Ramage's Challenge (27 page)

“On Friday morning as we set sail …”
the capstan men roared, pressing against the bars, each of the pawls clunking as it fell back into its slot in the barrel, preventing a sudden jerk overwhelming the men and spinning the capstan in reverse.

Further aft yet another sail began to slat, and now Ramage could hear the fiddle giving the tune, and the men bellowed the second line.

“It was not far from land …”

Ramage heard rather than saw the maintopsail being braced round almost overhead, the sail sheeted home and beginning to draw. Below decks forward, in the cable locker, men would be dragging the cable—as thick as a man's thigh—and coiling it down in a great circle, each ring smaller than the previous one. The nippers would be running back and forth smartly as the capstan turned the long, endless rope, the messenger, which first went round an identical drum beneath the capstan, then led two-thirds the length of the ship and round the royol block secured right up in the bow (an enormous pulley) and finally back aft to the capstan extension.

The anchor cable itself never went round the capstan barrel extension on the deck below, midway between the mizen and mainmasts; instead, it was briefly seized to the messenger by the boys using short lengths of line to nip it—hence their nickname, nippers—so that the cable was hauled along by the messenger until it reached the hatch over the cable locker, into which it slithered like an enormous serpent returning to its lair, the boys hurriedly unhitching their lines at the last moment and running forward to nip the cable again.

“Oh, there I spy'd a fair pretty maid…”

Now the men at the capstan bars were finding it easier as the frigate slowly beat up towards the anchor, one short leg before tacking, and then coming round on the other. The capstan swung fast on each leg, but the men were slowed down, grunting with effort, each time the
Calypso
tacked and the weight briefly came back on the cable.

“With a comb and a glass in her hand …”

Ramage found himself beginning to hum the chorus.

“The stormy winds did blow,
And the raging seas did roar …”

Ramage went forward to the fo'c's'le to join Southwick, who strode to the bow and looked down at the cable. He came back to report to Ramage: “At short stay, sir.”

Ramage nodded: the anchor cable was now leading down into the water at the same angle as the forestay. The anchor was still holding, and Southwick signalled to Aitken, who was still standing on the quarterdeck near the capstan, speaking-trumpet in his hand.

“While we poor sailors went to the top,
And the landlubbers laid below …”

It always surprised Ramage that men straining at the capstan bars with every ounce of strength, veins standing out like cords on their arms and necks, could spare breath for the words, but they could and seemed to gain strength, the capstan's revolutions speeding and slowing in accord with the singing and the tacking.

“Then up spoke a boy of our gallant ship,
And a well-speaking boy was he …”

Southwick walked forward again and looked down at the cable. The
Calypso
swung once more as Aitken tacked her, and the capstan slowed down while the ship wheeled yet again on the cable, like a dog straining at its leash.

“I've a father and mother in Portsmouth town,
And this night they weep for me …”

Southwick came back. “Up and down, sir; we're swinging on it,” he reported as he waved to Aitken. The next few minutes— almost moments—were going to be critical: with the cable now vertical, Aitken had to time the
Calypso
's moves so that she was tacking offshore at the moment the anchor lifted off the bottom.

“Then up spake a man of our gallant ship,
And a well-speaking man was he …”

If the
Calypso
was tacking inshore—towards the cliffs—as the anchor came off the bottom, releasing the ship, there would not be room enough for her to go about, because the anchor would not give that tug to bring the bow round. Even worse for Aitken, the sheer size of the anchor, swinging like an enormous pendulum in the water, would slow her down, dragging at her bow like a brake and preventing it swinging across to complete the tack.

“I've married a wife in fair London town,
And this night she a widow will be …”

Damnation, the frigate was pitching! This was when Ramage hated command: at a time like this he had no job to keep his mind occupied. Southwick was watching the cable and would soon be stowing the anchor; Aitken was judging his tacks; Hill, Martin, Kenton, and young Paolo were down there on deck, busy with their allotted jobs. But Captain Ramage, having once given his orders, just had to keep out of the way, his most important tasks being to ensure his hat did not blow off and nod when Southwick (out of politeness, not duty, because he had to report to whoever had the conn, Aitken in this case) made a report.

The capstan men roared into the chorus once again.

“The stormy winds did blow,
and the raging seas did roar …”

As they paused a moment before launching into the third line, Ramage thought he heard a wild shout. Yes, it was coming from above. The only man left aloft was the masthead lookout, and Ramage held on to the breech of a gun as he craned his head upwards.

Yes, there was the figure of the lookout. He was shouting— that much was obvious because his mouth was opening and closing, but the wind was whipping away the words. Frantically, the man pointed to the south just as Southwick reported, “Anchor apeak … anchor aweigh, sir” and signalled to Aitken.

The frigate began to forge ahead slowly while turning to larboard, away from the land, and the men fairly ran round the capstan, cheerfully bawling out the rest of the chorus:

“While we poor sailors went to the top,
And the landlubbers laid below.”

From that, Ramage thought inconsequentially, other landlubbers would assume that the poor fellows were lying down below, victims of seasickness or terror, but to a seaman “lay” meant something quite different. “Lay aft here!” meant come aft, and in the forebitter the wretched landlubbers had simply gone below.

Now the blasted ship had swung round so that the forward lookout was hidden by the yard, and Ramage walked across the fo'c's'le, braced himself, and looked aloft again, trying to balance against the pitching. Now the man was gesticulating over the starboard beam.

