Ramage's Signal r-11

by Dudley Pope

  Martin came aft to report that all six swivels could be fired and, thanks to a liberal application from the greasy slush found in the cook's slush bucket, the swivels now turned easily in the fittings in the bulwarks, and the trunnions of the guns moved freely in the swivels. There was no shot gauge to ensure that no shot was oversize or swollen by rust but it had been easy enough to try every shot in a gun: matter of rolling in the shot and then - with the muzzle inboard - tilting the barrel down so that the shot rolled out again into waiting hands. All the socket fittings for the swivels in the bulwarks looked sound enough. 'The guns have just been neglected for the past year: they were originally fitted well enough', Martin reported.

  A year, Ramage thought: just a little less than the length of time the Royal Navy left the Mediterranean because of the demands for ships of war in other seas and other oceans. Clearly no Algerine pirates came far enough north to persuade this tartane's master that his swivels needed anything more than canvas covers by way of maintenance. Or, more likely, the tartane usually hugged the coast.

  The schooner was still holding her course: obviously the Britons on board were either curious or uninterested in the tartane - staying on a course which would very soon have them crossing tracks could mean either.

  Martin examined her with the glass, wiped the objective lens with a piece of cloth to remove specks of spray, and looked again.

  'That hull hasn't seen a paintbrush for a year or two', he commented. 'And her jibs have an odd cut to them. Like flour bags, they belly so much.'

  'I noticed that', Ramage said, taking another bearing of her across the top of the Passe Partout's steering compass.

  'And those quarterboats - they weren't built in a British yard: look more like bananas.'

  'Probably lost her own months ago and took those from an Algerine prize.'

  'Still, she has British colours, so we shouldn't have any problems, sir.'

  Ramage looked astern and saw that the last of the ships of the convoy were now two or three miles away, and Jackson, Orsini and Stafford were standing by the line reeved through a block at the after end of the lateen yard and used as a flag halyard.

  He then looked across at the Magpie and called to Orsini, who promptly gestured to the two seamen and the French colours came down at the run. Another glance forward reassured him that on this tack the curve of the Passe Partout's sail made a big enough belly of canvas to hide any flags from the convoy.

  As soon as the Tricolour was down and removed from the halyard, it was replaced with a flag twice as large, one which Jackson, Stafford and Rossi had hurriedly cobbled up from a bolt of canvas found in the bosun's tiny store in the fo'c'sle.

  'Hoist it slowly', Ramage said, and a large white flag - as white as sail canvas could ever be - rose to the end of the yard.

  Ramage took the glass and watched the afterdeck of the Magpie. A white flag was accepted universally as a flag of truce, and on the matter of colours, Ramage noted, the Magpie's were faded. There was just enough for it to be recognizable as a Red Ensign, but - there were a lot of swarthy faces on her fo'c'sle. She must have shipped a crew from - where? And there were many more men with swarthy faces on the quarterdeck, too. Swarthy! They were Arabs! They even had the Red Ensign upside-down, something he had only just noticed because it was flapping spasmodically in the Magpie's soldier's wind.

  'Go about', he snapped at Rossi and with seconds counting leaned against the tiller.

  'Man the swivels, she's an Algerine!'

  The Passe Partout spun round to the northwest, away from her rendezvous with the schooner, and almost at once Ramage heard the faint pop-pop-pop of muskets and then the deeper boom of 6-pounder guns.

  There was a heavy crash of spars and flapping of canvas as the Magpie wore round to try to intercept the tartane on her new tack and, with Rossi now holding the tiller over, Ramage was able to use the glass once again.

  Yes, the larboard side of the Magpie, hidden until she wore round, was damaged and had been temporarily repaired but not painted - and now the Red Ensign was coming down and the green-and-white crescent flag used by the Algerines was going up in its place, an enormous flag that seemed more suitable for a fortress than a ship.

  'Jackson - signal flags - British: hoist number sixteen where the Calypso can see it. Martin, Orsini, get those swivels firing - don't worry about hitting the Magpie, make plenty of smoke so that the Calypso sees it!'

