Ramage and the Saracens r-17 Page 4

  "It's a mountainous island, steep-to on this western side and sloping down on the eastern side. A chain of mountains runs roughly north and south the length of the island, with a very high peak at the north end and at the south end. Nothing on the west side of the island except cliffs and rocks; the only place is Porto Vecchio, which is simply a wide bight, with the small harbour of Capraia in the south-west corner. A couple of old forts . . . that's all there is. I can't see anything to interest the Frenchman."

  Ramage thought for a moment. Why assume the French frigate had called at the island for any reason concerning the island? Clearly Capraia had nothing to offer except shelter - and olives, fish and goat meat if you were hungry.

  "Perhaps the Frenchman is doing some repairs," Ramage said. "Repairs that need a quiet anchorage for a few hours . . ."

  Southwick slapped his knee and said enthusiastically: "That's it! Sprung his bowsprit, most likely. Or shifting yards. Probably sailing in company with those two 74s, and then bore up for the lee of Capraia when something went wrong. Not that Capraia gives I

  much of a lee with this wind, but it looks as though it'll haul round to the west, and the French captain may think the same."

  The old master seemed relieved. "It was worrying me," he admitted. "I couldn't for the life of me see why a French frigate would call there. But to do some repairs - yes, that's a good enough reason."

  Through his telescope Ramage could make out the largest peaks on the island: there were four, one at the northern end of the island and another at the southern, as if to balance it, with two in between. It was so mountainous - on the western side anyway -that the inhabitants must live a hard life. Southwick had said that it sloped down on the eastern side, but it would give little land suitable for crops since the whole island could not be five miles long.

  He considered a nagging thought. Those two French 74s. Should he have made more of an effort to destroy them? He took off his hat, wiped the inside of the band and jammed it back on his head, perplexed. The only thing he could have done was sail back and forth across their sterns, raking them. They would have brought up a couple of sternchase guns each, so four would have been firing at him as the Calypso raked them with sixteen 12-pounders. It would have done as much good as a mouse gnawing at a thick oak door. He knew that; but would their Lordships take the same view, or the admiral at Naples when he reported to him?

  He shrugged his shoulders: it was all over now; there was no question of going back. Now he had to concentrate his attention on this frigate anchored off Capraia. The frigate presented the same problem - how to achieve surprise. He had done it against the two 74s by unexpectedly steering straight for the Artois's bow, obviously intending to carry away her jibboom and bowsprit, and as a result the captain of the Artois had panicked and collided with the other 74. Now to surprise the frigate. At least the Frenchman could not see him coming: even at this moment he would be lying at anchor off the little harbour, unaware that the Calypso was approaching from the other side of the island - unless he had posted lookouts at the top of one of the mountains, which would be very unlikely.

  He looked at his watch and then told Hill: "Send the men to dinner; we may not get another opportunity for several hours."

  Men fought better with full stomachs, even though for some it might be their last meal. A sobering thought, he reflected; but it was a foolish optimist that thought an enemy frigate could be captured or destroyed without casualties.

  Seven men sat round the table at mess number eight, eating salt beef from wooden plates.

  "Give the bread barge a fair wind," Stafford said to Rossi, who was sitting at the inboard end of the table. The Italian pushed across the wooden box, known as a "barge" and which contained hard biscuit, which went by the name of "bread". This bread had reached the stage where it was beginning to soften; no matter what anyone did, weevils would start to inhabit it and the wise seaman would give the biscuit a brisk tap on the table before starting to chew. The tap was intended to stun the weevils; it stopped them wriggling in the mouth, reminding a hungry man of their presence.

  "What did that fellow really tell the captain, Jacko?" Rossi asked as he helped himself to biscuit, one of the few things that were not rationed.

  "I didn't hear; I was in the boat," the American said. "All I heard was them talking to each other, the Italian skipper and his mate."

  "Well, what were they saying?"

