by Dudley Pope
'No,' Ramage said shortly. ‘I couldn't make out what was being shouted but I'm sure it wasn't English. Anyway they must have seen our lanterns and one of our own ship wouldn't make such a noise if she was going to clap herself alongside as soon as it's light.'
'Hadn't thought of that,' Southwick admitted. ‘Which of 'em will you have a go at first, sir?'
'Neither.'
'Neither?' Southwick could not keep the surprise out of his voice.
'Mr. Southwick,' Ramage said sourly, 'don't let's make a habit of attacking frigates with a small cutter. We've been lucky so far, not clever.'
'Quite, sir. Then why don't we—?'
Ramage snapped, 'Think man! If we cut the tow and drop astern or draw ahead we lose the prize to them. If they're British we won't get a penny. If they're Spanish - which is more likely - it'll be light enough for 'em to see us in' - he glanced eastward - 'four or five minutes, and with this breeze they'd soon catch us. And anyway, I doubt if they're alone.'
'So what do we do, sir?'
"We've no choice. We wait, Mr. Southwick, and hope. Those who wish can pray as well.'
'The prize has doused her lanterns, sir,' Jackson reported.
Ramage thought he could see a vague, blacker outline in the night, showing where the prize lay, but he was far from sure. ‘Very well. Keep a good lookout; I'm going below for a few moments.'
In his cabin, the sentry shielding the lantern with his hat, Ramage unlocked the drawer in his desk and once again put his secret papers in the lead-lined box. Suddenly he remembered a conversation with a midshipman who'd once been prisoner in France: it was essential to have strong boots and warm clothes - the French marched their prisoners hundreds of miles north to such camps as Verdun, and presumably the Spaniards did the same. And you needed money to buy food on the march.
Ramage was already wearing boots and breeches. He took some guineas from a drawer and tucked a few into the lining of his hat, dropping the rest down his breeches. He waved the sentry away and as the man left with the lantern he thought he could detect the night turning grey at the skylight overhead. As he took a last glance round the cabin he remembered the ring round his neck: that would be stolen from him. He knotted it into a corner of Gianna's scarf and put them both in his pocket. He'd feel a damned fool if the ships turned out to be British, and they probably would, after all these precautions.
He took the weighted box up on deck and gave it to the quartermaster beside the binnacle, 'You know what this is by now. Keep it beside you.'
As soon as Southwick saw him he reported: 'Sound a rum lot, sir: make as much noise as if they was beating through a convoy anchored in a thick fog off Spithead.'
The cries from to starboard were musical. Even though the words were blurred, Ramage was sure he could detect a certain sibilance, an emphasis of certain vowels. The ship was a good deal closer now and from the shouting and subsequent noises, he was certain her sails were being trimmed constantly to edge her slowly down to leeward, to where they thought the Kathleen was. He walked over to the larboard side and could hear more voices from the second ship, even closer, and thought he could make out the hiss and bubble of the water being thrust aside by her stem.
The two ships obviously knew they were converging on the Kathleen but did each know the other was? Were they working to a pre-arranged plan or had they been sailing in company and both separately spotted the Kathleen in the darkness? Did they know their intended victim was only a small cutter? Unlikely. Was there a chance, therefore, of playing one off against the other?
For a wild, almost ecstatic moment he thought of manoeuvring the Kathleen until she was precisely midway between the two frigates and then, as they closed in on either side, drop all sail. The weight of the tow would act as an anchor and the Kathleen would stop as suddenly as if she'd run up on a sandbank.
Then, with a bit of luck, the two Spanish ships would crash alongside each other in the darkness, each thinking the other was the enemy. The chances were that each would have fired at least one broadside into her consort before realizing the mistake.
But a glance round the Kathleen's deck and up at the sails showed him the attempt would be hopeless: it was too late. The black of night had gone, the grey of dawn was already here. In a few minutes both Spaniards would be able to distinguish the outlines of the cutter. A pity; the prospect of provoking a brief outbreak of fraticidal warfare between two of His Most Catholic Majesty's ships of war appealed to him. But he was wasting valuable time even thinking about it.
