Ramage & The Drum Beat

by Pope, Dudley

  Gianna said softly, ‘Can you hear what the men are saying?’

  ‘I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Listen now then.’

  Ramage did not know whether to tell them in anger to be silent, shake them by the hand with pride, or to stop listening in shame. Every man was speculating about the prize money they’d receive when they towed the frigate into Gibraltar. For them it was a foregone conclusion, Ramage realized bitterly, that their captain would capture the ship, but none seemed to realize it’d require magic to make the Spanish ship surrender…

  ‘You see?’ she said.

  Southwick came up rubbing his hands and mustering a laugh so bloodthirsty that Ramage thought the villain in a melodrama at a Haymarket theatre would have been proud of it. Gone was the Master’s look of a country parson; despite the chubby face and mop of flowing white hair, the prospect of battle had transformed his appearance from a benign curer of souls to a dedicated and ruthless curer of skins; his face was flushed, his hair seemed to bristle, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘I thought it’d be a good idea to start the men rousing out one of the thirteen-inch cables, sir,’ he said briskly. ‘It’ll take a bit of time, and though the eight-inch’d be easier because it’s not so heavy, I thought it might part and still leave us with having to use the thirteen-inch.’

  Ramage began rubbing his brow, caught Gianna’s eye, and instead of ordering Southwick to leave the cable stowed said lamely, to give himself time to think, ‘Very well, Mr Southwick.’

  The Master was too excited to notice the lack of enthusiasm in the flat voice and trotted off forward to supervise the shifting of more than two tons of heavy, stiff and immensely strong cable.

  Gianna had heard Ramage make that formal response: ‘Very well’ dozens of times; but there had never been that undertone of – well, almost despair. His face betrayed nothing; but that instinctive rubbing of the scar warned her his mind was in a turmoil. She guessed he was being tugged this way by the precise wording of his orders, another by the shadow of his father’s trial, yet a third by the assumption of Southwick and the crew that they’d capture the frigate. And perhaps duty and honour told him to steer yet a fourth course.

  She knew instinctively that if he obeyed his orders and left the frigate alone he would probably be safe; but that lean and tanned face, those deep-set eyes, naturally proud bearing, also told her that whatever he did, he had to live with himself afterwards; that while others praised his bravery he could condemn himself for cowardice simply because at some point he felt a moment of fear. She knew this only because she too had experienced it: she recalled setting her horse at an apparently impossible fence and successfully clearing it to the almost hysterical cheers of her family, but she had ridden on to avoid facing them because she knew she had failed herself; because, in the instant before knowing whether the horse would jump or refuse, fear had paralysed her. Ruefully she reflected the price she’d paid to learn that if you were to lead successfully, whether a kingdom or a ship’s company, the only standards worth bothering with were those you set yourself; those of others were, well, those of the mob; those who were led, who had neither the ability nor the courage to sit alone and make the decisions.

  Cramp in the foot resting on the carronade slide reminded Ramage time was passing quickly; he had to make up his mind in the next few minutes, before the ox-like enthusiasm of Southwick and the ship’s company swayed his judgement. The situation was simple enough – once you stripped away the details (and left out any thought of the consequences and the orders locked in the desk).

  He could leave the Don severely alone after identifying her, note her position and pass it to the next British warship he met. Or he could – well, easier to see first what he could not do. Obviously he couldn’t capture her by boarding because his men were out-numbered at least four to one. Nor could he sink her by gunfire. So Southwick’s preparations for towing were laughable.

  Yet…he had to admit frightened men bolted from shadows; drowning men clutched at straws. From bitter experience he knew the next most alarming thing to water flooding into a ship faster than the pumps could clear it was to be dismasted; the ship was utterly helpless and at the mercy of wind and current. Without the steadying effect of masts and spars the ship rolled like a pig in a midden, and as the Spaniards hadn’t rigged jury masts yet, perhaps they couldn’t. They were hundreds of miles from the nearest Spanish or French port, and well off the normal routes, so only a miracle could send another Spanish ship their way.

