by Dudley Pope
Finally, as Aitken returned wearing his own sword and with a Sea Service pistol tucked in his belt, handing Southwick his sword and a pistol, Ramage told the master: “Put your quadrant away somewhere safe: we can rely on our own eyes now!”
Eyes, he thought bitterly, but not brain. What the devil was going on in the Jason? Was she really being sailed badly to lure on the Calypso? Why were all the men hidden – it could not be from fear of sharpshooters. At least the mythical Jason had a ship full of heroes to help him when he sailed in the Argo to find the Golden Fleece. Still, the equally mythical Calypso offered immortality and eternal youth to Odysseus when he was shipwrecked on her island. All of which, Ramage reflected, shows that recalling Greek mythology is a great help if you want to pass the time and keep your thoughts from getting occupied with more troublesome matters.
The Jason was on the starboard tack, with the wind fine on her starboard quarter. She would expect to be attacked on that side, from to windward, and no one but an idiot would attack from to leeward. From the Jason’s point of view the Calypso would be unlikely to attack from to leeward because the wind would blow the smoke from her guns straight back on board, blinding her officers and choking the gunners. More important, if the Calypso attacked from to leeward, the Jason could drop down on to the Calypso, while the British ship would have to get up to windward to close the range. The weather gauge…to many admirals they were the only three words that mattered, although they were as confining as a canvas straitjacket.
Yet those three words explained, Ramage reflected sourly, why several famous admirals had won peerages for what were tactical disasters, complete failures which the politicians (ignorant of tactics) had, by the judicious distribution of peerages and knighthoods, turned into great victories with stirring speeches in Parliament.
That was why Vice-Admiral Nelson had not made himself very popular among the Navy’s senior flag officers: before his victories at the Nile and Copenhagen, it was enough for the admiral commanding a fleet to break the enemy line and capture three ships – then England rang the bells for a great victory and gave him a peerage. St Vincent took four ships in his victory – but two of those were captured by Nelson.
But the Nile and Copenhagen had set new standards: for three, read a dozen or more. Yes and give credit to Admiral Duncan at Camperdown because his victory over the Dutch was hard won and complete, and Rodney at the Saints. But the Glorious First of June, so proudly hailed by the old guard, was by the new standards a disaster, a Glorious Failure.
Very well, Captain Ramage, prepare for your attack on this strange ship the Jason… There’s four hundred yards to go, you’ve made your little speech to rally the men, all the guns are loaded, the men have cutlass, pikes and tomahawks to hand, and pistols too; the grapnels are ready to fling on board the enemy.
He turned to the quartermaster, Pegg, who had taken over the job usually carried out by Jackson. He was a wiry, gipsy-faced seaman, famous in the Calypso for his hatred of Welshmen. “A point to starboard – as though we are going to pass the Jason five hundred yards to windward.”
Pegg gave the order to the helmsmen as he brushed his carefully plaited black hair to one side and, grinning happily, muttered to himself: “But we ain’t though, I’ll bet all the takings from a Michaelmas Fair.” Since he had been given instructions, Pegg was not taking much risk.
Ramage caught the sense of the gipsy’s words and smiled to himself: the “takings” that Pegg had in mind were not the profits made by the stallholders, but the haul made by the “dips”, the light-fingered pickpockets who regarded the fixed fairs as the times in the year when they could clear good profits to see them through the winter. Like a “dip” planning his campaign, Pegg could see that the obvious way of attacking the Jason was to overhaul her and settle down five hundred yards to windward and pound her with the 12-pounders, later perhaps closing in to give her a taste of the carronades loaded with canister or grape. But Pegg had sailed with his captain too long ever to expect the obvious: he had also learned that the obvious was the most easily countered.
A broadside first? Ramage knew there was no time to reload, so that the starboard broadside would be no better than a single pistol shot. What would be best, smoke, noise and confusion – or just silence: a cold-blooded silence?