'Evans.'
The bosun's mate appeared beside him.
'Send the ship's company below - two at a time from each gun, and the rest take it in turns - to get shoes, a couple of shirts and any warm clothing they can sling round their neck. Don't put the shoes on,' he added hurriedly, 'in case there's any powder on deck.'
Evans paused a moment; although he had heard, he did not understand.
'Prisoners have to march, Evans. Probably through thick snow over mountain passes...'
'Oh - aye aye, sir!'
Jackson handed him his pair of pistols. 'Sound like Dons for sure, don't they, sir?'
Ramage grunted as he tucked them into the top of his breeches.
'Their Fleet's at sea, isn't it! sir?'
'Yes.'
'Hum, wouldn't surprise me if—'
'Nor me,' snapped Ramage, who wanted time to think. 'They're probably about five miles astern, twenty sail of the line, and Admiral Don Juan de Langara sound asleep in one of them. Now, go below and get yourself shoes, warm clothes and money, in case we become prisoners.'
'Prisoners, sir?' Jackson exclaimed involuntarily. 'Aren't we—'
'Get below, Jackson. This isn't a debating society.'
He felt ashamed at the snub; but all the Kathleens seemed to be off their heads, unable to distinguish between capturing a dismasted frigate and engaging a pair of them.
He pictured himself and his Kathleens trudging first under a blazing sun along a track shimmering with heat, trying to breathe while the stifling air was thick with white dust thrown up by dozens of other prisoners being herded along by dull-brained shuffling, Spanish soldiers. And then dragging one foot after the other across mountain passes almost blocked by snowdrifts, the wind so cold that every indrawn breath was like a knife in the chest and against which no clothes could protect them.
The shouts this time were unmistakable: they were Spanish and he almost sighed with relief. Fear was not knowing. Once you knew, you weren't frightened - or at least there was a limit to it. It was not knowing that made fear depthless.
'Dons, sir; I can hear 'em clearly,' said Southwick.
'I know.'
'The prize, sir?'
'Keep her in tow: there's no point in letting her drift, and Appleby hasn't time to scuttle her.'
'Shall we give each of 'em "one for the flag", sir?'
'No,' Ramage said sharply. 'Leave that sort of thing to the French.'
Pour l'honneur de pavillion: the French ritual of firing a single broadside and then hurriedly hauling down their colours, so they couldn't be accused of surrendering without firing a shot. Who cared? If the odds were that great no one blamed you anyway; if they weren't one broadside was not enough. Why for the sake of vulgar pride risk a return broadside which would kill your men unnecessarily?
When would he see Gianna again? Years rotting in some Spanish prison, and she in England, fêted by all the dandies of London Society. After a few gala balls at St. James's, at the Duchess of This's and Lady That's, she'd forget (gladly, probably) the brief days in the smelly and uncomfortable little wooden box that was the Kathleen. Yet oddly enough he didn't feel bitter: indignant because it was his own bad luck, but not bitter. Perhaps a sign of old age, he thought wryly; perhaps even maturity. Attempt the impossible but accept the inevitable - if you can't work miracles. Thank God she wasn't with him now: in his imagination he saw them being parted outside some reeking Spanish prison, watched by the bloods
hot eyes of Spanish guards and of lethargic disease-ridden dogs slowly dying in the sun. Surrender. He felt sick. It seemed that for the last few days everything he'd done had been without a thought of the consequences. Without any damned thought at all.
Just before the boat pulled away from the Spanish frigate lying hove-to to windward, Jackson came up to Ramage and said excitedly: 'Sir - change into seamen's clothes quickly!'
Ramage looked so startled that Jackson added: 'I've a plan, sir: no time to explain now, but you must pretend to be a seaman. I've explained to Mr. Southwick and he'll say the captain died some days ago and he's been left in command. Please go and change sir—' he held out some clothes '—I'll tell the men you are just a seaman.'
The boat, full of Spanish seamen, and some soldiers too, was ready to cast off. Ramage hesitated, unable to guess what Jackson was planning.
