by Dudley Pope
'My chart says "No bottom at 100 fathoms" to within a hundred yards or so, sir, and the water's crystal clear. I reckon once the sun's up you'll see the bottom at ten fathoms or more. Coral reefs just off the beaches and sometimes up to five hundred yards off.'
Ramage looked astern, and La Creole was still as close as if she were on a short tow. 'Mr Wagstaffe, well wear ship in a few minutes and make our way back to Amsterdam. Make a signal to La Creole- 1 don't want his bowsprit poking through our stern lights while I'm eating my breakfast.'
The foremast lookout gave an excited hail: 'Deck there!' Southwick, Wagstaffe and Ramage all stared at each other, then looked upwards. Wagstaffe ran to the binnacle drawer for the speaking trumpet, but Southwick cupped his hands and roared: 'Foremast lookout - deck here! What do you see?'
'Sail on the larboard bow, an' I think she's steering towards us. Reckon she's a ship o' war; could be a frigate, sir!'
'Wear ship at once and make a signal to La Creole,' Ramage snapped. 'Send Jackson aloft with a telescope. Muster a party on the fo'c'sle and make sure they have heaving lines handy.'
He waited until Wagstaffe and Southwick had given those orders and watched as the Calypso swung round, away from the distant ship and heading towards Amsterdam. Men hauled on sheets and braces, trimming the yards and sails so that the frigate was now sailing eastwards, parallel with the coast, the sun giving a hint that it was about to rise on the larboard bow.
'What the devil's happened to Jackson?' he snapped. He did not expect an answer and turned to watch La Creole. She was still in the Calypso's wake and Lacey was handling the schooner well, but the next ten minutes would finally show whether he was a natural leader or just another lucky young man commanding by virtue of a piece of parchment signed by a commander-in-chief.
And then Jackson was hailing from the masthead: 'She's three - masted, sir, everything set to the royals. Hull below the horizon, but she's a frigate and from the cut of her sails looks French to me.'
Southwick caught Ramage's eye and winked cheerfully. That's her, sir; Jackson's never mistaken.'
Ramage nodded. 'Make the special signal to La Creole,' be told Wagstaffe, 'and as soon as she hauls dear of our wake, back the foretopsail and heave - to on the larboard tack.'
'Beat to quarters, sir?' Southwick asked.
'No, not yet; we've plenty of time and a lot to do.'
He glanced round and saw Gianna's nephew scurrying up the quarterdeck ladder. He was off watch, but obviously had heard the hailing.
'Orsini!' Ramage barked, holding out a small key. Top right - hand drawer of my desk - fetch me the French signal book. And lock the drawer again.' Then, just as the boy turned away, Ramage remembered, 'It's in the weighted canvas bag, along with the other papers. Make sure you secure the neck of the bag again before you lock the drawer.'
That small canvas bag, containing the secret daily challenge and reply for the next three months, along with the extra copy of the British signal book and his orders, and weighted with a six - pound bar of lead, was the most valuable object in the Calypso: if she was about to be captured by the enemy, that bag had to be thrown in the sea. If it fell into enemy hands and Ramage survived, he would be court - martialled as soon as the Admiralty could get their hands on him, and ruined. No excuses were ever accepted for that, and every captain knew it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Captains, Paolo thought to himself as he scurried down the companionway; they always treat everyone else as a fool. All Uncle Nicholas need have said was: 'Get the French signal book from the top drawer - - .' If it was not on lop, he'd have guessed it was in the canvas bag, and he'd have unlaced it, taken the book out, and laced the bag again. All without having to be told.
Nod to the Marine sentry and a quick explanation: 'On the captain's business.' The sudden darkness of the cabin, the key in the lock, and there's the bag. The canvas coarse, the brass eyelets for the roping going green with corrosion caused by the salty sea air. And that's it, the signal book - funny how he thought in English now, and saw the French language on the cover quite differently than when he lived in Italy and French was always the second language.
A wonderfully precise language, English: you could be so exact But, he thought ruefully, remembering Mr Southwick's stern questioning during navigation and mathematics lessons, that was one of the language's drawbacks: Italian and French allowed you to give a more evasive, even imaginative, answer, there was more scope for disguising the fact you didn't know something; for dissembling. But Mr Southwick taught mathematics and navigation in English; good down - to - earth and unambiguous English.
