by Dudley Pope
“It’s a worry, sir,” Aitken commented, and Ramage was irritated by the Scotsman’s tone: he spoke in the “Yes, well, the captain’s bound to think of something” voice. However, as Aitken now knew well, this time there was no way.
Admiral Clinton was lucky, Ramage thought sourly as he turned yet again at the taffrail: if the Count of Rennes and his fellow prisoners were not rescued, or were killed, the commander-in-chief would certainly incur the disfavour of the Prince of Wales, but that was all, because his orders (as far as they went) were quite correct. But Captain Ramage, whatever the verdict of a court martial, could be sure that at best he would spend the rest of his life on the beach, drawing half-pay. No one would say anything out loud, but at the Green Room in Portsmouth, at Brooks’s, White’s and such places, there had been too many of his Gazettes published by the Admiralty for there not to be jealousy of “that fellow Ramage.”
Nor would half-pay now be so boring and frustrating; in fact, with Sarah beside him it could be very lively. They would live at St Kew and running the estate would keep them busy. Yet he knew that while the war against France lasted and there were ships of the Royal Navy at sea, only half his heart would be in Cornwall. That, Sarah would know, might prove the most difficult thing to deal with.
He shook his head to dispel the thoughts: what on earth was he getting so depressed about, putting himself on half-pay when they had not even sighted L’Espoir?
Five minutes later, as Aitken wrote on the slate and Ramage continued pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck, there was a hail from aloft.
“Deck there—foretopmast lookout here!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MESS number eight was the rather grandiose official description of one of the well-scrubbed tables and two forms flanking it on the Calypso’s lower deck. It was on the larboard side abreast the forehatch, which ensured a bitterly cold draught in winter in northern latitudes, but as the Calypso under Captain Ramage’s command had spent most of her time in the Tropics or the Mediterranean, the members of the mess were content.
The outboard end of the narrow side of the table fitted into the ship’s side and the other was suspended from the deckhead by two ropes. Each of the forms on the long sides of the table seated four men, so that each mess in the ship comprised no more than eight men.
The mess had its own equipment. There was the bread barge, a wooden container in which the bread for the mess was kept. The bread was ship’s biscuit, made in the great naval bakeries, and at the moment it was fresh, a word used to describe a square of hard baked dough which was still hard, not soft and crumbling, the happy home of the black-headed and white-bodied weevils which felt cold to the tongue but had no taste.
The bread barge was in some ways a symbol of the mess. The number eight was carefully painted on the tub-shaped receptacle and beside it was the mess kid, a tiny barrel open at one end with what looked like two wooden ears through which was threaded a rope handle. Also marked with the mess number, it was used to carry hot food from the copper boilers in the galley to the table.
The carefully scrubbed net bag folded neatly on the bread barge and with a metal tally stamped “8” fixed to it was the “kettle mess,” the improbably named object in which all hot food was cooked, because boiling in the galley’s copper kettles was the only way it could be done. The Calypso’s cook, like those in each of the King’s ships, was the man responsible for the galley in general, the cleanliness of the copper kettles and the fire that heated the water in them, but that was the limit of his cooking.
Each mess had its own cook, a man who had the job for a week. Number eight mess’ cook this week was Alberto Rossi, a cheerful man who was nicknamed “Rosey” and usually corrected anyone who called him Italian by pointing out that he came from Genoa, which in Italian was spelled Genova, so that he was a Genovese. If number eight mess decided in its collective wisdom that it would use its ration of flour, suet and raisins (or currants) to make a duff, Rossi’s culinary skill would extend itself to mixing the ingredients with enough water to hold them together, put them in the kettle mess and make sure (with tally safely affixed) that it was delivered to the ship’s cook by 4 A.M. and collected at 11.30 A.M., in time for the noon meal.
For this week when he was the mess cook, Rossi was also responsible for washing the bowls, plates, knives, forks and spoons of the other members of the mess, and stowing them safely. And, because bread, even if not appetizing, eased hunger, he had to make sure the bread barge was full—any emptying being ascribed to the south wind. Stafford, noting it was barely half-full, might comment: “There’s a southerly wind in the bread barge.”