'Oh, sir,' Jackson exclaimed impatiently, 'you've got to say you're an American pressed into the Navy, if anyone asks. They won't for a few hours. Think of a name for yourself so's I can tell the crew and add it to the muster book. And I've got to enter your death, too.'
When Ramage did not move Jackson realized he would have to explain. 'I've got a blank Protection, sir. I'll fill it in so you can prove you're an American. But what name? Think, sir - what about that artist chap that draws the cartoons? You know - the one who always has sailors in his pictures, and the women always have a bosom hanging out of their dresses.'
'Gilray,' Ramage said automatically, still looking for any hidden snags in Jackson's scheme.
'That's him. "Nichlas Gilray" - how about that, sir?'
'Not "sir", Jackson, "Nicholas Gilray, able seaman",' Ramage said, finally grasping the full significance of Jackson's scheme and realizing it might remove the threat of a Spanish prison.
'Well, hurry up, Gilray,' Jackson said with a grin.
Ramage grabbed the proffered clothes and ran to his cabin, calling to the quartermaster to throw the lead-lined box of papers over the side. He slipped off his clothes, guineas cascading from his breeches, and pulled on the trousers and shirt Jackson had given him. Then, taking Gianna's silk scarf with the ring knotted into one corner, he tied in the sovereigns and secured the scarf round his waist, beneath the shirt. He decided to risk keeping his boots, which were partly hidden by his trousers, but pushed his uniform into a locker. Then wrenching open the door of the lantern, he smeared some of the soot on to his face. He put the pistols in their box, opened the little hatch leading to the bread-room, and pushed the box down on top of the bags, securing the hatch again.
A thud warned him the Spanish boat was alongside and he ran up the companionway and walked to the nearest gun. The men glanced at him and grinned.
He looked at the nearest of them. 'How do I look?'
'Fine, sir - er, fine, Nick!'
'Yes, belay the "sir".'
Ramage watched Southwick at the gangway receiving the Spanish officer, who spoke English and nodded sympathetically as Southwick explained how the captain had died after a painful but mercifully brief illness. The Master seemed so sorrowful that Ramage had an uneasy feeling that he was already dead. And for the purpose of Jackson's plan Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage was.
Jackson joined him at the carronade and whispered: 'You're down in the muster book, sir: last name on the list: transferred at Bastia from the Diadem. You come from New Milford, Connecticut. Aged twenty-five and rated able seaman. And you'd better have this.'
Ramage took the proffered piece of paper, unfolded it, and in the half light saw it was a printed form with the American eagle at the top: a Protection carried by most American seamen (and many British, too, since false ones could be bought without much difficulty). He could just make out the handwritten name of the person to whom the Protection allegedly had been issued, 'Nicholas Gilray', and said to Jackson:
'You haven't left the pen wet with ink, have you?'
'No - 1 used Mr. Southwick's, and wiped it dry.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Herded below in the Spanish frigate, the Kathleens stood in a group surrounded by Spanish seamen and soldiers armed with muskets. A small cannon had been hauled over and trained down the hatch at them, and standing at the breech were two Spanish seamen, each holding a slowmatch in case the flint-lock misfired.
'They aren't taking any chances,' muttered Jackson.
'I don't blame them: we didn't—' said Ramage but left the sentence unfinished as two Spanish guards threatened him with their muskets.
It was hot and the ship stank: bilgewater, sweat, garlic, stale olive oil, rotting vegetables and ordure from the animals kept forward all added their quota to the stench. Finally, they heard sounds of the yards being braced round as the ship got under way, and the Spanish guards signalled they could sit down.
A few minutes later they had to stand again as a Spanish officer came down the ladder holding the Kathleen's muster book in his hand. Ramage wondered for a moment if Southwick had told a convincing story, then felt angry with himself: he'd put an unfair burden on the old Master's shoulders. If the Spaniards found out, Southwick would suffer as well, and Ramage felt ashamed at having embarked on the deception by merely following what Jackson had told him to do. Yet Southwick seemed to have accepted everything with his usual cheerfulness; indeed, Ramage sensed he and Jackson must have discussed it earlier.
