by Dudley Pope
Towards the end he found some handwriting on pages left clear of print which listed the numbers and positions of the various rendezvous for ships of the Mediterranean Fleet. He noted the latitude and longitude of the nearest, Number Eleven, and pulled a chart from the rack above the desk. The rendezvous was seventy-five miles to the eastward of the Kathleen's present position - and with the wind they'd been having it ruled out any chance the dismasted ship was a British frigate waiting like a sentry at the rendezvous with fresh orders or information for ships ordered to call there.
He put a finger on the chart. The Kathleen was here, about a hundred miles due west of the southern tip of Sardinia, because he was going well south to skirt the African coast, at the same time giving a wide berth to Majorca, Minorca and the south-eastern corner of Spain. The ship ahead was much too far north to be British and bound from Naples, Malta or the Levant to Gibraltar. He glanced at the top of the chart. Toulon - yes, a French ship from the eastward and bound for the great naval base could be here. But he saw Barcelona to the west and, farther south, Cartagena, were also possible destinations for Spanish warships whose captains would be anxious to keep to the northward because of the shoals and unpredictable currents along the low-lying African coast. A ship returning after rounding Corsica and Sardinia (as he knew several Spanish ships had done recently watching for the British Fleet) might also be here.
He heard Jackson shouting from aloft but could not make out the words, and after replacing the chart and locking up the Signal Book, turned to leave the cabin just as Southwick came down the companionway.
'Jackson says she's a frigate sir,' the Master explained, following Ramage up the ladder. 'Swept clean and not a stick set as a jury rig. Says she looks Spanish built'
'Very well, Mr. Southwick: continue heading up towards her until we can be sure.'
Gianna and Antonio both looked excited as they walked over to meet him. 'If she's Spanish, we can pull her to Gibraltar,' Antonio said.
Ramage shook his head. 'There'll be no towing, unless she's British.'
'Oh!' exclaimed Gianna. 'Why not?'
'I—'
'Deck there!' hailed Jackson. 'She's definitely Spanish built.'
Southwick acknowledged the hail and Ramage turned away to avoid answering Gianna's question, but she repeated it.
'Because, madam,' Ramage said heavily, 'We have a ship's company of sixty-three and we carry ten carronades, each of which fire a 6-pound shot for less than five hundred yards. If that ship over there is a Spanish frigate, she has about two hundred and fifty men on board, and probably soldiers as well, and carries at least thirty-six guns which fire a 12-pound shot for fifteen hundred yards. Any one of those shot could cripple us - they're more than four and a half inches in diameter - and if we were hit on the waterline by a couple of them we'd sink.'
Antonio stuck an arm out sideways. 'But don't their guns point out at right angles, like ours? Surely they can't shoot straight ahead or behind?'
'Yes, they're broadside guns, and we could keep out of their arc of fire. But they could use their bow and stern chasers.'
Antonio looked puzzled.
'Most ships have two special ports aft and two forward. You just haul round a couple of broadside guns and aim 'em through the ports,' he explained, gesturing aft. 'That's what those two ports are for.'
'But can't we risk being shot at by just two guns?' Antonio persisted. 'After all, they'll be rolling, and without sails they can't swing the ship round to aim a broadside, can they?'
'No, but even if she had no guns, how can we possibly capture two hundred and fifty men who'd strongly object to us boarding the ship, let alone take them prisoner?'
'Well, if they haven't any guns,' interrupted Gianna triumphantly, 'why can't we just keep shooting at them until they surrender?'
'I didn't say they haven't any guns,' Ramage said, fighting to conceal his exasperation. 'I simply said "If they hadn't" - but they have.'
'Oh well, it's a pity. We should cut a fine figure towing that big ship into Gibraltar.'
'If you can imagine a little donkey pulling a large cart loaded with blocks of Carrara marble all the way over the Alps, that's about how we'd be towing that. She displaces - if you put her on the scales you'd find she weighs about 1,300 tons against our 160 tons.'
'Less the weight of her masts!' Antonio exclaimed.
'Masts, spars, bowsprit, jibboom, rigging, blocks, sails and boats. Yes,' Ramage conceded ironically, 'you can deduct about a hundred tons - a little less than the weight of the Kathleen.
Southwick called. 'You can just see her now, sir.'
Ramage spotted the small black shape just beginning to rise over the curvature of the earth as the Kathleen approached, and pointed her out to Gianna. The frigate was about eleven miles away. He glanced astern at the cutter's wake; she was making between five and six knots, so it would be nearly two hours before they'd be within gunshot. Close enough, rather, to make out her name.
He wondered afterwards why he corrected himself and why he went below and changed from his best uniform into an older one that bright sun, salt spray and his steward's constant spongings and brushings had reduced to the pleasantly faded blue that he preferred to the original colour.
CHAPTER THREE
Ramage's cabin for the time being was Southwick's, who in turn had taken over that of the next senior, John Appleby, the master's mate. He had just finished changing when Gianna called from her cabin. Her face was serious as she motioned him to shut the door and, not knowing what she was going to say, Ramage first told the sentry to station himself a few feet away, out of earshot.
