by Dudley Pope
Ramage looked across at Martin. 'It's going to be quite a jump down. Are you sure you won't break your necks?'
'Quite sure, sir.'
Ramage looked at Paolo, who had changed his usual weapons of a cutlass with his midshipman's dirk to use as a main gauche, to two pistols clipped in his belt and the dirk, which was shorter than the cutlass.
Jackson favoured a half-pike and two pistols. Four feet and a half long including its sharp iron head, the half-pike was a good jabbing weapon with an ash staff stout enough to ward off a slashing cutlass. Both Stafford and Rossi remained loyal to pistols and to cutlasses, with the belts pulled round so that the blades hung down their backs, out of the way and less likely to trip them up.
The remaining two seamen were made by a wilful Nature as the exact opposite of each other, although they were close friends. Baxter and Johnson came from the same village in Lincolnshire, attended the same tiny school together for two years before going to work with their fathers as labourers on adjoining farms - and were picked up by the same pressgang sent out on a swing through the countryside from Lincoln.
Baxter, at six feet two inches, was the tallest man in the Calypso and had wide shoulders and a chest that looked as though they could break a capstan bar by leaning on it. He also had one of the quietest voices and gentlest natures of anyone aboard. He had only one weakness, drink. When, as Johnson would say fearfully, 'the drink was in him', Baxter became an enraged ox who could interpret a shipmate's accidental glance as a mortal insult.
By contrast, Johnson was so small that the top of his head barely reached Baxter's shoulder. His voice was shrill and when provoked - which was rarely - he sounded like a nagging shrew, but his was the only voice that Baxter really listened to, apart from petty officers and officers giving orders.
Both men were superb pistol shots. No one knew how it happened because, as Johnson once admitted, the only guns they used as boys were shotguns, and then only for poaching. As if to partner the ability with pistols, both men were excellent with cutlasses. Baxter could use his height and strength to chop his way through a crowd: Johnson was as nimble as a Morris dancer and could swerve, duck and parry to the utter confusion of enemy seamen trained to use a cutlass as a slashing weapon with the same finesse as theship's cook using a cleaver to cut twenty-pound blocks of salt beef.
Ramage spoke once more to Martin: 'The canvas bag - ah, I see you have it. You've checked it holds all you need?'
'Aye aye, sir. Chart, tables, signal books - French and English - and a list of the convoy. Orsini has my sextant, and Jackson the set of French flags we've just sewn up.'
Ramage glanced astern and was startled to see how fast the Passe Partout was approaching. Martin and his men looked a fine party of French seamen: white trousers (grubby) and blue shirts (torn) were not the French naval uniform because at this time there was not one for seamen, but it was just the rig that a smart captain would insist his men wore, because sewing their own clothes (or paying a shipmate to do it) made it as easy to use white-and-blue cloth as any other.
'Deck there - foremast here!'
Damn! The last thing Ramage wanted with that tartane so close was a lot of bellowing in English, and Aitken snatched up the speaking trumpet, which would at least funnel his voice upwards.
'Deck here!'
'There's another ship coming up well astern of the convoy, sir. Enemy, I reckon, because they're all keeping away from her!'
'Very well, I'll send a man up with a glass.'
Southwick lumbered over to Ramage, sniffing as he walked, like a disgruntled bloodhound. 'Can only be one of two things, sir', he said.
Ramage nodded. 'I know.'
'Either', Southwick said, drawing out the word and carrying on as if he had not heard his captain's reply, 'Algerine pirates up from the coast, or a British privateer.'
'Yes. Which are you putting your money on?'
'Algerine. We can sink an Algerine and all the Frogs will cheer us, but a British privateer...'
'Yes', Ramage answered shortly, his mind working fast. Fifteen French merchant ships would be waiting - were at this moment waiting - for him to beat back to them and driveoff or sink whatever it was, Algerine or British. He looked aloft impatiently and saw that the man sent up with the telescope was just settling himself and opening the lens tubes.
But the Passe Partout was now very close - and, damn and blast it, was obviously intending to come close alongside to larboard in plain view of the convoy.
'Deck there - French ship's -'
'Shut up!' Aitken's brief shout was deliberately slurred.
