by Dudley Pope
“Oh well, that’s us,” Stafford said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’re not suggestin’ a lot of Frogs could do that, are you?”
Gilbert said quietly: “Four Frogs helped Lord and Lady Ramage capture the Murex brig and sail her out of Brest…we did not scratch the paint, either…”
“All right, all right,” Stafford said. “I was wrong. But Gilbert, when I say ‘Frogs’ I mean Frenchies, I don’t mean you four.”
“But we’re ‘Frenchies’, too,” Gilbert said mildly.
Stafford sighed, the picture of a schoolmaster trying to keep his patience as he explained a complicated point to an obtuse pupil. “Listen, Frogs and Frenchies is Boney’s men. They’re the ones we’re fighting.”
Gilbert grinned, enjoying himself as he led Stafford into the trap. “Then what are we?” he inquired in the tone of a man genuinely seeking enlightenment. “Louis, Auguste and Albert were born in France (admittedly under the Ancien Régime), and I doubt if they’d even been twenty miles from Brest until they joined Mr Ramage. I was born near Brest but occasionally accompanied the Count to places like Paris. But I never left France until we fled to England. Yet, we’re all French – why, those three speak no other language.”
“But you are Royalists!” Stafford seized the word with the same energy as a drowning man grasping a rope. “That’s the difference.”
“Is not,” Rossi announced. “Is French and is a Royalist. You, Stafford, are two things, just like them.”
“I’m not two things,” Stafford declared emphatically. “I’m me, and that’s that!”
Jackson had been sent down to his gun and arrived in time to hear Stafford’s protest.
“What Rosey means,” Jackson explained, “is that you are English and a Royalist – you support the King. Gilbert and his mates are French but they support the King, or did until he was murdered.”
“What about you, then?” Stafford demanded suspiciously. “You and your lot are revolting. You don’t even have a king now.”
“No, I’m a bit different,” Jackson admitted. “It doesn’t matter after all these years, does it Staff?”
“Well, no, I suppose not,” the Cockney admitted. “I mean, I don’t fink you’ll suddenly turn on me with a barker in each hand and shoot me.”
“Jacko is like me,” Rossi said. “You and Bonaparte have a fight, and Jacko and me like a good fight too, so we join in.”
“Why didn’t you choose Boney’s side, then?”
“Accidenti! Are we the cat in the hiding?”
“The what?” Stafford was startled at Rossi’s sudden anger. “What cat, for Gawd’s sake?”
“Gatto in covo – an Italian expression. I don’t know the English.”
“He means ‘A snake in the grass’,” Jackson said. “No, Rosey, don’t get cross with our friend from London. He thought he could beat Boney by himself and doesn’t like having to admit he needs help.”
Stafford looked round at all the men and said with quiet pride: “All right, I get a bit muddled at times, but this I do know: my country started fightin’ the French more’n ten years ago, and we’re the only country left still fighting ’em. All the rest have quit or changed sides or– like your crowd, Jacko – been careful to stay out of it. But when Boney’s beaten it’ll be because my country kept on fighting him. Thanks for any help you lot give us – but just remember my words.”
“Yes, yes,” Gilbert said soothingly, “you are right and this is a silly argument. We all hate Bonaparte, and surely this gun’s crew is a good example – four Frenchmen, an Italian, an American and an Englishman.”
“All right, then,” said a mollified Stafford and, acknowledging Jackson’s tap on the shoulder and pointing finger, said: “We’re overhauling her fast. Soon be raking ’er – and I ’ope she’s not relying on us to aim high.”
Ramage walked from one side of the quarterdeck to the other, pausing every couple of minutes at the quarterdeck rail to look forward. In the past, just before going into action, he had been frightened, apprehensive, cheerful, miserable, exhilarated and doubtful. But, he now admitted to himself, he had never before been just puzzled.
