he had had a flourishing practice in Wimpole Street until his patients were scared away by his drinking. Finally an impoverished wreck of a man went to the Navy, the only people who would pay him for practising his profession—and let him buy his liquor duty-free … But by chance Bowen had been sent to serve in a ship commanded by Lieutenant Ramage.

  What followed had been desperate for Bowen and thoroughly unpleasant for Ramage and Southwick, but Ramage, having neither the time nor the authority to get rid of Bowen because the ship had to sail at once for the West Indies, was determined that his seamen’s lives should not be in the hands of a permanently drunken surgeon. So once at sea he and Southwick had cured

  Bowen by cutting off his liquor. It had been a dreadful nightmare for them all; for days Bowen had been ravaged by delirium tremens; during the worst hours when they sat with him both Ramage and Southwick had themselves almost seen the imaginary horrors that attacked the struggling, fevered man. And finally it had been all over; Bowen was cured and now never touched spirits; he could sit down to dinner and pass the wine and prescribe medicinal brandy. He viewed the world with a clear eye and, when needed, used a scalpel with a hand that did not tremble.

  “Palmer would like to see you, sir.”

  “Yes, I was going to call in the sick bay. I see you have no other customers,” he said, holding up Bowen’s daily report. “It’s amazing how the prospect of action cures costive complaints and rheumatic pains!”

  “If we were in action once a week, I could retire and spend my time working out chess problems,” Bowen admitted. “When you go into battle you have so few casualties that you won’t get rapid promotion, sir,” he added dryly. “The Admiralty seem to judge a captain’s ability and bravery by the size of his butcher’s bill.”

  “I know,” Ramage said evenly, “that’s obvious from the despatches published in the Gazette and the subsequent promotions. However, if the price of getting the command of a 74 is having a thousand men killed and wounded round me over the years, I’ll happily stay with a frigate.”

  “Palmer wants to see Jackson as well. He won’t tell me why.”

  “They’re probably friends and Jackson knows where he’s hidden his tobacco!”

  “It’s not that; it’s as if he owes both of you money and can’t repay it.”

  Ramage shook his head, puzzled. “You’re sure that the pain, or the brandy, has not left him—well, a bit off his head?”

  “No, he’s sane enough. How did it happen—the broken leg? He’s not too sure.”

  “If he isn’t sure then we’ll never know. When we collided with the French 74, her jib-boom sent our foremast by the board and somehow Palmer was trapped in the rigging.”

  “How did he escape?”

  “Some men pulled him out.”

  “After the fuses had been lit?”

  “Yes, but they had plenty of time.”

  “Palmer didn’t think so. You and Jackson, I suppose.” Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “The rest of the men were already in the boat.”

  “The Admiralty might say that when it comes to choosing between the life of one of its best young captains or an ordinary seaman with a broken leg, the captain comes first, sir.”

  “Probably,” Ramage said dryly, “but the Admiralty are not responsible for taking the ship into action or the well-being of her men. Come along, we’ll get Jackson and then see Palmer.”

  Ramage came up on deck to find the launch, pinnace and both cutters streaming astern, and forty or fifty men waiting in the waist of the ship after having been inspected by Southwick.

  The Master came up to him. “I wonder how many masters have gone off to start destroying six ships at anchor, sir.”

  “Not many. In fact you may be the first, but the gunner and I will be following. What a waste of ships …”

  “At least we know six of the largest are on their way to Gibraltar with Aitken, otherwise I’d be scuttling more,” Southwick commented. “You’re definitely keeping the Passe Partout, sir?”

  “Yes, she may come in useful. She helps our disguise, too. A French frigate with a tartane in company is just what another French frigate would expect to see.”

  “By the way, sir, we know the name of that 74 now. She had it painted on a board at the entry port, and a couple of the men read it. Scipion, sir. Seems a funny sort of name, but they’re sure of it.”

  “I know the name,” Ramage said. “She’s in the French List of Ships. Built at Toulon since the war, I believe. In fact she must be one of their newest ships of the line.”

  “Can I tell the men, sir?”

  “Yes. I wonder if she was a flagship.”

  Southwick paused, took off his hat to run his fingers through his hair, and then gave a sniff to indicate his irritation. “We’ll never know that now, unless the Moniteur reports it. That’s the worst of blowing a ship to pieces; one doesn’t get prisoners.”

  The boats left the Calypso and went to the anchored merchant ships. Ramage, thoroughly exasperated by the gunner, had given him those carrying powder but, weakening at the last moment, had told him he could scuttle them instead of blowing them up.

  Ramage had noticed that at the north end of the gulf, to leeward of several of the merchant ships and near some huts, a group of fishermen were watching. At least, he assumed they were fishermen because they were near some fishing boats drawn up on the beach.

