Ramage's Challenge (35 page)

Jackson gestured with his left hand. Both seamen slid the metal tips of their handspikes under the breech end of the carriage and levered it over a few inches. Jackson held his hand up, and they stood back. So much for traverse, Ramage thought to himself: always train “left” or “right” in gunnery orders. Now for elevation. Jackson signalled again, and the two men put their handspikes under the breech and raised it slightly as Stafford pushed in the wooden wedge, better known as the coin, which governed how high or low the breech was raised from the carriage, and thus controlled the range by the angle of the barrel.

Jackson gave another signal, and as Rossi and Gilbert stepped clear and Stafford cocked the lock, Ramage realized that Jackson must have been almost ready to fire before Cargill interfered.

The American went down on his right knee, with his left leg stretched out sideways to its full extent. Slowly, he tightened the firing lanyard, his eye still along the sight. The anchor cable and the spring held the
Calypso
steady, with little more than a hint of a pitch and a roll. Jackson was obviously waiting a few moments for the combined pitch and roll to bring the target precisely into the sight.

Then, in one flowing movement, the lanyard went tight and the gun leapt back in recoil, spewing a flash and a stream of black smoke from its barrel and giving an enormous grunt which half deafened Ramage.

As men began coughing from the coiling smoke, which the wind swirled across the deck, the rest of Jackson's crew moved with the speed that came from constant practice. In went the mop, the “woolly ‘eaded bastard” as it was more familiarly known, sopping wet and both extinguishing and cleaning out any burning residue left in the barrel. A powder boy ran up with the new charge, which Louis grabbed and slipped into the gaping muzzle, standing to one side as Albert thrust it home with the rammer. Gilbert stood by with a wad, which was rammed down, and Louis lifted up the cylindrical grapeshot, starting it off down the barrel. Albert's rammer thrust it down on to the wad and powder charge, and then rammed home the final wad.

Gilbert gave a bellow, and the men grabbed the tackles on each side of the gun and hauled, running the gun outboard again. The ship was rolling so slightly that there had been no need to hold the gun inboard with the train tackle while the men reloaded.

By now Stafford was ready. He thrust the thin, skewer-like pricker down the vent to make a small opening in the cartridge to expose the powder. Then, seeing that the loaders were clear of the gun, he pushed a quill—a tube of fine gunpowder—down the vent, shook priming powder into the shallow pan, and then turned to Jackson.

The American had seen that the first round had missed by about ten feet. All the grapeshot had spattered round the frigate's quarterdeck, just forward of the boat hanging in the quarterdavit.

Ramage, who had come down to the gun with his telescope under his arm, examined the frigate. Yes, one accurately aimed round of grapeshot would do it. The first round, hitting just forward of the boat, had sprayed the hull planking and every one of the shot showed up in the telescope as a rusty mark. There was no need to say anything to Jackson; the shower of dust which had been flung up (the splinters moved too fast to be seen) would have shown the American just the correction he needed.

Jackson looked across at Ramage, who realized that the American was worried in case Ramage let the other guns begin firing. Was it pride or concern over spotting the fall of shot? Ramage nodded reassuringly, and in that nod Jackson read all the message he needed. The captain understood the need for a sighting shot—now for the correction.

Jackson's gesture with his left hand set Rossi and Gilbert to work with the handspikes. Under the carriage went the shoes, and both men heaved down on the opposite ends to lever the carriage sideways an inch or two. Both men watched the crouching Jackson as once again he peered along the sight. A small, impatient gesture to the left, as though the movement of his hand would be enough to train the gun the slight amount necessary. Gilbert and Rossi gave the carriage little more than a nudge and, as Jackson shouted, they leapt back and Stafford cocked the lock before, he too, jumped smartly back.

The firing lanyard twitched—Jackson had tautened it the moment he saw Stafford had cocked the lock and stepped clear— and again the gun erupted flame and smoke, leaping back in recoil as it gave a loud, asthmatic grunt.