  And not a hundred miles to the south was the African coast, where almost every bay was the base for the Barbary pirates who’d cut their throats just for the fun of it and whose fast galleys rowed by Christian slaves often frequented this area… Yes, the Spaniards would be frightened men, frightened where the whims of wind and current would take them; frightened that a dozen Barbary galleys would get alongside in the dark and put several hundred pirates on board. But at the moment they probably weren’t frightened enough to grasp at a straw. They’d need just a little extra, just enough to turn fear into panic…

  If he only could bluff the Dons into believing he could destroy their ship if they didn’t accept his alternative – to surrender and be towed… But having achieved that piece of wizardry, was the little Kathleen capable of towing the hulk? He couldn’t remember a precedent, and there was only one way of finding out.

  Ramage looked across at the hulk yet again, cursing the fate that had left it within sight of his lookout, and conscious the seamen round him were still laughing and joking, and that Gianna was watching. Southwick’s cheerful curses were streaming up from forward, hurrying the men rousing out the cable.

  Then Ramage looked at every alternate seaman on deck. He knew them all by name, knew most of their faults and merits. He’d promoted several and liked them all. Then he glanced at Gianna and Antonio and deliberately forced himself to imagine them all sprawled on the deck dead, lying in pools of their own blood, as the Kathleen tried to claw away from the frigate’s broadsides because he’d miscalculated and the Spaniards had called his bluff.

  He had everything to lose – his ship, his life, Gianna, the ship’s company who blindly and cheerfully put their trust in him – and, by comparison, very little to gain if he succeeded. Perhaps a few grudging words of qualified praise from Sir John and the Commodore, but no more since he’d have paid scant attention to his orders. Certainly he wouldn’t get a Gazette letter because, although success avoided awkward questions being asked, he could hardly expect a reward for virtual disobedience.

  An admiral’s dispatch to the Admiralty praising an officer and subsequently printed in the Gazette was the dream of everyone, from a midshipman to a senior officer, since it meant a lot in gaining promotion (providing, he thought ruefully, the person mentioned survived the action the letter described).

  Why even think about trying to tackle the frigate? Was he juggling with the stuff of dreams? Or – and it was a sobering thought – was he becoming a compulsive gambler, like one of those pale, twitching, glassy-eyed men who haunted White’s, driven to that fashionable gambling den by some inner demon to risk half a fortune on the night’s turn of the cards or roll of the dice? Risking a well-loved estate, wife, children, position in society, for an urge about as noble – and apparently as hard to resist – as the need to relieve himself?

  Ramage was surprised how dispassionately he saw the situation. His father would be proud if he succeeded – and just as proud if he failed in the attempt, because above all he’d want him to try. Gianna really knew nothing of the problems and was young and impulsive, yet she wanted him to try, perhaps for the same reason as his father, but also because she enjoyed adventure. His rescue of her from under the noses of the advancing French had also rescued her from the prison that was the life of a young woman heading one of the most powerful families in Tuscany, and whose mother had brought her up as a boy in a desperate attempt to fit her for the task of ruling that turbulent little
state.

  Ramage suddenly turned and walked towards the fo’c’sle, trying to break away from the torrent of thoughts and misgivings. Ahead lay the hulk, placed there by the vagary of a single thunderstorm. But before he was abreast the mast he suddenly knew that whatever happened he was going to try to do something, for the simple and singular reason that like those contemptible and pallid creatures at White’s, he couldn’t resist the challenge, and the thought made him feel guilty.

  Southwick hustled up the companionway buckling on a sword – or what passed for a sword, Ramage thought wrily, since the cutler who’d fashioned it must have drawn his inspiration from a butcher’s cleaver, a Saracen’s scimitar, an overgrown claymore and a West Indian machete.

  ‘Glad she’s a Don, sir,’ the Master grunted, drawing in his bulging stomach to hitch in the belt buckle another notch. ‘Easier to deal with than Frogs, ’ticularly as they’ve only been in the war a few weeks. They’ll be jumpy, and I bet the Fleet was manned with a hot press o’ yokels who still don’t know a yardarm from a farmyard.’