  The fishermen must only just be scraping a living. The soil was barren; apart from olives, he had seen a f
ew fig trees and vine terraces, so the harvest had to come from the sea. One of the French brigs to be scuttled carried a general cargo—everything from pots and pans to bales of hides, olive oil to sugar.

  He had told Southwick to leave the brig to him, and not to be surprised if he saw it set a foresail. Taking Jackson, Stafford and a dozen seamen with him in the gig, he went over to the brig, saw that in fact she was lying to windward of the flat stretch of shore that the fishermen had taken as their village, and ordered the brig’s cable to be cut.

  With the gig towing astern, they watched as the brig drifted inshore under the windage on her hull and spars. They were a mile from the beach when a random current, flowing between the mainland and the island of Sant’ Antioco, caught her and began to carry her northwards.

  “Let fall the fore-topsail,” Ramage said, “and get it drawing. Jackson, take the wheel and steer for the fishermen’s beach.”

  The seamen were going about their various tasks but obviously they were puzzled, and Ramage shouted to them: “Those fishermen over there: this ship represents a king’s ransom to them, and we were going to scuttle her. We might just as well let her run up on the beach—no one will ever get her off again, and the fishermen can take their pickings as a reward for not bothering us. They’re neutral, anyway.”

  Were they? Ramage suddenly found himself far from sure. About eighty years ago Savoy and Austria exchanged Sicily and Sardinia, so Sardinia now belonged to Savoy. But Savoy was at present under the French … Anyway, the only practical attitude to adopt was that anyone who did not shoot at you was friendly or neutral, and as a convoy anchorage it did not matter.

  Jackson was far from impressed. “If we landed on their beach as survivors they’d have the shirts off our backs, sir; I can’t see them giving us dinner.”

  “Think about all those Frenchmen we landed, then; they won’t have been given a rotten fishhead or an empty wine fiasco to help them on the road to Cagliari.”

  “That’s true, sir.” The thought brought a grin to Jackson’s face.

  “And everyone speaking to them in Italian …”

  Jackson nodded; he tended to forget the Captain spoke good Italian, and the effect that this could have.

  “Can you put on a Sardinian accent, sir?”

  “The Sardi … in this island alone there are probably two dozen different accents, quite apart from the fact it was owned by Austria until eighty years ago. Certainly I couldn’t imitate the accent of this place, Sant’ Antioco. Centuries ago they came from Genoa down to somewhere on the Barbary coast opposite here, then moved here when the Algerines oppressed them. They probably use as many Arabic words as Italian. Or archaic Italian words no longer used today.”

  Ramage felt slightly irritated by Jackson: until five minutes ago he was concerned only with being generous to some Sardi fishermen, and that in turn had led him to recall the Genovesi who, before the Spanish Armada sailed for England, went to North Africa; to Tabarka, Zembra and Djerba, and the Kerkenna Islands near by, in the constant hunt for new fishing grounds. Moslems, Normans, Christians, Catalans, Spaniards—all at some time or another had fought to get the tunny, the coral from the reefs, the slaves and the grain to be found in the triangle formed by Sicily, Sardinia and the Barbary coast. The language resulting over the centuries from such a mixing would be fascinating—and yet the nearest he could get to hear it now was letting this brig run ashore. There was so much of interest, so much to learn—and so little opportunity …

  As soon as he was sure the wind would carry the brig down to the waiting fishermen—it seemed they had guessed what was about to happen—Ramage told Jackson to lash the wheel, left the topsail drawing, and ordered his men down into the gig.

  Two hours later all the boats were back at the Calypso and being hoisted on board, and Southwick was already conjecturing whether the Calypso would catch up with Aitken’s convoy.

  “We’ll be sailing less than 24 hours after them, sir,” he commented.

  Was it only 24 hours ago that Aitken sailed out past Isolotto la Vacca? The thought surprised Ramage, who, working backwards in time, found Southwick was right. It seemed more like a week.

  “I can guess the course Aitken will take, sir, because I gave him some tips about the currents along the Barbary coast. There’s a nasty inset into most of those big bays.”

  “The course from here to Europa Point is fairly direct,” Ramage said sarcastically: “west by north, about seven hundred miles, and if we were bound for Gibraltar, I’m sure we’d sight them.”

  “Aren’t we going to Gibraltar, sir?” Southwick was obviously startled.

  “Yes, but we have some things to do first.”

  His satisfaction at surprising Southwick was short-lived; the Master’s face took on the smile of some benevolent and overindulgent bishop; all he lacked, Ramage thought, was a cope, mitre and crozier. “Good,” the Master said, “if there’s some action I’ll get a good look in now we’ve no lieutenants on board.”

