by Dudley Pope
Two seamen hurriedly hauled at the halyard on which the three flags of the French code making up the day's challenge were already bent. Ramage was thankful that the French system of challenge and reply was less complex than the British - and the page on which it was printed in tabular form and which had been slipped into the signal book was for a whole year.
He aimed his telescope at the French ship. Over there the French captain would be puzzled all right. The Frenchman would be assuming that the schooner's captain would be only a lieutenant and therefore his junior. He had every reason to think that he would now take command of the whole situation; that he would escort La Creole and her prize into Amsterdam (and no doubt find a way of claiming a hefty share of the prize money).
Three flags were jerking their way aloft and almost immediately, before they were properly hoisted, Orsini reported, his voice squeaking with excitement: 'She's made the correct reply, sir. And there go her pendant numbers. I'll have her name in a moment, sir.'
The boy glanced down at the book. 'Pendant number one three seven, sir' He turned to the back of the book where ships of the French Navy were listed by their numbers. 'One three seven is La Perle, sir.'
Moments were counting now: La Perle, approaching from the Calypso's quarter, would have read her name on the transom and wasted time looking her up in the list: she was not there because her name had been changed when she became part of the Royal Navy. So La Perle's captain, already no doubt puzzled by the fact the challenge had been made by the Calypso and not the obvious victor, La Creole, would have no way of being sure of the seniority of the officer in the Calypso who had made the challenge.
'Quickly now,' Ramage snapped. 'Hoist one three seven and the signal for the captain to come on board - forty - six.'
So far so good: forty - six ordered 'the captain of the ship designated' to come on board the ship making the signal, and anyone seeing it hoisted would assume (Ramage hoped) that the officer making it knew he was the senior. The captain of La Perle would guess that whoever was on board the Calypso knew his seniority, but he knew nothing of the Calypso. More important, he knew no lieutenant commanding La Creole would have the impertinence to order him on board. La Perle's captain should be very puzzled but, if Ramage's guess was correct, he would obey. Any officer in that Frenchman's position would (if he had any sense) obey because if he came on board and found that a junior officer had given the order, he could spend the next day or two making the fellow's life a misery.
The violent flapping of cloth, sounding like a squall hitting a line laden with wet laundry, made him glance up. The flags were being run up smartly, with Paolo almost dancing with impatience as he spurred on the two seamen hauling at the halyards.
Ramage resumed his watch on La Perle. As she danced about in the circle made by the telescope he could see just how scruffy she was; her guns were run out, of course: seventeen a side, so she was pierced for thirty - four. But as she heeled in the gusts there was a dirty mark all the way along her waterline, the mark of a ship that spent much time in harbour without her captain making sure a boatload of men with scrubbing brushes kept her clean. And the yards - rust streaks marked the wood and the canvas, showing no one bothered to have the irons of the stunsail booms chipped and scraped and painted. Rust marks weakened canvas, quite apart from looking untidy. The headsails sagged even though the wind was little more than a stiff breeze, showing that the forestays were slack and no one had bothered to take up the slack in the halyards as the ropes stretched. The sight of La Perle would give any British admiral 'She's acknowledged, sir,' Orsini called.
Aitken did not even look round; Southwick was still taking a bearing of her. The only person to catch Ramage's eyes as he glanced across the deck was Jackson. Was the American the only one who realized that everything had depended on that signal? Not everything, Ramage corrected himself, but at least the success of the first part of his plan.
How odd to see the Calypso's decks so bare! A French frigate within three cables (he could distinguish men on board her now, so she was less than 700 yards away) and getting ready to heave - to to send over a boat - and the only sign of life on the British ship's decks was the men lounging on the hammock nettings, two or three watching from the fo'c'sle, and a few men on the quarterdeck.
