Ramage's Devil

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mess number eight was the rather grandiose official description of one of the well-scrubbed tables and two forms flanking it on the Calypso's lowerdeck. It was on the larboard side abreast the forehatch, which ensured a bitterly cold draught in winter in northern latitudes, but as the Calypso under Captain Ramage's command had spent most of her time in the Tropics or the Mediterranean, the members of the mess were content.

The outboard end of the narrow side of the table fitted into the ship's side and the other was suspended from the deckhead by two ropes. Each of the forms on the long sides of the table seated four men, so that each mess in the ship comprised no more than eight men.

The mess had its own equipment. There was the bread barge, a wooden container in which the bread for the mess was kept. The bread was ship's biscuit, made in the great naval bakeries, and at the moment it was fresh, a word used to describe a square of hard baked dough which was still hard, not soft and crumbling, the happy home of the black-headed and white-bodied weevils which felt cold to the tongue but had no taste.

The bread barge was in some ways a symbol of the mess. The number eight was carefully painted on the tub-shaped receptacle and beside it was the mess kid, a tiny barrel open at one end with what looked like two wooden ears through which was threaded a rope handle. Also marked with the mess number, it was used to carry hot food from the copper boilers in the galley to the table.

The carefully scrubbed net bag folded neatly on the bread barge and with a metal tally stamped '8' fixed to it was the 'kettle mess', the improbably named object in which all hot food was cooked, because boiling in the galley's copper kettles was the only way it could be done. The Calypso's cook, like those in each of the King's ships, was the man responsible for the galley in general, the cleanliness of the copper kettles and the fire that heated the water in them, but that was the limit of his cooking.

Each mess had its own cook, a man who had the job for a week. Number eight mess's cook this week was Alberto Rossi, a cheerful man who was nicknamed 'Rosey' and usually corrected anyone who called him Italian by pointing out that he came from Genoa, which in Italian was spelled Genova, so that he was a Genovese. If number eight mess decided in its collective wisdom that it would use its ration of flour, suet and raisins (or currants) to make a duff, Rossi's culinary skill would extend itself to mixing the ingredients with enough water to hold them together, put them in the kettle mess and make sure (with tally safely affixed) that it was delivered to the ship's cook by 4 a.m. and collected at 11.30 a.m., in time for the noon meal.

For this week when he was the mess cook, Rossi was also responsible for washing the bowls, plates, knives, forks and spoons of the other members of the mess, and stowing them safely. And, because bread, even if not appetizing, eased hunger, he had to make sure the bread barge was full - any emptying being ascribed to the south wind. Stafford, noting it was barely half-full, might comment: 'There's a southerly wind in the bread barge.'

Nor were the points of the compass limited to the compass and the bread barge: tots of rum were also graded. Raw spirit was due north, while water was due west, so a mug of nor'wester was half rum and half water, while three quarters rum would become a nor'nor'wester and a quarter of rum would be west-nor'west and find itself nobody's friend.

The seven men now sitting at mess number eight's table piled up their plates and basins. Three used old pewter plates, but four, the latest to join the mess, used bowls and looked forward to the Calypso taking her next prize, Rossi having explained carefully that a French prize years ago had yielded the three pewter plates in defiance of the eighth Article of War, which forbade taking 'money, plate or goods' from a captured ship before a court judged it a lawful prize. There was an exception which the three men interpreted in their own way - unless the object was 'for the necessary use and service of any of His Majesty's ships and vessels of war'. Admittedly such objects were supposed to be declared later in the 'full and entire account of the whole', but as Stafford said at the time with righteous certainty in his Cockney voice: 'S'welp us, we clean forgot.'

'Feels nice to be warm again,' Stafford remarked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 'England's never very warm but the Medway's enough ter perish yer. The wind blowin' acrorst those saltings ... why, even the beaks of the curlews curl up with the cold.'

'Curlew? Is the bird? Is true, this curling?' Rossi asked, wide-eyed.

