Ramage's Signal

CHAPTER NINE

Paolo climbed back on board the Calypso in the darkness, and while the cutter was being hoisted in under Jackson's directions he decided that the last hour and a half had been the strangest in his life - so far, anyway. Serving with the man he hoped would one day become his uncle by marriage produced more surprises than did a Three Kings' party every January when he was a little boy in Volterra.

He patted his coat pocket to make sure his notes were dry - there was always a slop thrown up when a boat went alongside a ship, and the cutter had just done that fifteen times: sixteen counting her return.

'The captain is waiting for you in his cabin', Aitken said, his figure shadowy in the lantern light.

'Aye aye, sir.' First lieutenants do not waste time, Paolo grumbled to himself: three hours ago, he and Martin were shifting their gear out of the signalmen's hut and making sure they had left nothing behind that could reveal the British had been there. Since then he had boarded fifteen enemy ships...

Paolo could not get used to trousers and a white shirt, open at the throat, even if it did have lace at the cuffs. The Frenchman for whom it had been made - that miserable lieutenant - was too thin; Paolo was afraid that any exertion expanding his chest would rip it in half.

'Orsini! The captain!'

'Aye aye, sir.' Mr Aitken was such an impatient man. One could not report to the captain wearing sodden boots.

A bellow from the captain coming up the skylights from the cabin proved him wrong, and he scuttled and squelched down the companionway, ignoring the sentry's salute in his agitation, and burst into the cabin without knocking.

Ramage looked up from his desk, his face seeming daemonic in the shadows of the flickering lantern.

'Go outside again and knock.'

An embarrassed midshipman went outside, shut the door, said 'Evening' to the sentry - the nearest he could get to an apology - and knocked on the door just as the sentry, not to be outdone, announced loudly: 'Mr Orsini, sir!'

'Send him in.'

Once again Paolo ducked his head and entered the cabin. Seeing the captain in an open-necked seaman's shirt was a shock; the hairiness of his chest was also a surprise. Because the captain's stock was usually tied high under his chin, Paolo realized, one did not think of there being a body - not in the hairy sense, anyway - 'twixt stock and sole. Ah, there was a fine phrase; he had recently come across ''twixt' but had spent the last few days in the company of 'Blower' Martin and Jackson, both splendid men but unappreciative of such a word.

'Why is that dam' silly grin on your face?'

'I was - er, well sir ...' Paolo fumbled for a reason, unwilling to take a chance with "twixt sock and sole', and finally dragged his notes from his pocket. They were wetter than he had realized. His hands had been wet when he added paragraphs to them and even wetter when, a few minutes ago, he had checked to see if they were dry.

'What on earth have you got there - a wet rag?'

'The list of ships and their cargoes, sir', Paolo said miserably. 'I think I can still read it.'

Ramage took out his pen, ink and sheet of paper. 'Start reading, then.'

'I went to the largest ship first, sir, as you told me. She's the Sarazine of Toulon, 560 tons, pierced for eight guns but carrying only four, all 9-pounders from the look of it. Seven men and the master - he complains of several desertions before sailing.

'He says he has been the commodore of the convoy from Barcelona to here and is very angry about the lack of escort. He complains of the responsibility. I told him I was only anaspirant and knew nothing about it all and my orders were to deliver the orders. He calmed down after a while and accepted the new destination but says he has no charts for that coast.'

Ramage nodded. 'You reassured him?'

The question relieved Paolo who, faced with the same complaint by all fifteen shipmasters, had promised each of them that copies would be sent on board long before the coast came in sight. 'Yes, sir; I said we'd send one over.'

'And the other ships?'

'The same, sir.'

'Very good', Ramage said, adding dryly: 'You're going to be busy making all those copies.'

'Er - yes, sir. Well, she has a mixed cargo and is under charter to the Ministry of Marine. She's carrying fifty tons of powder for the garrison at Leghorn, stowed in half hogsheads, as well as flints for flintlocks. Five thousand for great guns, five thousand musket size, two thousand carbine and three thousand pistol.'