  Ramage found himself strangely reluctant to leave the Golfo di Palmas; like so many other gulfs and bays in the Mediterranean, it held impressions of all the civilizations that had passed through it. Ramage was reminded of a piece of canvas with many portraits painted one on top of the other so that from different angles and in different lights one could see traces of the earlier works.

  As the Calypso stretched past the Isolotto la Vacca with a brisk south wind and all plain sail set and drawing, Ramage looked astern at the Passe Partout, slicing along in the Calypso’s wake.

  “Discipline in that ship for the next few days,” Ramage commented to Southwick, “is going to be fierce!”

  “Why, sir? Jackson’s a mild enough fellow.”

  “Yes, but first Martin and then Orsini worked hard to clean her up: deck holystoned and a shine put on anything that would take a polish. Jackson doesn’t know when Martin or Orsini will be on board again, but he’s going to make sure she’s sparkling.”

  “Just to show them how it should be done!” The idea appealed to Southwick. “Pity we can’t put the gunner on board as Jackson’s second-in-command.”

  “He’d beat Jackson,” Ramage said, and knew exactly why. Jackson had enormous initiative, was not the slightest bit frightened of responsibility, and in action appeared never to have heard the word fear. But one word he did know was contempt; if he was contemptuous of a man, then that man ceased to exist; he became what in the West Indies was called a zombie, a dead man walking. Jackson would go about his business in the Passe Partout as though the gunner did not exist and the gunner, being the man he was, would be delighted, not insulted; he would probably start painting black lacquer on the guns, or passing all the round shot through a gauge to make sure they were completely spherical, with no bumps of rust.

  “How are you heading, Quartermaster?” Ramage called, more to bring himself back to the immediate present than a wish to know if the men at the wheel were on course.

  “Nor’-west a half west, sir,” the helmsman said after glancing at the compass on the weather side of the binnacle.

  And about 320 miles to go, Ramage thought to himself, if the wind does not head us so we have to start tacking.

  Southwick supervised a cast of the log and came forward with the report that they were making six knots and the wind was freshening.

  “We’re not on the course the convoy took, sir,” he said almost accusingly.

  “Of course not. We’re not going to the same place.”

  “I assumed that,” Southwick said heavily as he noted the time, speed, course and position on the slate. Later, the details would be transferred to the master’s log and to the captain’s journal, and in due course, as laid down in the Regulations and Instructions, both volumes would be forwarded to the Admiralty, where Southwick assumed they would join an enormous and dusty pile of other logs and journals, unread and merely recorded in some index.

  He was sure they were unread because he had served in ships where, for exa
mple, a captain had ordered that a man be given nine dozen lashes of the cat-o’-nine-tails and this was quite openly recorded, although two dozen lashes were the legal limit a captain could award; more than that could be ordered only by a court martial. Yet there had been no letter from the Board Secretary expressing their Lordships’ displeasure, or even asking for more details.

  No, a log or journal became important only if something went wrong, and something going wrong meant in effect losing the ship. Logs and journals were kept in case of trouble; a sort of coroner looking over your shoulder in the hope there would be an inquest.

  Southwick’s attitude towards life reflected in his cheerful face; he met tomorrow’s problems tomorrow; he did not brood about them today. As he looked aft, to see if he had missed any details of the sketch he had made of the coast and which meant that not only had he carried out the instructions for masters but added to his own store of charts and views, he found himself startled that in the course of 24 hours, eight French merchant vessels and one 74-gun ship had been destroyed in the Golfo di Palmas, entirely due to the Calypso; six large prizes had been sent off to Gibraltar; and a small tartane had been kept as a tender to the Calypso.

  He pencilled some more shading on to the sketch slightly to change the shape of the south sides of Monte Riciotto, one of the smaller mountains on San Pietro, and Monte Guardia dei Mori, the tallest.

  Yes, Isolotto la Vacca also needed a little alteration. When he came to put on some watercolours later, he must remember the thin, distant line of the marsh and salt pans, and also the white sand beach near Porto Pino. The whole stretch of coast seemed peaceful enough now: just one brig heeled over on the beach near the fishermen’s village and another ripped open on a reef at the other end of the gulf—they were the only signs of their visit. By now the brig at the village would have been looted by the local people, and as the months and years passed they would gradually strip the wood from the ship, using it to build or repair their own fishing boats. The towers of various shapes, sizes and heights—he wondered when they had last been manned by soldiers. Mr Ramage said Sardinia had been Austrian until about 1720, and Southwick could imagine them keeping a sharp lookout. Who were they fighting in 1720?