  "They had such thick accents it was hard to understand them," said Jackson, who had learned his Italian in Tuscany, where the accent was comparatively pure. Although Capraia was one of the islands which made up the Tuscan Archipelago, each island had its own accent which bore little relation to what was generally known as "the Tuscan accent". "But they were talking about a French frigate, and I think that's what they wanted to talk to us about."

  "Where were they from?"

  'This island ahead of us, I think."

  "Aha," Stafford said delightedly. "Stands to reason, they were warning us that there's a French frigate there!"

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders. "They might have been reporting that they saw a French frigate three days ago - they haven't much idea about time."

  " 'Ere, this beef died of old age," Stafford grumbled. "Just look at the colour of it. Boiled mahogany, that's what it is, and it's as tough as wood.

  "Needs to spend another day boiling in the coppers. Another week," he amended, "not another day."

  "So if there is a French frigate at this island," said the Frenchman, Gilbert, whose English was almost fluent, "what do you think we are going to do?"

  Jackson waited until he had finished chewing a piece of the beef. "We were piped to dinner half an hour early, and knowing Mr Ramage that was to make sure we had eaten by the time we go into action. So if you ask me, he reckons we'll find this Frenchman in the next hour or two."

  "And then what do we do?" asked another Frenchman, Auguste.

  "We capture it," Jackson said simply.

  "Just like that, eh?" said Gilbert, gesturing towards the bread barge, which Stafford pushed towards him.

  "Why not?" asked Jackson.

  "What's a French frigate doing at this island, then?" asked Stafford.

  "Damned if I know," Jackson said. "I've never even heard of the place before. Either the Frenchies are capturing the place, in which case half their ship's company will be on shore, or else they're repairing damage, in which case they might not be able to get under way."

  Rossi soaked a biscuit in the juice left on his plate. "After this morning, we deserve something easy. I thought we would be deaded."

  "Killed," Jackson corrected. "So did I. It's nice to feel alive."

  "To tell the truth, I'm surprised there are so many Frenchies at sea. I thought we got most of 'em at Trafalgar.'' Stafford sat back as though he had spoken his share of wisdom for the day.

  "I did, too," Jackson admitted. "But when you come to think of it, there must have been ships at sea in other places, and now I suppose they are making for home."

  "They're a bit late," Stafford said.

  "Takes time for the French to get out orders to all the ships: they were probably short of frigates in Toulon to pass the word."

  "I don't know about French frigates," Rossi said crossly, "but that beef is the worst we've had for a year or two."

  " Yus, I reckon the contractor or the Navy Board are getting rid of some old stock. Just our luck to get it."

  "Having fresh meat every three days while we were in Plymouth has spoiled you," Jackson said unsympathetically.

  "Well, that was one good thing that came out of the Great Mutiny," Stafford said defensively. "Getting fresh meat from the shore every two or three days made me feel I was living like a lord."

  "Lords get fresh meat every day," Jackson said drily. "That's one of the advantages of being a lord."

  "Mr Ramage is a lord but he don't get fresh meat every day."

  "Don't be daft, how could he?"

  "Beats
me," Stafford said with something approaching a sigh, "why someone like Mr Ramage, the son of an earl and a title of his own, should join the Navy in the first place. T'isn't as though he was pressed."

  "Runs in the family," Jackson said. "You know as well as I do his father's an admiral. If Mr Ramage has a son, I expect he'll go into the Navy as well. It's a sort of tradition."

  "Yus," Stafford said sagely, "it's time he had a family. He made a good choice marrying Lady Sarah. Never could see him marrying the Marcheeza."

  "Marchesa," Jackson corrected without thinking. "No, well, she was a bit wild, on account of her being Italian. And she could never settle down in England on account of her being the ruler of Volterra. She got pulled two ways."

  "You think she's still alive?" Rossi asked.

  Jackson shook his head. "I can't see Boney letting her go back to Volterra: she'd rouse up the people to throw out the French within a week of unpacking her bags."

  "You reckon Mr Ramage thinks that?"

  Jackson nodded. "From what I understood, he and his father did all they could to persuade her not to leave England when the peace was signed because they knew it would not last."