Lock the drawer again, don't lose the key. What is Uncle Nicholas planning? All that amount of anchor cable ranged on the foredeck. 'Ranged' - a good word, that. Surely he's not intending to anchor close inshore? It is the lightest of all the cables, and there's no anchor bent on. Nor, for that matter, would the cable be ranged on the fo'c'sle if he was going to anchor.
If only he'd been on deck sooner he would probably have been sent to the masthead with Jackson. Paolo loved it aloft, the ship small and narrow - beamed below him, the men tiny, like lizards scurrying on a marble floor. Ah well, he was too late to go with Jacko, so belay the grumbling.
An odd man, Jackson. The men said that he and Uncle Nicholas had saved Aunt Gianna's life; had literally snatched her from under the hooves of the French cavalry. And, only a few weeks ago, Jackson had saved his own life. Aunt and nephew. But the American had said nothing about it at the time, nor had Uncle Nicholas: Rossi had finally told him, and then only to say that Uncle Nicholas had been angry with him for joining the boarding party when they cut the Jocasta out of Santa Cruz.
Such a glare on deck, and with a French frigate coming over the horizon they won't be stretching the awning, so the sun will be scorching, and where is Uncle Nicholas?
Paolo saw him standing at the taffrail watching La Creole working her way round to windward of the Calypso, which seemed curiously dead in the water. Dead in the water! Accidents, the foretopsail is backed and she's hove-to! What are they doing?
The French signal book, sir.'
Thank you, Orsini. Stand by me in case there are more errands.'
This was how Aunt Gianna said it would be. An hour at sea with Uncle Nicholas comprised forty minutes of waiting, nineteen minutes of wondering, and one minute of sheer excitement Well, now he was fourteen years old he could make allowances for the way a woman saw things, but he could understand what she meant Uncle Nicholas (the captain, he corrected himself, because be wasn't really an uncle, yet anyway, and good discipline meant that the relationship wait never referred to) was rather like a cat. He sat patiently for hours outside the mouse hole, but once the mouse came out it was all over in a moment The trouble was, of course, that the prey was rarely a mouse; usually it was something like a leopard, not that he'd ever seen a leopard, except in those paintings on the walls of Etruscan tombs. All spotted. And, accidente, what breasts those Etruscan women had, too, and lately he seemed to be thinking more and more about women's breasts. Men did, he knew.
Anyway, Aunt Gianna had said the captain would show him no favour; that this was the English system, and he'd probably be harder on Paolo than on anyone else, but it was all part of the training. Well, if that was the case then Midshipman Orsini would be the best trained in the Navy and would pass for lieutenant the first time he took the examination, and the examiners at the Navy Board would be amazed . . . except, if Mr Southwick was to be believed, for his mathematics and navigation. This spherical trigonometry - Mama mia! Galileo, Archimedes, Pythagoras, Copernicus, Leonardo - they were all Italians (or were some of them Greek > Leonardo was Italian, anyway, because he had visited the village of Vinci, where he had been born), and if they could do it, well, Paolo Orsini should be able to. But could Leonardo?
'Orsini!'
'Sir!'
'That signal from La Creole!' "Yes, sir, I . . . er . . .' Where the devil was the ordinary signal book? A
nd the telescope? Accidente, that stronzo Leonardo, and Vinci was not in Tuscany anyway; it was though, just north of Empoli, but it wasn't in the Kingdom of Volterra, so he didn't really count 'It's all right, Orsini; it's a special signal. But you'd gone to sleep.'
'No, sir, I - '
He saw Aunt Gianna's face and heard her words: 'And, Paolo, you'll be blamed for things you didn't do and it'll seem unjust, but never make excuses.'
She really did understand the Navy - of course, she had made two or three passages in the King's ships. Or, he suddenly realized, perhaps she understood Uncle Nicholas - the captain, rather. She knew his moods, because he could be very moody, and his sense of humour, which was dry. Very dry, at times; like this island. Did she know how thoughtful he was, though? How he was always concerned for his men, doing something for them, and no one - except perhaps Mr Southwick or Mr Aitken, or perhaps Jackson - ever knew? Several times in places like English Harbour and Port Royal, bumboats had come alongside and put many sacks of fresh fruit and vegetables on board for the men, and most people thought it was Navy Board issue, but Jackson had told him the captain paid for it out of his own pocket, and it was to prevent the men getting scurvy.
