Ramage

by Pope, Dudley

  None of the Sibella’s guns had fired for several minutes and the wind blowing through the ports had dispersed the smoke; but the smell of burnt gunpowder lingered on, clinging to his clothes, like the curious odour that hangs about a house long after flames have gutted it.

  Yes, the Barras was where he had expected to see her – just forward of the beam and perhaps five hundred yards away. He suddenly realized she had not fired for three or four minutes. She had no need to: the damage was done. It was hard to believe that less than ten minutes had passed since the Barras made that slight change of course; even harder to realize that she first came in sight over the horizon only an hour ago.

  Ramage heard the mewing of some gulls which had returned after the gunfire and were now wheeling in the Sibella’s wake, waiting hopefully for the cook’s mate to throw some succulent rubbish over the side.

  Over the larboard beam, the north-western end of the Argentario peninsula was beginning to fade in the darkness rapidly spreading across the dome of the sky from the eastward. Just here the land curved away and flattened out into the marshland and swamp forming the Maremma, which stretch southward for almost a hundred miles, to the gates of Rome. The next big port was Civita Vecchia, thirty-five miles to the south. That was shut, on the Pope’s orders, to both French and British ships.

  To seaward, beyond and above the Barras – which was now, in the gathering night, little more than a silhouette – the Dog Star sparkled, a pale blue pinpoint of light like a diamond on dark velvet. The Dog Star, the chilly downdraught of wind from the maintopsail, the rattle of blocks, occasional hails from lookouts, and the creak of the masts and of the timbers in the ship’s hull – for many months they had been as much a part of his life as hunger and chill, heat and tiredness. And all of it reduced to a shattered ship manned by shattered seamen within a few minutes of the sails on the horizon being recognized as belonging to a French line-of-battle ship. There had been no time to escape, and as the Barras ran down towards them she had seemed a thing of great beauty, gently dipping and rising in elegant curtsies as the swell waves passed under her, every stitch of canvas set, including studding sails. Even as she ranged herself abeam to windward, her ports open, and the stubby black barrels of her guns poking out like threatening fingers, she had still been a thing of beauty.

  Suddenly she had vomited spurts of greyish yellow smoke which, quickly merging into one great bank, had hidden her hull from view. Then she had sailed out of it, trailing thin wisps of smoke from her gun ports, while the Sibella appeared to lurch as she was hit by an invisible hail of shot: iron shot ranging in size from small melons to large oranges and which at that range cut through three feet of solid timber, sloughing up splinters as thick as a man’s thigh and as sharp as a sword blade.

  The first broadside had seemed more than the Sibella could stand; but she had sailed on, while the French used grapeshot in several guns for their next broadside. Ramage had seen these egg-sized shot fling a man from one side of the ship to another, as if punched by an invisible fist; others had collapsed suddenly with a grunt or a scream, death heavy inside them. He had seen several of the Sibella’s 12-pounder cannon, each weighing more than a quarter of a ton, thrown aside by the Barras’ round shot as though they were wooden dummies. Then he had been knocked unconscious.

  After the little Sibella had been battered until she was a leaking wooden box full of smoke and flame, agonizing wounds, screams, defiant yells and death; after the majority of the eight score men who had made her a living thing and sailed her halfway round the world were at this moment lying dead or wounded, staining with their blood the decks they twice daily scrubbed, it now seemed incongruous – blasphemous almost – that the stars could begin to twinkle and the sea still chatter merrily round the Sibella’s cut-water and gurgle as it creamed away in the wake astern, showing for a few brief moments the path the frigate had sailed before smoothing away the memory that she had ever passed.

  Ramage forced himself to turn away from the bulwark: day-dreaming again when all he intended to do was assure himself the Barras was still holding her course. He now had only ten minutes or so left in which to finish his plan, which would either save his men’s lives or kill them. These were, he supposed, the minutes for which eight years of life at sea should have trained him to meet.

  The Bosun came up and said, ‘We’ve got most of ’em up now, sir: about another dozen left. An’ I reckon there’s less than fifty of us still on our pins.’

  He saw the Carpenter’s Mate waiting.

  ‘Just under six feet, sir. It’s them new holes going under as she settles deeper.’

  Ramage realized several dozen men near by, including many of the wounded, were listening.

  ‘Fine – the old bitch will swim a lot longer yet. There’ll be no need for anyone to get their feet wet.’

  Brave talk; but these poor devils need some reassurance. He glanced across at the Barras. Does her captain realize the Sibella isn’t under control? With his telescope he can see the shattered wheel, and guess that if she could be manoeuvred her officers would have already tried to wear round in an attempt to escape.

  ‘Bosun, as soon as the last wounded man is on deck, muster the unwounded here. I want a couple of dozen axes as well. By the way, who was the signal midshipman?’

  ‘Mr Scott.’

  ‘Have some hands look for his body and find the signal book. None of us leaves the ship until it’s found, and you can tell the men that.’

  The American cox’n, Jackson, came up to him, holding a canvas sea bag.

  ‘All the Master’s charts and sailing directions, the log book, and muster book, which I found in the Purser’s cabin, sir.’

  Ramage gave him the documents from the cabin, with the exception of the Admiral’s orders. ‘Put these in the bag. Men are looking for the signal book. Take charge of it when it’s found. Now find me a cutlass.’

  ‘The signal book, sir,’ said a seaman, holding out a slim and blood-sodden volume.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Jackson, and put it in the bag.

  Ramage glanced across once again at the Barras. There was not much time left.

  ‘Bosun! Those axes?’

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  Jackson came back, a couple of cutlasses under one arm. ‘You’ll be needing this, sir,’ he said, handing him a speaking trumpet. The bloody man thought of everything. Ramage walked aft and scrambled up on to the hammocks along the top of the bulwark. Let’s hope the French don’t open fire now, he thought grimly. He put the speaking trumpet on his lips.

  ‘Listen carefully, you men, and don’t be afraid to ask about anything you don’t understand. If you carry out my orders to the letter we can get away in the boats. We can’t help the wounded: for their sakes we must leave them for the French surgeon to look after.

  ‘We’ve got four boats that can still swim. From the moment I give the word you’ll have only two or three minutes to get into those boats and pull like the devil.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but how can we stop the ship to get into the boats?’ asked the Bosun.

  ‘You’ll see in a moment. Now, the Frenchman out there.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘He’s converging on us. In eight or ten minutes he’ll be almost alongside, ready to board. And we can’t stop him.’

  At that moment the ship gave a lurch, reminding him of the water still flooding in below.

  ‘If we haul down our flag, obviously we won’t get away in the boats. So we’ve got to fool him to gain time. If we wait until he’s almost alongside, then suddenly stop the ship, he’ll probably be taken by surprise and sail on past us. But we’ve got to do it so quickly he doesn’t get a chance to open fire. Before he has time to wear round again we’ve got away in the boats – after putting the ensign halyard in the hands of one of the wounded, so he can surrender the ship!’

  ‘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 toothsucker.

  ‘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 someone was 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 thowing – 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 luck.’

  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 Two

  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 little smother of white at the stem. 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 was the seamanlike thing to do – no point in crashing alongside and risk 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 grâce: it’ll come any moment now: a sheet of flame rippling along the Barras’ 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 moment 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: ‘Boson! 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’ quarter-deck. He could imagine their astonishment at being wished good evening. Well, keep the initiative.

  ‘Ho detto “Buona sera”.’

  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?’