There she was, the Jason frigate. Still the British colours flapped in the wind. Still she steered the same course which would, in a few minutes’ time, take her (if there were no interruptions) five miles astern of the convoy. None of her sails were particularly well trimmed, but they would satisfy a slack captain. Her guns were still run out, but there was still no sign of men moving about on deck – even though, as the Calypso closed on her, one would expect to see a few bright shirts through the glass as seamen moved about.
Nor was there any sign of officers on her quarterdeck. Surely there must be an officer of the deck, and the captain too, considering that a hostile frigate was overhauling her fast and indeed was now barely five hundred yards astern and so placed in the Jason’s wake that she could sweep down to attack either side. Surely a captain would be on deck, trying to guess which side the Calypso would choose, since his crew could not man the guns on both sides at the same time. Were all the officers at their divisions of guns, crouching down and peering through the ports, like voyeurs?
He lifted his telescope as a thought struck him. That was strange – there was not a single lookout aloft. In fact for all one could see, the Jason was a ship being sailed by phantoms. That was a fanciful thought until one remembered that these phantoms fired guns (and presumably could reload and run them out again, too).
Which meant that the Jason had another neat trap for him. What was it? This one, if he did not spot it, might be a complete success. Like a headmaster reviewing an erring pupil’s activities for the day (before administering a painful caning), let us go over the events, he told himself. First, Aitken was right: the Frenchmen in the Jason recognized the Calypso as being French-built and were being wary in case she had been captured by the British, and finding that she was they had tried to rake her. It was an attempt that deserved better luck – yet it was damned odd that all those gun captains aimed high. He shrugged his shoulders – yes, privateersmen might be used to smaller guns and shorter ranges, and might have called for more elevation (and thus range) than was needed with the 12-pounders. Yes, that was it! Why the devil had he or Aitken or Southwick not thought of that before? Anyway, after the raking by the Jason had failed to bring down any of the Calypso’s masts she had carried on to leeward and, in effect, tried to lure the Calypso into following her – that could be the only explanation of why she was being so badly sailed. But what exactly was the trap they were trying to set?
The choices for the Frenchmen are limited, he thought. If there are two or three hundred of them on board the Jason (unlikely, unless she is now a French national ship, part of the French navy and not a privateer’s prize) they would not want to get alongside the Calypso and try to carry her by boarding.
So she would want to keep the Calypso at a distance, fighting a battle of broadsides. But having seen the failure of his attempt to rake the Calypso, would the French captain rely on his gunners? No – unless the raking was just part of the trap, a deliberate attempt to make the Calypso think the French gunners were fumbling and inexperienced, so that she would get close alongside – to find the French guns firing with deadly accuracy.
Yes, the more he thought about it, the more likely that seemed. It meant that the French captain of the Jason thought fast and had a well-trained crew.
Very well, what now? Ramage turned yet again as he paced from one side of the deck to the other. From his own experience, captains planning ingenious ways of gaining that all-important advantage of surprise were also more likely themselves to be taken by surprise: they were much more prone to underestimate the enemy. He was himself a good example of that: having captured those two frigates, L’Espoir and La Robuste, by legitimate ruse de guerre, the very next time he met the enemy, which was now, he had fallen for the same trick.
It was important now to accept that the Jason
was being commanded by a cunning enemy, and try to guess what he was trying to make the Calypso do. Once you start having to react to what the enemy does, Ramage told himself sternly, you have lost the battle: the whole art of combat, whether with swords, fists, armies or ships of war, is to make sure the enemy always has to respond to your move: always keep him off balance, wondering where or when the next blow will fall. Ramage almost laughed at the lecture he was giving himself: it was all quite correct, but hard to apply while chasing an enemy frigate across a bright tropical sea under a bright tropical sky with both ships heading into a gaudy tropical sunset which turned flying fish skimming the surface into pink darts.
Very well, he could not see any men on board the Jason, What did that mean? Was it intended to make him think the ship was short of men and lure him into boarding her? No, that was too crude a trick; a ploy intended to puzzle the Calypso, perhaps, but otherwise of no significance. And the slow progress? Probably nothing more than the Jason’s wish to bring the Calypso into action before there was any chance of the other two frigates now escorting the convoy joining in the action.
