by Dudley Pope
'Beggin' your pardon, sir, but 'ow can we stop the ship?' a Marine asked.
'There's only one way: drop something over the side so that it acts as an anchor. And to make absolutely certain the French don't have time to fire we want to turn hard a' port at the same time. In soldiers' language,' he said to the Marine, "We "left wheel" while Johnny Frenchman marches on ahead.'
'What do we drop over the side, sir?' the same Marine asked gloomily, as though he'd heard it all before and knew it would not work. He sucked his teeth, as if they were all he had left to relish.
'We stop the ship like this,' said Ramage, restraining a sudden urge to shake the man and wishing he hadn't given permission for them to ask questions. He spoke slowly and clearly: he wanted no mistakes. 'The foremast is almost gone: nearly all the shrouds and backstays on the starboard side are cut. A dozen men with axes can cut the rest in a few moments and the mast will go by the board - over the larboard side. That's our anchor. More than five tons of mast, yards and sails dumped in the water but still held by the larboard shrouds will suddenly drag the ship's head to larboard - which is the way we want it to go.
'And we help her by setting the mizentopsail and spanker the moment the foremast goes by the board. That'll give the stern a shove just as the wreckage of the foremast is pulling the bow round.'
'Aye, sir, but what about the Frenchman?'
It was another seaman and he genuinely wanted to know: he was not a professional Doubting Thomas like the tooth-sucker.
'If she's running almost alongside us and we suddenly turn away in not much more than our own length, she'll have only a few seconds to fire. If she does fire,' he remembered to add as a warning to the men there must be no delay, 'then she'll rake us. None of you'll see Portsmouth Point again if we get even half a broadside coming in through the transom, so say your prayers and don't make any mistakes.'
Only a few minutes to go. What else? Oh yes—
'Now the boats: Bosun, you'll command the red cutter; Carpenter's Mate, the black cutter. You, the captain of the.- maintop - Wilson, isn't it - you'll have the gig. I'll take the launch.
'Now - final orders. You there' - he gestured to a dozen men nearest the taffrail - 'you are axemen. Get axes from the Bosun, then go forward and stand by the all remaining fore shrouds and back stays on the starboard side. Sort yourselves out and wait for the Bosun to give the order to start cutting: that'll be the minute he hears me shouting in French.'
Ramage remembered to look across at the Barras. Still closing the gap. The sands of time...
'Right, carry on, then.'
He gestured to Wilson: 'Collect some topmen and stand by to set the mizentopsail and spanker. Do nothing until I give the word: then haul as if you were heaving for Heaven. Then get the boats round to the ports at the half-deck, starboard side.'
The Barras was less than three hundred yards away now: hard to judge in this light. Perhaps five minutes to go. Providing, he thought with a sick feeling of apprehension, the Frenchman does what he's supposed to...
'Bosun, Carpenter's Mate, Wilson—'
He jumped down from the bulwark as the three men gathered round. 'As soon as we've turned and the way's off the ; ship, go below and get the men into the boats. Cast off as soon as you've enough on board. Try to keep in touch - we'll pass a line from boat to boat as soon as we can. Otherwise we'll rendezvous five hundred strokes due north: that's roughly five minutes' rowing towards the Pole Star. Any questions?'
There was none. The Bosun was calm enough: now someonewas giving him orders he was reacting smartly and; efficiently. The Carpenter's Mate was a phlegmatic soul and Wilson was a devil-may-care sort of man.
'Carry on, then.'
The Bosun hesitated a moment as the other two turned away and from his stance seemed embarrassed.
'I wish your Pa was 'ere, sir.'
'Don't you trust me, then?'
'No, no!' the Bosun said hastily. 'I mean - well, I was with 'im that last time, sir. It was all wrong what they did. But 'e'd be proud, sir!'
With that he disappeared forward. Strange, thought Ramage, that he's never previously mentioned sailing with Father. Hardly encouraging to remind the son of 'what they did' at this particular moment - although it is, in a way; as if the Bosun intended to reaffirm his loyalty.