This time a random gust of wind swirled some of the oily smoke back through Ramage's port and, by the time he had finished coughing, number four gun had been loaded again and run out, with Rossi and Gilbert busy with their handspikes, pausing at the end of each thrust to look at Jackson. Stafford had his tin of quills open, ready to take a fresh one and then push it down the vent, and the powder horn from which he took the priming was slung round his neck.

But Rossi and Gilbert seemed to be taking a long time with the handspikes. By this time Ramage had at last cleared his throat and his eyes had stopped watering so that he could look across at the frigate. No wonder it was taking time to train the gun— the quarter-boat hanging in its davits was now a shattered shell, a few thin frames sticking out from the keel like the ribs of a crushed skeleton, the remaining planking sprung and jagged, instead of swelling round in a smooth curve from bow to stern. It was as though, Ramage thought inconsequentially, a banana had exploded, opening up the segments of skin.

Two rounds at a range of a couple of hundred yards … one ranging shot and then a direct hit. Well, the
Calypso
was hardly rolling and pitching and, with a gun captain like Jackson, one could take bets that he would do it inside half a dozen rounds.

Ramage realized that smashing the two remaining boom boats might be more difficult. Their name came from the fact that they were stowed amidships on top of spare yards and booms, which were kept lashed down over a large hatchway and made a good platform for the boats. From there it was easy for the stay tackles to hoist them up and out over the side when needed.

Ironically, the wreckage of the main and mizen-masts was now giving them some protection: a couple of slewed yards, a bundle of thick cordage, a smashed mast two or three feet in diameter all would be enough to make the grapeshot ricochet. But there were nine grapeshot in each round, and every one of them weighed a pound. Give Jackson enough time!

Ramage went back to the quarterdeck, where Aitken and Southwick stood talking to Sir Henry.

The admiral glanced aft and Ramage walked with him until they were out of earshot of both officers, the quartermaster and the men at the wheel.

“The general—what happened?”

“I told him to go up to the fo'c's'le or down to his cabin,” Ramage said in a flat voice. “He refused—said he wanted to watch the shooting and report to the Board of Ordnance.”

Sir Henry nodded. “And then?”

“My lieutenant of marines warned him he was disobeying the lawful order of the captain of the ship. The general found this amusing. I told the marines to take him below.”

“Under arrest?”

Ramage shook his head. “No, sir, I didn't feel inclined to give him that satisfaction.”

“Very wise, very wise,” Sir Henry said. “I didn't interfere because—well, you seem to be able to take care of yourself. I'd be inclined to treat him like a naughty boy.”

“Indeed, sir, he behaves like one,” Ramage agreed, pausing as Jackson fired again but fighting down his curiosity and not looking where the shot landed. He was thankful that Sir Henry was, very tactfully, giving advice, and even more thankful that the advice coincided with what he had already decided to do.

“Trouble with arresting people,” Sir Henry said conversationally, “is that to set ‘em free again, you've either to charge ‘em or climb down, which is bad for discipline.”

“That's what I had in mind, sir,” Ramage said. “And I wasn't quite sure what the
King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions
had to say about travelling generals.”

“Ha!” Sir Henry said contemptuously, “the Articles of War are all you need, particularly with the ship in action against the enemy.” He looked squarely at Ramage and smiled. “Why the devil d'you think I'm so well behaved, eh?”

Ramage laughed, and took the opportunity of turning so that he could spot the fall of shot.

“I'd put it down to your natural kindness towards young captains at the bottom of the Post List, sir.”

“I eat ‘em for breakfast,” Sir Henry said. “Majors-general I keep for dinner. Lieutenants-general I have served cold for supper.”

Number four gun on the starboard side grunted again.

“That gun captain is either very lucky or very good,” Sir Henry commented.

“Very good, sir. He's served with me since I had my first command.”

“While you were, er, attending to the general, your master (what's his name—Southwick?) was telling me he was on board the
Kathleen
when that Spanish three-decker rammed her and rolled her over. Must have been an alarming sight, her bearing down on you.”

“We had a rather limited view, sir,” Ramage said, “but other ships later gave us flattering descriptions. By the way, sir, our story is that we rammed the Spaniard, not the other way round!”