There is only one decision to make, Ramage told himself sternly; all the rest is idle speculation. How are you going to attack the Jason? Are you going to get a hundred yards away on her starboard or larboard side, and pound her with broadsides. Or slap the Calypso alongside and try to take her by boarding?
He looked across at the Jason as she rolled her way to leeward, now almost directly under the sun and dazzling the eye. Five hundred yards away? The Calypso was overtaking her, all right, but the wind was dropping with the sun, and the swell waves, with the wind waves rippling over the top of them like muscles, were flattening.
The decision seemed to make itself, and he turned to Aitken.
“I want grapnels rigged from the starboard yardarms, and a dozen more ready on deck in the hands of men who can throw them accurately.” Already, before Ramage had finished giving his orders, the Scotsman was grinning, his worry that the captain had at last run out of ideas, or not yet recovered from the trick just played on him, now dispelled. “All men except the afterguard to have pikes, half-pikes, pistols, cutlasses or tomahawks; whatever they choose. And pass the word for Rennick, there’ll be work for his Marines.”
Southwick was still standing close and he nodded approvingly as Aitken started giving a string of orders.
“Only thing is, sir,” he said quietly, “do we want those Frenchies to see us rigging grapnels? It might give the game away.”
Ramage nodded and called down to Aitken: “Tell the topmen to rig those lines as though they’re working on the sails. Don’t hoist a grapnel high enough for the Jason to see. It’s to be a happy surprise for them,” he added.
“Glad you’re going to board, sir,” Southwick commented, his voice low.
Ramage was curious why the old master had reached that conclusion – one that Southwick seemed to have had in mind for several minutes. “Why board? Their shooting was lamentable.”
“By keeping the men hidden, seems to me, sir, that French captain is trying to make us think he wants us to board. But he’s not such a fool as to think we’d fall for it, so I reckon he doesn’t want us to board. He just wants us to think he wants us to, so that we’ll do something else.
“That makes me think – what with his poor shooting just now, which was so poor it must have been deliberate – that what he really wants is to have us a hundred yards away on his beam where his guns can either smash our hull to matchwood or tear our sails to shreds. I reckon you’re going to do just what he’s scared of and what he’s trying to lead us away from – like a lapwing running lame to lead you away from her nest.”
“I hope you’re right,” Ramage said. “I don’t fancy that frigate running around loose in the convoy, with us lying out here dismasted and those new captains on board L’Espoir and La Robuste–”
“–running around like moulting hens,” Southwick finished the sentence. “You’ve just got time for a word to the men, sir – if you wanted to say anything.”
Southwick knew quite well that Ramage hated these eve-of-a-fight harangues which many captains liked – those who made time for long speeches full of rounded phrases and stirring thoughts designed to make the men fight better. Ramage knew the Calypsos would fight well if no one spoke another word, but Southwick always disagreed, not because he thought the men would not fight so well, just that he reckoned they liked to hear a few words from their captain.
Very well, there was nothing worse than having Southwick walking round with a disapproving look on his face. Where was the speaking trumpet? He would just have time to include the topmen before they went aloft to reeve the lines for the grapnels. He gave a bellow which had every man turning to look up at him.
“Calypsos, I think the King would like to have that frigate (she’s the Jason, by the way) back again before the reek of garlic stinks out the bilges. So we’d better retake her. It’ll also mean we have a stronger escort for the convoy too, and yet more prize money. Not that any of you need it!”
Every man in sight seemed to be waving his arms and cheering and slapping each other on the back, so perhaps Southwick was right, though why fifty words, a sneer at the French and a joke about prize money should make any difference was beyond him. “So we’ll board her,” he concluded, “and I want the boarders away in a flash when the order is given. Once you are on board her, don’t stand around gossiping; I want those prisoners secured quickly, otherwise it’ll take all night to beat back to the convoy.”
