Ramage's Challenge (31 page)

“Ten fathoms,” Ramage repeated.

“Aye aye, sir. I'll get plenty of cable up on deck, faked out and ready to run. I—er, well, if I may say so, sir, I wouldn't mention to Sir Henry what you intend doing …”

“Why on earth not?”

“Well, sir,” Southwick said uncomfortably, “it's difficult to put it into words, but …”

“But what?” Ramage demanded. “Spit it out, man. Since when have you come along blushing, with a bunch of flowers in your hand?”

“Well, sir,” Southwick started again, “I've sailed with you so long that I expect the unexpected; it's sort of—well, I've received some very strange orders from you, sir, but I've carried ‘em out, and later I see you were absolutely right, and you took Johnny Crapaud by surprise. What I mean, sir, is that Sir Henry hasn't—well, he hasn't sailed with you before and he—well, he might …”

“He'll probably think I've gone mad?” Ramage offered.

Southwick swallowed hard. “Yes, sir, he might. Aitken and the rest of the Calypsos know better. In fact, few of ‘em realize that half the time your orders'd sound odd to the usual run of frigate captains because you succeed, so as far as our fellows are concerned, that's the way to do it.”

Ramage patted Southwick's arm. “Don't worry, I understand what you mean and thanks for saying it. Anyway, Sir Henry seems happy enough wrapped up in his oilskins and sitting undisturbed on a carronade aft. Aitken says he's dreaming of the days when he was young and commanded a frigate, and not a fleet!”

Back on the quarterdeck, Aitken reported to Ramage that the
Calypso
was still making almost exactly eight knots, and the time and speed had been written on the slate. And the French frigate, Aitken added, was following in the
Calypso
's wake, barely a cable distant.

Ramage went to the binnacle and looked again at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes. The damned timepiece seemed to be going backwards. Well, Southwick knew what he had to do. Now to give Aitken his instructions, then he would take a turn round the deck, telling Kenton, Hill, Martin, and Orsini what was expected of them. And, even though the present quartermaster was a good man, Ramage had an almost superstitious preference for having Jackson as the quartermaster, watching the helmsmen and the weather luffs of the sails, when they went into action— not that they were going into action, but … He gave the order to Aitken, and while the word was passed for the American, Ramage told Aitken what he intended doing.

Ramage watched the first lieutenant's face closely in the darkness, having already absorbed Southwick's honest comments, but Aitken revealed no reaction. Ramage could have been telling the Scotsman something routine—such as that tomorrow morning they would be anchoring in a quiet bay and he wanted the ship's boats away wooding and watering, because they were down to fifteen tons of water and the cook was complaining he was short of wood for heating the coppers.

Aitken repeated the course that Ramage had mentioned, asked for a confirmation of the distance to be run, and suggested that he should visit all the officers at their divisions of guns, nodding contentedly when Ramage said he would do that himself.

Then, unexpectedly, Aitken had nodded his head aft. “Are you telling the admiral what you intend doing, sir?”

The Highland accent was strong, and Ramage knew the Scotsman was more excited than he had revealed. Hearing Southwick's warning, Ramage shook his head. “He might think I'm trying to get his approval.”

“Aye, he might that. And I'm thinking you wouldn't, sir. To anyone not used to our ways, it does sound a bit of a gamble. Our necks in a rope, one might say!”

“Yers, s'obvious, innit,” Stafford declared. He, Rossi, Jackson, and the four Frenchmen were crouched down in the lee of the fourth twelve-pounder on the larboard side. The black enamelled barrel of the gun glistened wetly with spray in the diffused light from a moon fighting through haze and fast-moving cloud. “Yers—we're tryin' to lead this Frog frigate a dance. The capting's got some trick ready so's we lose the Frog in the dark. Justchew wait'n see.”

“Gilbert,” Jackson said, “just check that apron. Some of these gusts are a bit fierce.”

The Frenchman stood up and worked his way to the breech. He ran his hand over the small tent of canvas protecting the flintlock from spray and rain.

“Is all right,” he said, crouching down again beside the other men. “Tell me, Staff, supposing these ‘Frogs' have already guessed what Mr Ramage intends doing? What then?”

“Frogs is a daft lot,” Stafford declared, completely oblivious that number four gun on the larboard side was served by four Frenchmen, one Italian, one American, and one Briton. “Needn't worry yerself, Gilbert. Here, Jacko, they're callin' fer you from the quarterdeck. Wotchew bin doing, then?”

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 well-being 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 splayfooted 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 showed 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's'le, 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 do when 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.