He was wearing a seaman's white duck trousers and an open - necked blue shirt with a cutlass belt over his shoulder; Aitken and Southwick had also borrowed clothes from some of the men and also wore cutlass belts, without cutlasses. No breeches in sight - hurrah for France; this was the age of the sons - culottes. Breeches meant oppression; trousers stood for democracy. The Calypso's decks were a picture of egalitarian slackness - viewed from La Perle anyway. The Frenchmen could not see the men waiting below, more than one hundred and fifty of them, ready to race up, trice up the port lids and run out the guns, which were already loaded, with handspikes, rammers and sponges lying beside them, and trigger lines neatly coiled, not in their usual place on the breech of each gun where they might be spotted by a sharp - eyed Frenchman aloft with a telescope, but on the deck.
The captain of La Perle was going to have to scramble on board as best he could: the Calypso was making only a couple of knots or, rather, La Creole was, and could not be expected to stop for him. Scrambling (and the prospect of it as his boat approached) would help keep the French captain's mind occupied, Ramage thought; he must be wondering why the Calypso had no canvas set to help La Creole. The frigate could of course be under tow for several reasons, not the least was damage to her steering, but some canvas set would make the schooner's task much easier.
Now La Perle was heaving - to; her foretopsail was being hauled aback and a boat was being hoisted out with the stay tackle.
Orsini and his seamen had hauled down the flags and were bundling them up again. The boy was bright enough, the way he had learned the French signal code in a few hours. It was a pity he had such difficulty with mathematics, but Ramage always felt hypocritical at punishing the lad when an exasperated Southwick insisted. Ramage's own mathematics were poor; they had been sufficient to let him pass the examination for lieutenant and be thankful that no one would ever test him again for the rest of his naval career, once past lieutenant promotion did not depend on the mysteries of mathematical figures.
The boat was being held alongside La Perle; now the men were settled in it. And the last man going on board must be the captain. A squat, powerful - looking man with a fighting sword slung over his shoulder: no dress sword for him. They let the sternfast go, then the painter, and then the men at the oars were pulling briskly and clumsily for the Calypso. 'Look at them, sir,' Jackson muttered disgustedly. As the captain's coxswain he always commanded the boat carrying Ramage, and he was offended by the way the French boat was being rowed. 'Ill bet they'll lose an oar before they get alongside.'
Ramage laughed - louder than he intended, but it was a relief to/have La Perle's captain on his way, even if his boat's crew rowed like drunken smugglers dodging a Revenue cutter.
'Mr Aitken, I want four men ready to take that boat's stern - fast and painter, but warn them not to speak a word while they're doing it; I don't want those Frenchmen to get any warning.'
Five minutes later Ramage was waiting a few feet back from the entry port Jackson, Stafford and Rossi were standing nearby, looking like undisciplined seamen, but each had a pistol tucked into the top of his trousers and wore a cutlass. To La Perle's captain they were obviously some of the guards who were having a breath of fresh air, relaxing from the task of guarding the English prisoners held below.
Aitken stood beside Ramage, a telescope under his arm and clearly the second in command. As Ramage waited, finding himself rubbing the scar over his eyebrow and cursing the sun's glare - he could not wear his hat - he knew the deception need last only two or three minutes, perhaps less; just the time it took to get the captain on board and the French boat astern, where it would tow with its crew still on board, a perfectly normal procedure.
'Citoyen Duroc,' the man said, holding out his hand to Ramage, a huge hand whose fingers seemed as large as bananas. 'Pierre Duroc.' His eyes nickered over the Calypso's decks and seemed satisfied with what they saw.
Ramage did not move and Duroc, his hand still proffered, looked surprised, and then Ramage said: 'Do you speak English, Captain Duroc?'
The Frenchman stepped back a pace and instinctively looked towards La Creole and then over at La Perle, obviously intending to run back to the entry port.
Three metallic clicks stopped him in his trades: he recognized the noise and looked round slowly, careful now not to make any sudden movement. Jackson, Rossi and Stafford had cocked pistols aimed at him, and Ramage and Aitken had each taken a pace sideways, out of the line of fire.
