Ramage's Challenge (34 page)

Sir Henry laughed. “He wouldn't get a very sympathetic hearing, I imagine.”

“No. And the commandant at Giglio still thinks he's handed over his hostages in proper form and doesn't realize they've been rescued. So neither the French frigate captain nor the French authorities at Grosseto have any cause to connect this wretched British frigate with hostages …”

“No,” Sir Henry agreed, “they'd all think she was—or is—in the area by chance.”

“So in Porto Ercole, no one would know anything about all this, and with average luck no one now in Grosseto is likely to be gossiping in Porto Ercole for a few days. It must be forty miles by land from Porto Ercole to Grosseto.”

“So there's a chance, eh, Ramage?”

“They tell me the fishing off Porto Ercole is good, and most of us were round there a year so or ago with the
Calypso
and a pair of bomb ketches, so we know what the countryside looks like.”

“It must be charming,” Sir Henry said lightly. “The sort of view that watercolour artists like.”

“Yes. I only managed some pencil sketches last time because we were in a hurry. Ah, I see they're at last getting a spring on the cable.”

Sir Henry eyed the French frigate. “At this distance it's going to mean some good shooting.”

“Yes,” Ramage agreed. “Just smash the boats, that's all I want. No need to kill a lot of men who are in enough trouble already.”

Sir Henry gave a dry chuckle. “Have you thought of what the French authorities will do to that captain when they finally work out what has happened?”

“Not in detail, sir; just enough to be thankful it's not me.”

Sir Henry made no comment. It was now clear to him that Ramage still intended to try to rescue the rest of the hostages. The admiral thought soberly that he was damned if he could see how the youngster would achieve it, but then who else would have had the thundering cheek to march up to Castello and coolly sign the commandant's receipt for the people he was rescuing?

“So there should be time,” Ramage went on, and Sir Henry guessed that Ramage was both thinking aloud and letting him know his idea on the situation. “We wait near Porto Ercole for the weather to clear. By then the fishermen up here will be taking this sorry crowd of Frenchmen on shore. We land … we can't risk more than that night and the next day. And the following night, if necessary. Then away, round the coast south of Sardinia and hurry for Blackstrap Bay and Gibraltar. All being well.”

Sir Henry stayed at the quarterdeck rail with Ramage as the
Calypso
's men started fitting a spring on the frigate's cable. Ramage always thought this method of training round an anchored ship so that the broadside guns could be aimed at the target was like a bull's head being held by one rope tied to a ring in its nose, and the rest of the animal being turned bodily by tying a second rope to its tail and heaving.

Southwick had supervised the men securing a hawser to the anchor cable using a rolling hitch. The hawser was put over the larboard side and brought aft, outside all the rigging. It was then taken round the stern and led back on board, coming in through a stern-chase port and then to the capstan.

As soon as Aitken was satisfied that the hawser led clear, directly from the cable, along the ship's side, and back in through the stern-chase port, he signalled to Southwick. The master's party veered some of the anchor cable so that as the
Calypso
dropped back several yards, the hawser attached to it led forward, and, as Aitken's men paid out more from aft, both it and the cable where it was secured dipped beneath the water.

Finally, both first lieutenant and master were satisfied. The bull's tail, Ramage noted contentedly, was secured (by the hawser) to the rope attached to the ring in its nose (the anchor cable).

As soon as Aitken formally reported that everything was ready for them to begin hauling, Ramage said, “Beat to quarters, then, Mr Aitken. We may as well make an early start.”

Sir Henry watched the drummer boy flourishing his drumsticks and commented, “Surely that lad's drum has French colours painted on it!”

“French colours and a French frigate's name, sir,” Ramage said, half apologetically. “We captured the frigate off Devil's Island last year. Up to then we'd used bosun's calls to send the men to quarters, but they liked the idea of a drum, and the marine lieutenant had a boy ready, so …”

“Most appropriate,” Sir Henry said. “After all, the
Calypso
is a French-built ship!”