Jackson, the captain's coxswain, who owned a genuine American Protection issued to him several years earlier, shook his head. 'Another of Staff's stories. All curlews have long curved beaks whether it's a hot day or cold.'

'Anyway, I'm glad we're back in the Tropics,' Stafford said cheerfully. 'Don't cross the Equator, do we?'

Jackson shook his head. 'Not even if we go all the way to Cayenne. What's its latitude, Gilbert?'

The Frenchman shook his head in turn. 'I am ashamed,' he said, 'but I do not know it.'

When another of the French asked a question in rapid French, Gilbert translated Jackson's question, and the Frenchman, Auguste, said succinctly: 'Cinq.'

'Auguste says five degrees North,' Gilbert said.

'Five, eh? When we're in the West Indies, up and down the islands, we're usually betwixt twelve and twenty,' Stafford announced, and turned to Jackson. 'There, you didn't know I knowed that, didja!'

'Knew,' Jackson corrected automatically, and Stafford sighed.

'Oh, all right. You didn't knew I knowed that, then.'

'Mama mia,' Rossi groaned, 'even I know that's wrong. Say slowly, Staff: "You didn't know I knew that." How are these Francesi going to learn to speak proper?'

'Don't sound right to me,' Stafford maintained. 'And I come from London. You're an American, Jacko - Charlestown, ain't it? And you're from Genoa, Rosey. So I'm more likely to be right.'

Jackson ran his hand through his thinning sandy hair and turned to Gilbert. 'You'd better warn Auguste, Albert and Louis that if they are going to speak decent English, they'd better not listen to this picklock!'

'Picklock? I do not know this word,' Gilbert said.

'Just as well, 'cos I ain't one,' Stafford said amiably. 'Locksmith, I was, set up in a nice way of business in Bridewell Lane. Wasn't my business if the owners of the locks wasn't always at 'ome; the lock's gotta be opened.'

Gilbert nodded and smiled. 'I understand.'

'Yer know, the four of you are all right for Frenchies. Tell yer mates wot I said.'

Gilbert translated and considered himself lucky. Just over a year ago he was living in Kent, serving the Count while they were all refugees in England. Then, with the peace, the Count had decided to return to France (and Gilbert admitted he wished now he had taken it upon himself to mention to the Count the doubts he had felt from the first). Then everything had happened at once - the Count had been taken away to Brest under arrest, Lord and Lady Ramage had managed to escape, they had all recaptured the mutinous English brig and now the four of them were serving in the Royal Navy!

His Lordship had been very apologetic, although there was no need for it. Apparently he had intended (this was when he expected to sail the Murex back to England) to keep them on the ship's books as 'prisoners at large', and recommend their release as refugees as soon as they reached Plymouth, so they would be free to do what they wanted.

Gilbert could see his Lordship's motives, but he was forgetting that three of them - Auguste, Louis and Albert - did not speak a word of English and would never have been able to make a living. Serving in the Royal Navy, at least they would be paid and fed while they learned English, and life at sea, judging from their experience so far, was less hard than life in a wartime Brest, and no secret police watched ...

Anyway, his Lordship had explained this odd business of 'prize money'. Apparently it was a sort of reward the King paid to men of the Royal Navy for capturing an enemy ship, and as the Murex had been taken by the French after the mutiny, she became an enemy ship, so recapturing her meant she was then a prize.

Apparently, though, after they had recaptured the Murex and sailed her out of Brest, it seemed that only his Lordship would get any prize money because he was the only one of them actually serving in the Royal Navy. That seemed unfair because her Ladyship had behaved so bravely. Certainly neither he nor Auguste, Albert nor Louis had expected any reward, but his Lordship had thought otherwise and he had talked to the Admiral, who had agreed to his proposal. The result was that if the four of them volunteered for the Royal Navy, their names would be entered in the muster book of the Calypso and (by a certain free interpretation of dates) they would get their share.

