by Dudley Pope
Ramage reckoned there was an hour of daylight remaining as the Calypso stretched up to the coast with the Baie de Foix on her starboard bow. He held on until she was close to the western side, giving himself a look at the other semaphore tower at Aspet. Then he gave the order for the Calypso to tack into the bay itself. Her sails started flapping and, for anyone not used to a ship going about, there was sudden confusion for a few minutes and then almost complete silence after sheets and braces were hauled home and tacks settled.
Through the glass the semaphore tower at Foix seemed undamaged by the wind, which was dropping quickly, and Ramage was startled to see the yellow flag run up on the platform at the top and stream out like a board. They had a signal to pass to Aspet—and yes, Aspet hoisted the red flag: they were ready to receive it.
Southwick offered to get the semaphore signal book so that they could read the signal as Orsini, Jackson, Stafford and Rossi worked the shutters, but Ramage, at last free of his tarpaulin coat and sou’wester, shook his head. Very soon he would be reading the Foix tower’s signal log, and seeing the latest news of the convoy assembling at Barcelona …
There seemed to be a deputation to meet him on the beach when Ramage jumped down from the bow of his gig in the late evening to find Martin, Rennick and Orsini standing to attention on the sand a few feet back from the line of breaking waves.
“Welcome back, sir,” Martin said. “That was quite a gale.”
“Yes, I half expected to hear your flute,” Ramage said teas-ingly.
“It wouldn’t have been my flute, sir,” Martin said, almost crossly, “it’d have been that damned tower: the wind goes through it like an abandoned windmill: all creaks and groans and whistles. Hard to sleep.”
By now Ramage was leading them towards the signalmen’s hut.
“Much signal traffic?”
“Our hands are raw, sir: needed three men at each halyard to raise a shutter in that wind, and Toulon and Barcelona have been signalling like neighbours chatting over the fence.”
“They probably have fine weather: ours was just a local Gulf of Lions gale.”
Ramage turned to Rennick. “Well, what have the Marines to report?”
“All well, sir—except for the sand: this dam’ wind drives it in under doors and gets it into the men’s muskets—until the rain came and settled it down. At least we haven’t had to water the gardens.”
“Had any trouble with discipline?” Ramage asked Martin casually.
“None, sir: even though the weather was bad the men seem to enjoy their run on shore. They scrubbed the floors and tables in their barracks before I could stop them; now they’re having the devil of a job drying them out.”
By now they had reached the signalmen’s hut and Martin led the way in. A lantern on the table showed the signal log and beside it, under a brick used as a paperweight, were the original signals copied down by the men on the platform.
Ramage motioned the three men to sit and said to Paolo: “Did you have any trouble understanding the signals?”
“No, sir. I’ve written translations under each signal for the benefit of Mr Martin.”
“And very useful it’s been, sir,” Martin said emphatically, obviously anxious that Paolo should not miss any credit.
Ramage nodded and opened the signal book. The signals were written in neat copperplate, giving the time that Aspet or Le Chesne began sending, the time the last word of the signal was received in Foix, and the similar times when it was passed on. Beneath each signal was the translation, each one signed with a flourish, “P.O.”
It took Ramage a few moments to remember the day and date the Calypso sailed, and then he read slowly through the signals, first in French, then Paolo’s translation to make sure neither of them missed some nuance. There had been a signal to the east or west roughly every half an hour in the two days of daylight. That meant the men had been hauling on the shutter halyards almost continually, able to rest only when a signal was being received.
So eleven merchant ships were now assembled in Barcelona, bound for Marseilles, Genoa and Leghorn. And the final two signals, passed in the last of the light that very day, complained that the two frigates had not arrived to escort the convoy, which was now being delayed.
Ramage read for the third time all the signals concerning the assembling of the convoy. Martin, Rennick and Orsini watched him, each man perfectly still. Each was watching Ramage’s face which, in the light of the lantern, with its flame flickering in the draught from the wind and throwing dancing shadows, seemed as if it had been carved from a block of mahogany, the sun-and-wind tan emphasized by the candlelight.