“Well, a mouse in the stable can panic a stallion, so you may be right. Oh—just look at
that!
”

Ramage glanced across at the frigate just in time to see the two boom boats disintegrate. The angle at which they had been lying on the booms (compared with the single boat which had hung horizontally in the quarter-davits) meant that Jackson was firing down on to them, and obviously one round of grapeshot had spread just sufficiently, like an enormous flail, to hit the larboard side of one and the starboard side of the other, ripping them open like a pair of bananas in the hands of a hungry ape.

“I'll have the spring on the cable taken in, if you please Mr Aitken,” Ramage said. “The men can stand down from general quarters. Then, Mr Aitken, we'll see about getting under way.”

R
AMAGE sat at his desk listening to the two men report. The lantern swinging from its hook in the deckhead threw dancing shadows, which emphasized their features: Rossi with his round face, full and generous lips, straight black hair and large, expressive eyes could only be an Italian: his hands gestured as eloquently as he spoke and seemed part of the words. Orsini's face was narrower, the shadows exaggerating his high cheekbones. In this light, Ramage thought, he looked like a youth painted by one of the better Renaissance artists. For the moment, Orsini was content to let Rossi tell the story in his Genovese accent.

“We landed on the rocks below Forte della Stella without trouble, and then climbed the cliff. The goats, they must have a hard life. We frightened a mother and her youngsters—or, rather,” he admitted with a grin, “they frightened us because they suddenly bolted from a ledge just above and showered us with stones.”

“The hostages,” Ramage said impatiently. “Tell me the details later.”

“Oh, they are in there, in Forte delta Stella. We were in position by sunset, and soon after we saw the French guards shut the doors, two big wooden doors studded with boltheads to blunt axe blades. There is also a small door, big enough for one man, fitted into one of the big doors.”

“A wicket gate,” Ramage said in English.

“Yes, a wicked gate. That was opened just before it was dark, and a sentry came and stood outside. Musket, no sword. He stands to one side—the left as you face the gate—and leans against it. He's probably learned how to sleep standing up.”

“Learned it from a sailor, I expect,” Ramage said dryly.

“Yes,” Rossi grinned. “And we saw one sentry walking round the battlements.”

Although he had already made up his own mind, Ramage asked Orsini, “Do you also think the hostages are there?”

Orsini nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Why?” Ramage asked bluntly.

“Well, there are no guns on the battlements, sir—we were careful to check all round the fortress. Why keep a garrison at Forte della Stella unless to handle cannon to cover the entrance to Porto Ercole? To prevent enemy ships approaching?”

No guns? Now Ramage was certain. He was already half convinced when Rossi told him of one sentry at the main gate and another up on the battlements; that was unusual enough at a French fortress in such an isolated place and would be justified only if they were artillerymen guarding against enemy ships trying to sneak past to attack Porto Ercole. But with no guns perched up on the battlements, then there had to be another reason for the garrison and for the sentries.

There must be something special to guard inside the fortress, and that would not be Bonaparte's favourite canteen of cutlery. What
could
it be, apart from hostages?

Ramage could think of nothing else that would not be kept more safely in a castle or fortress scores of miles inland, not on the edge of the sea. Except that the Orsini Palace was just that, a comfortable palace but hard to defend, while Forte della Stella was simply a fortress and—like Castello on Giglio—relatively impregnable.

He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. A garrison of how many men? What duty was each sentry doing—four hours on and eight off? Or two on and four off? Anyway, two sentries on duty represented six men, not allowing for sickness. And guards for the prisoners. Say at least a dozen men, with a corporal, a sergeant, a cook, a lieutenant, and a captain. Probably a groom or two for the horses. Nineteen—so, say, a minimum of twenty officers and men. After all, they were guarding hostages, not defending the fortress.

How many hostages? And where were they kept? Did they have a guard with them all the time—guards who, at the first sign of a rescue attempt, would treat them immediately as hostages, threatening to kill them unless the would-be rescuers withdrew?