So here they were, members of mess number eight, and Auguste and Albert were put down on the Calypso's muster book as ordinary seamen while he and Louis were still landmen, because they did not yet have the skill of the other two.

And this mess number eight: although no one said anything aloud, Gilbert had the impression that while Jackson, Rossi and Stafford were not the captain's favourites - he was not the sort of man to play the game of favourites - they had all served together so long that they had a particular place. It seemed that each had saved the other's life enough times for there to be special bonds, and Gilbert had been fascinated by things Jackson had explained. Gilbert had noticed his Lordship's many scars - and now Jackson put an action and a place to each of them. The two scars on the right brow, another on the left arm, a small patch of white hair growing on his head ... It was extraordinary that the man was still alive.

However, one thing had disappointed Gilbert: no one, least of all Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, seemed to think they had much of a chance of finding L'Espoir. Apparently once she left Brest she could choose one of a hundred different routes. Oh dear, if only the Count had stayed in Kent. The estate he bought at Ruckinge was pleasant; even the Prince of Wales and his less pleasant friends had been frequent guests, and the Count never complained of boredom. But undoubtedly he had a grande nostalgie for the château and, although expecting it, had been heartbroken when he returned to find everything had been stolen. He had -

The heart-stopping shrill of a bosun's call came down the forehatch followed by the bellow 'General quarters! All hands to general quarters - come on there, look alive... ' Again the call screamed - Jackson said the bosun's mates were called 'Spithead Nightingales' because of the noise their calls made - and again the bellow.

Gilbert followed the others as he remembered 'General quarters' was another name for a man's position when the ship went into battle. He felt a fear he had not experienced in the Murex affair. The Calypso was so big; all the men round him knew exactly what to do; they ran to their quarters as if they were hunters following well-worn tracks in a forest.

Ramage snatched up the speaking trumpet while Aitken completed an entry and returned the slate to the drawer. 'Foremast, deck here.'

'Sail ho, two points on the larboard bow, sir: I see her just as we lift on the top of the swell waves.'

'Very well, keep a sharp lookout and watch the bearing closely.'

Ramage felt his heart thudding. Was she L'Espoir? Keep calm, he told himself: it could be any one of a dozen British, Dutch, Spanish, French or American ships bound for the West Indies and staying well south looking for the Trades. Or even a ship from India or the Cape or South America, bound north and, having found a wind, holding it until forced to bear away to pick up the westerlies.

If the bearing stayed the same and the sail drew closer the Calypso must be overhauling the strange vessel, and it was unlikely that the Calypso was being outdistanced. If the sail passed to starboard, then whoever she was must be bound north; passing to larboard would show she was going south.

Southwick had heard the lookout's hail and came on deck, his round face grinning, his white hair flowing like a new mop.

'Think it's our friend, sir?'

'I doubt it; we couldn't be that lucky. She's probably a Post Office packet bound for Barbados with the mail.'

Southwick shook his head, reminding Ramage of a seaman twirling a dry mop before plunging it into a bucket of water. 'We'd never catch up with a packet. Those Post Office brigs are slippery.'

'Could be one of our own frigates sent out by the Admiralty with dispatches for the governors of the British islands, telling them war has been declared.' Ramage thought a moment and then said: 'Yes, she could be. She'd have sailed from Portsmouth before the Channel Fleet, of course, and run into head winds or been becalmed.'

He looked round and realized that it had been a long time since he had given this particular order: 'Send the men to quarters, Mr Aitken. I want Jackson aloft with the bring-'em-near - he's still the man with the sharpest eyes. I must go below and look up the private signals.'

He went down to his cabin, sat at the desk and unlocked a drawer, removing the large canvas wallet which was heavy from the bar of lead sewn along the bottom and patterned with brass grommets protecting holes that would allow water to pour in and sink it quickly the moment it was thrown over the side.