Two more things remained and yet another glance at the Barras warned him he had very little time. He looked round to make sure Jackson was near by, and the American said wryly, 'You'd just about reach her with that knife of yours, sir!'
Ramage laughed: his prowess at knife throwing - he had learnt the art as a child in Italy from his father's Sicilian coachman - was well known.
He walked across to where the wounded were lying, careful not to trip over the dead men sprawled in grotesque attitudes.
'You men - I'll be seeing you soon at Greenwich!'
One or two of them raised a wry cheer as he mentioned the home for disabled seamen.
'We have to leave you, but we're not abandoning you!' (Would they understand the difference? He doubted it.)
'With half a dozen guns left we can't fight and they' - he pointed towards the Barras - 'can board us whenever they like. They've a surgeon and medical supplies while we haven't. Your best chance is to be taken prisoner. One of you will be given the ensign halyard: let it go as soon as we leave the ship, so that the French just walk on board: that will make sure none of you gets more wounds. We who haven't been wounded - well, I suppose we're running away - but to fight another day. People will always talk of the Sibella's last fight. So -well... thank you... and good hick.'
It sounded lame enough and he was embarrassed because emotion tightened his throat so he had to force out the last platitudes. Yet it brought a cheer from the men.
'Bosun - all ready forward?'
'Aye aye, sir.'
'By the way,' he told Jackson, 'if the French open fire and anything happens to me, tell the Bosun at once, and destroy the letter you saw me put in my pocket: that's absolutely vital. Now give the ensign halyard to one of the wounded and make sure he understands what he is to do.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Curious how reassuring that American was, Ramage thought.
Chapter 2
Ramage climbed up to the hammocks on the bulwark. God, the Barras was close now - a hundred yards perhaps, and just about abeam. He could see her bow wave, a littlesmother of white at the stern. He put the mouthpiece of the speaking trumpet to his ear and pointed the open end towards the Barras, but could hear nothing.
For the moment it seemed the French captain intended to bring his ship alongside without undue haste. Anyway, that wasthe seamanlike thing to do - no point in crashing alongside andrisk the yards of the two ships locking together.
Unless - Ramage shivered momentarily, shocked by an awful fear: unless I'm completely wrong. I must be wrong, because the Frenchman must know just how badly damaged the Sibella is: she's low in the water and rolling sluggishly: he knows she'll never be towed back to Toulon. And he's slowly closing to administer the coup de grace: it'll come any moment now: a sheet of flame rippling along the Barras's rows of gun ports like summer lightning on the horizon, and I and the rest of the Sibellas will be dead.
I've been so clever, convincing myself the Frenchman's vanity will make him want to tow the Sibella home as a prize; but I persuaded myself because I want to live: I didn't consider any other possibilities. Now - well, I've as good as murdered the wounded on the quarter-deck: men who gave me a cheer a few moments ago.
While these thoughts milled round his head he was listening intently; but he took the speaking trumpet from his ear. What's the use, he thought bitterly: I'll never hear the French captain's order to open fire at this distance; and what difference does it make, anyway?
Suddenly anger with himself drove away his fears: there was still a way out. It involved a gamble, certainly: he had to gamble that Barras would come within hailing distance before firing her final broadside. At the mom
ent she was too far away from him to be certain they would hear if he shouted.
Ramage found himself thinking about the XVth Article of War, which laid down with harsh brevity that 'Every person in or belonging to the Fleet—' (God what a time to be reciting this) who yielded his ship 'cowardly or treacherously to the enemy... being convicted... shall suffer death.'
Well, if he was a coward or traitor, at least he would have to be alive for them to sentence him to death, and the way he'd been muddling along so far that possibility was fast becoming remote.
How far was she now? It was damned difficult to judge in the near darkness. Seventy yards? He put the speaking trumpet to his ear. Yes, he could hear French voices calling to each other now: just the normal order and acknowledgement. They must be pretty sure of themselves (and why not?) otherwise there'd be a lot of chattering. Would they open fire too soon? If only something would happen in the Barras to create a little confusion and uncertainty: that would gain him the time. Ramage put the speaking trumpet to his lips: he'd confuse them, he thought grimly.