Nor were the points of the compass limited to the compass and the bread barge: tots of rum were also graded. Raw spirit was due north, while water was due west, so a mug of nor’wester was half rum and half water, while three quarters rum would become a nor’-nor’wester and a quarter of rum would be westnor’west and find itself nobody’s friend.
The seven men now sitting at mess number eight’s table piled up their plates and basins. Three used old pewter plates, but four, the latest to join the mess, used bowls and looked forward to the Calypso taking her next prize, Rossi having explained carefully that a French prize years ago had yielded the three pewter plates in defiance of the eighth Article of War, which forbade taking “money, plate or goods” from a captured ship before a court judged it a lawful prize. There was an exception which the three men interpreted in their own way—unless the object was “for the necessary use and service of any of His Majesty’s ships and vessels of war.” Admittedly such objects were supposed to be declared later in the “full and entire account of the whole,” but as Stafford said at the time with righteous certainty in his Cockney voice: “S’welp us, we clean forgot.”
“Feels nice to be warm again,” Stafford remarked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “England’s never very warm but the Medway’s enough ter perish yer. The wind blowin’ acrorst those saltings … why, even the beaks of the curlews curl up with the cold.”
“Curlew? Is the bird? Is true, this curling?” Rossi asked, wide-eyed.
Jackson, the captain’s coxswain, who owned a genuine American Protection issued to him several years earlier, shook his head. “It’s just another of Staff’s stories. All curlews have long curved beaks whether it’s a hot day or cold.”
“Anyway, I’m glad we’re back in the Tropics,” Stafford said cheerfully. “Don’t cross the Equator, do we?”
Jackson shook his head. “Not even if we go all the way to Cayenne. What’s its latitude, Gilbert?”
The Frenchman shook his head in turn. “I am ashamed,” he said, “but I do not know it.”
When another of the French asked a question in rapid French, Gilbert translated Jackson’s question, and the Frenchman, Auguste, said succinctly: “Cinq.”
“Auguste says five degrees North,” Gilbert said.
“Five, eh? When we’re in the West Indies, up and down the islands, we’re usually betwixt twelve and twenty,” Stafford announced, and turned to Jackson, “There, you didn’t know I knowed that, didja!”
“Knew,” Jackson corrected automatically, and Stafford sighed.
“Oh, all right. You didn’t knew I knowed that, then.”
“Mama mia,” Rossi groaned, “even I know that’s wrong. Say slowly, Staff: ‘You didn’t know I knew that.’ How are these Francesi going to learn to speak proper?”
“Don’t sound right to me,” Stafford maintained. “And I come from London. You’re an American, Jacko—Charlestown, ain’t it? And you’re from Genoa, Rosey. So I’m more likely to be right.”
Jackson ran his hand through his thinning sandy hair and turned to Gilbert. “You’d better warn Auguste, Albert and Louis that if they are going to speak decent English, they’d better not listen to this picklock!”
“Picklock? I do not know this word,” Gilbert said.
“Just as well, ‘cos I ain’t one,” Stafford said am
iably. “Locksmith, I was, set up in a nice way of business in Bridewell Lane. Wasn’t my business if the owners of the locks wasn’t always at ‘ome; the lock’s gotta be opened.”
Gilbert nodded and smiled. “I understand.”
“Yer know, the four of you are all right for Frenchies. Tell yer mates wot I said.”
Gilbert translated and considered himself lucky. Just over a year ago he was living in Kent, serving the Count while they were all refugees in England. Then, with the peace, the Count had decided to return to France (and Gilbert admitted he wished now he had taken it upon himself to mention to the Count the doubts he had felt from the first). Then everything had happened at once—the Count had been taken away to Brest under arrest, Lord and Lady Ramage had managed to escape, they had all recaptured the mutinous English brig and now the four of them were serving in the Royal Navy!
