Ramage & the Saracens Read online

  Once again Orsini was sent round the gun-deck with the orders that they should fire as soon as their guns bore, and Orsini had not returned to the quarterdeck before the first gun fired.

  The range was about a hundred yards and Ramage decided to halve it, giving an order to the quartermaster to ease over to starboard half a point. The last few guns of the broadside had just finished firing when Le Jason opened fire, the usual red winking eyes passing down her side. Ramage heard an occasional thud as one of the French ship’s round shot landed but there were no screams of wounded men and no reports of damage.

  Aitken came up to the quarterdeck to report that the wreckage of the fore-topgallant mast had been cleared away, along with the remains of the yard.

  “We have a spare mast, and a topgallant yard, and the carpenter says that anyway he can fish the damaged yard, sir,” he said. “The sail has only one tear in it, about eight feet long, so it won’t take long to patch that.”

  Ramage nodded. They had been lucky: if the shot had landed a few feet lower, it might have been the fore-topmast, bringing down the topsail.

  For the next ten minutes the two frigates sailed almost alongside each other, exchanging broadsides, but without either ship showing much damage. Five more of the Calypso’s men were killed by round shot or cut down by splinters and number nine gun was dismounted by a random shot which came through the port and smashed into the carriage without hurting any of the men.

  With the glass Ramage could see that the Calypso’s gunners were firing reasonably accurately: the French frigate’s side was now pockmarked with rusty marks showing where round shot had punched their way through the hull. But she still kept up a regular rate of fire, replying broadside for broadside, aiming for the Calypso’s hull, instead of following the usual French habit of firing at the rigging in the hope of dismasting the enemy.

  They had been sailing alongside each other at a range of forty or fifty yards when Ramage commented to Aitken: “We seem to be drawing ahead of her.”

  “I had that impression, too, sir. Yet she has the same sails set and they are properly trimmed.”

  Ramage examined the frigate through the glass. Yes, there were a few more shot-holes but she was still firing as fast, with smoke streaming out of her ports. Then he noticed a thin stream of water pouring over her side.

  “She’s got her pump going,” he commented. “An odd time to be pumping the bilges.”

  Then he could see with the naked eye that the stream of water was getting larger: the pump must be working harder.

  The water was clear, not stained, so it was not just a question of pumping the bilges to get the last few tons of water out of the ship to increase her speed. Had a lucky shot stove in some butts of fresh water? No, there was more water being pumped out than could be accounted for by that.

  Again and again the Calypso’s broadsides coughed out. Ramage thought of crashing alongside the ship and boarding her, an idea he later dismissed when he thought of the casualties.

  Then Paolo Orsini said respectfully: “Sir, she seems to be a little deeper in the water.”

  And she was: as soon as Ramage inspected the French ship carefully, he could distinguish that she was throwing up a bigger bow wave and the pump dale was emptying as much water over the side as the pump could handle.

  “She’s got a bad leak,” Southwick said happily. “But it’s not from one of our shot-holes, I’ll be bound. She’s not been rolling enough for any hits ‘twixt wind and water to cause her much trouble.”

  Ramage saw movement up in the bow and looked with his telescope, startled to see a group of men round the anchors. Suddenly an anchor dropped from the cathead and was then cut adrift so that it fell into the sea.

  “Look at that!” Southwick bellowed, pointing astern, where a boat was bobbing half submerged in Le Jason’s wake. “And there’s another!” he exclaimed. “My oath, they’re cutting their boats adrift.”

  “And their anchors,” Ramage said. “They’re trying to save weight!”

  At that moment he caught Aitken’s eye and both men nodded.

  “She stove in a plank or two when she went aground: probably stranded on a rock and strained herself when they sailed her off,” Ramage said.

  Southwick groaned and Ramage stared at him.

  “I was thinking of rescuing all those Frenchmen,” the master explained. “They’ll probably outnumber us!”

  “And all the men in the other frigate,” Aitken said. “We’ll have five hundred prisoners!”

  “Steady on,” Ramage said. “We haven’t captured either ship yet and this fellow is showing no sign of surrendering.”

