by Dudley Pope
For a moment, as he listened again for the hail, making sure it was for him, Jackson tried to decide whether Stafford was anxious for his wellbeing or afraid he might have missed something.
Yes, the hail was for him. "You're gun captain now, Staff, and Rosey, you move up one. Right?"
With that he walked aft in a series of splay-footed zigzags, looking like a drunken duck while moving from one handhold to another as the ship alternately heeled to stronger blasts of wind and then came upright in the lulls, like an inverted pendulum.
Stafford is probably right, Jackson thought; that Cockney is shrewd, and he has sailed with Mr Ramage for several years. But if Mr Ramage intends throwing off this French frigate, he is going to have to do it soon: the moon will be up all night, and the Frenchman was quick enough to follow the Calypso round on that last tack and shows up again at a cable's distance. Tacking and wearing across the Tyrrhenian Sea is all very well, but those Frenchmen can obviously work their ship fast enough to match tack for tack.
Once he reached the quarterdeck ladder he saw the first lieutenant and the captain standing together by the binnacle. Mr Aitken was still holding the speaking trumpet and had obviously hailed him.
"Sir," Jackson said, "you passed the word for me?"
"Yes. You take over as quartermaster."
As Jackson relieved his predecessor he listened as the man first repeated the course and described the sails set and wind direction. The American saw that the four men at the wheel were reliable and a glance at the compass showed the ship yawing comfortably about a quarter of a point either side of the course. Very good: the men were letting the ship find her own way rather than sawing the rudder first one way and then the other - nervous steering which usually ended in frayed tempers.
Jackson knew very well that he was always Mr Ramage's choice as quartermaster when going into action. But action on a night like this? Was Mr Ramage suddenly going to turn and steer down towards the Frenchman? With the Calypso rolling enough to make gunnery as near as dammit impossible? The two ships would pass each other at a combined speed of at least sixteen knots, so there would be time enough for only one broadside, and that would do precious little damage. Anyway, by the time the Calypso came near, the Frenchmen would probably be tacking, to get out of danger. At the moment - he pictured it clearly - they were like a donkey going uphill with the peasant holding on to their tail. Everywhere the donkey went, the peasant (in the shape of the French frigate) was sure to follow. Some nursery rhyme came to mind.
Yet up here on the quarterdeck Jackson did not feel there was any tension: Mr Aitken had gone back to his usual place at the quarterdeck rail; Mr Ramage moved up to the weather side, out of the reach of the spray. And that man sitting on the after carronade, oilskins glistening, must be the old admiral. Hicks, the other quartermaster, had gone off without sulking, and the whole ship's company knew that Hicks sulked as easily as the shine wore off brass in the sea air: in fact within a month of joining the ship the fellow had been nicknamed "Brightwork Hicks". If he was not sulking now, then Mr Aitken or Mr Ramage must have explained why he was being replaced. So at the moment, the American thought wryly, "Brightwork Hicks" knows a great deal more about what is going to happen than I do.
At that moment he saw the captain going down the quarterdeck ladder on the weather side. Five minutes ago he had been up on the fo'c'sle, where Mr Southwick was still waiting with a handful of men. Jackson shrugged his shoulders, quite satisfied with his present ignorance: with Mr Ramage anything could happen, and it usually turned out for the best.
Ramage found Hill at the first division of guns, eight 12-pounders forward on the starboard side. His men were cheerful and obviously the Calypso's new third lieutenant was popular. More important, he had a knack of keeping the men on their toes, even after hours at general quarters, which with so much spray coming over the bow and sweeping along the lee side of the ship, meant they were in effect sitting in showers of salty rain.
It took only a couple of minutes to give Hill his orders and assure him that he should now explain things to his guns' crews. Kenton was equally cheerful but had obviously given up the task of trying to keep his hat on his head. His thatch of red hair, soaked with spray, looked black and was sticking out in all directions like sprouting grass in a high wind.
"Long time since we had a chance to fire these in anger, sir," Kenton commented, slapping the breech of one of the guns.