Ramage wondered if there was a good source of flints and enough skilled flint knappers in Spain, then realized they might have come overland, across France and the Pyrenees: it would still be an easier journey to Leghorn than across the Alps.

'The second largest snip is the Golondrina, Spanish obviously. Also under charter to the Ministry of Marine. I thought it best not to understand Spanish, sir, and they had an officer who spoke French. Six guns, pierced for ten, mixed cargo. Everything from lumber - for the shipyard, they said - to bolts of canvas. Oh yes, they must be short of casks in Leghorn: she has twenty tons of iron hoops, and thousands of staves for butts, puncheons, hogsheads and barrels, and head pieces of course. Olive oil, Madeira - they must like it in Leghorn, or else they tranship it - and several tons of currants and raisins.

'The master was complaining to his officers in Spanish, not realizing I could understand, that one frigate was not much of an escort, and with the Golondrina's bottom so foul, shewas going to have the frigate alongside of her most of the time firing guns and screaming at him to set more canvas, but as they were so short of sails the French - he used a very strong word, sir - would have to put up with it.'

Ramage looked up. 'How many men apart from officers?'

'Only five that I could see, sir, and the master, mate and someone who would be a master's mate in the Royal Navy. Very undermanned, except in light weather.'

'The next?'

'A very nice brig, the Bergère, captured from us by the French in mid-Atlantic, brought into Toulon, refitted and commissioned as a transport. Three hundred tons, and carrying great guns for ships, carriages for land artillery, harnesses for horses, and bales of hides which have been cut out and now need stitching to make them into harnesses. Very short of men, she was: the master and the mate are doing watch and watch about, and they have only eight men.'

Ramage had heard, as a dismal descant sung by all captured French officers, that they were always short of men, and this was proof enough: undermanned ships in the West Indies could be explained by the loss through sickness and the distance from France. Yet, here, along the Mediterranean coast, they were sending ships to sea with so few men that any master carrying topsails at night - let alone topgallants - in unsettled weather would be asking for trouble: four men trying to furl or reef a topsail in a sudden Gulf of Lions squall might just as well stay in their hammocks and let the sail blow out; they would be unlikely to beat the wind.

'Any of the rest of those ships worth mentioning?' Ramage asked.

'Five of them are carrying quantities of powder. Some for Genoa, most for Leghorn and a certain amount for Civita Vecchia.' He read out the names of the ships and the amounts.

The quantities look like the normal replacement onewould expect', Ramage commented, half to himself.

'Yes, sir. I wonder what sort of quality it is.'

'Hmm... why not have one ship carrying all the powder?' Ramage mused, and then provided his own answer. 'Probably put on board whichever ship happened to be loading as the convoys of carts arrived in Barcelona.'

Ramage looked up at Paolo, who was obviously trying to pluck up enough courage to say something.

'Well, what ship has taken your fancy?'

Paolo's jaw dropped at the way the captain seemed to have read his thoughts. 'She's a tartane, sir, the Passe Partout. Laden with olive oil in hogsheads. Master, mate and four men. Pierced for four guns, but at the moment mounts only six swivels, 3-pounders, I think.'

'PassePartout, "the master key"', Ramage mused. 'What lock do you hope she'll open for you?'

'If we took her, sir, she'd make a fine tender for the Calypso: tartanes go to windward so well that she'd double the area we could search. Or ... well, sir, I could sail her to Gibraltar as the Calypso's prize.'

'Paolo', Ramage said affectionately, the first time he had used the boy's name on board, 'would your navigation stand up to a 700-mile voyage?'

'Yes, sir', Paolo said stoutly and, before a startled Ramage could contradict, he added: 'To Gibraltar, anyway. From wherever we took her - I suppose it'd be near the destination - even though it's 700 miles to Gibraltar, I have only to sail west. If I see land to starboard, I keep it there; if to larboard, I keep it there. That way I'm bound to sight Europa Point and sail into Gibraltar Harbour.'