What is going on? The Calypso hove - to and now a dozen or more seamen on the foredeck under Mr Aitken and Mr Southwick. Two men passing a line outside of everything to the jibboom end. And a seaman balancing out there - is that a heaving line he's holding, half the coil in each hand? Yes, and one end of the heaving line is being made fast to the line leading back to the foredeck. If only he could ask the captain, but Uncle Nicholas looked preoccupato: he was rubbing the upper of those two scars over his right eyebrow, and Paolo remembered one of the first lessons he had ever learned from Jacko, or perhaps it was Rossi: when you see the captain rubbing that scar, keep clear Accidente! Just look at La Creole now! They've eased the sheets and are just - what is the word, just 'jilling' - across our bowl They'll collide, rip out our jibboom, spring the bowsprit, tear away the forestay and bring the foremast down - why doesn't someone do - but the captain is just standing there watching. Rubbing the scar, but not bellowing orders. In fact, Paolo realized, no one was speaking a word: whatever was happening was planned.
With La Creole sailing slowly at an angle across the Calypso's bow, the man holding the heaving line on the jib - boom end was balancing himself as the whole bow gently rose and fell on the swell waves. Now he's twirling the coil in his right hand and the men who had passed the heavier line from the foredeck to the jibboom end are holding it out clear, as though to prevent it snagging on anything. But why should it snag?
That schooner! There's Mr Lacey standing beside the men at the wheel. He's just standing there like a statue. One of the men heaves down a spoke or two. The hiss of the schooner's bow wave - he could see every plank in the hull, every seam where the heat of the sun had shrunk the wood. He wanted to shut his eyes as the schooner hit the jibboom but was even too frightened for that Suddenly the man on the jibboom jerks as though shot - now the thin snake of the heaving line is darting towards the schooner's mainchains. Men seize it as the schooner crosses ahead and the men along the Calypso's jibboom jump back after letting go of the line, as though it was suddenly hot. The line is racing over the bow - it's secured to the cable and now that too is going over the side after the line, and they're hauling in like madmen in La Creole!
Now the - first words in the Calypso came from Mr Wagstaffe, clear across the open water - to brace up the foretopsail - yard, so that it draws. Now he leans over for a quick word to the quartermaster and the men at the wheel heave at the spokes. And Uncle Nicholas is just standing there, quite still except his eyes move - from La Creole to the Calypso's jib - boom, to the foretopsail, to the windvane on top of the bulwark nettings, to the foredeck and that heavy cable which is smoking where it chafes on the bulwark as it goes over the side. He hasn't said a word nor made a movement.
It had all happened, Paolo realized, exactly as the captain had intended. It had taken - well, perhaps three minutes. Three, Aunt Gianna, not one. But to what purpose? The cable was paying out slower than he expected - La Creole was deliberately spilling wind from her sails to move slowly; the Calypso, with her foretopsail now drawing, was gathering way and Mr Wagstaffe was getting her into La Creole's wake. Now he could see the heaving line and the heavier line had been taken on board La Creole and men were hauling vigorously to get the end of the Calypso's heavy cable on board.
Now Mr Wagstaffe was bellowing orders to furl the topsails. And courses. Furl, not clew up. But the topmen are making a poor job of passing the gaskets: the sails look like so much old laundry. And Uncle Nicholas is just watching and nodding to Mr Wagstaffe, obviously approving. And the courses - bundling up the canvas, that's what the men are doing, not furling. The jibs are being dropped and just left at the bottom of the stays, as though milady was stepping out of her clothes.
What are those men doing with the ensign? No, it isn't the ensign, there's too much white. A broad expanse of white cloth. And of blue. And red, too, wide strips of plain colours with no design. Ah, now they have the blue ensign of old Foxey - Foote, and they are bending it on below this other flag. Mr Wagstaffe is pointing upwards, and they're heaving down on the halyard, and hoisting the flags.