Ramage looked round at the seamen, who appeared more like pirates than ordinary seamen or men rated able in the King's service. Most had narrow strips of rag tied round their foreheads, intended originally to stop perspiration running down into their eyes in the heat of battle but, at the moment, serving the same purpose against spray. Although they had gone to general quarters wearing only trousers, all now wore shirts and some had jackets. Few had bothered with oilskins but had long since daubed jackets with tar, turning them into tarpaulin coats which kept out rain and spray - until the canvas began to crack with age and use.
"Yes," Ramage agreed, "it's a long time, but firing heats up the barrels and burns off the blacking, you know. And we have such a sloppy ship's company that when they have to paint the guns again they spill more blacking on the deck planking than they get on the metal."
"Aye, sir, that's true," Kenton said solemnly as the seamen laughed. "I've even heard it said that's why we never go into action."
"Of course," Ramage said equally seriously, to the delight of the men. "Why scrub the deck white if careless fellows are going to make it black again?"
After giving Kenton his orders, Ramage crossed to the larboard side, to find Martin sitting on the breech of a gun, holding his flute and explaining its finer points to the seamen gathered round him.
"Don't let me disturb you," Ramage told a startled Martin, who had not seen him approaching in the darkness, "but tell me, 'Blower', have you ever left aside the chanties and sampled the delights of, say, Georg Telemann?"
"Why, sir," Martin said eagerly, sliding off the breech, "do you know his work?"
"I do," Ramage said with mock irritation in his voice, "but no thanks to you. I haven't heard you play a note of Telemann while serving in this ship."
"No, sir, because the men prefer the popular tunes they know. But I play Telemann in my imagination almost every day. I've worked my way through the concerti with my imagination providing the orchestra and any other necessary instruments - oboes, violins, bassoon, harpsichord, whatever is called for. Now I'm halfway through the overtures."
"But the music - you can't know it all by heart?"
"No, sir, but my trunk's half full of sheet music. I don't need music for Telemann's fantasies, of course. And I've Handel's sonatas for the flute - my mother gave me all fifteen for flute and oboe just before we sailed."
Ramage cursed silently to himself. Music was the one thing he missed at sea - he blotted out thoughts of Sarah, thinking only of the time before he was married - and he had never thought of Martin playing anything on his flute but tunes for the men. All those evenings when he could have been listening to Telemann, who was one of his favourites. Did Aitken like music, and Kenton? Hill, come to think of it, probably did.
"Don't get that damaged," he told Martin, pointing to the flute. "After tomorrow we'll try and improve this ship's appreciation of serious music."
Martin grinned and said: "I have two flutes, sir. I always think of this as my working one. My best is in its own baize-lined case. I rarely do more than take it out and polish it."
"You can start sorting through your sheet music tomorrow," Ramage said. "Meanwhile time passes. What I want you to dowhen you get the order is this." Quickly, with the seamen listening and most of them nodding approvingly without realizing it, Ramage gave his instructions and then made his way aft, to find Orsini.
The young Italian was standing at a gunport, peering out and trying to glimpse the frigate astern while the gun captains chatted and most of the crews sat on the deck, backs aga
inst the carriages. Some seemed to be asleep, despite the spray, the creaking of the ropes of the tackles and the grumbling of the trucks as the guns moved an inch or so with each roll of the ship.
Orsini listened attentively as Ramage gave him his orders, ending with: "Any questions?"
"Not about the orders, sir. But are we leaving Tuscany for good?"
Ramage shrugged. "It depends, but I doubt it."
He understood immediately that it was no idle question, knowing Orsini's deep love for Tuscany, since he shared it. Most British seamen seeing the Lizard fading in the distance as they started off on a voyage from England wondered whether they would ever see their home again. Paolo must be wondering if that fleeting glimpse of breakers in the darkness would be the last time he saw Tuscany. The last time, or anyway, the last time for many years.
"It depends on whether our trick works," Ramage said, "if 'trick' is the right word."