He unlaced the wallet and removed five sheets of paper. They were held together by stitching down the left-hand side, so that they made a small booklet, a thin strip of lead wrapped round the edge hammered flat and forming a narrow binding.

The first page was headed 'Private Signals' with the note 'Channel Fleet' and the date. The first two paragraphs, signed by Admiral Clinton, showed their importance: they were, with the Signal Book, the most closely guarded papers on board any ship of war.

Ramage noted that the wording of the warning was similar if not identical to that in the document he had studied with Lieutenant Swan on board the Murex.

Any ship of war passing through the area cruised by the Channel Fleet would have a copy of this set of flag tables for challenging and distinguishing friend from enemy. The system was simple: depending on the day of the month (the actual month itself did not matter), there was a special challenge with its own answer.

There were four main vertical columns divided into ten horizontal sections. The first section of the first column contained the numbers 1,11,21,31, and referred to those dates. The section immediately below had 2,12,22, with 3,13,23 below and then 4, 14, 24, until the tenth section ended up with 10, 20, 30, so that every day in a month was covered.

The next column had the same two phrases in each of its ten sections: 'The first signal made is- , and 'Answered by a-', and referred to the next two columns. The third was headed by 'Maintopmasthead', and gave the appropriate signals to be hoisted there, while the fourth and last column headed 'Foretopmasthead' gave the signals to go up there.

Ramage noted that today was the eleventh of the month, and the date '11' was the second in the first column. The 'first signal' made would be a white flag with a blue cross (the figure two in the numeral code of flags) hoisted at the maintopmasthead and a blue flag with a yellow cross (numeral seven) at the foretopmasthead. One ship or the other (it did not matter which) would challenge first with those two, and be answered by a blue, white and red flag (numeral nine) at the maintopmasthead and a pendant over blue pierced with white (numeral zero) at the foretopmasthead. Numeral flags hoisted singly by a senior officer had a different meaning, but these were given in the Signal Book and there could be no confusion.

The last page of the booklet gave the private signals to be used at night - combinations of lights hoisted in different positions, and hails. Ramage noted that whoever thought up the hails must have an interest in geography: the month was divided into thirds, with the various challenges and replies being 'Russia - Sweden', 'Bengal - China', and 'Denmark - Switzerland'.

To complicate the whole system, the day began at midnight for the flag signals (corresponding to the civil day), while it began at noon for the night signals, and thus corresponded with the noon-to-noon nautical day used in the logs and journals.

Ramage repeated the numbers to himself - two and seven are the challenge, nine and zero the reply. He put the signals back in the wallet, knotted the drawstrings, and returned it to the drawer, which he locked.

How long before Jackson would be reporting?

The cabin was hot: he longed for the loose and comfortable fisherman's trousers, but they had been taken away with the smock by a disapproving Silkin, whose face was less lugubrious now he had the captain regularly and properly dressed in stockings, breeches, coat, shirt, stock and cocked hat. That the breeches were tight at the knees and the stock became soaked with perspiration and chafed the skin of the neck (and rasped as soon as the whiskers began sprouting again three or four hours after shaving) was no concern to Silkin: to him those discomforts were the sartorial price a gentleman had to pay, and Silkin regarded any article of clothing as 'soiled' if it was only creased.

Ramage knew that by now the men would be at general quarters: indeed, the Marine sentry had already reported that the men who would be serving the two 12-pounders in the great cabin and the single ones in the coach and bed place were waiting to be allowed in to cast off the lashings and prepare the guns, hinge up the bulkheads and strike the few sticks of furniture below the gundeck. Ramage picked up his hat and left the cabin, nodding to the guns' crews as he went up on deck and pulling the front of his hat down to shield his eyes from the sun, which glared down from the sky and reflected up from the waves.

He told Aitken the flag numbers for the challenge and reply, said he did not want the guns run out for the time being, and then joined Southwick standing at the quarterdeck rail, looking forward the length of the ship. Men were hurrying about but none ran: each had that sense of purposefulness that came from constant training and which led to them using the minimum of effort needed to do a task. The decks had already been wetted and sand sprinkled, so that if the ship did go into action the damp planks would stop any spilt powder being ignited by friction and the sand would prevent it blowing about as well as stop feet slipping.

