Ramage

by Pope, Dudley

He seemed hardly the right man to heave a grapnel, yet the Bosun’s Mate had chosen him to be in the most important and difficult position of all – at the end of the bowsprit, clear of the jib.

  Ramage asked him: ‘How far can you throw that?’

  ‘Dunno, really, sir.’

  ‘Forty feet?’

  ‘Dunno, sir: but a deal farther than anyone else on board.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Last cap’n had a sort of competition, sir. Got meself an extra tot.’

  ‘Good,’ Ramage smiled. ‘Heave like that again and you’ll get a couple of extra tots!’

  ‘Oh, thank’ee, sir, thank’ee: John Smith the Third sir, able seaman. You won’t forget, sir?’

  The man’s eyes were pleading. For all he knew, in – well, about eight minutes’ time – he would be out on his lonely perch facing a murderous fire from the French, and the prospect left him unworried. But the chance of an extra couple of tots of rum – that made his eyes sparkle and brought with it a sudden anxious fear, that the captain might forget.

  ‘I’ll remember,’ Ramage said, ‘John Smith the Third.’

  ‘Akshly, sir, I just remembered it’s “the Second” now, sir: one of the other two dragged his anchors at number four gun.’

  Ramage looked ahead at the Belette. So three John Smiths had sailed from Bastia. With luck two would return. The other, as his namesake had just phrased it in seamen’s slang, was dead. Bastia… Gianna was doing – what?

  He strode aft again along the weather side of the deck, calling to Jackson for his telescope.

  ‘Might as well have these, too, sir,’ the American said, offering him the pistols Sir Gilbert Elliot had sent on board.

  ‘Oh – yes, thank you.’

  He undid the bottom buttons of his waistcoat, pulled the flaps back and pushed the long barrels into the top of his breeches.

  ‘And this, sir.’

  Jackson handed him the sword.

  Ramage waved it away. ‘You keep that: I’ve enough already.’

  He bent down and eased the throwing knife so that it was loose in its sheath in his boot.

  Southwick came aft, beaming.

  ‘Satisfied, sir?’

  ‘Perfectly, Mr Southwick.’

  ‘If you did it like you did last time, sir, we’ll be all right.’

  Ramage glanced up sharply and was just about to tell him to watch his tongue when he realized the man was serious: the fool really thought the first attempt was well done. Well done – with ten corpses already bundled over the side without ceremony and fifteen men below wounded, three of them – in John Smith’s phrase – dragging their anchors for the next world.

  He put the telescope to his eye and looked at the Belette, judging the distance. He waited and then without looking round called to Jackson, ‘Haul down the “Preparative”!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Half a mile away: that’d give the Belettes six minutes to get out of the Tower and board the frigate. God, it had been a temptation to give them ten minutes, so there would be no risk to the Kathleen: in that time they’d either have captured the ship, or the survivors would be jumping over the side in confusion, giving him plenty of warning of their failure.

  But by allowing them six minutes he was gambling on the Kathleen coming alongside a couple of minutes after they had boarded, just as the French quit the guns to fight them off. The Kathleen’s carronades barking at their heels might tip the scales, showing the French they were trapped between the boarders from the Tower and the guns – and possibly more boarders – from the Kathleen.

  He looked at the Belette’s transom and was surprised to see the damage done by the Kathleen’s carronades. Realizing it would do the Gunner’s Mate good to see the result and tell the men, Ramage called: ‘Edwards – take the glass and have a look at the damage. I want the next broadside to be as effective, if we have to fire it.’

  The man ran aft and took the telescope, steadied himself, and gave a whistle. ‘Well, we certainly wrecked the cabin!’

  A typical reaction, thought Ramage, smiling to himself: the idea of smashing up the captain’s accommodation in one of the King’s ships while acting under orders obviously appealed to him.

  ‘But sir–’ exclaimed Edwards, and then stumbled as the ship gave a violent roll. He steadied himself and again looked through the telescope. ‘–Yes! By God, sir, more men are going on board!’

  Ramage snatched the glass: Edwards was right, but the men were British: dozens were lining the edge of the cliff and jostling their way down a few feet to swarm across the fallen masts, and the masts themselves were already thick with sailors.