Paolo did not know whether to be disappointed or elated. Certainly the Captain was pleased with the way they had received and passed the messages, and Blower had been good enough to praise him. The translations of the signals—well, they were simple and he knew he had made no mistakes. Yet the Captain was now reading the signals—which seemed routine enough—for the third time. Fourth, in fact, because he had just turned to the first page again, and was reading even more slowly, running his finger from word to word, like a schoolboy.
Martin’s original confidence too was ebbing fast: the Captain had not spoken for ten minutes: he just continued reading the signals, turning back to the first page as soon as he finished the last.
He was reading both the original French and Orsini’s translations, but Orsini’s translations could not be faulty because the Midshipman would by now have received an angry blast.
Ramage’s head was still; just his eyes moved from word to word along one line and flicked back to the beginning of the next. The eyes were bloodshot, as one would expect in a man who had spent the last couple of days at sea in a gale: indeed, there were still grains of dried salt on his cheeks. The eyes seemed more sunken than usual, but that could be tiredness or, more likely, the shadows thrown by the lantern.
What was fascinating the Captain about the signals? To Martin they seemed routine; the same as the dozens and dozens of signals passed in the previous year and which Orsini had skimmed through to make sure he understood the French system.
Rennick was soon intrigued enough to begin watching Martin and Orsini. He had very quickly recognized what was going on in the Captain’s mind because he had seen the expression many times before, that fixed position and just the eyes moving, but he was interested to see that neither of the two lads understood: from Blower’s expression, clearly he thought he had done something wrong; Orsini, on the other hand, was fairly certain he had made no mistakes but the Captain’s continued silence was raising doubts in his mind.
All three jumped as Ramage suddenly flipped the signal book shut, smiled pleasantly, and said: “Very well, lads, carry on; I’m going back to the ship now, but I’ll be over again at dawn.”
He was just walking to the door when he turned and said to Martin: “Those halyards for the shutters: you’re watching them for wear, I hope.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said thankfully. “Jackson is the last man off the platform and he climbs down the framework, checking it all—blocks, tackles, the frames in which the shutters slide …”
Ramage knew he should have guessed Jackson would leave nothing to chance. He looked across at Rennick, remembering the Marine officer might be feeling left out of it. “I’ll be inspecting your men at daylight,” he said. “A glance with a lantern now will satisfy no one.”
The grin on Rennick’s face showed that just being remembered was reward enough, and such was human nature that the Marines would enjoy polishing their equipment before dawn in anticipation of the Captain’s inspection.
The row back to the Calypso in the gig lasted long enough for him to realize how tired he was. He made his way down to his cabin, stripping off his wet boat-cloak as he went.
Waving away his steward, who wanted to serve him a bowl of hot soup, he sent for Aitken and when the First Lieutenant arrived he said: “A convoy is waiting to sail from Barcelona. Eleven ships. The Fr
ench escort of two frigates has not yet arrived.”
“That’s too bad,” Aitken said in his soft Perthshire accent. “Delayed by this same bad weather, perhaps; or just late … they’d be sailing from Toulon, and we’ve seen nothing of them—I wonder if they’d go direct or keep in with the coast?”
“Keep close in with a mistral,” Ramage said. “That is, if they’ve sailed at all.”
“Aye, that’s the puzzle,” Aitken mused. “If they’ve sailed at all …”
Quickly Ramage described the gist of the signals that had passed between Barcelona and Toulon. Then he told Aitken of the wild idea he had had and was slightly disappointed that the Scotsman’s only reaction was a brief nod and the comment: “We can start that going first thing in the morning. We’ll look daft if those French frigates get to Barcelona first.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DISTANT OUTLINE of the Alpes de Provence was just appearing to the eastward, shaped by the first hint of dawn beyond, when Ramage jumped on to the beach from his gig and answered the respectful greetings of Martin and Rennick with a cheerfulness that startled them and made Paolo glance quickly at Jackson.