  “Well, we don’t want to board her unless we want wet feet,” Southwick growled.

  “No, we’ll just hold off as we are and watch her sink.”

  And a few thousand pounds in prize-money will vanish before our eyes, Ramage thought. There will be head-money for the prisoners—but what a risk, to saddle the ship with so many survivors. But there was no question of leaving them to drown: the captain was cutting away the boats and anchors, and presumably the spare yards, masts and booms would be next to go.

  Obviously he would have started all the fresh water, stoving in the casks so that the water ran into the bilge and could be pumped out. That would save him—well, if he was halfway through his cruise—about twenty-five tons.

  “We haven’t finished with her yet,” Ramage reminded the two men. “As far as I can see, every one of her guns on this side is still firing …”

  Ramage tried to put himself in the place of the French captain. A bad leak, every spare man at the pump, cranking the handles round as fast as possible to keep a steady stream of water pouring into the pump dale and over the side. But men could only pump for a certain amount of time before becoming exhausted, and it was obvious since the ship was becoming lower in the water and the captain was getting rid of all the extra weight he could, that the leak was gaining on him: more water was leaking in than the pump could deal with. So it reduced itself to an interesting problem of time: just when would the captain decide that the battle with the leak was irretrievably lost, and surrender his ship? Or perhaps he was one of those fanatical captains who would fight on, letting the ship sink under him. Or he might have the sense to turn the frigate round and run her ashore properly, stranding her so that he could save his crew but knowing the British could never refloat his ship. Strand her and set her on fire after the ship’s company had scrambled to safety.

  Well, the way Le Jason was ploughing on eastward, keeping up a high rate of fire from her broadside guns, obviously her captain was not going to give in easily.

  He beckoned to Orsini. “Go down and see Mr Bowen: ask how many casualties we have up to now.”

  “We’re taking quite a few hits,” Southwick said.

  “At least they’re not doing their usual dismantling shot trick,” Aitken commented.

  Coincidentally, at that moment the carpenter came up to report to Ramage: “Just sounded the well again, sir,” he said. “We’re not making any water.”

  Ramage nodded. “Very well; carry on, sound every ten minutes and report to me.”

  “We’re rolling just enough to get an unlucky one ‘twixt wind and water,” Southwick said. “So’s he,” he added, pointing at the French frigate, “but he’s getting sluggish: not rolling nearly as much now.”

  “Makes her a steadier platform for the gunners,” Aitken commented.

  “Aye, but wait until the water floods her hanging magazine,” Southwick said. “No one’s yet found a way of making wet cartridges fire round shot!”

  The Calypso’s broadside sounded ragged now, not because the gunners were failing to do their jobs properly but every gun was reloaded at a slightly different speed, and now they had their target broad on the beam the guns’ crews were loading as fast as they could, and as soon as the second captain cocked the lock and jumped clear the gun captain was tugging his lanyard.

  Jackson, his face
becoming blackened with smoke, was grinning with pleasure and urging his crew on to load faster. Rossi was bellowing out a string of Italian oaths but apparently because of happiness at being in action. The four Frenchmen were hurrying about their tasks, sponging, ramming and worming as though they had never done anything else. Stafford crouched over the lock every now and again to make sure that the flint still had a sharp edge and was delivering a good strong spark.

  “You’re not hitting her, Jacko!” he bawled amid the thunder of the other guns firing to the left and right.

  “I dam’ well am,” Jackson shouted back. “She just won’t sink!”

  “Her pump’s going,” Rossi called. “Maybe you had a lucky shot!”

  One more thump with the rammer and they sprang to the tackle and ran the gun out. Stafford stabbed down with his pricker and then pushed a fresh quill into the vent, shaking a small amount of priming powder into the pan. Then he snapped back the cock of the flintlock, and lifting his hand up as a signal to Jackson, jumped clear.

  Jackson sighted along the barrel and waited as the Calypso rolled slightly. He tugged the lanyard on a downward roll a fraction of a second before the French frigate appeared in the crude sight and once again the gun sprang back with a bronchitic cough and a spurt of flame and smoke at the muzzle.