Sitting at the little desk, the chair swung round to face him, she reached up with her right hand and traced the scar over his brow. 'Nico...?'
'Marchesa...?'
'My Lord...?'
They both laughed with embarrassment over her difficulty in starting whatever she wanted to discuss, and he said: 'Clench your hands, shut your eyes, and say it!'
'It isn't my business, Nico, but...'
'But...?'
'... but is it wise to leave this Spanish ship with—'
'Without letting you leap on board, capture her single-handed and hoist the flag of Volterra?'
'Be serious, Nico! I mean, couldn't people say you ran away - that you refused to try to capture her?'
'Some may, and probably will. Others will say it'd be madness even to attempt anything against a ship eight times the size of the Kathleen. Others - and they'd include Admiral Sir John Jervis and Commodore Nelson - would say I'm already disobeying orders even by going close enough to identify her. You realize the Commodore ordered me to take you and Antonio to Gibraltar as quickly as possible by the safest possible route? That means whatever we meet I have to run away, not fight.'
'Yes, but Antonio's afraid that since neither Sir John nor the Commodore are at Gibraltar, one of your father's enemies might be there to make trouble, as they did at Bastia. After all, who knows what might have happened there if the Commodore hadn't arrived in the middle of that mockery of a court martial?'
Since he'd been thinking of all this long before Jackson identified the ship as Spanish, Ramage knew Gianna's fears were well founded. It was difficult being in the Service as the only son of John Uglow Ramage, tenth Earl of Blazey, Admiral of the White, Cornish landowner, man of honour and bravery - and also, after Admiral Byng, the most celebrated political scapegoat of the century; a man whose honour and career, and almost his life, had been snatched away from him by the Government to use as props to keep itself in office. Yes, it was difficult and at times seemed impossible; but...
'What are you thinking, Nico?'
For a few moments he'd forgotten she was there. 'Just something my mother once said - that I had the same fault as my father.'
'What is that?' she asked quickly, revealing a sudden fear.
'That neither of us will bother with an easy problem - someone has to say it's impossible before we make any effort
.'
'I'd have thought that's halfway between a fault and a virtue.'
He kissed her and led the way up on deck, walking to a carronade away from the rest of the men. While he stood with one foot on the slide facing outboard she leaned back against the bulwark, the sunlight on her hair making it glint blue-black like a raven's feathers, and as she turned to look at the strange ship Ramage wished he was a painter to capture on canvas the splendid, patrician profile outlined against the almost harsh blue of the sea and sky. The small, slightly hooked nose and high cheekbones, the large brown eyes and delicate ears revealed by the swept-back hair gave her features the classicism of a Roman bust but belied the warm, generous lips.
Deliberately he turned away and looked round the cutter. It was in his power to have this deck swept by enemy shot, their impact gouging out swathes of great splinters and sending them scything through the air, slicing off limbs and stabbing men. Within a couple of hours, at a word from him, the newly scrubbed decks he'd just inspected could be daubed with the blood of these men now standing round laughing and joking, no doubt repeating every witty jeer they'd ever heard against the seamanship, courage and sexual prowess of the Spaniards.
Gianna said softly, 'Can you hear what the men are saying?'
'I wasn't listening.'
'Listen now then.'
Ramage did not know whether to tell them in anger to be silent, shake them by the hand with pride, or to stop listening in shame. Every man was speculating about the prize money they'd receive when they towed the frigate into Gibraltar. For them it was a foregone conclusion, Ramage realized bitterly, that their captain would capture the ship, but none seemed to realize it'd require magic to make the Spanish ship surrender...
'You see?' she said.
Southwick came up rubbing his hands and mustering a laugh so bloodthirsty that Ramage thought the villain in a melodrama at a Haymarket theatre would have been proud of it. Gone was the Master's look of a country parson; despite the chubby face and mop of flowing white hair, the prospect of battle had transformed his appearance from a benign curer of souls to a dedicated and ruthless curer of skins; his face was flushed, his hair seemed to bristle, and his eyes were bloodshot.
'I thought it'd be a good idea to start the men rousing out one of the thirteen-inch cables, sir,' he said briskly. 'It'll take a bit of time, and though the eight-inch'd be easier because it's not so heavy, I thought it might part and still leave us with having to use the thirteen-inch.'
Ramage began rubbing his brow, caught Gianna's eye, and instead of ordering Southwick to leave the cable stowed said lamely, to give himself time to think, 'Very well, Mr. Southwick.'
The Master was too excited to notice the lack of enthusiasm in the flat voice and trotted off forward to supervise the shifting of more than two tons of heavy, stiff and immensely strong cable.
Gianna had heard Ramage make that formal response 'Very well' dozens of times; but there had never been that undertone of - well, almost despair. His face betrayed nothing; but that instinctive rubbing of the scar warned her his mind was in a turmoil. She guessed he was being tugged this way by the precise wording of his orders, another by the shadow of his father's trial, yet a third by the assumption of Southwick and the crew that they'd capture the frigate. And perhaps duty and honour told him to steer yet a fourth course.