  "And Mr Orsini? After all, she's his aunt."

  "He must know by now. He's not a kid any more. Just think of him when he first joined the ship. Just a young boy then. Now he's a young man. Almost, anyway, and as good a seaman as anyone in the ship, except Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick."

  "This Marchesa," Gilbert asked. "Was she beautiful?"

  Jackson nodded. "Yes. She was tiny-about five feet tall. Black hair. Very Italian, if you know what I mean. Very fiery. You could see she was used to ruling."

  "And Mr Ramage, he fell in love with her?"

  "We thought so: after we rescued her in Italy, she went to live with Mr Ramage's parents, and we thought they'd get married."

  "But Mr Ramage went off and married Lady Sarah," Gilbert said, "and she is very English!"

  "Very," Jackson said. "A real lady. Just about the opposite to the Marchesa in every way. Don't get me wrong," Jackson added hastily, "the Marchesa was a real lady too, but she - well, a lot of the time, she seemed to be in a passion about something or other. Lady Sarah always seems so calm - as you know, since you saw her in France."

  "Ah, what calm," Gilbert said, and Auguste, Louis and Albert nodded their heads in agreement. "Calm without being cold. A very passionate lady under that calm, and so brave."

  "It must be sad for Mr Ramage not knowing for sure about the Marchesa," Rossi said. "If he knew for certain she was dead, well, that would be that. And if he knew she was alive, then there is nothing to worry about. But never being sure . . . that must be hard, for him and his family, let alone Mr Orsini."

  "Well, worrying about it ain't going to sink that frigate," Stafford said, beginning to collect up the plates. "Since I'm the mess cook this week, let me get on with washing up these mess traps. Gawd, you're a messy eater, Rosey," he said, using the side of his palm to sweep crumbs from the hard biscuit on to a plate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ramage leaned with his elbows on the top of the binnacle box, looking at the chart spread out by Southwick and held down by paperweights. There was the island of Capraia on the chart, and there it was in fact almost dead ahead.

  On this course and with this wind the Calypso should just pass the southern end of the island. If the wind backed a point or two, she would have to tack, which he wanted to avoid.

  "You can lay the southern end of the island comfortably?" he asked the quartermaster.

  "Aye, sir, with a point in hand," the man answered.

  The mountains and cliffs were sharp now: the island seemed to grow taller as they approached. I would not like to hit this coast on a dark night with a libeccio blowing, he thought to himself: nor, for that matter, would he want to have to land a boat on a calm day: there seemed to be no beaches: only rocks and cliffs.

  How far was the southern end of the island? Perhaps two miles, and the Calypso was making about five knots against a head wind. Well, there was no need to leave everything to the last minute.

  "Beat to quarters, Mr Hill," he said. "I want the guns loaded with grape."

  The look of surprise on Hill's face reminded Ramage of the chance he was taking. It was not much of a chance if his guess was correct, but there was no avoiding the fact that a guess was a guess. He was, quite simply, guessing that either a proportion of the French frigate's crew would be on shore, or that they would be working on deck or aloft on some repairs.

  In either case they would not be at quarters: grapeshot should cut them down, without doing a lot of damage to the ship. Surprise should be fairly easy: the Calypso, being French built, would be taken as a French-owned ship at first glance, and the rules of war allowed you to fly enemy colours, as long as you hauled them down and hoisted your own before opening fire. Surprise should be complete.

  "Haul down our colours and hoist a Tricolour," he said. "Use a separate halyard for the Tricolour and leave our colours bent on, so that we can switch them quickly."

  "Very well, sir," Hill said with a grin: he immediately saw what Ramage intended doing. It was hardly a new trick, but given the Calypso's French sheer it was likely to succeed.

  Ramage looked up again from the chart as the drum began thudding its urgent summons to quarters; a thudding reinforced by the shrilling of bosun's calls and the harsh and urgent cries of the bosun's mates.