  ‘Maybe, but don’t forget she’s probably carrying a lot of soldiers as supernumeraries.’

  ‘The more the better,’ Southwick said cheerfully, attempting yet another notch in his belt, ‘they’ll get in the way o’ the sailors.’

  ‘I hope so, but unless you’re a betting man, never forecast the result on the day of the race.’

  Southwick looked up in surprise. ‘Why, I suppose not, sir, but,’ he added with a grin, ‘I’m a betting man today!’

  ‘Very well,’ Ramage said ironically, ‘if you’ve placed your wagers and the jockeys are booted and spurred, we’ll get ready for the first race. Beat to quarters, Mr Southwick.’

  As Jackson from his position high up on the cro’jack yard heard the staccato but rhythmic beat of the drum sending the men to quarters he felt a considerable relief. He’d kept one eye on the wallowing hulk and one eye on Mr Ramage standing at the carronade below, and he wasn’t sure which worried him most.

  For once the American was glad he was only a seaman. He knew better than most of the ship’s company Mr Ramage’s loneliness in deciding what to do. Jackson admitted he didn’t fancy the idea of tackling the Don because he firmly believed Nature intended that only knaves and politicians should be forced to risk their lives unnecessarily. Yet at the same time he didn’t fancy leaving the hulk just wallowing there, like a ripe peach waiting to be plucked (although by a bigger hand than the Kathleen) and turned over to the prize agent.

  Yet for the life of him he couldn’t see how they’d get her to surrender and be taken in tow. However, the drum was beating to quarters so obviously Mr Ramage had finally thought of a way. That scar on his forehead must be burnished by now, the way he’d been rubbing it. Jackson tried to think what the plan could be, failed, totted up the weight of the frigate’s broadsides – or even just her stern and bow chasers – and finally decided miracles were needed rather than plans.

  He steadied himself against the occasional wild, inverted pendulum swing of the mast as the cutter heeled to heavier gusts of wind, and looked again at the hulk ringed in the lens of the telescope. A sudden movement and flurry of colour at her taffrail made him grip the brass tube tighter. Hmm, they were hoisting a flag on a pike, or something. The wind caught it and blew it clear. Horizontal stripes of red, gold and red!

  ‘Deck there!’ he yelled. ‘The frigate’s showing Spanish colours. Using an oar or a pike as a staff.’

  ‘Very well, Jackson,’ he heard Mr Ramage reply, as though he’d known she would eventually. ‘Can you see if she has any boats at all?’

  He trained the telescope again. The deck was bare, so she’d lost the boom boats. Ah, a sea was pushing her stern round. Yes, there was one in the water – they probably used it to cut away the wreckage.

  ‘Deck there! I can only see one – lying astern to its painter.’

  What on earth was Mr Ramage worrying about boats for? Oh yes – if they had three or four boats, they could tow the hulk’s bow or stern round to train the broadside guns. He shrugged his shoulders; it was a small thing yet it showed Mr Ramage was thorough. But come to think of it, he told himself ruefully, it wasn’t a small thing; the Dons’ ability to train their guns meant all the difference between tackling a couple of stern chasers or a full broadside.

  Below him the boy drummer was still rattling away, his drum seeming as big as he was himself. Watching from such a vantage point as the men went to quarters, Jackson realized the value of the last fortnight’s constant training: no man took an unnecessary pace nor got in anyone else’s way; no one ran or shouted. Yet already the lashings had been cast off the carronades, gun captains had collected their locks and trigger lines and were fitting them, with horns of priming powder slung around their necks, and the sponges, rammers and wormers were beside each gun. The head pumps were already squirting streams of water across the deck ahead of four men walking aft in line abreast and scattering handfuls of sand as though they were sowing corn, the sand ensuring no one should slip, the water ensuring no spilled gunpowder would be ignited by friction.