The flintlocks had been fitted to the guns. Powder boys holding cartridge boxes sat along the centreline, one behind each pair of guns, while each gun captain had fitted the firing lanyard to the lock, the lanyard being long enough for him to kneel behind the gun and fire it well clear of the recoil. A small tub of water stood between each pair of guns with lengths of slowmatch fitted into notches round the top edge and burning so that any glowing piece fell into the water. They would be used only if a flintlock misfired. The cook had just doused the galley fire at the order for general quarters, and the slowmatch were the only things burning in the ship.

Below, 'fearnought' screens, thick material like heavy blankets, would have been unrolled and now hung down to make the entrance to the magazine almost a maze. Where men had now to jink about to get in, it was sure no flash from an accidental explosion would penetrate. The gunner was down inside the magazine, wearing felt shoes so that there could be no sparks inside the tiny cabin which was lined first with lathes and then plaster thickened with horsehair, and that covered with copper sheeting. The only tools allowed inside were bronze measurers, like drinking mugs on wooden handles, and bronze mallets for knocking the copper hoops from barrels of powder.

Close to each gun, stuck in spaces in the ship's side where they could be quickly snatched up, were cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks - each man knew which he was to have, because against his name in the General Quarter, Watch and Station Bill would be a single letter, C, P or T.

In less than a minute, Ramage knew, just the time it would take to load and run out the guns, cock the locks and fire, nearly two hundred pounds of roundshot could be hurling themselves invisibly at an enemy, each shot the size of a large orange and able to penetrate two feet of solid oak. Yet to a casual onlooker the Calypso was at this very moment simply a frigate ploughing her way majestically across the Western Ocean, stunsails set and all canvas to the royals rap full with a brisk Trade wind, the only men visible a couple of men at the wheel, three officers at the quarterdeck rail, and a couple of lookouts aloft.

Yet all this was routine: in the Chops of the Channel a frigate might be sending her ship's company to quarters every hour or so, as an unidentified and possibly hostile vessel came in sight. In wartime every strange sail could be an enemy. Admittedly, one saw a great many more ships in the approaches to the Channel and few would prove to be enemy, although so-called neutral ships trying to run the blockade were numerous. For a surprising number of people, Ramage noted, profit knew no loyalty - or perhaps it would be truer to say that whichever nation provided the profit had the trader's loyalty as a bonus.

'Deck there - mainmasthead!'

That was Jackson, and Ramage let Aitken reply. The American's report was brief.

'Reckon she's a frigate steering north, sir. Too far off to identify but you'll see her in a few minutes, two points on our larboard bow.'

Aitken acknowledged and turned to Ramage, who nodded and said: 'Take in the stunsails, Mr Aitken.'

As soon as Aitken gave the order, there seemed to be chaos as men ran from the guns, some going to ropes round the mast, to the ship's side where stubby booms held out the foot of the sails, and others went up the ratlines.

Bosun's mates' pipes shrilled and they repeated the order: 'Watch, take in starboard studding sails!'

After that it was a bellowed litany, making as much sense as a Catholic service in Latin to a Protestant but curiously orderly and impressive.

Main and foretopmen were standing by waiting for the order to go aloft, along with men named boomtricers in the station bill for this manoeuvre. Then the orders came in a stream - 'Away aloft... Settle the halyards ... Haul out the downhauls... Haul taut... Lower away ... Haul down ...' As the tall and narrow rectangles of sail came down and were quickly stifled on deck before the wind took control, more orders followed to deal with the booms, still protruding from the ends of the yards and the ship's side like thin fingers.

'Stand by to rig in the booms ... Rig in!... Aft lower boom ... Top up ... Ease away fore guy, haul aft...'