The acting signalmen, with nothing to do until daylight showed the towers at Aspet and Le Chesne, had come down to the beach to help hold the gig, anticipating heavy swells from the previous days’ storm, but the sea had calmed.
“Somefing’s up!” Stafford whispered to Jackson. “Whenever ‘e’s so cheerful this time o’ the morning it means trouble.”
“Action, not trouble,” Rossi corrected.
“‘S what I mean. I’m getting fed up wiv pulling them bloody ‘alyards, I don’t mind telling you. Black an’ white squares,” he exclaimed scornfully. “Beats me ‘ow people can stay awake playin’ chess!”
“They’re usually yellow, not white,” Jackson said.
“Even worse. Wearin’ a yellow dress can make you miscarry, so my sister says.”
“Yes,” Jackson said briskly, “that’s why I never wear one. Now the Captain’s on shore we might as well get ready to go up the tower.”
“We got hours yet,” Stafford protested.
“All right, you stay here and let the mosquitoes eat you. But that tower is just high enough that the lazy ones don’t bother to fly that high, and they’ll be swarming in another ten minutes.”
“Is right, I come with you,” Rossi said, slapping at early-risers who were already biting his bare arm. “The higher you go the not so many zanzari.”
Inside the signalmen’s hut, appropriated by Martin as the officers’ quarters and serving as his combined headquarters and gunroom, the lantern light seemed very yellow, an even stronger hint that dawn was breaking. Again Ramage indicated the trio should sit down, and from his jacket he took a slip of paper. “This signal must be sent westwards at first light. I don’t want the Le Chesne station to see it, so we must try to send it off before they man their tower.”
He unfolded it and gave it to Paolo. “Read it aloud in French,” he said, and when the midshipman had done so, he said: “Now translate it for Mr Martin and Mr Rennick.”
Paolo paused a few moments, obviously changing the French construction into English, but equally obvious to Martin and Rennick was that reading the French version had brought first puzzlement and then excitement to the Midshipman’s eyes.
Paolo began reading aloud: “‘Figures 34, Convoy to sail immediately for Baie de Foix where escort will join. Figures 1.’ That’s the signal and,” he added for Rennick’s benefit, “it’s to the station at Barcelona, which is 34, from Toulon, which is number 1.”
Martin gestured impatiently for the paper but Ramage realized that the movement was a delaying action as much as anything: young “Blower” Martin, confronted with an entirely unexpected situation, was giving himself time to think. And then, as he realized the consequences, he gave a cheerful grin.
“Shall we have enough men to make up prize crews, sir?”
“Don’t count your prize-money before the prizes are caught,” Ramage said. “There are just two or three possible snags, aren’t there, Rennick?”
He knew the Marine had spotted them—more perhaps by instinct than logical thought, because Martin was twice as clever as the burly Marine.
“Yes, sir: if the French authorities somewhere between here and Barcelona get suspicious and send two or three frigates to see what’s going on in the Baie de Foix, or the real escort arrive in time or meet the convoy on the way and sail with it to here. Or, a third alternative, they meet the convoy, hear of the signal from Toulon about going to Foix, reckon it no longer applies because the convoy now has an escort, and sails direct to its original destinations.”
Ramage nodded. “The first two are risks; the third will be the disappointment.”
Martin said: “But, sir, supposing the merchantmen refuse to risk sailing without an escort? If they’re anything like our own shipmasters, they can be a damned independent crowd.”
“It could happen, but Barcelona would report to Toulon. We would intercept the signal and after a suitable interval send back a reply threatening the shipmasters. I doubt if they dare play the games the British ones do: they have no Committee of West India merchants or Lloyd’s Coffee House to back them up …”
He glanced up as there was a knock at the door, and at a word from Martin, a Marine came in with two jugs, which he put on the table, went to a cupboard and came back with four mugs.