  Five men were hoisting up the grindstone from below while several more stood waiting to use it, arms laden with cutlasses, pikes and tomahawks taken from the racks. Other seamen rolled small wooden tubs into position near the guns and half-filled them with fresh water from the scuttle-butt, so the guns’ crews could refresh themselves in action. Other wider but shallower tubs were being dragged between the guns and filled with seawater to wet the ‘woolly ’eaded bastards’, the sponges which would swab out the barrels and douse any burning residue left behind after a round had been fired and also cool the barrel. Several tubs with notches cut round the top edge were in position and the long, worm-like slow matches, already lit, had been fitted in the notches with their glowing ends hanging down over the water out of the way of stray powder, but ready for use should a flint in the lock of a gun fail to spark.

  The American pictured the scene below deck round the magazine: screens would have been unrolled, hanging down like thick blankets, and soaked with water to prevent the flash from an accidental explosion from getting into the magazine itself, where the small cylindrical bags of gunpowder for the carronades were stacked. Outside the screens all the young powder boys would be waiting. They’d be chattering with excitement and waiting to be handed the cartridges, which they would put into their wooden cartridge boxes, slide the lids down the rope handles, and scurry up on deck to their respective guns, dreaming of glory, fearing death, but more scared of a gun captain’s bellow should they delay reloading for a second.

  A rumbling noise made Jackson think of Mr Ramage, who could not stand the scraping of metal on stone. The men had the grindstone turning and he saw Mr Southwick, a great curved sword in his hand, gesticulating to a man to pour more water on the spinning wheel and then begin to hone the blade with the skill of a butcher, pausing every few seconds to sight the edge against the sun and finger it gently.

  Catching sight of Ramage looking up at him, Jackson hurriedly raised the telescope to look at the frigate.

  ‘Jackson! If you’re so interested in what’s going on down here you’d better leave the telescope with the lookout and reload my pistols.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Thankfully the American started down the ratlines.

  Southwick cursed as the reflection showed he’d honed a slight flat into one side of the curved blade, but that bit of carelessness would have to be removed later because the men with the cutlasses were impatient to get at the stone. Southwick loved his sword and as he slid it into the rawhide scabbard, which was itself stiff enough to break a man’s arm with a single blow, he reflected that it was a real fighting sword, heavy yet balanced, and the rasping of the shagreen covering on the handle against the palm of his hand reminded him he personally caught the shark, cured the skin and fitted it on himself. No, his sword wasn’t one of those strips of tin decked out in pinchbeck wire that was only fit to wear on ceremo
nial occasions; it was a man’s sword.

  Unaware of the effect his own enthusiasm had had on his captain’s thoughts and decisions during the past fifteen minutes, Southwick would have given anything to know what was in Ramage’s mind; what his plan was to capture the frigate. To the Master the whole thing looked impossible, and he’d been in half a mind to tell Mr Ramage so but couldn’t think of a tactful way of saying it. Anyway, the captain had looked confident enough from the time the hulk first hove up over the horizon, and had guessed she was a Don long before she’d shown her colours. So obviously he had a plan, though Southwick admitted that if it’d been up to him he’d have squared away for Gibraltar by now, merely noting in the log the time the Spaniard’s colours had been hoisted, and her position.

  Standing to weather of the men at the tiller, Ramage appeared confident enough in his faded blue uniform and a battered hat, whose silk cockade was so frayed that it looked like a black dahlia. He sensed from the way the men bustled about that they thought these were the first moves in some brilliantly simple scheme to capture the frigate. But his mind had never been so barren of ideas, and the Kathleen was closing rapidly with the hulk – hell, how the scraping of that grindstone grated on his nerves.

  He needed a red herring to draw across the Spaniards’ bows to occupy their attention while he conjured up some plan to force them to surrender – but it’d need to be an explosive red herring to do any good, he thought gloomily.An explosive red herring! ‘Gunner’s mate!’ he bellowed. ‘Mr Southwick, pass the word for the gunner’s mate!’