Ramage's Signal (26 page)

All the boats had been secured by painters and stern-fasts by the time Ramage came up to the entry port and said to Aitken: “The first of the merchant ships is just passing the end of Sant' Antioco and Isolotto la Vacca, that rock south of it. She'll be anchoring in half an hour. She's the
Sarazine,
with a dozen men. You'd better take the launch, your party and a section of Marines under the sergeant.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Damn—there's another ship just nosing round the headland. Ah, the
Golondrina.
I think I'll go in the gig with Kenton to deal with her; it's a long time since I heard Spanish spoken.”

Aitken shouted: “Launch crew and boarders fall in beside number five gun, starboard side; green cutter's crew and boarders to number nine gun.”

Ramage watched Aitken and his men leave, looked round for Martin, saw him eyeing the two approaching merchant ships and called over: “You'll recognize your ship and go off to her at the right moment. Don't forget the signal to Southwick, otherwise you might find some round shot whistling round your ears.”

Martin was excited and nodded his head. “Aye aye, sir. Will Orsini bring in the
Passe Partout
and anchor her?”

“Yes, all being well. Don't forget, he's already several jumps ahead of us!”

Martin nodded again, clearly preoccupied. Not frightened, Ramage realized, but on the verge of being overwhelmed with the apparent importance of his orders and what he thought would be the consequences of failure.

“You and Orsini are a lucky pair,” Ramage said conversationally. “You went off comfortably to your first commands. Mine was different. I was knocked out by a splinter and woke up to find that I, the Fifth Lieutenant, was the sole surviving officer and therefore in command—of a sinking frigate being battered to pieces by a French ship of the line.”

“I heard about that from Jackson, sir: he was with you. He said you treated it as—well, as a great joke, sir.”

“I assure you I didn't,” Ramage said laughing. “My head was ringing like a church bell from being knocked out.”

“That's one of those scars … ?”

“The upper one,” Ramage said, automatically rubbing the scar above his right eyebrow. “Now, I think that's your bird coming into sight, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir: if you'll excuse me!” He gave a shout: “Red cutter party fall in here! Red cutter party to me!”

By the time Martin had cast off with the red cutter, Kenton was calling for the gig's crew and boarding-party and Rennick, who would be commanding the pinnace and sixteen boarders, apart from the eight oarsmen, was still inspecting his men.

Aitken's launch was already half a mile from the
Calypso,
the men rowing leisurely and not heading directly for any particular ship. Then, if anyone was watching the frigate, they would have seen the red cutter leave and row round the ship a couple of times before heading seaward. A few minutes later the pinnace came from under the
Calypso
's stern and suddenly she picked up speed, Rennick calling for a fast pace, and then after a mile she slowed down to a more normal speed. Again, there was nothing very odd about that; the gig would soon be doing the same. She was a long, narrow and fast boat, and was often the private property of the captain of a ship. The gig usually had gold leaf picking out the ship's name, and the sternsheets were either scrubbed teak, or varnished so that they and the thwarts shone like a dining-room table, and when not in use were protected from the sun's rays by canvas covers.

Now more merchant ships were coming into the gulf, the more careful of them with leadsmen in the chains calling out depths, though the majority of the masters obviously looked at ships like the
Sarazine
and
Golondrina,
which they knew drew much more water than they did, and steered straight for them, assuming they had kept on a straight course after rounding Sant' Antioco.

The
Calypso
's pinnace was now rowing between the merchant ships. The Marine Lieutenant had been on enough cutting-out expeditions to be perfectly at home in the eight-oared boat, and the only thing that seemed at all strange was that all the men in her were dressed either in French uniform or ragged clothes.

Jackson, usually Captain Ramage's coxswain in the gig, was commanding the green cutter for the time being, and threatening the sixteen boarders and six oarsmen with dire punishment if they did not stop talking: he did not mind the teasing but he was afraid they might be overheard by someone on board one of the French ships.