  At once the crew again sprang into action. The soaking sponge was thrust down the bore and a powder monkey ran forward with a cartridge which Gilbert snatched up and slid into the muzzle. With the rammer poised Auguste lunged forward and thrust the cartridge down the muzzle and gave an extra hard thrust before withdrawing it and standing aside for a moment to let Albert put in the wad, which he thrust home and then stood back with the rammer as Louis came up, cradling a round shot, which he rammed home, followed by another wad which Albert had ready.

  Dropping the rammer, Auguste helped run the gun out and Stafford went into action again with his pricker. As Jackson prepared to sight along the barrel he saw the black shape of the French frigate through the port. Yes, her pump was going, and the wind was whipping away the water as it sluiced over the side from the pump dale.

  Back on the quarterdeck Orsini came hurrying up the ladder. He saluted Ramage and reported: “Mr Bowen’s compliments, sir: ten dead and eleven wounded, three very seriously. He says there may be more dead that he doesn’t know about.”

  “Yes,” Ramage said, talking to himself, “they’ll just drag bodies clear and leave them in the scuppers …”

  Twenty-one dead and wounded, and the damned Frenchman seemed to be unscathed by the Calypso’s guns. Admittedly they were firing into her hull and it was impossible to see what damage they were doing: they might be cutting men down in swathes, for all he knew, but it was not affecting the French ship’s rate of fire, even though she was apparently slowly—very slowly, curse it—sinking under them.

  A lucky dismasting shot might let the Frenchman escape yet.

  He looked at the Frenchman again with his telescope. Still the same group of officers on her quarterdeck. He swung the glass forward and trained it on the pump dale. Yes, it was still pouring out water, and the wind was whipping it away. He looked at the frigate’s waterline. Yes! It was definitely a little lower. He waited a minute to make sure it was not the rolling, but then he was sure: he could no longer see the copper sheathing. That had been carried a good foot above the waterline, and now he could not see it despite the roll. So Le Jason was at least two and probably three feet lower in the water. What did that mean in terms of tons of water sloshing around below? Without knowing her tons-per-inch immersion—the number of tons needed to immerse her hull one inch—it was hard to tell, and he knew his own weakness in doing mental arithmetic. But it was scores of tons. The water was coming in faster than the pump could get rid of it, and that was all that mattered. Nearly all, anyway. If only he knew how much faster …

  Options: he must consider them carefully. Yes, the Frenchman could turn back and make a run for the shore, planning to beach the frigate before she sank. Or he could carry on firing until the ship sank under him—it would take a brave man to do that after having cut all his boats adrift, and it would mean throwing his ship’s company on the mercy of the British. And, Ramage thought, what were his own choices? Well, he could carry on as he was now and wait for the Frenchman either to turn for the shore or sink. Or he could haul off out of range and wait for the Frenchman to sink, even if he did not bolt for the shore. That way he would save his men.

  But supposing the Frenchman managed to stop the leak? Supposing he managed to stop the water entering and pump out what was already in? Then, setting courses and topgallants (and royals, too) she could make a bolt for it. If she escaped, he would look foolish. And he would get his knuckles rapped by the Admiralty.

  No, there was no question of standing off, and unless the Frenchman turned for the shore, then this present battle of broadsides would have to go on, while the French pumped their way to windward.

  While Ramage was watching the water pouring over the side from the pump dale he noticed a dozen seamen swarming up the forward shrouds. As he looked they worked their way out along the footropes of the topsail and within moments had started to furl it.

  Furl the topsail? Leave only the maintopsail set? That would just above halve the Frenchman’s speed. Why? There could be only one explanation—by slowing down the ship the French captain was hoping to cut down the rush of water through the leak. That must mean he had no hope of overtaking it with the pump without drastic measures.

  Ramage told Aitken to furl the Calypso’s fore-topsail, so that they could conform with the Frenchman’s speed. The alternative would be to weave across Le Jason’s stern and fire raking broadsides. Was it worth it? The damned ship would sink anyway, and soon her rate of fire would begin to slacken as men were taken away from the guns to replace those exhausted at the pumps.

  “Hard pounding,” Southwick commented.