Then, to the men stifling the sails on deck: 'Watch, make up stunsails.' Aitken raised the speaking trumpet: 'Stand by aloft...'

The quartermaster was already giving orders to the men at the wheel: with the starboard stunsails down and no longer helping to drive the ship along, the larboard stunsails, yet to be taken in, were trying to slew her round to starboard and needed a turn on the wheel to counteract them.

Then came the same ritual for the larboard stunsails, until with the canvas rolled, the booms taken in and the topmen and tricers down from aloft, Aitken gave the final order: 'Watch carry on at general quarters.'

At last Ramage let his brain function again. He had tried to shut it off when the sail ahead was first sighted: he wanted to store the sound of that first hail until, perhaps half an hour later, Jackson would report that the vessel was a French frigate similar in appearance to the Calypso and steering the same course: evidence enough that they had finally caught L'Espoir - although quite what he did then, he did not know.

Now, however, his lack of ideas did not matter: the ship was unlikely to be L'Espoir because she was going in a different direction. A frigate, yes, but following the sea roads imposed by the wind directions, probably bound for Europe but first having to go north nearly to Newfoundland before turning eastward, unless she wanted to try the slower Azores route.

Probably Royal Navy, possibly returning from the Far East or South America, but more likely the Cape of Good Hope. Anyway, she would not know the war had started again, and if she was British he was obliged to give her captain the news. Nor could he begrudge the time because L'Espoir could be ahead or astern, to the north or the south, so any delay or diversion could lead to her discovery. Patience, Ramage thought, as he glanced aloft at the tiny figure of Jackson perched in the maintop. It was the one thing needed by the captain of a ship of war, it was one of the virtues he had always lacked.

'Look,' Stafford said, pointing at the shiny metal rectangle of the flintlock, 'you see the flint there, just like wiv a pistol or musket.'

He waited for Gilbert to translate to Auguste, Albert and Louis and then continued: 'Only you don't have no trigger like a hand-gun. Instead the lanyard - well, translate that.'

He paused because he really meant that the flintlock of a great gun did not have the kind of trigger that you put your finger round, and he was rapidly realizing that a good instructor was a man who could explain complicated mechanisms and thoughts in a simple way. Jackson was good at it. The captain was fantastic.

'Yers, well, this lower bit is the trigger: when yer put a steady strain on the lanyard (yer don't jerk it),' he emphasized, 'it pulls the trigger part up towards the ring the lanyard threads through down from - translate that!' he exclaimed, having lost both the lanyard and the thread of his explanation.

Gilbert looked up politely and said gently: 'Stafford, we can see very well how it works. Your very clear explanation - it is not really necessary.'

'Ah, good,' sighed a mollified Stafford, with a triumphant glance at Rossi, who had earlier been jeering at the Cockney's attempts to explain the loading and firing of the Calypso's 12-pounders. 'Now, here is the pricker.' He held up a foot-long thin rod, pointed at one end and with a round eye at the other, and for which he as second captain of this particular gun was responsible.

He passed the pricker, which was like a large skewer, to Gilbert to inspect and waited while the others looked. 'Ze prickair,' Auguste repeated. 'Alors.'

'No, just "pricker",' Stafford corrected amiably. 'Now, you saw the flannel what the cartridge is made of and what 'olds the powder. Well, now, forget that for a minute and we'll go back to the lock. That's got to make a spark what fires the gun ...'

He waited for Gilbert's translation and noted to himself that the French seem to make things sound so difficult.

'Well, you see this 'ole 'ere leading down into the barrel - same as in a pistol, the touch'ole. Well, instead of just sprinklin' powder in the pan and lettin' it fill up the touch'ole, so that when the flint sparks off the powder and sends a flash of flame down the touch'ole to set off the charge ... No, well, in a ship the roll or the wind could ... well, we put a special tube in the touch'ole and sprinkle powder in the pan and cover the end...'

Gilbert translated a shortened version.