Ramage swung his glass across the convoy and saw that several of the ships were now hoisting flag signals with a speed that contrasted with their earlier leisurely response to his. As he watched he saw a string run up on the Sarazine, to be followed by a flash, a spurt of smoke and a muffled bang as she fired a gun to draw attention to it.
Aitken looked with his glass and then opened the French signal book. 'On the first hoist is "Enemy vessel", the second signifies "hearing" and the third is "northwest".'
'Ignore them. I didn't know you spoke French', Ramage said.
'A little. I read it better.'
'The book gives only "Enemy", doesn't it? Not more explicit - ah, here comes the man with the glass. What did you see, Kelso?'
The man was almost breathless from his climb up and down the mast, and he gave the glass back to Aitken, handling it carefully as though it would explode.
Do not rush him, Ramage told himself, just be calm and nonchalant; do not scream at the poor fellow a question like: 'Well, what did you see, you damned fool?' After all Kelso did have the sense not to shout down what he had seen, a shout which would almost certainly be heard by the Passe Partout, which was being waved - thank goodness for that! - to the starboard side by Orsini, who was standing on the taffrail, holding on to one of the poop lanterns and using the speaking trumpet to shout his shrill French.
'I had a good look at 'im, sor', Kelso said, unsure whetherhe should report to Southwick, Aitken or Ramage, who were now gathered round him in a group.
'You did, eh?' Ramage said to get the man's attention before the poor fellow's head swivelled off. 'And what did you make of her?'
'Scunner rigged, goes to windward like a roundshot, an' got every stitch o' canvas set, even ringtails on the main, I reckon.'
'A schooner, eh?' Ramage said unhurriedly. 'You didn't get a sight of her flag, of course.'
'Oh noo, sir, she's too far away for thaat!'
No more Devonians, Ramage swore to himself; I'll never ship another Devonian, however fast he says he can talk.
Southwick jabbed the man in the ribs with his forefinger. 'British or Algerine?'
'Oh, British, sir', Kelso said at once. 'I reckon I recognize her, too, unless someone's copying her style o' paintwork.'
'Well?' Southwick demanded.
'She's the old Magpie, used to sail out o' Brixham. I was a privateersman afore the press took me up, an' she was m' first ship after the war begun. Her hull, y'carn't mistake it: alternate strakes o' black and white, carried well up under the run.'
'M'sieu! M'sieu!'
It was Orsini, shouting to draw his attention and gesticulating over the starboard side. And there Ramage could see over the bulwarks the upper part of the Passe Partout's lateen sail only a few feet away, a great bird's wing of canvas.
He had only a moment to make up his mind as he absorbed the situation. The Magpie might already be attacking the convoy, but whatever she was doing she must be sent off - preferably happy at saying goodbye to the piek of fifteen enemy ships. But in this wind a frigate so obviously French as the Calypso could not get within five miles of a fore-and-aft rigged vessel like a schooner, and what would the convoy think of a French frigate talking to a British privateer instead of trying to sink her? The Passe Partout was close alongside,racing along as only a tartane or a xebec could in this breeze.
Ramage snapped at Aitken:
'Take command of the Calypso!'
With that he grabbed the Scot's arm and pulled him to the ship's starboard side, where they could look down on the tartane, whose captain was obviously showing off to the Navy how close he could sail his ship to the frigate.
Ramage pointed down at her. 'Lay us alongside her for twominutes', he told Aitken, 'but don't do her any damage. Watch for that lateen yard!'
Ramage looked round for Martin. 'Are your crowd ready? Come on then, lads, let's go!'
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ramage jumped down on to the Passe Partout's deck, realizing as he dropped that it was farther than he'd thought, and landing with a thud that brought him to his knees. As he stood up he caught a foot in a ringbolt and sprawled across the deck. A moment later a French seaman helped him up in a cloud of garlic and he saw, eight or nine feet farther forward, another seaman helping Baxter.
Hurriedly thanking the seaman in French and noting he was not armed, and dodging more men dropping from the Calypso's deck, Ramage hurried aft to the big ornate tiller where the man who was obviously the master stood looking up at the Calypso's quarterdeck towering over him.
'Bear away gently, we're all on board!' Ramage called, anxious that the upper end of the lateen yard should not catch in the Calypso's rigging.