Duroc was still puzzled and obviously not frightened. 'I have no English,' he said in French, his heavy accent showing he came from the Bordeaux area. He pointed up at the Tricolour. "What is happening? Were you prisoners? Have you escaped?'
Ramage shook his head and said in French, gesturing at the Tricolour and blue ensign, 'A ruse de guerre. Captain Duroc, to secure your capture!'
Duroc's face, already purple from years of heavy drinking, looked swollen: his eyes narrowed, his hands clenched: he was about to step towards Ramage, remembered the three pistols, and contented himself with sneering: 'You fight under false colours, eh?'
Tight?' Ramage enquired innocently. There's been no fighting, and you know the rules as well as I: one hoists one's proper colours before opening fire.'
That schooner, then!' Duroc burst out "She's French. I recognize her. From Fort de France.'
'She was French and you probably did see her in Fort Royal - ' Ramage deliberately used the old name - 'but we captured her, along with this ship.'
Duroc shook his head, like a trapped bull. 'What are you going to do now?' he demanded.
Take possession of La Perle.' The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and waved at the Calypso's decks. 'I have three hundred men on board - you have a couple of dozen.'
Ramage bowed. Thank you; I was expecting you to have fewer.'
Duroc, unaware what he had revealed, held out both hands, palm upwards. 'You'll never take her. Let me go back on board my boat and let us continue our respective voyages.'
Ramage watched the man's eyes. It was a curious offer, curious and not in keeping with the man's character. Duroc was a fighter; it would have been more in character if he had sworn at Ramage and told him to do his damnedest to capture La Perle. Duroc had a reason for avoiding a fight, and the reason, Ramage guessed, was because he had a particular purpose in wanting to get to Amsterdam. An important passenger? Special supplies? Reinforcements? No, not reinforcements because he had boasted of his three hundred men, which was the number of men the French like to have in a frigate of that size. Whatever it was, Duroc had a reason for wanting to get to Amsterdam. And while the ship was lying hove - to over there, Ramage knew Duroc would never reveal it. Afterwards, he might.
Ramage looked again at the eyes - they were bloodshot now, from rage - and the hands, which were clenched, looked like shoulders of mutton. He turned to Aitken. 'Pass the word for Mr Rennick - we'll keep this fellow in irons for the time being.'
La Perle was soon a mile astern and still hove - to as La Creole continued to tow the Calypso eastward. Orsini, whose French was fluent, had been sent aft to order the French boat crew to climb on board up a rope ladder slung from the taffrail. The nine men had climbed over the taffrail to find themselves staring into the muzzles of pistols and were only too glad to be led below as prisoners.
Ramage wished the Royal Navy would abandon breeches for its officers - in the Tropics, anyway: cotton duck trousers were loose and so much cooler and more comfortable than breeches and stockings. And there was much to be said for a loose - fitting shirt. The French egalite had sartorial advantages.
Very well, he told himself, the first part of the plan has worked: La Perle now has no captain, but whether or not she is also a snake with her head chopped off depends on the French first lieutenant. If he's like Aitken, there is hard and bloody fighting ahead. If he's a fool - well . . .
'Mr Orsini - let me have the French signal book, please.'
He knew the wording of the signals almost by heart, but he dare not risk a mistake in the numbers. It was such a thin volume, it contained so few signals, especially - especially, he made himself say under his breath, when you are going to try to use it to capture a ship. The only ally he had at the moment was the fact that the officers in La Perle would assume that any orders signalled to her from the Calypso would have the approval of Duroc, and would promptly obey them.
La Creole and the Calypso were now a couple of miles from the coast of Curacao and steering diagonally away from it to the south - east. That was no good; he was going to have to crowd La Perle; crowd her just at the time her first lieutenant was getting into a panic.
'Mr Aitken, make a signal to La Creole to tack. But don't hoist it: I want the flags hung over the bow where La Perle can't see them and have Lacey's attention drawn to them by a musket shot. If the Frenchmen see flags being hoisted that they don't recognize . . .'