'Like water poured into a funnel, eh? It has to go down and come out of the spout.'

'Yes, sir', Paolo said lamely, wishing the captain had chosen a less mundane comparison.

'I'll bear it in mind. Why a tartane, as a matter of interest?'

'This one was built in Italy, sir, and her master reckons she's the most weatherly afloat.'

'Never believe a master or owner's description of his vessel', Ramage warned mockingly. 'Criticize his wife, his mistress, or his house, but never his ship... Now', he said, pulling out his watch. 'Ah, nearly time for our convoy to get under way. Go and tell Mr Southwick that you have orders from me to check the trim of the poop lanterns and make sure the glasses are clean.'

Ramage knew that either Southwick or Aitken would have done that already - the novelty of carrying three lanterns on the stern, one on each side of the poop and one higher in the centre to make a triangle, would have been enough for them to check that the lamptrimmer had done his job properly. He could not remember when they had last used a poop lantern. He could only hope that the quality of the stone-ground French glass was good enough that it did not crack in the windows so that the flames blew out.

He picked up his hat and went on deck. It was dark but cloudless, the stars reflecting just enough light for him to be able to see that the Calypso was almost surrounded by merchant ships. He noticed that they had let go just enough cable from the anchor to hold and not a fathom more; not one of them would have a single man to spare while weighing anchor. Even the cook in some of them would be heaving down on the windlass or straining at the capstan.

He found an angry Southwick on the quarterdeck, peering anxiously from one side to the other with the nightglass.

'Some of these beggars haven't anchored, sir', he exclaimed. 'Too damned lazy to weigh an anchor. They've been drifting across the bay and then tacking back up again ... it's only a matter of time before one gets caught in stays and hits us.'

'All of them short of men, it seems. The sooner we get under way the better.'

'Aye, sir, otherwise we'll find ourselves with a brace of tartanes on the end of our jibboom; it'll be like spitting pickled onions with a skewer.'

'We'll weigh and get out of the bay before we light the poop lanterns; that'll give us a lead of half a mile', Ramage said.

Aitken, who had joined them in time to hear the last few words, laughed and said: 'I was going to suggest that m'self, sir: it's like being surrounded by fifteen drunken bullocks.'

'Or nervous old ladies clutching smoking grenades', Ramage said. They're so scared of collision that at first most will be out of control because they daren't set enough canvas to have proper steerage way.'

'We'll play the highwayman, then, and make a quick escape. Starting now, sir?'

It was a good half an hour before the sailing time Ramage had put in the orders, a copy of which Paolo had delivered to each ship, but by that time the Calypso must be well clear of the bay, steering the correct course and the triangle of poop lanterns acting as a guiding star for the merchant ships.

Ramage, knowing that a collision tearing away shrouds and bringing down a mast would not only wreek this operation but bring the whole cruise to a stop and result in them being made prisoners, gave the order. Southwick went forward while Aitken passed the word for the bosun's mates to rouse out both watches without using their shrill calls and without hearty bellows in English. Their voices would carry a long way on a night like this.

The topmen had already been instructed that all they would hear from the deck would be a sequence of numbers hailed in French. In fact - although Ramage had not made the point - it did not matter if they forgot the actual words for the numbers as long as they remembered the sequence. The third order, or hail, for instance, could only mean 'Trice up booms'.

Ramage silently ran through the list of things to be done or checked before going to sea. He had done it hundreds of times in the past when, as a midshipman or lieutenant, some of the tasks had been his responsibility. Now he had three lieutenants and a master to make sure they were done; butif even one was accidentally omitted and the ship damaged or endangered, the court martial would find the captain guilty of negligence. That was what captains were there for...