  'Number sixteen, "Engage the enemy more closely" goingup, sir', Jackson yelled, overhauling the halyard.

  'Yer gotta laugh', Stafford said gloomily as he slid a flannel cartridge into the muzzle of a swivel. 'Here we are, British mustering under Frog colours, and there they are, a crowd of h'Arabs musterin' under British colours to attack the Frogs.'

  'Yes', said Paolo indignantly, pushing in a wad and rolling a shot after it, 'but you heard what the captain said – they had the British flag upside-down: they're just damned Saraceni. Barbarossa's brood.'

  'Barbey Rossi - I'd forgotten 'im', Stafford said. 'You'd think he was an Italian with a name like that, just like our Rossi.'

  'No', Paolo corrected him. '"Barba" means "beard" and "rossa" is red. Redbeard was his nickname, not his true name.'

  Ramage watched the Magpie as the Algerines trimmed the sheets of the big mainsail and foresail. Obviously they were much more used to the lateen than the gaff rig, but reaching as she now was, with the wind on the beam, they would not need the sail-trimming skill necessary to get her moving fast to windward.

  She came round into the Passe Partout's wake and about half a mile astern. Her masts were now in line.

  'Martin! Your quadrant. Give me the elevation of the Magpie's foremast!'

  The young lieutenant opened the mahogany box as the first of the tartane's swivels fired. By the time the third had fired he was balancing, sighting the Magpie in the quadrant's mirror. A few delicate movements with the quadrant's arm and Martin was reading off the minutes and degrees.

  Ramage looked at his watch and said to Rossi: 'Keep her masts in line: I want to see how quickly she can overhaul us on a reach.'

  'Very quickly', Rossi muttered. 'Only to windward can we escape!'

  And that, Ramage knew, was the irony of the situation. The only ship with the guns to deal with the Magpie was the Calypso, at the far end of the convoy and who could only get to the Algerine vessel by beating to windward - a long, slow task in this light wind.

  The Passe Partout could not escape from the Magpie by running away before the wind to join the Calypso; the schooner would overtake her long before that. If she raced away on a broad reach, north or south, taking the Magpie in pursuit, she was making it a little easier for the Calypso, whose speed would increase with every point she could sail free. But the Magpie would catch the tartane long before the Calypso could get near.

  Only by beating to windward, away from the Calypso, could the Passe Partout escape. Would the Magpie continue chasing her? If so, it would keep her out of the Calypso's hands but - ironically enough - save the French convoy.

  The fifth swivel fired. It was absurd to waste the shot when the whole point of firing was to make smoke to attract the Calypso's attention because at this range a 3-pounder shot would not harm a privateer schooner any more than a soggy dumpling.

  'Fire blank charges', Ramage shouted. 'Don't waste shot. Just make smoke!'

  He looked astern across the convoy at the Calypso and just managed to steady the glass in time to see the frigate wearing round, sails shivering as she steadied on a course hard on the wind. Aitken and Southwick were going to be busy as they tacked back and forth through the convoy. There were bound to be at least three merchant ships whose masters lost their nerve at the sight of a great frigate, guns run out, racing in their direction and, instead of holding their course, they would do something silly and risk a collision...

  'Martin', Ramage snapped after another glance at his watch, 'have another look at the Magpie's foremasthead.'

  The
degrees and minutes he reported confirmed what Ramage had already seen with his naked eye: he hardly needed the quadrant to tell him that the angle subtended by the Magpie's foremasthead was increasing so fast that the schooner would be ranging alongside within minutes.

  He glanced at Rossi, who was loosing a powerful stream of blasphemy in Italian at the Magpie such as can be achieved only by an imaginative Italian Catholic.

  'Very hard on Catholics, these Arabs', Ramage said teasingly. 'They flay them, I believe.'

  Rossi grinned as he said: 'Yes, sir, even lapsed Catholics.'

  The Genoese seaman was handling the Passe Partout's tiller as an artist might his brush; he was responsive to every variation in the wind's strength, reacting to puffs and lulls like a gull hovering over the edge of a cliff.

  Martin turned to Ramage and said cheerfully: 'I am sorry, sir, someone wrote andante ma non troppo on this ship's keel!'