He stopped himself from shouting just in time, and called forward: 'Bosun! Belay what I said about cutting when you hear me speaking French: don't start until I give the order.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
He put the speaking trumpet to his lips again and bellowed across the water at the French ship:
'Bon soir, messieurs!'
With the mouthpiece to his ear he heard, after what seemed an age, a puzzled 'Comment?' being shouted back from the Barras's quarter-deck. He could imagine their astonishment at being wished good evening. Well, keep the initiative.
'Ho detto "Buona serd'.'
He almost laughed at the thought of the expressions on the Frenchmen's faces as they heard themselves being told in Italian that they had just been wished 'Good evening'. There was an appreciable pause before the voice repeated:
'Comment?'
By now the Barras was not more than fifty yards away: the bow wave was sharply defined and he could pick out the delicate tracery of her rigging against the night sky, whereas a few moments ago it had been an indistinct blur.
This is the moment: once again he lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips. Now, he thought, let us commend ourselves unto the XVth Article of War and still take as long as we can about it, and he yelled in English:
'Mister Frenchman — the ship is sinking.'
The same voice answered: 'Vot say you?'
'I said, "The ship is sinking."'
He sensed Jackson anxiously shifting from one foot to another. There was a strange hush in the Sibella and he realized the wounded were not making a sound. The Sibella was a phantom ship, sailing along with no one at the helm, and manned by tense and silent men.
Then through the speaking trumpet he heard someone say in French, 'It's a trick.' It was the voice of a man who held authority and who'd reached a difficult decision. He guessed the next thing he'd hear would be that voice giving the order to open fire.
'You surrender?' came back the question, in English this time.
Hurriedly Ramage turned his head towards the Bosun and called softly:
'Bosun - start chopping.'
He had to avoid a direct reply: if he surrendered the ship and then escaped the Admiralty would be just as angry as the French at a breach of the accepted code.
Putting the speaking trumpet back to his lips he shouted:
'Surrender? Who? Our wheel is destroyed - we cannot steer - we have many wounded...'
He heard the thud of the axes and hoped the noise would not travel across to the Barras: he must drown it with his own voice, or at least distract the Frenchmen's attention.
'—We cannot steer and we have most of our men killed or wounded - we are sinking fast - we've lost our captain—'
Damn, he couldn't think of anything else to say. Jackson suddenly whispered, 'Livestock's killed, guns dismounted, burgoo's spoiled...'
'Yes, Mister,' Ramage yelled, 'all our pigs and the cow have been killed - all the guns are dismounted—'
'Comment?'
'Pigs - you've killed our pigs!'
'Je ne comprend pas! You surrender?'
'You've killed our pigs—'
The devil take it, would that foremast never go by the board?
'—The cow has been dismounted - the guns don't give any more milk - the pig's making water at the rate of a foot every fifteen minutes!'
He heard Jackson chuckling and at that moment there was a crackling from forward and a whiplash noise as several ropes parted under strain. Then there was a fearful groan, like a giant in pain, and against the night sky he could see the foremast beginning to topple. It went slowly at first; then crashed over the side, taking the yards with it.
'Wilson! the topsail and spanker!'
He saw the spanker being sheeted home to the boom end as the topsail was let fall from the yard. A few moments later, when he looked back at the Barras, she had vanished: He realized the Sibella was swinging round to larboard faster than he expected, and he glanced aft. The Barras had been caught unawares - she was still sailing on her original course and had gone too far for her guns to be able to rake the Sibella's completely unprotected stern.
He felt shaky with relief and his clothes were soaked with perspiration. He scrambled down from the bulwark, and as he jumped to the deck his knees gave way slightly and Jackson caught him. 'Pity about that cow, sir,' he said dryly, 'I just fancy a mug o' milk.'