All but the bower anchor stowed; boats hoisted in and secured; ensign staff down - the Tricolour had already been taken in - and the dog vanes put in the bulwarks, their feathers checked in the corks, the lines securing the corks inspected for wear and twists; sails ready for loosing - he had looked them over with the glass before darkness fell; tiller and relieving tackle inspected - he had done that immediately they had anchored after themistral. If they were leaving from one of His Majesty's dockyards, he or Southwick would check that they had all the charts needed for the voyage, which reminded him that young Orsini must make a start on the copies of the charts for the French ships, and Ramage decided his clerk could lose a night's sleep too, helping him. The clerk was an idler, the official word for a day worker. There were not many of them in a frigate and they included people like the cook and his mate, the carpenter's crew, men whose regular routine was interrupted only by general quarters or, as in the case of the clerk, an unusual situation...

He could hear the steady clunk, clunk, clunk as the pawls dropped into place with the turning of the capstan barrel. There was none of John Smith the Second's fiddle tonight; although he played it as another man might strangle a cat, the men liked to have him standing on the capstan head, sawing away. A seaman glided up to Aitken in the darkness with a message from Southwick - the anchor was at long stay, Ramage guessed. He looked around for any French merchantmen anchored in the way - this was just the sort of situation when you found a badly commanded ship lying between you and your anchor so that as you hove in your cable you came up to her. The result was usually unpleasant, the other ship complaining that they mistook your anchor buoy for a fishpot marker. How few people realized that it often took more skill to anchor a ship properly than sail her.

It was an old adage in the Royal Navy that 'A ship is known by her boats', because badly painted and badly handled boats always came from slackly commanded ships. Ramage had his own addition to that - a badly anchored ship was always incompetently commanded.

By now the Calypso's anchor was up and Aitken was calling aloft the unaccustomed: 'Un ... deux ... trois ...'

Southwick had been correct in his claim that some of the ships had not anchored, because as soon as they saw the Calypso's topsails let fall, they began setting sail.

Once the frigate was clear of the Baie de Foix, Ramage told Aitken: 'Have the poop lanterns lit', and a few minutes later was cursing the sooty smell that the gentle northwesterly breeze would keep drifting forward across the quarterdeck.

Southwick came bustling up, his work on the fo'c'sle completed. 'It's the same as being the first out of church, sir; you avoid meeting all the people you don't like.'

'I can't picture you in or out of a church.'

'True, but my sister always makes me go to both matins and evensong when I am on leave.'

'I should think so', Ramage said. 'She has a well-developed sense of duty.'

'She's more concerned with showing her brother off to the neighbours', Southwick grumbled. 'I don't get the impression she worries too much about my immortal soul.'

'Well, someone ought to, because I have the feeling' - Ramage waved astern towards the merchant ships now setting sail - 'that it's going to be strained for the next few days.'

'Escorting a convoy with one ship is like leading a flock of sheep without a dog', Southwick said crossly. 'No one to chase up the laggards.'

'Cheer up', Ramage teased him. 'It could be worse.'

'I doubt it. I've never escorted a convoy of British ships where at least half the masters weren't mules. But a mixture of French and Spanish - can you imagine it, sir?'

'I can, only too vividly', Ramage admitted. 'And the Dons don't trust the French anyway, and the French are alreadyangry that the escorts - they were expecting more than a frigate - did not arrive.'

'I know what I'd like to do', Southwick muttered.

'What's that?'

'Board the biggest two, send 'em to Gibraltar as prizes, and sink the rest.'

'So would I', Ramage said quietly, 'but the prizes would never get there. They'd be recaptured by the French or Spanish in a few hours, and we'd end up losing a couple of good prize crews.'

'I suppose so, sir', Southwick said grudgingly, puzzled because he knew the order sent to each of the ships was to make for a place in the opposite direction to Gibraltar, and that the Calypso was going to lead them there. And a discreet inquiry of Aitken showed that the captain had not given a hint to the first lieutenant either about what he intended to do with these mules. Look at them, he told himself, they've only just left the bay, and have the Calypso's three lights to make for, as clear as a lighthouse, and they're already spreading out across ten points of the horizon.