  Ramage gave a great gust of laughter which stopped every man in his tracks, and knowing they had very little time left for anything, Ramage called: 'Mr Martin says the Passe Partout has a musical direction - an order by the composer to the soloist or orchestra - which means in Italian, "Fast, but not too much"!'

  'Ho, I was wondering what was delayin' 'er', Stafford said.

  There were seven French prisoners locked in the fo'c'sle and who had been guarded, until the swivels were needed, by Baxter and Johnson. He must not forget to free them at the last moment and give them, too, a chance to kill an Arab or so before that screaming horde swamped the Passe Partout's deck.

  He turned to Rossi, waving to Martin to attend to the sheets and braces: 'Bring her hard on the wind. It's not much of a chance, but we'll give 'em a run for their money!'

  Within two or three minutes the tartane was heeling as she sliced through the waves, lively as a young pony let loose in a meadow. With the glass Ramage saw the men in the Magpie hauling on headsails, foresail and mainsail sheets so that the schooner could sail closer to the wind and stay in the tartane's wake until she overhauled her.

  Martin, standing by him, commented: 'They seem to be a lubberly crowd over there, sir!'

  Ramage nodded, an impression in his mind giving way to an idea. 'Tell Orsini to fetch the French master here, but leave the rest of the Frenchmen locked up. Send Baxter and Johnson with him.'

  The fat Frenchman walked most of the way staring at the Magpie almost in the Passe Partout's wake, but when he reached Ramage he held his arms out in front of him, palms facing forward.

  'What is happening?' he asked. 'I hear the guns firing - but she is British, like you!'

  'She is an Algerine pirate. She was British, but the Algerines captured her.'

  'You won't get away from her', the Frenchman said philosophically. 'We have more barnacles on the bottom than the Republic has debts. We are all making mistakes today - I mistook you for French, you mistook those villains for English. Your mistake is going to be the most expensive for all of us: if we are lucky, they'll cut our throats. If not - well, they have many cruel games to play with "infidels"...'

  The Frenchman, fat as he was, and slightly ridiculous to look at, was no coward; his attitude was droll and he was genuinely amused that both he and Ramage had made mistakes over identity.

  Ramage looked astern at the Magpie, glanced at Rossi, who shook his head to indicate the Passe Partout was not gaining a yard, and said to the Frenchman: 'M'sieu, I've no doubt you and your men share our reluctance to become prisoners of the Dey of Algiers or any of his men. If I release you all, will you give me your word that you'll remain our prisoners at large, help us, and surrender yourselves again when we have escaped?'

  'Escaped? Quelle blague!' he exclaimed at such crazy talk. 'But certainly we will help make those camel lovers pay dearly for our skins. Yes, you have our parole; we'll help you sail and fight the ship - whatever you propose to do. Fight against all that mob!' The notion made him chuckle as he made his way forward to explain to his men, and Ramage called Baxter and Johnson aft as he told Martin what he was doing.

  'I'm glad they'll be helping with the sheets and downhauls, sir', Martin admitted. This rig is effective, I'll admit that, but it's as tricky as a Thames barge. A man and a boy can work a barge up a narrow gut against a foul tide - as long as they know how!'

  'Orsini', Ramage said, 'I'm putting you in charge of the Frenchmen because you'll hear me giving orders in English and can translate.'

  'Aye aye, sir. And sir', he reminded Ramage, as if to excuse his future behaviour, 'the Saraceni have been the natural enemies of Italians for centuries.'

  Ramage remembered how the various Arab rulers of Algiers and Tunis along the north coast of Africa had always made passing ships pay enormous 'tributes', quite apart from capturing hundreds of seamen to work the oars of their galleys. 'Yes, they've lacked friends for a long time', he said dryly. 'They have some curious habits.'

  'The Magpie, sir', Martin said as he put his quadrant away in its box, having carefully wiped spray from the brass fittings. 'She's catching up very fast!'

  'Ah, there are your Frenchmen', Ramage told Orsini. 'Tell the master to show you where their muskets and pistols are kept, and then make sure his men have them.'