Accidente! The fools! They've hoisted a big French Tricolour above the British ensign! And Uncle Nicholas is looking at them as they go up, the cloth blowing out straight in the wind, and he is making some joke to Mr Wagstaffe.
A shout from Mr Aitken on the fo'c'sle and Mr Wagstaffe yells at the men at the wheel. They spin the spokes - ah, yes, the strain is about to come on the cable; all of it is off the fo'c'sle now; it leads direct from the Calypso's bow to La Creole's stern. And 'La Creole has hoisted a large French Tricolour. There's no British flag under it, though.
To anyone sailing past now, Paolo suddenly saw with almost bewildering clarity, it looked as if the French schooner La Creole was towing in a British prize ...
Ramage flicked over the pages of the French signal book. Poor quality paper, bad printing, and very few signals, perhaps a third of the number contained in the British book, so pity French admirals trying to make their wishes known to their captains. Still, there were enough for his purposes and the sailmaker and his mates had made up enough flags, even if some of the cloth was stiff because it had been coloured with thinned paint It would never work. The captain of the French frigate would never fall into the trap. Instead of saving his men's lives, Ramage knew now he'd end up with half of them killed and the other half taken prisoner. He looked at the French frigate, a mile away and beating up to them fast. It was not too late to call it ail off; to cut the cable, warn Lacey, let fall the Calypso's topsails and fight.
A few words to Aitken, who was now officer of the deck, would be enough: 'Belay all this nonsense, Mr Aitken; cut the cable, let fall the topsails and we'll fight 'em ship to ship!' That was all it needed, and the only thing that prevented him from saying it was his pride, which was working like a gag.
Yet a few days ago - yesterday, in fact - he had been sure it would work. He'd thought of the idea, spent a couple of hours trying to find faults in his plan, and had spent many hours since looking for loopholes. So why did he now think it would not work? The explanation was quite simple, of course: he was a coward, and before any action he always had these moments of quiet desperation, quiet panic, quiet fear. The quiet coward. Some men were secret gamblers, others secret drinkers. Some were wife - beaters, and others had nameless secret vices. And you, Your Lordship? Oh, I'm a secret coward . . .
Now it was too late to change his mind; the French frigate was slicing her way up to them, spray flying from her bow, port lids triced up, guns run out, Tricolour streaming out in the freshening breeze. Her sails were patched and the wetness of her hull could not hide the lack of paint. She was being sailed well but her captain was letting her sag off, so she'd have to tack to stay up to windward . . . Now she was furling her courses. Very sensible
and the standard move before going into action. She should dew up her topgallants, too - ah, yes, she was doing that now, and the men were going out on the yards to furl them.
The Calypso must be a puzzle to that French captain: sails bundled untidily on the yards, ports closed, a dozen or so men lounging on top of the hammock nettings, idly watching the approaching frigate just as they might look incuriously at passing bumboats in port. The large French Tricolour hoisted over the British ensign showed she had been captured. She was obviously French - built, so presumably had been a British prize. But there could be no doubt about the little schooner bravely towing her towards Amsterdam: French - built, Tricolour flying, her decks lined with men.
More important, Ramage had reckoned, the French captain of La Creole would have shifted to his new capture, the Calypso. Apart from having considerably more comfortable quarters, it would be the obvious place for him. Now it all depended on the captain of the approaching French frigate. Was he a flashing - eyed revolutionary or a rough sea - lawyer the Revolution had dragged up from the lowerdeck and put in command? Or a former royalist who had hurriedly turned his coat in exchange for keeping his neck intact and getting promotion? By now France was getting over the shortage of trained captains caused by the Revolution's habit, in the first few months, of executing anyone that looked like an aristocrat, a bout of republican enthusiasm which had killed off France's best captains and admirals and often put in their place men who made up in political glibness what they lacked in seamanship or leadership.
Whatever the type of man in command of that frigate, Ramage knew the whole success or failure of his operation depended on him seizing (and keeping) the initiative. The enemy ship was now close enough that telescopes could distinguish flags.
'Hoist the French challenge,' he told Aitken, and warned Orsini: 'Watch for the reply.'