  ‘Run out the guns, Mr Southwick! Quartermaster! Steer as if your life depends on it!’

  The Belettes had quit the Tower and started to board much more quickly than he’d allowed, blast it: now he had to increase speed to help them – just when he wanted to make his final approach as slowly as possible: a cutter took a lot of stopping.

  He swung the telescope downwards again to the root of the masts: there was no sign of smoke, so perhaps the French in the ship had not yet spotted the seamen scrambling down towards them. Ramage said a silent prayer that the men were not yelling, so they could benefit from surprise.

  Looking back along the edge of the cliff he could see the seamen were thinning out: a good half of them were on the masts or already on board. Why were there no French uniforms on the cliff? The break-out from the Tower must have taken them completely by surprise.

  Ramage shut the telescope with a snap: the Kathleen was so close he could see enough with the naked eye.

  The cutter’s quartermaster was watching the leeches of the jib and mainsail like a hawk, reacting with the tiller to every gust of wind. The ship was so close under the cliffs that the wind was fluky, much of it blowing down at an angle, and changing direction slightly.

  ‘Mr Southwick – I want those men in position with the grapnels and heaving lines. Tell the foredeck men to be ready to back the jib.’

  The frigate’s stern was looming up large: now he could see right along her side: the guns were run out and again trained as far aft as possible. He could see that her chainplates, thick boards sticking out edgeways from the hull and originally supporting the shrouds that held up the masts, would be a problem. No, maybe not – they might be just a bit too high to tear at the Kathleen’s shrouds.

  He saw seamen, each with a grapnel in his hand, stationing themselves along the side of the cutter, and John Smith, lately the Third and now the Second, was already out on the end of the bowsprit, partly hidden by the luff of the jib.

  Six men with grapnels, another half-dozen to handle the jib sheets and halyard, ten more to get the mainsail down – well, there were very few left to handle the guns.

  The most dangerous time will be after the Belettes are on board the Kathleen and she’s getting under way again: if the French manage to get the guns and fire even a couple of rounds…

  Ramage rubbed his forehead as another idea came to him.

  Since his own carronades would not do much good – firing them into the ship risked killing Britons as well – he decided to gamble on the Belette’s guns having been left while the French tried to fight off the boarders.

  ‘Jackson! Pick a dozen men and as soon as we get alongside, board her and cut through as many of the breechings and side tackles as you can. Then do what you can to help the Belettes.’

  If the French fired a gun without the thick rope breeching – which stopped it after being flung back a few feet by the recoil – the gun would career right across the deck, killing anyone standing in the way.

  Jackson grinned with pleasure, drew the sword presented to Ramage by Sir Gilbert, and ran along the guns picking his men.

  Two hundred yards to go… How much way did this damned ship carry? Blast, a wave punched her bow round to larboard, but the quartermaster quickly put the tiller over for a second and the cutter came back on course.


  Yet Ramage was in a better position than he thought: he could now see the full length of the frigate’s side and the Kathleen’s course was parallel to and fifteen or twenty yards to seaward of the frigate’s centre-line.

  A hundred and fifty yards…

  ‘Mr Southwick – ease the mainsheet.’

  That began to slow her up handsomely.

  ‘Overhaul the mainsheet and the weather jib sheet.’

  That ensured the ropes would be clear for the moment he ordered the jib to be backed, when the wind against the canvas would try to thrust the bow to leeward, away from the frigate. But hardening on the mainsheet at the last moment and putting the tiller over would push the bow up into the wind towards the frigate. The two opposing forces should balance and cancel each other out, leaving the cutter hove-to right alongside the frigate, close enough for the men to throw the grapnels and hook them over the bulwarks.

  A hundred yards, maybe less, and the blasted cutter was going along like a runaway coach: damnation, he had to risk it. If she stopped short of the frigate they were all in trouble, whereas if she was travelling too fast as she came alongside there was at least a chance of stopping her with the grapnels, or banging her hard against the frigate’s hull with a sudden luff.

  ‘Mr Southwick – we’ll heave-to alongside. As soon as the grapnels are over, pull us in. I’ll pass the word when to let fly the main and back the jib.’