“Tea, sir?” he asked Ramage politely, and when Ramage nodded and watched a mug being neatly filled from one jug was surprised to hear the Marine ask: “And milk, sir?”
Then he remembered the three cows in the meadow behind the guardhouse. “A little, please,” he said.
Ramage had stood on the tower platform with Paolo and Jackson while Rossi and Stafford hauled on the halyards, watched by an anxious Martin. Before daylight they had hoisted the yellow flag, warning Aspet there was a signal for them, so that the first signalman at Aspet to look at Foix would see it. Ramage had watched the tower at Le Chesne for signs of movement, particularly when Paolo exclaimed that Aspet had answered and the signal could be sent. A shout down to Stafford and Rossi started the shutters rising and falling, Jackson watching Aspet for any request for a repetition while Ramage kept an eye on Le Chesne for any indication that they had noticed that Foix’s shutters were working.
Finally, after Paolo had shouted down the last letter of the signal and the shutters had risen and then crashed down again, so the tower was once more without window-like openings, Jackson took the halyard, raised and lowered the yellow flag twice, and said to Ramage: “Now the signal’s on its way, sir. As the post-chaise coachman says: ‘Next stop Barcelona.’”
And, Ramage thought to himself, it will probably take all day to reach Barcelona, allowing for a noon delay for the meal and siesta at about station twenty … so the convoy could sail about noon tomorrow. The distance from Barcelona to Foix was almost exactly one hundred and fifty miles, and the course followed the coast because the ships had to round the cape just north of Palamós. They needed plenty of south in the wind to bring them north without too much delay.
Without an escort to crack a whip behind them, they would make perhaps four knots with a fair wind, so at the earliest there would be no sign of them until 36 hours after they sailed. Thirty-six hours from noon tomorrow. It was a long time. And he had to spend the rest of the day on shore, just in case a signal came back unexpectedly before sunset. In the meantime he looked across at the Calypso swinging at anchor in the bay, a glorious sight washed by the pinkish-orange of a good sunrise following the gale.
Ramage climbed down the ladder, telling Paolo to hail the moment a signal started to come through from either Aspet or Le Chesne—he was more curious about the method than what the message might say. His first task for the morning was to inspect the Marines.
This was set for eight o’clock, and Ramage knew Rennick would be happy for the rest of the day—even if, by some miracle, the Ca
ptain spotted a dulled button or a speck of sand on a musket barrel. Flints—ah yes, just to tease Rennick (without the men realizing it) he would insist on all muskets being “snapped”—cocked and fired, without being loaded—to check the strength of the spark in the flintlock. And he would play merry hell if even one failed to spark, because in action a misfire could cost the man’s life.
At eight o’clock, on the only flat area between the huts not dug for a garden—but certainly not used as a parade ground by the French—Rennick had his men drawn up, and when Ramage strode out with all the nonchalance expected of the captain of one of the King’s ships, Rennick gave a smart salute and bellowed: “One sergeant, one corporal and twenty-eight men, all present and correct, sir! One corporal and six men on detached guard duty!”
“Very well, Lieutenant; I will inspect the men.”
Escorted by Rennick and followed by the sergeant, Ramage began to walk along the first of the four ranks of men. The corporal was the first he reached.
“Have him make sure his musket isn’t loaded; then I want to see him snap the lock.”
Rennick barked out the order with his usual confidence; the corporal flipped up the pan cover and blew into the vent while the sergeant blocked the barrel with his thumb over the muzzle and then took it away suddenly so that a “whoosh” of the corporal’s breath showed the gun was unloaded.
“Cock the piece and squeeze the trigger,” Rennick ordered. Ramage watched the flint strike the steel. There was no spark.
“Cock the piece and squeeze the trigger,” Rennick repeated.
Again there was no spark.
“Take this man’s name, sergeant,” Rennick said as Ramage walked on to the first Marine in the front rank. The locks of 28 muskets sparked satisfactorily and Ramage, already feeling sorry for the wretched corporal, decided not to check the sergeant’s musket.