After joking with the guns' crews, Ramage went back to the quarterdeck to find that Aitken, in anticipation of his return, was waiting for the seamen with the logline to report the Calypso's speed. While he waited Ramage looked yet again at his watch in the light from the binnacle. Fourteen minutes to go, and damnation, he had forgotten to have a word with the lookouts. Still, perhaps that was all to the good: in a few moments he would send round a couple of seamen to warn the lookouts that in ten minutes or so they should see ... should, but with the darkness and haze would they . .?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ramage slipped the watch back into his fob. "Send 'em off," he said, and Aitken snapped an order to two seamen, who hurried down the ladders to warn the lookouts amidships and forward. Aitken called over to the lookouts on each quarter, and Ramage saw the admiral stir as he heard the words above the howling wind.
There was no question now of being suspected of seeking Sir Henry's approval and, Ramage thought, not telling the old man at this stage might seem unnecessarily discourteous. He walked aft and Sir Henry slid off the breech of the carronade. "Expecting some action, eh?"
"I don't know what to expect, sir," Ramage said frankly. "I'm not sympathetic towards gamblers because usually a bit of thought lessens the odds considerably, but this time - well, I've got to stake everything on one throw of the dice."
"No second throw, then?"
Ramage shook his head, conscious of the minutes ticking away and listening: when the first shout came everything would happen with bewildering speed. "No, sir; we have to win the first time, or else we'll be done for. I'm sorry I've got you all into this situation."
"Not your fault," Sir Henry said gruffly. "Just bad luck that this damned frigate -" he gestured astern at the dim shape in the wake, "- should have arrived when she did."
"So I'm intending to do this," Ramage said, quickly explaining his plan. At the end of it Sir Henry turned slightly so that he could look straight into Ramage's face.
"You're quite mad, of course," he said quietly, "it's the craziest thing I've ever heard, and there's a good chance we'll all drown in the next few minutes."
Just as well I did not ask for his permission, Ramage thought to himself and, coming from Sir Henry, such a judgement was not very heartening - to say the least.
"No," Sir Henry said, drawing out the words as though he had carefully searched his memory for them, "I've never heard of anything quite so crazy." He slapped his thigh, and for a moment Ramage thought the admiral was going to give him direct orders, saying he was taking command of the Calypso. "It's so crazy that -" he paused, as though trying to construct some exquisitely insulting phrase, "- it'll probably succeed. From what I've seen and heard of you, young Ramage, you have three possible fates waiting for you: French roundshot lopping off your head; or you'll come a cropper and a court martial will make sure you end up in front of a firing squad like Admiral Byng; or you'll command your own fleet at an early age. I wouldn't wager a single guinea on which it'll be."
"Thank you, sir," said a relieved Ramage. "So keep your guinea waiting safe in your pocket, and please excuse me for a few minutes while I attend to the business on hand!"
He went back to the quarterdeck rail by way of the binnacle, where the flickering candle told him exactly five minutes remained. Aitken stood a yard to his left, holding the speaking trumpet but otherwise seeming no different from his usual stance during a normal night watch. Ramage sensed rather than saw that Jackson was watching the compass and the weather luffs of the sails with the same easy but acute attention of a hovering osprey. The third man, whose task was to turn the glass when the log was heaved, waited for his two mates to return from whatever they were doing running round the ship. The wooden reel on which the logline was wound suddenly began trundling across the deck, dislodged by a sudden and particularly violent roll, and the seaman hurriedly grabbed it.
Ramage finally counted to three hundred. The slow count, each number representing a second, meant that five minutes had passed. Now was the time - but nothing was happening. He began counting again, one-and-two-and-three-and-four ... Six minutes and seven, eight and nine . . .