'Now, just remember that. But the flash down the touch'ole won't go through the flannel of the cartridge. Ho no, nothing like. That's why we use the pricker. Before we put in the tube, we jab the pricker down the touch'ole and wriggle it about so we're certain sure it's made an 'ole in the cartridge right under the touch'ole, and that means if you looked down the touch'ole you'd see the powder of the cartridge - if the light was right, o'course.'

Gilbert translated but the other three men, who had already worked it all out, having seen the little tubes in their special box, were beginning to suck their teeth.

'Now, in goes the tube and we pour some powder into the pan and cover the end of the tube, just to make sure the spark of the flint really makes it take fire ... The tube explodes (well, not really, it makes a flash, which goes down the touch'ole of course) and that explodes the powder in the flannel cartridge -'

'And forces the shot up the barrel and out of the muzzle,' Gilbert said quickly.

'That's right! Good, I'm explaining it clearly enough, then,' Stafford said smugly. 'Next, now we know 'ow to fire the gun-'

'We must learn how to load it,' Rossi said triumphantly. 'You forgot that!'

'I was goin' to explain the dispart sight,' Stafford said sulkily.

'Only the gun captain uses that,' Rossi said. 'Leave it to Jackson to explain.'

'Oh well,' Stafford said in the most offhand manner he could contrive, but which did not reveal his relief as he realized that in fact he did not really understand how a dispart sight worked, 'we'll do loading now.'

Gilbert coughed. 'We watched when you had gunnery practice the day before yesterday,' he said. 'It is the same as for a pistol except you "swab out" the barrel. "Swab out" - that is correct, no? And you "worm" it every few rounds with that long handle affair which has a metal snake on the end. To pull out any burning bits of flannel cartridge which might be left inside -'

'Yes, very well, I'm glad you've understood that,' Stafford said, tapping the breech of the gun with the pricker and preening himself in the certainty that the Frenchmen's understanding was due to his explanation. 'The rest is obvious: you saw how we use these handspikes' - he pointed to the two long metal-shod bars, like great axe handles - 'to lift and traverse the gun. "Traversing" is when you aim it from side to side, and you say "left" or "right", not "forward" or "aft". Now, to elevate the gun, you -'

'Lift up the breech using a handspike as a lever,' Gilbert said.

'That's right,' Stafford said encouragingly. It was not as hard to explain difficult things as he had expected, even when your pupils are Frenchmen who do not speak a word of English.

'Then,' Gilbert continued, reminding Stafford of his role as translator, 'you pull out or push in - depending on whether you are raising or lowering the elevation - this wooden wedge under the breech. What you call the "quoin", no?'

'Well, we pronounce it "coin", but you are understanding.'

Rossi chuckled and said: Tell the Frogs about "point-blank".'

Gilbert grinned at the Italian. 'We have a rosbif explaining to a frog with a Genovese watching. What is a Genovese called?'

'I don't know,' Rossi said expansively. 'Tuscans call us the Scottish of the Mediterranean, but who are Tuscans to cast stones?'

'Why Scottish?' Stafford asked. 'You don't wear kilts or play a haggis or anything.'

'You eat haggis,' Rossi said. 'It is some kind of pudding. They make it from pigs, I think. No, Scottish because the Genovesi are said to be - well, "careful" I think is the word. We don't rattle our money in our purses.'

'Ah, "mean" is the word, not "careful",' Stafford declared.

Rossi shrugged. 'I am not interested in the word. Is not true, not for the Genovesi or the Scozzesi.'

'Point-blank,' Stafford said, 'is the place where a roundshot would hit the sea if the gun barrel was absolutely 'orizontal when the shot fired. About two hundred yards, usually. The shot doesn't go straight when it leaves the gun but curves up and then comes down: like throwing a ball. There!' he said to Rossi. 'Yer thought I didn't know!'

Shouts from aloft cut short Rossi's mocking laugh and Gilbert began translating for the other three.