He tapped Southwick on the arm and nodded towards the quartermaster, who was continuing to watch the set of the sails and the compass and the four men at the double wheel. “Let’s make sure we all know exactly what we’re going to do,” he said. “I don’t want to have to be shouting orders at the last moment.”
Southwick looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not planning on leaving me behind again, are you sir?”
“Being left in command of a frigate is hardly ‘being left behind’,” Ramage said mildly.
“You know what I mean, sir, and you’ve used that argument at least a couple of dozen times. It’s my turn now. Leave one of these youngsters behind – they all had a chance with those two,” he added, nodding at the convoy where by now it was easy to see La Robuste and L’Espoir.
Southwick, old enough to be the grandfather of each of the officers and most of the petty officers and seamen, liked (indeed, craved) a good fight on the decks of an enemy ship as a drunkard craved a pull at a bottle except, Ramage thought ruefully, that he knew of a few drunkards who had been cured of their craving whereas Southwick’s seemed to grow with each passing birthday.
“Very well, just this time. Martin or Kenton?”
Southwick shook his head. “I’d sooner see Wagstaffe left here, sir. The Jason’s a well-found ship and looks to me as though she’s commanded by a shrewd devil. Whoever stays on board here might…well–”
“–might have to take the convoy back to England, eh?”
Southwick grinned, but because that was what he had in mind he nodded. “We’re all mortal, sir, and we’ve had a good run for our money.”
“Very well, just listen to what I have to say to the quartermaster, then go down and find Wagstaffe. Tell him what I’m going to do and tell him he’ll be left in command. And don’t forget to collect that dam’ meat cleaver!”
Southwick’s enormous two-handed sword was famous. Most of the men in the Calypso carried a picture of Southwick, in some action or other, sweeping down the deck of an enemy ship, white hair flowing in the breeze, bellowing like an enraged bull and whirling the great sword over his head, scything his way through a crowd of the enemy as powerless to defend themselves against this apparent monster as a rabbit to evade a ferret.
Quickly Ramage explained to Southwick and the quartermaster what he planned to do, and both men nodded. There was nothing particularly subtle about it; both men understood that, given the circumstance
s, it was the only plan that stood a chance of success without a heavy loss of life.
Aitken and Wagstaffe both arrived on the quarterdeck together, and Ramage looked questioningly at the first lieutenant. “We haven’t much time, Mr Aitken,” he said.
The Scotsman recognized the tone because it was the nearest Mr Ramage ever came to being querulous, and he grinned cheerfully. “Lines for the grapnels are already rove, sir, and I have a couple of dozen men hidden below the bulwarks and securing the grapnels.”
Ramage nodded. “Well, if I don’t see them at work presumably the Jason won’t. Now listen, the pair of you, this is what I intend doing.” Quickly he explained that Wagstaffe would be in command of the Calypso. This brought an immediate protest from the second lieutenant that he would be left out of any fight and Ramage looked at both Aitken and Southwick. “There are times,” he said with mock exasperation, “when I wish the three of you would go up on the fo’c’sle and settle all this among yourselves.”
Southwick, fearing Ramage would change his mind, said hurriedly to Wagstaffe: “You’re greedy. You had a good scrap with the last prizes and took command of one of them while I had to stay in the Calypso.”
“Well, I am the second lieutenant.”
“And I’m old enough to be your father and grandfather,” Southwick growled, “and even if you are a commission officer, if you’re not careful I’ll put you across my knee!”
The remark was just enough to set them all laughing. Wagstaffe agreed it was Southwick’s turn and looked serious when Ramage pointed out that having command of the Calypso gave him responsibility for the convoy, “Even though the captains of L’Espoir and La Robuste will take it from you the moment they know anything has happened to me.”
Ramage left the deck for a few minutes, going down to his cabin and returning with a cutlass and belt slung over his shoulders and a mahogany case containing a brace of pistols. He knelt down at the case to load the pistols while Aitken hurried below, promising to collect Southwick’s sword because the master was still busy with his quadrant.