Ramage looked to the south. Running down towards them under reefed topsails was a French frigate, identical in shape to the
Calypso,
but signal flags were streaming out from the halyards. “What ship?” she was probably asking—the normal procedure when ships-o'-war met. And normally not a problem—unless the ship challenged was an enemy which would not know the correct reply. Ramage had half-expected to meet the frigate one day. No doubt she was the French national ship that had carried the hostages from Santo Stefano to Giglio. But to meet her at the beginning of a
scirocco,
while weighing anchor to move to a more sheltered place …

For a few moments he listened to the next verse; nothing could be done until the anchor was out of the water and the men began to cat it. The curious order, catting the anchor, saw it hoisted on the cat davit, a thick wooden beam projecting from the side of the ship forward, often with a cat's head carved on the end. The purchase, or pulleys, were inset and took the tackle (which had a hook on the end) and hauled the anchor close up against the ship's side.

“Then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship
And a valiant man was he,
‘For want of a boat we shall be drown'd,'
For she sank to the bottom of the sea.”

Just as Ramage turned to hurry aft, Southwick reported that he had sighted the anchor. Ramage nodded and then pointed towards the approaching French frigate.

“Pity we don't know the answer to that challenge,” the master bellowed. “Then we could lead ‘em a dance!”

Lead them a dance, yes, in normal times, Ramage thought to himself, but these were not normal times. The
Calypso
had on board the handful of Britons that Bonaparte regarded as his most valuable hostages. The fact that they had just been rescued would not help much if they were now killed in battle. Or, which was more likely, recaptured.

Back on the quarterdeck, after pointing out the approaching French frigate to Aitken—who had not heard the hail and still looked tense from the concentration needed to get the
Calypso
away on the correct tack, instead of heading out of control for the rocks at the foot of the cliffs—Ramage listened as the drummer boy marched up and down the main-deck, beating to quarters.

Sir Henry was on the quarterdeck but tactfully walking back and forth at the taffrail, well behind Ramage and obviously intent on leaving the
Calypso
's captain a free hand to do what was necessary.

Aitken gave the quartermaster a course to steer: north-east, roughly the same as the approaching French frigate, but also one which gained time. Although Ramage had been able to guess that the signal flags were obviously the challenge for the day, the Frenchman would not, in turn, be able to read flags hoisted in the
Calypso
as the British frigate began running dead before the wind; it would be like looking at a page on edge and trying to read the printing.

The
scirocco and
the frigate—Ramage cursed his luck. By and large he did not believe in luck. Bad luck was usually the alibi used by those nincompoops whose plans went awry, although they never credited good luck when their plans succeeded. Yet now was hardly the time for such thoughts.

The French frigate had been approaching fast, the thickening
scirocco
haze and failing light making her seem a grey phantom surging towards them low in the water, rising and dipping over the ridge-and-furrow of the swell waves. But Ramage saw that the distance was now remaining almost constant as the
Calypso
came clear of the island and began setting more sail.

“Fore and main courses, if you please, Mr Aitken,” Ramage said, looking towards the west. Twilight. How long before darkness would help hide the
Calypso
in its mantle?

Running away from a French frigate! Still, it was not often that a French ship saw the
Calypso
's transom … But now she had to be a plover. He looked forward, startled for a moment as the forecourse, the largest and lowest of the sails on the foremast, was let fall and Aitken, speaking-trumpet to his lips, shouted orders for the afterguard to brace the yard and sheet home the sail. A moment later the main course tumbled, and Ramage could imagine the maintop men cursing that the foretopmen had beaten them by a few seconds.

The
Calypso
surged forward as the brisk wind bellied out thousands of square feet of extra canvas to bring the ship alive, and Ramage saw men running across the main-deck like ants suddenly disturbed. Yet every apparently aimless movement was carefully controlled, sending each available man to the guns to cast off the lashings, which prevented the carriages moving when the ship pitched and rolled, and heaving a strain on the train tackles.

Powder boys (the nippers of ten minutes earlier) would any moment be scurrying up from the magazine, each carrying a cylindrical, wooden cartridge box containing a shaped bag of powder. Then the gun captains would arrive to bolt on the flint-locks (which, because of their vulnerability to rust, were stowed below when not in use) and the rest of their gear: prickers for preparing the cartridges, long lanyards which attached to the triggers of the locks, allowing them to fire the guns beyond the recoil, and horns of priming powder.

All you need do—all you have done, Ramage corrected himself—is give the orders. There is no need to stand here ensuring they are being carried out properly. That is why you have a first lieutenant like Aitken, and other officers like Kenton and Hill (getting ready for action for the first time), and Martin, Paolo, and, of course, Southwick.

Down below, Bowen would be laying out surgical instruments and bandages, spreading a tarpaulin over a small section of the deck in case there were a number of wounded; the carpenter would be sounding the well, and he would be doing it regularly if they went into action, his sounding rod sliding down the long tube to the bottom of the bilge, revealing if any water was leaking in through hidden shot holes.

If you have given all the necessary orders, Ramage told himself, it is time you started thinking about what this damned French frigate's appearance means. Well, it means your original idea of sheltering in the lee of Giglio until the
scirocco
blows itself out, and then going over to Porto Ercole, has gone by the board.

So now you have to keep out of this wretched frigate's way for the next two or three days, so that the garrison commander on Giglio does not realize he was hoodwinked. Also, it is vital that no alarm is raised by the French on the mainland so that extra guards will be watching the second group of hostages.

But just consider being chased for three days by this frigate, which is identical with the
Calypso,
and therefore of the same strength in terms of guns and, since there is no reason to suppose otherwise, as fast and weatherly.

So the
Calypso
has first to be a plover, protecting her chicks or the eggs she is hatching in the shallow depression on the ground that passes for her nest. On the approach of an enemy, be it stoat, fox or human, the plover runs away, one wing dragging as though she is hurt, trying to lure the threat away from the nest. Her shrill cries of distress and injured appearance usually work.

Could the
Calypso
be as effective as a plover? The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she could not: by the time the
scirocco
blew itself out, the two frigates would have had to fight each other, and one would have been destroyed or captured.