'As you say!' the master replied cheerfully, patting his enormous stomach and leaning against the tiller. 'Fed up with the Navy's food, are you?'
'Urgent work', Ramage said, noticing there were still only four men on deck - the portly master, the helmsman who until a few minutes ago had been at the tiller, the man amidships who had lifted him to his feet, and the one who helped Baxter.
And now, as the Passe Partout curved away from the Calypso, Ramage saw his heavily armed boarding party was standing along the tartane's side deck looking very sheepish. Martin was beside Orsini, who by now was having an amiable conversation with the two French seamen amidships. They obviously believed that the eight men who had just jumped down from the frigate were, like themselves, true upholders of the Republic, 'One and Indivisible'.
As the turn showed the frigate's transom and her name painted on the scroll, Ramage realized for the first time exactly what he had done on the spur of the moment: he had quit the King's ship that he commanded and on a whim was now a supernumerary on board a French tartane. A French tartane which was about to become a British prize under the command of Lt William Martin, Royal Navy, known to his intimates as 'Blower' and who had, without a doubt, hidden his flute somewhere among the prize crew's gear.
Well, neither Martin nor Orsini seemed to want to strain the good relations they were establishing with the two enemy seamen, but the Passe Partout had an urgent appointment with the Magpie on the far side of the convoy, so Ramage turned aft again, walked up the rising deck to the plump master and said, unable to keep the apologetic note out of his voice, as though he was a well-dressed bandit forced to reveal his true identity and rob the host who had just given him a fine dinner: 'M'sieu - consider yourself and your men my prisoners; this ship is now a prize to His Britannic Majesty's frigate the Calypso.'
The fat man looked startled, then began roaring with laughter. Keeping one eye on the Calypso as the tartane caught a good puff of wind and heeled as she increased speed, he slapped the helmsman on the back and said: 'Well, that's one way of asking for a bottle of wine! Take the tiller and keep her on that course, Alfonse, while I get some up. And then m'sieu can tell me what he wants of us.'
Ramage, realizing he was unarmed and dressed like a Frenchman, knew that only a flourished pistol would convince this jolly fellow that his ship was now captured. He turned and shouted forward in English: 'Martin! Come aft with Jackson and send Orsini below to secure the other prisoners!'
Looking back at the master again Ramage saw he had gone white; his face was sagging and his brow speckling with perspiration. The welcoming grin had vanished; in its place was raw fear.
Ramage held up a reassuring hand. 'There need be no bloodshed; we are British. I am a British officer.'
The French master gestured helplessly at the convoy and then at the Calypso. 'She has the French flag', he protested weakly. 'This is a French convoy.'
The flag: that was a mistake. A genuine one, but if the Admiralty heard about it they would not like it. It was a legitimate ruse de guerre to fly the enemy's flag providing that before opening fire you dropped it and hoisted your own. Well, on the other hand the Calypso had not opened fire and had not threatened to - and, Ramage thought angrily, becoming furious with himself for bothering, this fellow General Bonaparte had not been fussy about protocol when he suddenly attacked half the countries in Europe, the Kingdom of Volterra included, without reason, pretext or warning.
'I am sorry', Ramage said. 'We will take over your ship peacefully and providing you do not try to resist, no one will be hurt.'
By now several men were walking aft from the fo'c'sle, all obviously just awakened, and followed by Martin's men.
'Tell them', Ramage told the master, 'tell them no harm will come to them unless they try to retake the ship. Where is your arms chest?'
The master pointed down the companionway near his feet. 'In my cabin. Six muskets and six pistols.'
'And powder and shot for those swivels?'
'There is a small locker at the forward side of my cabin. A half-cask of powder and a net of shot, and powder and shot for the small arms. Wads, too.'
Ramage nodded as he counted up the Frenchmen. Paolo had been right: only six, and that included the cook. And the lateen rig was so simple that they needed no more. But for the moment only Paolo, Rossi and Jackson understood the working of the lateen rig.
The sun was scorching. For a few minutes the big lateen sail gave some shade on one side; then the Passe Partout had to tack again, zigzagging through the convoy as Ramage watched for the slightest shift in wind direction that might give the Passe Partout an advantage in the struggle to beat up to the Magpie.