Aitken was waiting for fresh orders. “We'll try with just one gun at first, Mr Aitken,” Ramage said, “because if we start firing broadsides we can't spot the fall of individual shot. Which reminds me, we may as well start with grape. Now, tell Jackson to wake up at his gun and I want you to report as you start hauling in on that hawser and turning us round until his gun is aimed.”

Aitken, speaking-trumpet in his hand, began shouting orders. First a party of men removed the wedge-shaped drawers from the capstan and slid in the bars. The swifter was quickly passed round and the men ducked under it to stand upright, their chests against the bars.

On the main-deck the powder boys now sat along the centre-line, using their wooden cartridge boxes as stools and chattering happily. The deck had already been wetted with the wash-deck pump as a precaution against spilled powder and sprinkled with sand to prevent men slipping. All the guns now had their locks bolted on, with the lanyards neatly coiled on the breeches. And beside each gun were several rounds of grapeshot, each of which looked like small, black oranges embedded in a cylinder of pitch.

Aitken, reporting everything ready, looked questioningly at Ramage, who nodded. At a word from Aitken, the men at the capstan slowly stepped out to start the capstan revolving, while two other men hauled the end of the hawser clear as it led off the capstan barrel.

The first dozen revolutions of the capstan were easy because the men were taking in the slack. Ramage saw that the hawser leading from the
Calypso
's larboard quarter vanished below the waves almost dead ahead.

The clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk of the capstan pawls slowed down as the strain came on the hawser. After a few more turns the men began to heave the
Calypso
round by her stern, so that the stranded French frigate would soon be on her beam, within reach of her broadside guns.

The deck was now beginning to run with water as the straining capstan barrel squeezed the water from the hawser, and a seaman stood beside the men with a bucket, throwing handsful of sand on to the deck beneath their feet.

The sharp “clunk” slowed to a rhythmic “kerlunk,” but the men at the capstan pushed with a will. This was nothing compared with weighing anchor in a high wind and nasty sea.

Ramage walked to the ship's side and sighted along the barrel of one of the carronades. He could not see the French frigate because she was still hidden by the side of the port, showing that the ship had not yet been trained round enough. Sir Henry joined him.

“I say, Ramage, I must admit I'm enjoying all this. Must be 25 years (think of it, a quarter of a century) since I trod the decks of a frigate. You lose a lot with promotion, you know. Manoeuvring a fleet isn't half the fun of handling a single frigate!”

“Then I'll stay in the lower half of the Post List, sir,” Ramage said with a grin. “I'm more interested in handling a ship than a fleet!”

“What commands have you had up to now?”

“The
Kathleen
cutter was my first, sir. I lost—”

“Yes, I remember. You deliberately got yourself run down by that Spaniard, the
San Nicolas,
to help Commodore Nelson, as he then was.”

“Yes, sir. After St Vincent, their Lordships gave me the
Triton
brig. I ran her on a reef in the West Indies …”

Sir Henry thought a moment. “Wasn't that after you lost your masts in a hurricane? You drifted up on a Spanish island—yes, Culebra, wasn't it? And found some treasure?”

“We were lucky,” Ramage said. “Then another ship, and I was lucky enough to capture this frigate, which I was allowed to keep.”

Ramage knelt and sighted along the carronade barrel again. He could just see the French frigate now, and the slow “kerlunk” of the pawls and Aitken's occasional shout showed that the
Calypso
was being hauled round only a degree at a time, to bring the guns to bear.

He stood up and saw that the hawser now running from the stern made a large angle with the anchor cable, which vanished away to larboard. He heard a hail from Jackson, followed by a shout from Aitken, and the capstan gave a single “kerlunk,” followed by a relieved sigh from the men at the bars.

Kneeling once again, Ramage sighted along the carronade barrel and found himself looking directly at the French frigate's deck.

Aitken came up. “Jackson's ready to open fire, sir.”

There was something about the first lieutenant's hesitation that made Ramage raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Er,” Aitken said, glancing at Sir Henry, “the gentlemen are down there among the guns, sir, and …”

“They can watch from the fo'c's'le,” Ramage said. “Tell Jackson to begin firing as soon as the deck's clear.”