  The wind was piping up; it was now a fresh breeze, cooling the decks a little, and increasing the belly of the sail. The Magpie, he had to admit, looked a fine sight, although he would be quite satisfied if he could admire her a mile away, instead of a few hundred yards.

  The Algerines were obviously going to pass to leeward and give the Passe Partout a broadside; then they would probably drop astern and come up again on the weather side and board. There must be a couple of hundred of them, judging from the crowd lining the weather rail, and, he suspected, by habit they were acting as human ballast, as they would in a xebec or tartane.

  The French master came waddling aft, and suddenly held out his hand. 'Chesneau', he said. 'Albert Chesneau.'

  Ramage shook it and introduced himself, giving his name the English pronunciation. Chesneau did not hear it clearly because at that moment the tiller creaked louder than usual, so Ramage repeated it with the French pronunciation.

  'Ramage - the Ramage?' Chesneau was obviously impressed. 'Ha, I've heard of you and I've said a few prayers that I'd never meet you at sea. I imagined different circumstances!'

  By now Orsini was leading the French seamen from the cabin and they were busy checking over muskets and pistols. Ramage looked round for Martin.

  'Listen, this ship should have been your command and I'm sorry to be interfering, but the next half an hour is likely to be busy, so I'll give you a hand. Orsini can use those Frenchmen like Marines, and their muskets will help. I want you to look after the sail handling. I suggest you put Jackson in charge of the swivels. Leave Rossi at the tiller, and I'll give him a hand if he needs it.'

  'Aye aye, sir', Martin said and then looked almost shy. 'Will you pardon me for saying it, sir, we all know the Magpie's going to do us in, but it's an honour to be beside you, sir, and none of us would be anywhere else.'

  Suddenly all the men round gave a cheer which was swamped by a bellow from Baxter: 'Three cheers an' a tiger for 'is Lordship - 'ip 'ip, 'urray!'

  An embarrassed Ramage stood still until they had finished, then gave the men a salute in reply and a grin of encouragement.

  'Right lads, I've a deal of paperwork to finish in the Calypso, so let's hurry up and finish off this bird astern!'

  The men roared with laughter, Orsini hastily translating for the Frenchmen.

  'Remember this', Ramage shouted to make himself heard above the increasing wind and the laughter, 'that schooner is expecting to give us a broadside or two and then board.

  'Now you know that, forget it. Forget everything except the job you now have. Men at the sheets, braces and downhauls: that's your entire life for the next half an hour - if you want to live. You men at the swivels - fire as fast as you can but as accurately as possible. Your target will always be the Magpie's quarte
rdeck if your gun will bear, otherwise her topmasts.'

  He lapsed into French. 'You new allies are the sharpshooters. Try and pick off the magpies and jackdaws on the quarterdeck, particularly anyone that looks like an officer.'

  He looked at the Magpie and realized that the new sound of popping was musket fire from the Arabs swarming out along the Magpie's bowsprit and, he noted, getting in each other's way. She was less than a hundred yards astern and spray was slicing up from her bow as she raced up to the Passe Partout.

  'One last thing', Ramage shouted, 'and make sure you translate this, Orsini: don't waste a single shot. Aim and fire. If you can't aim properly, wait for a target to present itself.'

  The Calypso had tacked again, weaving in and out of the ships of the convoy. Neither Aitken nor Southwick would ever guess what he was originally going to try to do with that damned convoy, and if they had any sense they would grab the Sarazine and Golondrina and make for Gibraltar.

  Southwick would eventually visit Gianna, of course, and he would tell her what little he had seen of the last few minutes of her sweetheart and her heir, and Jackson, Rossi and Stafford. She would mourn but she would be proud, even if the Admiralty made a fuss about him leaving the ship.

  He mopped his face with his handkerchief, not because he was dripping with perspiration but because he wanted to wipe away the black thoughts. And, being human, he could be permitted some black thoughts when nine Britons and six Frenchmen in a tiny tartane found themselves about to be boarded by a schooner crowded with a couple of hundred Algerine pirates, whose shrill shouts and screams he could now hear, a noise of wild animals - how he imagined wolves chased their quarry.