He walked over to the binnacle again. He stared at the watch, not wanting to believe what the hands confirmed. Yes, several seconds more than ten minutes had elapsed. He went back to the rail. It was absurd to be so precise; the log was not that accurate, nor the wind that constant. Any estimate of the speed of the northgoing current was no more than a guess, with the prize going to any number between one knot and three. Had that fellow Hicks been keeping to the course as precisely as he claimed? And had Ramage himself made mistakes in working out the course and taking it off the chart? It was easy enough when working with the dim light from a lanthorn to read a course off the compass rose on the chart and make a mistake of a point: Southwick's writing was small, and SW x W¼W could easily be misread. And was the chart accurately drawn? After all, it was only a copy, with no indication who made the original survey. So the Calypso, followed by the Frenchman, could easily be sailing the wrong course at the wrong speed over the wrong estimated distance.
"Clew up the courses," he told Aitken. That would slow down the Calypso appreciably, and with luck the Frenchman would not notice: she would close with the Calypso, and probably put it down to a fluke of the wind.
Aitken's bellowed orders quickly resulted in the frigate's lowest and largest sails losing their bulging shape; quickly the clewlines hauled the corners of the rectangles of canvas up towards the middle; the buntlines hoisted the centres upwards, so that it looked as though a giant hand was squeezing the sails in the middle.
Almost at once the Calypso pitched and rolled less violently. Now the fore and maintopsails were doing all the work, but from astern, Ramage hoped, it would be difficult to see that the courses were not still drawing.
He took his telescope from the drawer and steadied himself. The Frenchman was ploughing on, showers of spray leaping away from her stem like a gull's wings. Even in the faint light she looked a fine sight: there was enough spray to outline her hull, as though the ship was a bird preening herself on a nest of light. And yes, she was beginning to close the distance. At least, she seemed to be, but Ramage knew that was what he wanted her to be doing. "Aitken," he said, "get the nightglass and see what you make of our friend."
Aitken braced himself against the roll, after checking that the focusing tube of the telescope was out far enough to suit his eye. He seemed to examine the ship for an age before shutting the telescope with a snap and reporting casually to Ramage: "She's made up a lot o' distance; I have my doubts if she's half a cable astern of us now.
"And she's not reducing her canvas - at least, she hasn't started yet," he added. "And with this sea, I have my doubts if we were getting a proper reading of our speed."
"Faster or slower?" Ramage demanded.
"Oh, I think we might well have been going ... well, quite a bit - perhaps half a knot -"
"Come on" Ramage exclaimed impatiently.
"Half a knot slower," Aitken said, and Ramage rea
lized that the Scotsman had deliberately taken his time, as a hint to Ramage that the tension was rising too high.
But damnation, Aitken did not have the responsibility for possibly drowning everyone. Still, Aitken would drown along with the rest, so it did not make a ha'porth of difference whose responsibility it was: death was always completely fair, carrying off the guilty and the innocent, the rascals and the good men.
The Calypso butted into three successive waves, her stem slicing off sheets of spray which flung aft like heavy rain-squalls. Suddenly Aitken pointed aloft and put the mouthpiece of the speaking trumpet to his ear, aiming the bell-mouthed open end at the foremasthead.
Ramage waited for Aitken to report whatever had been hailed. Instead the first lieutenant reversed the speaking trumpet and shouted: "Foremasthead: quarterdeck here. Repeat your hail."
Again the wind whipped the lookout's words away to leeward. Damnation, the lookout must have seen something, but in which direction?
Suddenly a man ran up the lee-side quarterdeck ladder. "Larboard forward lookout, sir - you can't hear us. Ship or rock dead ahead, maybe three cables, and also breakers five points to larboard, mebbe four cables!"
"Very well, back to the fo'c'sle! Make sure Mr Southwick knows."
Which was which? Was the rock ahead the northern one, Formica Maggiore, thirty-two feet high and whitish, with a bank of rocks extending southwards? Or the middle, eight cables to the south-east of it, blackish and with a bank extending northwest? Certainly it was not the southernmost because there was nothing southwards of it to cause breakers.
A thudding up the starboard side ladder made Ramage turn. "Lookout, starboard bow, sir. Mr Southwick says the middle rock is dead ahead - it's not high enough to be the northern one; and the southern one's five points to larboard."
"Very well, my compliments to Mr Southwick and tell him to stand by."