Well, he was doing the unexpected and it had better be right: looking forward, he could already see Aitken going to each division, explaining to the officers in charge and the men serving the guns exactly what they were to do when the time came. Aitken stood, and was apparently talking, with all the authority of the man who knew for certain what would happen. A lucky fellow, Ramage thought and glanced at the two pistols in his belt. The flints were good and Ramage thought of the flint knappers tapping away with their special hammers so that the flints flew off like someone slicing a crisp cucumber. A man’s life could depend on a good flint…
Chapter Nine
Ramage stood at the starboard side of the quarterdeck rail with Wagstaffe beside him. The quartermaster Pegg had moved between Ramage and the men at the wheel so that he should not miss a hurried order, but almost imperceptibly the Calypso was closing with the Jason. Even without a glass they could see the gingerbread work on the scroll on the transom: JASON was carved there, the letters picked out in gold against a red background. The scrollwork enclosing it all was picked out in blue. Not my choice of colours, Ramage thought, but obviously some other man’s personal taste clashed with the normal dictates of heraldry. At least the name was gilded – the man who sought the Golden Fleece did not have to suffer the indignity of having his name painted in tawdry yellow.
There was Southwick, crouched down behind the bulwark, trying to hide the fact that he had occasional twinges of rheumatism. There was Paolo, still loyal to the midshipman’s dirk but covering himself by having a cutlass in a belt over his shoulder and a pistol tucked into his belt. Yes, Paolo was as excited as an eighteen-year-old boy was entitled to be. He would be the target of every French sharpshooter in the Jason if they knew he was the heir to the Kingdom of Volterra (might even now be its ruler, if Gianna had been murdered by Bonaparte, which seemed very likely). Young “Blower” Martin had a pistol and a half-pike. Interesting that this time he had picked a half-pike against a cutlass, but he was small, and with a half-pike you could jab the enemy four and a half feet away, whereas you had to be breathing in each other’s face to have much effect with the cutlass.
Martin’s father, the master shipwright, would probably not recognize his son at this moment. Ramage had a feeling that the father regarded the flute as an unmanly instrument without realizing “Blower’s” skill with more lethal instruments.
And there was the irrepressible third lieutenant, Kenton. There was no mistaking his red hair, heavily freckled face which was always peeling because he could not protect it from the sun, and his four-square stance – even though he too was crouching. Kenton’s father, a half-pay captain, would be delighted at the eagerness with which Kenton awaited action.
Finally there was Aitken, brought up as a boy in the Highlands and the son of a former master in the Royal Navy. Aitken, tall with a thin, almost gaunt face, black hair and deep-set eyes, at first meeting seemed dour and spare with words, issuing them with the reluctance of a purser handing out candles (which he had to pay for out of his own pocket). But in fact Aitken had a droll sense of humour: he and Southwick sparked teasing remarks off each other which made the rounds of the ship.
All the Jason’s guns were still run out, and even though he had looked carefully at each gunport, Ramage could see no sign of the guns’ crews. He could now see two men at the wheel (two, not four as a British ship o’war usually had when going into action) and a man was walking round them who could be either the officer of the deck or the captain, but who certainly was not wearing the uniform of a post-captain in the Royal Navy. Or the uniform of anyone’s navy. Trousers (did that mean he was a sans-culotte? Presumably) of dark-green material and a long coat o
ne would expect to see on an English parson visiting the dying: it was black with a deep velvet collar. Who but a madman would wear a coat like that in the Tropics? Well, Ramage admitted, the fellow commanding the Jason seems quite at home in it.
Ramage turned to Pegg, eyebrows raised, and the gipsy face nodded to show that he understood the moment was fast approaching and knew what he had to do. It was not a straightforward manoeuvre, because no one would be tending sheets or braces, but Pegg had the kind of confidence that Ramage had spent years instilling into his ship’s company against such a day as now.
Fifty yards…the black paint of the Jason’s hull was in even better condition than he had thought. Forty yards…there were a dozen brightly coloured shirts strung out on a washing line on the fo’c’sle. Thirty yards…although the Calypso was overhauling her, the Jason was making good speed: her wake formed the usual fascinating pattern of whorls. In a few minutes the Calypso’s jibboom would be overhanging the Jason’s stern like a fishing rod over a stream.