  “Yes, but we don’t have much choice. If we haul off and she stops the leak and gets away …”

  “Aye,” said Southwick. “But she must be leaking badly if they have to slow down.”

  “She must have been making seven or eight knots when she went aground. If it was a sharp rock it could have stove in several planks, or started some butts.”

  Ramage watched Le Jason’s side as another of the Calypso’s broadsides coughed out, and saw several rusty marks appear on her hull. Well, his gunners were shooting accurately and with luck some of the shots were hitting ‘twixt wind and water, increasing the flooding.

  Ramage found himself almost sympathetic with the French captain; he had cut the quarter-boats adrift and hoisted out the boom-boats and dropped them over the side, so there were no boats for survivors: they would be left clinging to wreckage.

  Taking some 250 survivors on board: one Frenchman for each member of the Calypso’s crew. It was a daunting prospect: if the French were well led—and there was no reason to doubt that they were—they might try to take the ship.

  “If we have to pick up survivors,” Ramage told Aitken and Southwick, “we put them below and then clap the gratings across the fore and main-deck hatch. Have them guarded by all the marines and covered with a couple of guns loaded with case shot, and then we’ll land them on Capraia as soon as possible: I’m not risking having that number of the enemy on board a moment longer than necessary.”

  “It’s a big enough risk that we’d be justified in leaving them to drown,” Southwick said. “Ducking them in seawater isn’t going to turn them into lambs.”

  “If it was us, we’d feel a bit hard done by if the French left us to drown,” Ramage said.

  “But we’d try to take their ship,” Southwick pointed out.

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “A hundred muskets and pistols aimed at them, and a couple of guns loaded with case, might put them off their stroke.”

  “Well, we’ll need to bring them on board a few at a time, and make sure that we never have more than a couple of doz
en on deck at a time,” Southwick said grudgingly.

  “Of course,” Ramage said. “Don’t forget they’ll be a bit shaken up by the time we fish them out.”

  “The frigate hasn’t sunk yet,” Aitken pointed out. “Here comes another broadside,” he added, gesturing to the rippling spurts of flame and smoke along Le Jason’s side.

  Aitken stared at the frigate. “She’s definitely lower in the water now,” he said. “She’s gone down several inches since they furled the topsail.”

  Ramage examined the hull with the telescope. Yes, Aitken was right: the distance between the lower edge of the gun ports and the waterline was less. And yes, the ship was beginning to wallow now. Ramage could imagine the great quantity of water surging round below, weight which transferred from one side to the other, and from forward to aft, with terrifying speed. Like swirling water in the bottom of a bucket. It would be a tremendous surge of water to one side which would eventually capsize her.

  The problem of guarding survivors stepped several paces closer.

  Five minutes and several broadsides later, Ramage happened to be watching Le Jason when he realized that she was now regularly rolling with a slow, almost inexorable movement: her masts were like upside-down pendulums and her gunners were slowing down their broadsides because they had to wait longer until their guns would bear.

  Southwick, too, noticed the roll. “The leak is beating the pump,” he commented.

  “It’s been doing that for some time,” Aitken said. “Every man except those in the guns’ crews must be working the pump.”

  Ramage pictured exhausted men hauling round the cranked handle of the pump. There was enough water floating around now to pick up things and block the pump, so that men would be constantly freeing the strainer. Round and round would go the crank, but the pump would never suck dry. The noise of the bilge pump sucking dry was, Ramage reflected, one of the most satisfying heard in a ship. It was one the French were doomed never to hear again—in that ship, anyway.

  Yes, the rolling was getting wilder; it was lasting longer as the ship heeled first to larboard and then slowly came over to starboard as tons of water swirled from one side of the ship to the other. The rush of water would, he realized, be enough to knock men off their feet; it would hinder men as they ran out or ran in guns. Soon the water must flood the hanging magazine. Even now, he guessed, the French were getting out cartridges and stowing them high enough to be out of danger from the surging water. But having so many cartridges out of the magazine always risked a flash from one of the guns, or an unlucky shot from the British. Then there would be a tremendous explosion, and the French would no longer be worrying about a leak …