  Seventy-five yards at a guess, and it was a rough guess at that.

  No one looked worried: Southwick’s face was placid, the quartermaster was concentrating on steering, and Jackson was making some swipes with Sir Gilbert’s sword, testing its balance.

  ‘Mr Southwick, back the jib!’ Ramage snapped.

  Blast, he was going to overshoot. What’s that popping noise? Muskets! And he could hear yelling on board the frigate.

  ‘Starboard a point! Aft the mainsheet!’

  He’d overshoot by thirty yards at least, probably more.

  No, maybe only twenty yards – less if the grapnels held.

  The backed jib trying to shove the bow to leeward was fighting its own battle with the mainsail trying to thrust the bow to windward; but, more important, the resulting stalemate was slowing down the cutter better than he’d expected and closing the gap.

  A few yards to go now and they’d pass ten feet off; already the Kathleen’s bowsprit end was passing the frigate’s stern.

  ‘Quartermaster, hard down with the helm.’

  Once the rudder was over more than about thirty degrees it acted as a brake. Now – ‘Let fly jib and mainsheets, Mr Southwick!’ Southwick bawled out orders. The jib flapped and the great main boom swung off to larboard, the sail slatting with the wind blowing down both sides and exerting no pressure.

  Ramage realized Southwick was shouting, ‘Neat, oh very neat, by Christ!’

  Snatching up the speaking trumpet, Ramage yelled, ‘Get those grapnels over!’

  He watched John Smith the Second poised on the bowsprit, the grapnel swinging from his right hand, body slack, apparently nonchalant; but then he stiffened, swung his body round and his right arm back. Suddenly the arm and shoulder shot forward and the grapnel soared up, the line momentarily forming a bow in the air. The grapnel disappeared over the frigate’s bulwarks and Smith let go of the line, leaving men in the bow to haul in the slack. The Kathleen had stopped so close it had been an easy throw; but Smith was in credit to the extent of two tots.

  One after another the remaining grapnels soared up and disappeared over the Belette’s bulwarks. Hurriedly the seamen hauled and a moment later the Kathleen thudded alongside the frigate.

  ‘Away boarders!’ Ramage bellowed into the speaking trumpet and saw Jackson leap from the cutter’s bulwarks in through one of the Belette’s gun ports with more men following him. On a sudden impulse Ramage flung down the speaking trumpet, dragged the pistols from the waistband of his breeches, and jumped on to the aftermost carronade, intending to follow Jackson, but at that moment several men appeared along the bulwarks of the frigate’s poop, high overhead.

  Ramage, off balance, knew he could not raise his pistols in time and waited for a volley of musket shots. Instead he heard cheers – British cheers.

  He scrambled down from the carronade, feeling sheepish. He put down the pistols, retrieved the speaking trumpet, and shouted: ‘Come on, you Belettes, get on board, fast!’

  Someone was shouting down at him with an authoritative voice and he saw a hatless officer with an epaulet on each shoulder standing at a gun port: a captain of more than three years’ seniority.

  Amid the din of flapping sails, musketry and shouting, it was difficult to hear, so Ramage jumped back on the carronade. The captain shouted: ‘Give us five minutes – we want to finish off these Frogs.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Thank Christ for that, thought Ramage, the Belettes have the upper hand. But –

  ‘What about the French on the cliff, sir?’

  ‘Don’t worry – we can stop ’em coming down the masts: that’s all that matters!’

  Even as he spoke there was a popping of muskets from the other side of the ship and Ramage saw that French soldiers had appeared along the edge of the cliff, but they dodged back almost at once.

  Captain Laidman of the Belette was as good as his word: in less than four minutes seamen – among them Jackson and his party – were climbing down her side on to the Kathleen’s decks and Laidman shouted from the poop: ‘Everyone’s off except the Marines: are you ready to get underway?’

  ‘Ready when you are, sir.’

  ‘Right.’

  Laidman disappeared from the port and a minute later red-coated Marines, still clutching their muskets, began scrambling down the frigate’s side. As soon as they reached the Kathleen’s decks, and before Ramage had time to give them any orders, their lieutenant had them lining the cutter’s bulwarks, loading their muskets and ready to fire. In the meantime the rest of the Belettes had been bundled below, out of the way.