Ramage nodded to Pegg, who snapped out an order which had the four men spinning the wheel. To the captain of the Jason the Calypso was at last beginning to turn to starboard, sidestepping so that instead of following she came up alongside to starboard: on the windward side, with her whole broadside ready.
The Jason’s captain would be making sure that all his gunners were at the starboard side guns: no frigate could man both broadsides at once, and if it was needed the men fired one side and ran across to fire the other.
There were still several yards between the Calypso’s jibboom and the Jason’s transom, even though the British frigate had begun her swing out, ready to overtake and come alongside.
Ramage watched the gap, narrowing his eyes as if to see more clearly. All he really saw was every one of his officers and Pegg anxiously watching him.
“Right, Pegg,” he snapped and the gipsy, certain the order had been left a moment too late, shouted at the four men and flung himself on the wheel too, clawing at the spokes.
Slowly, as though with enormous dignity, like a dowager changing her mind, the Calypso’s bow began to turn to larboard. To the watching men, it seemed as though the Jason was being pulled slowly to starboard and then, as the Calypso’s extra speed became obvious, the Jason was gently pulled astern.
Ramage watched the Jason’s quarterdeck. Twenty yards…that curious black-coated figure was striding up and down and he had not looked at the Calypso for several minutes: it was as though he was unaware that she had been following and was now overtaking. All part of the play-acting, all part of whatever trap he was trying to set? Ramage was far from sure: all he knew was that the man would look perfectly at home striding among the dark-green yews and the moss-packed tombstones in an English cemetery, perhaps quietly muttering some prayer or psalm in memory of those who had taken up permanent residence.
He said to Pegg: “Now!”
The quartermaster snapped a third order to the men at the wheel, who hauled on the spokes and then stopped at another order from Pegg as the Calypso’s bow started to swing in towards the Jason. After she had travelled to within a dozen yards, the wheel was spun back amidships and the Calypso came back on to a parallel course.
Wagstaffe sighed, but Ramage had the feeling it was more from disappointment than relief: the Jason’s guns had not crashed back in a full broadside, even though the Calypso was a perfect target. Then once again Pegg, after a quick glance at Ramage to receive an approving nod, gave more orders which sent the wheel spinning again, except this time the Calypso turned on to a course which would converge with the Jason in two ships’ lengths.
As the ships approached to crash alongside each other Ramage shouted: “Stand by those grapnels,” and ran down the quarterdeck ladder to join his men waiting on the maindeck. Pegg calmly gave the order which turned the wheel enough to lessen the shock of the forthcoming crash. An excited Wagstaffe, for once ordered to remain on the quarterdeck instead of leading a boarding party, contented himself with shouts of “Hurrah, Calypsos!”
Ramage squeezed alongside a gun barrel and peered down into the water between the two ships. Only five yards separated them.
“Over with the grapnels!” he shouted. “Swing the others out from the yards. Take your time and aim true!”
The clinking of metal was men’s cutlasses banging against gun barrels and metal fittings as they slid to the ports; the sharp metallic clicks were men cocking their pistols. Moments now – and there it was: with a crash that men felt right through the hull rather than heard, the Calypso drove alongside the Jason. The grapnels swinging out to lodge in her rigging and bulwarks were hauled in to hold the two ships together, and before Ramage had time to give the order the Calypsos were swarming on board the other ship, led as far as Ramage could see by Southwick, who looked like a demented bishop as he ran, white hair streaming, across the Jason’s deck, his great sword like an immense crozier.
Ramage scrambled up and over the Jason’s hammock nettings and dropped down on to her deck, vaguely noticing that the nearest men to him were Jackson, Rossi, Stafford, Gilbert and the other three Frenchmen. With a pistol in his left hand and cutlass in his right, he headed for the quarterdeck, for the man in the black coat, and was surrounded by dozens of men shouting excitedly: “Calypso! Calypso!”