The privateer was a puzzle. Ramage had expected her to swoop on the rear ships, the ones right at the stern of the convoy and therefore dead to windward of the Calypso, but the schooner was simply tacking back and forth across the wake of the convoy, as if biding her time.
Had her master a better plan? Ramage thought for a few moments, putting himself in the position of the master of the British privateer suddenly coming across a French convoy escorted by one frigate. He would go for the biggest ship, but she was the Sarazine and the nearest to the frigate.
Very well, he would wait for darkness. Work his way round the convoy - not difficult with a following wind - and sneak in quietly to board in the darkness, having the Sarazine captured and sailing out of the convoy before the Calypso could do anything. If the frigate tried to recapture the Sarazine, then the Magpie would board another merchantman, put a prize crew on board and sail her out of the convoy. Ramage knew that if he commanded the Magpie he would try for three prizes and hope to get away with two, expecting the third to be recaptured by the frigate.
In the meantime the Passe Partout had to work her way up to windward and get close enough to the Magpie to establish communication. But how? At the moment the schooner was staying far enough astern of the convoy for the Passe Partout, if she could only get close enough to the Magpie, to hoist a white flag without any of the French ships seeing it. Would the Magpie think it a trap? Hardly, because there was no way a little tartane in open water in bright sunshine could trap a heavily armed privateer schooner. A pity merchant ships and privateers did not have the Navy's numerary code, because then Ramage could hoist a series of numbers which the Magpie could read out of the signal book as a message.
Again he nodded to Rossi, who had spent the last quarter of an hour at the helm; again the Italian leaned against the tiller; again the Passe Partout's bow swung across the horizon, to put the wind on the other side and bring the lateen yard slamming across as she tacked.
Martin, Orsini and Jackson were busy with the swivels. They had fou
nd ten roundshot for each of them and a copper-lined half-cask of powder in the locker forward of the master's cabin filled with cartridges. The wads were damp, so Martin had spread them out in the sun to dry before loading the guns. Several pieces of slowmatch were also hanging up to dry like lengths of stiff line - the guns were fired by slowmatch wound round linstocks; not for them the complication (and expense!) of flintlocks. Nor, from what Martin reported, the luxury of clean barrels: the bores of all of them were rusted, and they had trouble unblocking the touchhole of the forward one on the starboard side.
By now there were only two merchant ships in the convoy remaining between the Passe Partout and the Magpie schooner. Scared of the killer in their wake, they had set every stitch of canvas; and Ramage used the tartane's master's telescope to satisfy his curiosity. The topgallants of both merchant ships had lines of mildew on them, especially in bands where the wide canvas gaskets had held them furled against the yard, with every shower or downpour keeping that strip of canvas wetter for longer.
The next tack took the tartane close to the last ship, and Ramage could see two or three men aft watching, one holding a telescope and no doubt curious why a tartane should be making for the schooner. The fact that their escorting frigate was staying to leeward at the head of the convoy might be something of a surprise but more likely it was providing an incentive for the ship to catch up with the Sarazine. Anyway, they would have seen the tartane go up to the frigate.
Ramage carefully watched the Magpie, estimated her speed, assumed she would hold the course that was now taking her diagonally across the stern of the convoy to the southwest, and tacked the Passe Partout again.
Rossi was quite at home with the tartane; he had commented about them twice to Ramage, indicating he had served in them during his youth, nominally spent in Genoa.
He had searched the fo'c'sle and found half a parmigiano of an age, size and hardness, so Stafford claimed, making it suitable for repairing the stonework of St Paul's Cathedral. Certainly it withstood some violent cutlass blows from Rossi, who quickly found an axe and, later, a rasp in what was obviously the ship's tool chest. Parmigiano, he swore, was proof that there must be pasta somewhere in the ship and the ingredients for making some kind of sauce, and Ramage had given him fifteen minutes - until it was obvious that his skill was needed at the tiller - to find it. He had then discovered some spaghetti in a cask in the galley which, he declared, had not been completely eaten by weevils and from which he could make them a good supper. Several suppers, he had added, obviously hoping that would draw from the captain an indication of how long they would be in the Passe Partout.