He and Sir Henry waited three or four minutes, then Ramage excused himself and hurried to the quarterdeck rail, where Aitken was looking down at the main-deck. Hill was talking to General Cargill by Jackson's gun, while the rest of the hostages were standing up on the fo'c's'le.

“It's that damned general, sir,” Aitken muttered. “The rest went forward without any fuss.”

Ramage, after looking down directly below the quarterdeck rail and making sure that Rennick and his marines were drawn up, said to Aitken, “I'll deal with this.”

He clattered down the ladder, deliberately making noise; walking past the mainmast, he saw that all the guns' crews on the larboard side were deliberately facing outboard to avoid looking at Hill and the general, who were standing just inboard of number four gun.

“Good morning, General,” Ramage said politely. “We shall be opening fire as soon as our guests are on the fo'c's'le.”

“Guests!”
Cargill exploded. “Damnation, man, I am a general in the King's service, and I want to watch these men. I want to make a report to the Board of Ordnance about their ability. Not often the Board get a report from an
unbiased
witness.”

“How right you are, sir,” Ramage agreed coolly, “but you'll see better from the fo'c's'le: no bulwarks and hammock nettings to force you to peer through a gun port.”

“I'm staying here,” Cargill said stubbornly.

“All guests—by that I mean everyone not forming part of the
Calypso
's ship's company—have been requested to go to the fo'c's'le if they wish to watch the shooting.”

“I'm staying here.”

“General, you have the choice: the fo'c's'le or your cabin.”

“What the devil do you mean by that?”

“The captain of this ship has given the guests the choice. He has given an order,” Ramage said, speaking slowly and clearly. “The choice is contained in an order—that the guests will go either to the fo'c's'le or their cabins.”

“And if I choose to ignore the order of some whippersnapper and stay here?”

Ramage turned and waved to Rennick, who promptly began marching forward, followed by Sergeant Ferris at the head of a party of three men.

As soon as Rennick stamped to attention in front of Ramage with a questioning “Sah?” Ramage turned to Cargill.

“General, I repeat: you go to the fo'c's'le or your cabin.”

By now Ramage could sense the tension throughout the ship. From the fo'c's'le the rest of the former hostages watched, looking down and able to hear every word spoken since Ramage and Cargill were standing only a few feet from them. The seamen forming the guns' crews were now standing with resentment showing in their stance.

“You be damned, Ramage,” Cargill sneered.

As Ramage turned towards Rennick, he saw Sir Henry watching from the quarterdeck. Rennick had a confident look on his face and Ramage had the impression that Sergeant Ferris would quite happily toss Cargill over the side.

“Lieutenant,” Ramage said formally to Rennick, “escort the general down to his cabin.”

Cargill had gone white. Did he realize he had gone too far? Had he realized that neither Sir Henry on the quarterdeck nor the other two admirals on the fo'c's'le had interfered on his behalf?

“Oh, very well,” he said ungraciously, “I'll go to the fo'c's'le.”

Ramage knew that now was the time to establish who commanded the ship. Gibraltar was many hundreds of miles and many lives away.

“No,” he said, “you'll go to your cabin.” He nodded to Rennick, who said to Cargill, “If you'll come this way …”

“Ramage!” Cargill exclaimed, “you don't dare put me under an arrest! I've warned you, I am a general in the King's service.”

“You have disobeyed the lawful command of the captain,” Rennick said quietly, “with the third lieutenant and the lieutenant of marines of this ship, and three admirals, one general, a marquis, two earls, and a viscount as witnesses … sir,” Rennick added as an afterthought.

Cargill looked round like a trapped animal and then walked to the ladder leading down to the gunroom.

As soon as the marines had clumped away, Ramage walked the few paces to the breech of Jackson's gun. He looked at the frigate and then, after telling Jackson to carry on, went to the next gun port.

Jackson, with the long lanyard in his hand, stood behind the gun, far enough back to be out of reach of the recoil, and peered along the sight. Stafford stood close to the flintlock, and Rossi and Gilbert were beside the breech, ready with handspikes.