His Lordship had been very apologetic, although there was no need for it. Apparently he had intended (this was when he expected to sail the Murex back to England) to keep them on the ship’s books as “prisoners at large,” and recommend their release as refugees as soon as they reached Plymouth, so they would be free to do what they wanted.
Gilbert could see his Lordship’s motives, but he was forgetting that three of them—Auguste, Louis and Albert—did not speak a word of English and would never have been able to make a living. Serving in the Royal Navy, at least they would be paid and fed while they learned English, and life at sea, judging from their experience so far, was less hard than life in a wartime Brest, and no secret police watched …
Anyway, his Lordship had explained this odd business of “prize-money.” Apparently it was a sort of reward the King paid to men of the Royal Navy for capturing an enemy ship, and as the Murex had been taken by the French after the mutiny, she became an enemy ship, so recapturing her meant she was then a prize.
Apparently, though, after they had recaptured the Murex and sailed her out of Brest, it seemed that only his Lordship would get any prize-money because he was the only one of them actually serving in the Royal Navy. That seemed unfair because her Ladyship had behaved so bravely. Certainly neither he nor Auguste, Albert nor Louis had expected any reward, but his Lordship had thought otherwise and he had talked to the admiral, who had agreed to his proposal. The result was that if the four of them volunteered for the Royal Navy, their names would be entered in the muster book of the Calypso and (by a certain free interpretation of dates) they would get their share.
So here they were, members of mess number eight, and Auguste and Albert were put down on the Calypso’s muster book as ordinary seamen while he and Louis were still landmen, because they did not yet have the skill of the other two.
And this mess number eight: although no one said anything aloud, Gilbert had the impression that while Jackson, Rossi and Stafford were not the captain’s favourites—he was not the sort of man to play the game of favourites—they had all served together so long that they had a particular place. It seemed that each had saved the other’s life enough times for there to be special bonds, and Gilbert had been fascinated by things Jackson had explained. Gilbert had noticed his Lordship’s many scars—and now Jackson put an action and a place to each of them. The two scars on the right brow, another on the left arm, a small patch of white hair growing on his head … It was extraordinary that the man was still alive.
However, one thing had disappointed Gilbert: no one, least of all Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, seemed to think they had much of a chance of finding L’Espoir. Apparently once she left Brest she could choose one of a hundred different routes. Oh dear, if only the Count had stayed in Kent. The estate he bought at Ruckinge was pleasant; even the Prince of Wales and his less pleasant friends had been frequent guests, and the Count never complained of boredom. But undoubtedly he had a grande nostalgie for the château and, although expecting it, had been heartbroken when he returned to find everything had been stolen. He had—
The heart-stopping shrill of a bosun’s call came down the forehatch followed by the bellow “General quarters! All hands to general quarters—come on there, look alive …” Again the call screamed—Jackson said the bosun’s mates were called “Spithead Nightingales” because of the noise their calls made—and again the bellow.
Gilbert followed the others as he remembered “General quarters” was another name for a man’s position when the ship went into battle. He felt a fear he had not experienced in the Murex affair. The Calypso was so big; all the men round him knew exactly what to do; they ran to their quarters as if they were hunters following well-worn tracks in a forest.
Ramage snatched up the speaking-trumpet while Aitken completed an entry and returned the slate to the drawer.
“Foremast, deck here.”
“Sail ho, two points on the larboard bow, sir: I see her just as we lift on the top of the swell waves.”
“Very well, keep a sharp lookout and watch the bearing closely.”
Ramage felt his heart thudding. Was she L’Espoir? Keep calm, he told himself: it could be any one of a dozen British, Dutch, Spanish, French or American ships bound for the West Indies and staying well south looking for the Trades. Or even a ship from India or the Cape or South America, bound north and, having found a wind, holding it until forced to bear away to pick up the westerlies.