But there was a strange atmosphere, as though they had met the coldness of a crypt. The excited dash that surged the Calypsos over the Jason’s bulwarks was slowing down: far from men being in desperate cutlass-against-pike, pike-against-tomahawk, pistol-against-pistol duels, they were slowing down to a walk and looking round with all the curiosity of bumpkins at a fair. And beyond – or was it round them? – other shouting: that of frightened men shouting in English, as though desperately trying to establish their true identities before being run through, spitted by a pike or cut down by a tomahawk.
Was this the trap? English prisoners forced to shout for quarter at the instant the Calypsos boarded? Creating confusion and making them pause just long enough for the French to shoot them down?
Ramage looked round wildly, saw no immediate explanation and carried on his dash towards the man in the black coat who (Ramage blinked but kept his pistol raised) was now walking towards him, arms outspread in a welcoming gesture: just as a parson would greet a valued parishioner or, more likely, the patron of his living.
Above the din Ramage could hear the man saying in a normal voice: “Ramage, isn’t it? I’ve heard so much about you, my dear fellow, and I’m so glad we meet at last!”
Was this the trap? Ramage stopped and motioned with his pistol that the man should stand his ground. Southwick and Aitken stood warily, like hunters waiting for the prey to walk into their gun sights, and the Calypso’s boarders had all stopped and were watching Ramage, waiting for a signal or order.
Ramage glanced at Aitken and snapped: “Talk to her gunners!”
The first lieutenant, as he took the few paces to the nearest gun’s crew, realized how quickly his captain was thinking: the gunners would reveal their nationality, why they had fired high when raking the Calypso, and who or what their captain was.
There were six men grouped round the nearest gun, all crouching, and none was armed: there was no sign of a cutlass, pistol, tomahawk, pike or musket; in fact a glance showed Aitken what they should have noticed from the Calypso, that the boarding pikes were still clipped into the racks fitting round the masts like dogs’ collars.
The nearest man, holding the trigger lanyard, was obviously the gun captain but his face was white under a superficial tan and his eyes avoided Aitken’s glare. He still stood in a half-crouch, as though he had just been kicked in the belly. To Aitken he looked like a pickpocket caught in a congregation and singled out by the parson up in the pulpit for special castigation.
“Do you speak English?” Aitken demanded.
The man nodded nervously.
“Well, stand up straight and tell me what’s going on.” Aitken suddenly realized something
else. “Where are all the officers apart from the man in the black coat and a few midshipmen?”
At last the seaman threw the lanyard over the breech of the gun, out of the way (Aitken noticed the lock was not cocked, so the gun could not be fired), and stood to attention.
“All the officers are down in their cabins, sir. One of them could tell you. Yes, sir,” he said eagerly, the idea becoming more appealing as he thought about it, “they’d all be able to tell you, ’specially the first lieutenant.”
“You tell me, quickly!” Aitken snapped, slapping the flat of his cutlass against his leg, “or else you’ll all be dead men in a couple of minutes: you fired on one of the King’s ships. That’s treason, to start with.”
“Oh no!” the man protested in an agonized voice, and several of the others round the gun now stood up straight and added their protests. “We fired over you sir,” the man said excitedly “All of us did, even though we’d been told to rake you.”
Ramage, out of earshot, called impatiently and Aitken said: “Quickly now, this is the Jason and one of the King’s ships?”
“She’s that,” the man said. “Commissioned in Plymouth the week after the war started again. Bound from Barbados an’ Jamaica with despatches.”
“Why did you open fire?”
“Go on, sir; ask one of the officers,” the man said evasively, his body wriggling like a hooked fish.
Aitken’s brain felt numbed: if the man in black was the captain, the officers were down in their cabins, and the men were crouched down round guns whose locks were not cocked, then what the devil was going on?
“What were your orders if and when you were boarded by us?”
“Orders, sir? Oh Gawd, sir, it ain’t like that at all: please go an’ ask the officers ’cos they know all abart it.”
“So none of you are going to fight us?”
“Fight you?” the man said in alarm. “Strike me, we bin ’oping fer weeks something like this would ’appen.”