Clearly the captain of the frigate had decided to exercise all his boats' crews—that was the opinion of the
Sarazine
's master, who had just noticed three or four of them, and he was wondering how he could use the French Navy to help him with watering—there was bound to be water available somewhere in the gulf. His casks had leaked, thanks to the pounding the ship had received in the seas left over from the
mistral,
and he could never force his men to make do with only their daily ration of water: abetted by the mate, they simply drew more at night, when he was asleep.

Now, however, he was faced with having to launch his own boat, which was too small to carry more than one cask, and he had plenty of work on the rigging to occupy his seven seamen without sending them off watering. So perhaps, if he could speak to one of those Navy officers, they would take a couple of casks, and … He remembered he had some bottles of manzanilla, bought cheaply in Alicante, which might help. At that moment he saw that the frigate's launch would pass close astern, and he walked to the taffrail to give a hail.

Ramage, sitting in the sternsheets of the gig with Kenton, said quietly: “I think the ships are used to the idea of us rowing round, so we'll board the
Golondrina
now. If you go alongside to starboard, none of the others will see us.”

The gig turned and appeared to be going close along the edge of the beach until she was almost abreast the Spanish ship, and then she turned four points to larboard, which brought the master of the ship to the bulwark to give a friendly wave.

Ramage waved back and when the master saw the gig was coming to his ship he called for seamen to take her painter and stern-fast. As soon as the gig was alongside, Ramage scrambled on board and greeted the master cheerfully, making a joke about the privateer schooner as he went aft, so that when the master turned naturally to walk with him, his back was towards the entry port.

“The tartane was fast,” the master said. “I could not believe my eyes when I saw those masts falling. The British must have been sleeping!”

“She was not British,” Ramage said, touching the side of his nose mysteriously. “You did not see the affair of her flag?”

“No, only that she had the English flag, the red one.”

“Ah, but at the last moment she changed it! She hauled down the British flag and hoisted another …” Ramage let his voice die away mysteriously.

“Hoisted
another?
What other? With whom else are we at war,
señor?
”

“The crescent and star …”

“An Algerine?
Caramba!
They must have captured her from the English and kept her colours!”

“It has been done before and will be done again, I've no doubt,” Ramage said gloomily, a note of sorrow in his voice as he gave a signal to Kenton. “As you said of the privateer when she lost her mast, it is hard to believe one's own eyes.”

The Master found himself staring at the muzzle of a pistol with a hexagonal barrel, one of the two that he had admired when he saw the French officer wearing them with belt-hooks.

Now the French officer had his thumb on—that click: now it was cocked! “Be careful!” the master said hastily, “do not point that pistol at me, anyone would think—”

He broke off as he looked round and saw his ship's company all lying flat on the deck, a man from the gig standing over each of them.

“What is this? Have you gone mad? This is not an Algerine—nor an English ship!”

Ramage pointed across to the
Calypso.
“No,” he could not resist saying, “but she is.”

“But … but … she is French. Why, I recognize the class. And the young officer from her who brought over my orders at Foix—you are not going to tell me he was English!”

“No, Italian, but he is an officer of the Royal Navy, as I am. I must introduce myself,” Ramage said, “and may I take it that this”—he gestured with the pistol—”is not necessary?”

The master nodded vigorously. Ramage lowered the hammer gently and slipped the hook over his belt.

He gave a slight bow. “Ramage—Captain Ramage, at your service.”

“Nombre de Dios,”
the master said, and sat down on the deck with a thud, his face white, his upper lip and brow beading with perspiration. “Excuse me,
señor,
I suddenly feel faint. I know that name.”

“It might be someone else,” Ramage said politely, helping the man to his feet again. “Breathe deeply. It helps usually.”

The Spaniard took a few deep breaths, exhaling, it seemed to Ramage, pure garlic.

“There may be others called Ramage, but only one would—
Caramba!
How did you know that at the last moment the convoy would go to Foix?”