  Jackson, who had been waiting an opportunity to report, said: ‘All breechings cut on both sides, sir.’

  ‘That was quick work.’

  ‘Some of the Belettes gave a hand, sir, but I checked every gun myself.’

  ‘Very well, stand by here.’

  Finally Captain Laidman appeared again at a gun port and climbed down to the Kathleen.

  ‘Welcome on board, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, m’lad: sorry there were uninvited guests on board the Belette when you first arrived.’

  Ramage laughed. ‘At least you announced them! But if you’ll excuse me, sir–’

  Captain Laidman nodded, and Ramage looked round for the Master.

  ‘Mr Southwick – sheet the jib aback and hoist the foresail.’

  As she lay alongside the frigate, the Kathleen’s bowsprit pointed at an angle towards the cliffs on which the Belette’s bow rested, and Ramage saw the only way to sail out was to let the wind swing the cutter’s bow round while her stern was held against the frigate. That would take her clear of the rocks at the foot of the next headland.

  ‘Evans,’ he called to the Bosun’s Mate, ‘cut away the for’ard four lines, but hold on to the aftermost two. Pay out and snub if need be, but keep our stern in. Quartermaster, put the helm down.’

  By now the jib had been sheeted in aback so that the canvas was as flat as a board. The wind began to push the cutter’s bow round to seaward, but her long, narrow keel diverted some of the effort into a fore-and-aft movement so the Kathleen began to move astern.

  Ramage glanced aft: the frigate’s stern gallery, looking very battered from the Kathleen’s earlier assault, was drawing level with the cutter’s transom. Evans was directing seamen and alternately paying out the grapnel lines to allow for the movement astern, and then snubbing them, to keep the cutter’s stern against the frigate and help lever the bow round.

  Ramage watched until the Kathleen’s stem was well clear of the outlying rocks a
head. The foresail had by now been hoisted and, like the jib, sheeted aback.

  ‘Mr Southwick, I’ll have jib and foresail sheeted home, if you please.’

  As soon as they started drawing, the Kathleen’s sternway would be checked and she would start moving ahead but, without the mainsail drawing, would still pay off to leeward.

  ‘Quartermaster, tiller amidships.’

  A sudden crackling of muskets made him glance up at the cliff: a group of French soldiers were kneeling, muskets at their shoulders. Almost at once the Marines along the Kathleen’s bulwarks fired back and the French promptly ducked.

  The Kathleen heeled slightly as the wind filled the headsails, and gradually started gathering headway.

  ‘Evans, cut away those lines! Quartermaster, meet her! Mr Southwick, aft the mainsheet!’

  Ten minutes later the Kathleen was broad-reaching along the coast heading for Bastia, and Ramage handed over the conn to Southwick while he went over to Captain Laidman who had, he realized, been tactfully keeping himself to the lee side of the quarter-deck.

  ‘My apologies for not giving you a proper welcome, sir: I am Ramage.’

  ‘Laidman,’ he answered gruffly. ‘Damn’ fine piece of seamanship, m’boy: y’can rely on me to make that clear in m’report.

  ‘Now, meet m’officers. They’re at your disposal. Use what men you like: you’re pretty short-handed, aren’t you?’

  Without waiting for a reply he called over his lieutenants, master and Marine lieutenant, and introduced them.

  ‘By the way,’ Laidman said. ‘If you can get your galley fire lit, none of us have eaten for some time…’

  ‘Of course, sir, I’ll see to it.’

  Ramage called to Jackson, ‘Tell my steward to arrange some food for the officers.’

  He looked round for the Bosun’s Mate. ‘Evans – tell the cook he can have as many hands as he wants from the Kathleens and the Belettes, but I want both ships’ companies to have a meal within an hour.’

  Then he walked over to Southwick, who simply held out his hand. Ramage shook it.

  ‘Thanks. I’m just going below to have a word with the wounded. The galley fire’s being lit. In the meantime, every man on board is to have a tot, but serve two to John Smith the Second!’