She knew instinctively that if he obeyed his orders and left the frigate alone he would probably be safe; but that lean and tanned face, those deep-set eyes, naturally proud bearing, also told her that whatever he did, he had to live with himself afterwards; that while others praised his bravery he could condemn himself for cowardice simply because at some point he felt a moment of fear. She knew this only because she too had experienced it: she recalled setting her horse at an apparently impossible fence and successfully clearing it to the almost hysterical cheers of her family, but she had ridden on to avoid facing them because she knew she had failed herself; because, in the instant before knowing whether the horse would jump or refuse, fear had paralysed her. Ruefully she reflected the price she'd paid to learn that if you were to lead successfully, whether a kingdom or a ship's company, the only standards worth bothering with were those you set yourself; those of others were, well, those of the mob; those who were led, who had neither the ability nor the courage to sit alone and make the decisions.
Cramp in the foot resting on the carronade slide reminded Ramage time was passing quickly; he had to make up his mind in the next few minutes, before the ox-like enthusiasm of Southwick and the ship's company swayed his judgment. The situation was simple enough - once you stripped away the details (and left out any thought of the consequences and the orders locked in the desk).
He could leave the Don severely alone after identifying her, note her position and pass it to the next British warship he met. Or he could - well, easier to see first what he could not do. Obviously he couldn't capture her by boarding because his men were out-numbered at least four to one. Nor could he sink her by gunfire. So Southwick's preparations for towing were laughable.
Yet ... he had to admit frightened men bolted from shadows; drowning men clutched at straws. From bitter experience he knew the next most alarming thing to water flooding into a ship faster than the pumps could clear it was to be dismasted; the ship was utterly helpless and at the mercy of wind and current. Without the steadying effect of masts and spars the ship rolled like a pig in a midden, and as the Spaniards hadn't rigged jury masts yet, perhaps they couldn't. They were hundreds of miles from the nearest Spanish or French port, and well off the normal routes, so only a miracle could send another Spanish ship their way. And not a hundred miles to the south was the African coast, where almost every bay was the base for the Barbary pirates who'd cut their throats just for the fun of it and whose fast galleys rowed by Christian slaves often frequented this area ... Yes, the Spaniards would be frightened men, frightened where the whims of wind and current would take them; frightened that a dozen Barbary galleys would get alongside in the dark and put several hundred pirates on board. But at the moment they probably weren't frightened enough to grasp at a straw. They'd need just a little extra, just enough to turn fear into panic...
If he only could bluff the Dons into believing he could destroy their ship if they didn't accept his alternative - to surrender and be towed ... But having achieved that piece of wizardry, was the little Kathleen capable of towing the hulk? He couldn't remember a precedent, and there was only one way of finding out.
Ramage looked across at the hulk yet again, cursing the fate that had left it within sight of his lookout, and conscious the seamen round him were still laughing and joking, and that Gianna was watching. Southwick's cheerful curses were streaming up from forward, hurrying the men rousing out the cable.'
Then Ramage looked at every alternate seaman on deck. He knew them all by name, knew most of their faults and merits. He'd promoted several and liked them all. Then he glanced at Gianna and Antonio and deliberately forced himself to imagine them all sprawled on the deck dead, lying in pools of their own blood, as the Kathleen tried to claw away from the frigate's broadsides because he'd miscalculated and the Spaniards had called his bluff.
He had everything to lose - his ship, his life, Gianna, the ship's company who blindly and cheerfully put their trust in him - and, by comparison, very little to gain if he succeeded. Perhaps a few grudging words of qualified praise from Sir John and the Commodore, but no more since he'd have paid scant attention to his orders. Certainly he wouldn't get a Gazette letter because, although success avoided awkward questions being asked, he could hardly expect a reward for virtual disobedience.
An admiral's dispatch to the Admiralty praising an officer and subsequently printed in the Gazette was the dream of everyone, from a midshipman to a senior officer, since it meant a lot in gaining promotion (providing, he thought ruefully, the person mentioned survived the action the letter described).
Why even think about trying to tackle the frigate?
Was he juggling with the stuff of dreams? Or - and it was a sobering thought - was he becoming a compulsive gambler, like one of those pale, twitching, glassy-eyed men who haunted White's, driven to that fashionable gambling den by some inner demon to risk half a fortune on the night's turn of the cards or roll of the dice? Risking a well-loved estate, wife, children, position in society, for an urge about as noble - and apparently as hard to resist - as the need to relieve himself?
Ramage was surprised how dispassionately he saw the situation. His father would be proud if he succeeded - and just as proud if he failed in the attempt, because above all he'd want him to try. Gianna really knew nothing of the problems and was young and impulsive, yet she wanted him to try, perhaps for the same reason as his father, but also because she enjoyed adventure. His rescue of her from under the noses of the advancing French had also rescued her from the prison that was the life of a young woman heading one of the most powerful families in Tuscany, and whose mother had brought her up as a boy in a desperate attempt to fit her for the task of ruling that turbulent little state.