Chapter 3
FOR MORE THAN half an hour Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage's little world had been limited to the boat, the sea and the great blue-back dome of the night sky, which was cloudless and glittering with so many stars and planets it seemed to hold every spark that had ever fallen from a black-smith's anvil.
The launch was heavy, but the men sitting on the thwarts facing him were rowing with a will: as they leaned back in unison, pulling with all their strength, the oars creaked against the wooden sides of the rowlocks. Who was it who said in ancient times, 'Give me a fulcrum and I'll move the Earth' ?
At the end of each stroke the men involuntarily gasped for breath, at the same time pushing downward on the looms of the oars to bring the blades clear of the water. Then, leaning forward like rows of seated tenants bowing to the landlord, they thrust the looms in front of them, and at the end of the movement dipped the blades into the water to haul back and begin the new stroke.
Lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward; lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward ... Ramage, his arm resting along the top of the tiller as he steered, could feel the boat spurting forward under the thrust of each stroke. Occasionally he glanced astern, where the Bosun's cutter and the other two boats followed, each linked by a line to the next ahead.
'Sir!' exclaimed Jackson, gesturing astern: there was a small red glow in the distance but, even while Ramage watched, tongues of flame spurted up, as if a blacksmith's bellows suddenly fanned new life into a forge fire.
Half an hour: the French would have taken off the wounded. God knows they must have suffered as they were carried across to the Barras. Still, the sea was calm enough for the two ships to lie alongside each other, which would save them being ferried in boats. Ramage could picture the French officers leading the boarding party having the well sounded and reporting back the depth of water in the ship and the damage.
Now, with the magazine flooded, they've set fire to the ship... He turned away and saw some of the men wiping their eyes. It was ridiculous how a ship's company became fond of a few hundred tons of wood, rope and canvas which had for months been their home, and for the last hour and all eternity a tomb for many of them.
The men were rowing unevenly as they watched the Sibella burn. A sudden tug on the line to the cutter, followed by a string of curses from the Bosun, told him that he might as well let the men watch the Sibella's funeral pyre and have a rest at the same time, and he shouted the order into the darkness.
At last he could read the orders to the Sibella's late captain: he h
ad been burning with curiosity from the time the oarsmen had settled into a steady rhythm and given him time to think.
'The lantern, Jackson, and keep it shielded with the canvas, I want to read something.'
Pulling the linen envelope from his pocket, Ramage took out the sheet of paper and smoothed it. The letter had been written on board the Victory on September 1, a week earlier, and was an order from Admiral Sir John Jervis, K.B., telling the Sibella's late captain, in neat and flowing script, 'Whereas I have received information that following the French occupation of Leghorn and other towns inland, several leading members of influential families in Tuscany sympathetic to our cause have succeeded in escaping and made their way southward to the coast off Capalbio, from whence they have requested assistance, you are, therefore, hereby required and directed to proceed with all possible despatch in His Majesty's ship Sibella under your command, off Capalbio, taking care that your intentions should not become known to anyone on shore.'
So that was what brought them down here ... Ramage turned over the page and continued reading.
'You will then under the cover of night send a party on shore to the fortified tower situated between Lake Burano and the shore and commonly known as "Torre Buranaccio", and take off the party of refugees, believed to be six in number, and who are named in the margin.
'From the information I have received, the Tower is not in use by the Neapolitan troops, nor occupied by the French (who are known to have passed through the area); and the refugees have arranged that a charcoal burner, whose name they have omitted to communicate to me but whose hut is one half a mile southward along the beach from the tower and five hundred yards inland, shall be kept informed of their whereabouts.
'Since negotiations will have to be carried on in the native language, the landing party should be under the command of Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage in virtue of his knowledge of the Italian language.
'Great importance is attached to the safety and well-being of these refugees in view of the influence they can command on the Italian mainland; and as soon as they and any others with them are safely embarked in His Majesty's frigate under your command, you are to make the best of your way to Rendezvous Number Seven, where you will find one of His Majesty's ships whose commanding officer will give you further orders for your subsequent proceedings.'