The Spanish seamen stood to attention as best they could, shoulders and necks bent because there was little more than five feet headroom. At the foot of the companionway the Spanish officer held up the muster book to catch the light and read out the name of one of the seamen. The man looked startled.
'Over there,' said the officer, pointing to one side. He then read out more names, each time motioning the particular man to leave the group. Suddenly Ramage realized he was sorting out the foreigners - a Genoese, two Americans (at least, they were so listed in the muster book but Ramage knew both were English), a Portuguese, a West Indian and a Dane. Then he called for Jackson and Ramage, and as soon as they had joined the others, beckoned them to follow him up the companionway.
On deck the sun was rising and, glancing round, Ramage was startled to see they were in the midst of a large fleet -six great three-deckers, more than a couple of dozen two-deckers, one of which had the dismasted frigate in tow, and five or six frigates, one of them towing the Kathleen, which was flying Spanish colours. Seeing her a prize, picturing a Spanish officer in his cabin - Gianna's cabin - left Ramage feeling almost faint with dismay and anger.
As they lined up along the gangway under the direction of the Spanish officer, he realized he was the only one who had shaved within the last twenty-four hours and promptly rubbed his face to spread the dirt and perspiration more generously.
As the officer walked towards the captain's cabin Jackson whispered: 'Guessed as much: now we just swear we were pressed from neutral ships and forced to serve.'
"What good will that do?' said Ramage. 'They'll just press us into their service.'
'May not. If they do, it'll be easier to escape from a Spanish ship in port than from a Spanish prison. But we start off claiming our freedom as neutral subjects.'
'Yus,' said one of the others, Will Stafford, whose Cockney accent belied the entry 'America' in the 'Where born' column in the muster book. The entry had probably been made in deference to the fact he had purchased a Protection.
'Yus,' Stafford said almost to himself, 'we must 'ave our rights: we 'adn't oughta bin pressed in the fust plice. Free men we are.' He sucked his teeth, as if appreciating his own declaration of independence, and added 'and that goes fer Nick 'ere, too.'
The rest of the men giggled self-consciously, but Jackson hissed at them, 'For God's sake don't forget it, lads; he is Nick to us now!'
The Spanish officer came back with the captain, a tall, slim young man with black, carefully combed curly hair. Ramage guessed that while his friends called his features aquiline, his enemies said he had a hatchet face.
The man stop
ped a few paces away, looked them up and down as though they were cattle in a market, and said in perfect English, 'So - men who are traitors to five different countries!'
Jackson quickly asked: 'How so, sir?'
'None of you is English?'
'No, sir.'
'Then by fighting for the English, you betray your own country.'
'We had no choice, sir!' Jackson said so indignantly Ramage knew he'd be believed.
'Why?'
'We was just kidnapped out of our own ships by the English. We had to serve - they'd have hanged us if we didn't.'
'Is that true?' he asked Ramage.
'Aye, sir. These English just come on board, take off the men they want - the best, usually - and that's that.'
'You are American?'
'Aye, sir.'
'But you have a Protection, no?'
'Yes, and I showed it to the officers, but they don't take any notice.'
'But you can insist.'
'S'no good, sir: we all did at one time or another. The only way you can get released is to get on shore somehow and find an American Consul who'll lodge a complaint. Then they have to free you.'
'Why did you not do that?'
Ramage gave what he hoped sounded like a respectfully cynical laugh. 'Never given a chance of going on shore in port, sir. I've been allowed on dry land only twice in two years an' that was for wooding and watering.'
'Wooding and watering?'
'Aye, sir: cutting wood for the cook's boilers, and filling water casks. Always in lonely places.'
'Of course, I understand. Well now, I am sure all of you wish to enter the service of His Most Catholic Majesty?'
'Who?' asked Jackson, with such surprise in his voice it obviously was not feigned.
'My Master, the King of Spain.'
'Well, thank you very much, sir,' Jackson said, 'but we'd all much rather be allowed to go home.'
'Very well,' the Spaniard snapped, annoyed at having lost the chance of getting eight prime seamen. 'You'll be transferred to the flagship. You may eventually wish you'd decided to serve with me.'