'Aye aye, sir,' the first lieutenant said briskly.
'And I hope he has plenty of way on that schooner when he puts the helm over.'
'I warned him about that,' Aitken said dryly. 'I didn't want our dead weight pulling his stern bade again and putting him in irons.'
Ramage nodded and looked over towards the island. Once they were on the other tack they would be steering almost directly for the shore. It would take them half an hour to reach the beach, and although half an hour sounded a long time it would seem a matter of moments if anything went wrong. Particularly, Ramage thought grimly, if the person involved was a French lieutenant upon whose shoulders the fate of two frigates and a schooner was suddenly and unexpectedly thrust.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aitken stood by the binnacle watching the schooner. Lacey had acknowledged the signal to tack and had then turned away a good point to starboard and eased sheets to increase La Creole's speed. The cable running from the schooner's stern to the Calypso's bow now had less of a curve in it, straightened by the extra pull, and when the strain suddenly brought several feet of rope jerking up out of the sea, water spurted from between the strands, like a burly washerwoman wringing out sheets.
Then, with the Calypso now moving faster, the schooner began to turn slowly and deliberately to larboard. Aitken snapped out the order to the quartermaster, who relayed it to the two men at the wheel, and they hauled at the spokes. Almost at once the Calypso began to turn inshore and Ramage watched. The frigate should be round and on her new course by the time La Creole had completed her tack, and during that time the cable would have slackened just enough, dipping deeper under its own weight so that it would act as a spring to dampen the jerk as the frigate's weight came back on it.
'Mr Orsini,' Ramage said quietly, 'you have La Perle's numbers ready to hoist?'
'Aye aye, sir."
'And number fifty - six?'
'Yes, sir - "Ship indicated shall take disabled vessel in taw, the course to be steered to be made known in the next signal".' The signal for the course is bent on ready?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And what course is that?'
'North - east, sir.'
'Very good. Don't get
them mixed up.'
Paolo Orsini was angry. His olive skin was flushed; his brown eyes glared. For a start he was wearing a seaman's shirt and white duck trousers, instead of his uniform, and he had no hat, except this straw thing woven out of palm fronds and painted. He was more proud of his uniform than anything except perhaps his name, although fortunately no one had so far strained his loyalties to find out, and he resented his present garb, even though all the officers were similarly dressed.
Not only had Uncle Nicholas - the captain, he corrected himself sarcastically - made him wear these wretched clothes, so that he looked like some damnable sans-culotte, but he kept asking silly questions about the signals. They were the right ones, they were bent on different halyards, they had been checked half a dozen times. Five times by himself, and once furtively by Jackson and Rossi who, with Stafford and the sailmaker, had sewn'up the French flags in the first place and had written what each one was in small figures at the bottom of the hoist. Orsini had been angry when he first saw the figures and had rounded on Jackson, who had just listened and then winked.
Winked! Not offered any explanation to the officer whom the captain bad made responsible for signals, which was himself, but winked. Admittedly no one else could see the wink, but a wink was no way to behave towards a midshipman. Why, he could have taken Jackson to the captain and reported his insolence. Not that that would have done any good, he admitted, his anger melting as quickly as it had arisen, because the captain would have pointed out that Jackson was helping him. And so he was; it was the kind of thing that Jackson did, quietly and without anyone else seeing, and Paolo sheepishly admitted to himself that he was grateful. It was so hot down here in this latitude; too hot to think and certainly too hot to remain good - tempered.
Anyway, the signals made no sense. Was the captain going pazzo? What was the point in this French frigate La Perle taking the Calypso in tow instead of La Creole! Did he have some other task for the schooner? And why tow the Calypso anyway? Why didn't the Calypso cast off the tow and get alongside La Perle, then pour in a few broadsides and board her in the smoke? That's what he would do if he was the captain. Captain Orsini. Dunque, three broadsides and allora, it would be all over.