“I sent the signal,” Ramage said blandly. “The French semaphore system is most useful.”

The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders, as a priest might admit the Devil's existence. “Now you capture the whole convoy, eh? And I thought you were simply exercising your boats.”

“Oh, but I am,” Ramage assured him. “Now, if you'll join your men—I suggest you sit there by the mainmast. I have a few words to say to them.”

By now the men of the gig's boarding-party were bent down below the level of the bulwarks. Two of them returning from searching the fo'c's'le were pushing along a man they had found sleeping.

Ramage raised his voice. “You may sit up,” he said in Spanish, and noted there were ten men in addition to the master, and one of them was, from his dress, the mate.

“This ship is now a British prize. You will all go down to the gig, and I warn you that if you shout or try to signal any of the ships, you'll be run through with a cutlass. Do as you are told and you will not be hurt.”

He walked over to Kenton and said: “I leave you to your new command. And don't forget to hoist the signal for Southwick; he worries about you.”

The Spanish crew of the
Golondrina
climbed down into the gig, in which there were only the six oarsmen, but close by Jackson steered the green cutter so that his boarding-party covered the prisoners. Ramage followed the Spanish master and took the tiller, and with a farewell wave to Kenton, the painter and stern-fast were cast off and the gig headed back for the
Calypso
and then, without any of the other ships noticing them, turned away for the beach.

Ramage said to the Spanish master: “I am going to be generous. If I was an Algerine, I would cut all your throats, eh?”

The master nodded miserably and rubbed his unshaven chin in a reflex gesture.

“I am going to land you on the beach. You will all immediately go inland out of sight. Cagliari is to the south-east, and I suggest you follow the coast road. Do not try to raise the alarm because there are fourteen other ships in the convoy, and you could cause a great deal of bloodshed.”

Ramage saw that the man understood. He would be marooned on an alien island, but there were many towns and ports in Sardinia, and he would eventually get back to Spain. The gig's keel scraped on the sand, and the men of the
Golondrina
scrambled on shore while Jackson's men kept them covered from the cutter.

Southwick wrote carefully in his log, using the slate to help his memory: “Two PM wind W by S. Anchored with best bower in five fms, Vacca I. bearing SW by W, white house on S. Antioco NW by ½ W, ruin on P. Botte E by S. 2.30 PM all boats hoisted out, manned and three PM, left under general command of the Captain. Pumped ship at ten ins. Fresh water remaining twenty-one tons. 3:15 PM first ships of French convoy entering gulf and anchoring as convenient.”

Southwick sniffed as he wiped his pen dry. “As convenient” be damned; they were just sailing in, clewing up or brailing sails, turning head to wind and tipping anchors over the side as though disposing of rubbish. The
Sarazine
would foul the
Calypso
the moment the wind had any east in it; the
Golondrina
needed only a north wind to bring her crashing into the
Calypso,
and two other ships only a little smaller than the
Sarazine
obviously had not let out enough scope on their cables and would drag on to the frigate if the wind picked up. And the damnable thing was that he could do nothing about it: no one left on board the
Calypso
spoke a word of French: Mr Ramage was away with the boats and Mr Orsini was only just now coming into sight with the
Passe Partout.

He had not heard a shot fired so far: not a pistol, not a musket, not a great gun: it was waiting for the sound of a shot that was making him so bad-tempered. If anything went wrong, what could he do, with no boats and fifty men left on board, all of them old wrecks like himself, short of wind—a quarter of them wearing trusses, half of them bleary of eye, and most shaky of gait? All of them had spirit enough, but a warlike yell and threat of a broadside would not be enough to get even one of them up to the main-yard in under five minutes.

He, Edward Southwick, had to admit that at the moment he was a Falstaff at the head of a rag-tag and bobtail party of seamen who, when mixed with the rest of the ship's company, did their jobs well enough: there was no need for the cook to have two legs and no reason why his mate should not be cross-eyed—except in a situation like this.