If the bearing stayed the same and the sail drew closer the Calypso must be overhauling the strange vessel, and it was unlikely that the Calypso was being outdistanced. If the sail passed to starboard, then whoever she was must be bound north; passing to larboard would show she was going south.
Southwick had heard the lookout’s hail and came on deck, his round face grinning, his white hair flowing like a new mop.
“Think it’s our friend, sir?”
“I doubt it; we couldn’t be that lucky. She’s probably a Post Office packet bound for Barbados with the mail.”
Southwick shook his head, reminding Ramage of a seaman twirling a dry mop before plunging it into a bucket of water. “We’d never catch up with a packet. Those Post Office brigs are slippery.”
“Could be one of our own frigates sent out by the Admiralty with despatches for the governors of the British islands, telling them war has been declared.” Ramage thought a moment and then said: “Yes, she could be. She’d have sailed from Portsmouth before the Channel Fleet, of course, and run into head winds or been becalmed.”
He looked round and realized that it had been a long time since he had given this particular order: “Send the men to quarters, Mr Aitken. I want Jackson aloft with the bring-’em-near—he’s still the man with the sharpest eyes. I must go below and look up the private signals.”
He went down to his cabin, sat at the desk and unlocked a drawer, removing the large canvas wallet which was heavy from the bar of lead sewn along the bottom and patterned with brass grommets protecting holes that would allow water to pour in and sink it quickly the moment it was thrown over the side.
He unlaced the wallet and removed five sheets of paper. They were held together by stitching down the left-hand side, so that they made a small booklet, a thin strip of lead wrapped round the edge hammered flat and forming a narrow binding.
The first page was headed “Private Signals” with the note “Channel Fleet” and the date. The first two paragraphs, signed by Admiral Clinton, showed their importance: they were, with the Signal Book, the most closely guarded papers on board any ship of war.
Ramage noted that the wording of the warning was similar if not identical to that in the document he had studied with Lieutenant Swan on board the Murex.
Any ship of war passing through the area cruised by the Channel Fleet would have a copy of this set of flag tables for challenging and distinguishing friend from enemy. The system was simple: depending on the day of the month (the actual month itself did not matter), there was a special challenge with its own answer.
There were four main vertical columns divided into ten horizontal sections. The first s
ection of the first column contained the numbers 1, 11, 21, 31, and referred to those dates. The section immediately below had 2, 12, 22, with 3, 13, 23 below and then 4, 14, 24, until the tenth section ended up with 10, 20, 30, so that every day in a month was covered.
The next column had the same two phrases in each of its ten sections: “The first signal made is—,” and “Answered by a—,” and referred to the next two columns. The third was headed by “Main-topmasthead,” and gave the appropriate signals to be hoisted there, while the fourth and last column headed “Fore-topmasthead” gave the signals to go up there.
Ramage noted that today was the eleventh of the month, and the date “11” was the second in the first column. The “first signal” made would be a white flag with a blue cross (the figure two in the numeral code of flags) hoisted at the main-topmast-head and a blue flag with a yellow cross (numeral seven) at the fore-topmasthead. One ship or the other (it did not matter which) would challenge first with those two, and be answered by a blue, white and red flag (numeral nine) at the main-topmasthead and a pendant over blue pierced with white (numeral zero) at the fore-topmasthead. Numeral flags hoisted singly by a senior officer had a different meaning, but these were given in the Signal Book and there could be no confusion.
The last page of the booklet gave the private signals to be used at night—combinations of lights hoisted in different positions, and hails. Ramage noted that whoever thought up the hails must have an interest in geography: the month was divided into thirds, with the various challenges and replies being “Russia—Sweden,” “Bengal—China,” and “Denmark—Switzerland.”
To complicate the whole system, the day began at midnight for the flag signals (corresponding to the civil day), while it began at noon for the night signals, and thus corresponded with the noon-to-noon nautical day used in the logs and journals.
Ramage repeated the numbers to himself—two and seven are the challenge, nine and zero the reply. He put the signals back in the wallet, knotted the drawstrings, and returned it to the drawer, which he locked.