  Once again the whole process began: decks wetted and sanded; the magazine unlocked by the gunner and the second captains of each gun collecting locks, lanyards and prickers; boys hurrying down with their wooden cases to collect cartridges; the guns run in ready to be loaded; rammers, sponges and wormers put ready; slowmatches lit and hung over the edges of the tubs of water.

  How many times have I given that order? Ramage reflected. Hundreds of times. How many times had it ended with action? He had lost count. Most times, of course, it was routine: every day the ship greeted the dawn at general quarters, when a sail could come out of the vanishing darkness and, in wartime, any sail could be the enemy. And in daylight, whenever a strange sail was sighted-unless it was obviously a fisherman or some other harmless vessel -the ship went to quarters. A minimum of three times a day; more likely ten or a dozen times. On top of gunnery exercises, which he ordered almost daily, there was plenty going on to keep that wretched gunner busy: he was always complaining that he never had an opportunity to black the guns, because the blacking took several hours to dry.

  Looking forward over the quarterdeck rail he could see the men running to their stations. To an ignorant eye the men seemed to be running in all directions, like a disturbed anthill; to a trained eye the men were running with a purpose, the direction the result of months of training and experience.

  Aitken came up the quarterdeck ladder to take over the conn from Hill, who had to go down to his division of guns, and now Southwick came up the ladder, adjusting the strap of the scabbard in which was housed a great double-bladed sword which he delighted to swing like a flail whenever he could get into action.

  Soon Aitken was reporting to Ramage as each division of guns shouted that it was loaded and ready to be run out. If he was going to surprise the French, running out the guns would be one of the last orders he gave before opening fire.

  Until he saw where the French frigate was lying, he would not know which broadside he would be using; but each stand of grapeshot comprised ten shot, each larger than a hen's egg and weighing a pound. So one broadside, not including the carronades, would see 160 grapeshot being hurled at the Frenchman by sixteen guns.

  The idea, he thought grimly, is to kill Frenchmen without damaging the ship too much: he did not want to end up capturing a hulk which he would have to tow to Naples: he wanted a ship that a prize crew could sail in the Calypso's wake, British colours flying over the French. Of course, he thought, wryly, everything could go wrong and the Frenchman would end up towing the Calypso into Toulon, French colours
over the British . . .

  "I'm just going below for a moment," he told Aitken, and went down to his cabin. He sat down at his desk and unlocked the top drawer. First he took out a canvas pouch which was rolled up and pushed to the back. The mouth of the pouch had brass eyelets through which a drawstring ran, and the pouch itself was heavy because there was a strip of lead in the bottom. From the drawer he took out the signal book, the little booklet containing the secret challenges and replies, and his journal. He stuffed them into the bag and pulled the drawstring tight. He put the bag back in the drawer, which he left unlocked so that in an emergency the canvas bag could be grabbed and then thrown over the side where it would sink rapidly, taking its secrets with it.

  With the canvas bag taken care of he walked over to the forward bulkhead and took down his sword from its rack. He slipped the strap of the scabbard over his shoulder, adjusting the sword down his left side. Secret papers and sword: that was all he had to do. He went back up the companionway, acknowledging the salute of the sentry at his door.

  Standing on the fore side of the quarterdeck again, looking over the bow, the island now seemed much nearer: he could make out the folds and fissures in the cliffs and see the waves breaking as a lacy fringe against the rocks lining the coast.

  He looked across at Southwick, who grinned cheerfully and said: "Another mile and we'll be able to see round the corner. We'll probably find that the frigate's not there: she left last night north-about round the island bound for Toulon."

  "I hope not: you haven't been in action for several weeks, and I don't want you to get out of the habit."

  "If she's there, let's lay alongside and board her," Southwick said, slapping the scabbard of his sword. "Let me lead one of the boarding parties: that'll save m'sword from getting rusty."

  Boarding parties! The ship's company was already organized into boarding parties in the quarters bill, which every man knew by heart. But it was necessary to give specific orders to the Marines.

  "Pass the word for Mr Rennick," he told Aitken.