Ramage's Trial r-14

by Dudley Pope

  As Southwick left the quarterdeck to get his quadrant and seamen swarmed up the ratlines and out on to the great lower yards to untie the gaskets securing the lowest and largest sails, Ramage relived the few brief minutes when the Jason raced across the Calypso's bow and her guns started firing.

  There had been something he had noticed, something which, even while he was shocked by being raked by what everyone thought was a British ship, seemed odd. Something discordant, something which did not fit into the picture either of the French attacking under a ruse de guerre, or a - a what? Anyway, he'd noticed it in those split seconds but now he was damned if he could remember what it was. If he could remember, would it provide an answer? He was not even sure of that. It was in fact little more than a nagging thought, as though he had forgotten something but could not remember whether it concerned a button missing from a coat or to remind the butler that the dining room clock had stopped and needed winding.

  The maincourse dropped from the yard with the gracelessness of a fat woman flopping into a low chair, but Aitken's staccato orders snapping across the deck from the mouth of the speaking trumpet sent some men forward hauling on the mainbrace and others aft, hardening in the sheets. A few moments later the forecourse came tumbling down, freed of the gaskets, and the yard was braced as the sail was sheeted home and trimmed.

  Southwick bustled up with his quadrant, cursing that the courses would now get in the way, spoiling his view of the Jason.

  "Not if you come over here," Ramage said from the starboard side of the quarterdeck.

  The master stood, legs wide apart to balance himself against the rolling, and carefully adjusted the quadrant until it showed him the angle between the Jason's mizenmasthead and her waterline. He scribbled the figure down on the slate kept in the binnacle box drawer.

  "Timed that nicely," he commented. "Just as our courses started to draw. We'll soon see what effect they're having."

  Ramage nodded. "But we'll have to get up the stunsails unless ..." He did not finish the sentence for a few moments. "We have to keep the convoy in sight. If we haven't caught up with her by the time the convoy's drawing astern, we'll have to let her go"

  "Then we'll never know what the devil's going on, sir," Southwick grumbled.

  "Maybe not, but our job is to protect the convoy, and anyway, I'm anxious to get home!"

  Southwick nodded in agreement about the convoy. "I can see that, sir: we don't want a long beat back. You can bet the wind'll die on us."

  "Or La Robuste won't be tough enough on the stragglers, so that at dawn we'd find the convoy spread right over the horizon."

  Southwick sighed as he lifted the quadrant once again. "They're like a crowd of schoolchildren, those mules," he grumbled. "Turn your back for a moment and they're up to all sorts o' mischief."

  Then he gave a more contented sigh after looking at the scale. "Well, that's good news, sir: we're catching up fast!" He lowered the quadrant, yet Ramage could see that the old man was puzzled. "We're catching up faster than setting the courses can account for - at least, by my reckoning."

  "Those Frenchmen may have only just captured the ship," Ramage said. "It'd take a few days for them to get the best out of her."

  "Not if her officers are proper seamen," Southwick said contemptuously.

  "Come on, be fair," Ramage chided. "The poor beggars spend most of their time swinging round an anchor in places like Brest. Our blockade doesn't give them much chance of getting experience at sea."

  "My heart," Southwick said, giving his chest a thump, "it fairly bleeds for them."

  "And well it might, right now," Ramage said teasingly. "Just put yourself in their place on board the Jason. They nearly collided with an enemy they were trying to rake, failed to send even one mast by the board or cut any important piece of rigging, or destroy a sail. Now, as if that wasn't enough, their target is not only chasing them but catching up. And there isn't a damned thing that they can do - that they know how to do - to make their ship go faster."

  Southwick sniffed as he lifted the quadrant. "Don't go on, sir, you'll have me in tears . . . Ah!" he exclaimed as he looked at the curved scale and read off the angle. He then looked up at the frigate ahead, took another reading and then said: "If they weren't French, sir, I'd say they were deliberately dawdling, trying to trap us into coming alongside."

  "They're not actually going any slower, surely?" Ramage asked. "I get the impression that they're still making about the same speed as when they crossed our bow, and that once we bore away and followed in her wake we didn't start overhauling her until we let fall the courses."

  "Yes, sir," Southwick agreed. "I just meant that with the same canvas set, we're overhauling her."

  Aitken had just joined them and, hearing Southwick's remark commented: "Perhaps the difference is that the Calypso's hull was designed by the French and the Jason's by the English."

  "Aye," Southwick said sourly, "and I notice the Scots never seem to design anything - except new shapes for haggises."

  Aitken did not answer, knowing he had made his point.

  "Stunsails, sir?" he asked Ramage.

  "Not for the moment: we're overhauling her nicely, and I want to have a leisurely look with the glass."

  He thought a moment and then told Aitken: "Jackson has the Jason's course. Look at the chart and see if you can work out where she's bound. She's not changing course. Too far south for Guadeloupe, I think, but she is not steering for the convoy."

  "She might yet," Southwick said grimly. "She might be trying to pluck up enough courage. If Aitken's guess is right, she had as big a shock as us, only she got hers a few minutes earlier!"

  "How are we doing?" Ramage asked pointedly, not wanting to start the inquest over again.

  Southwick raised the quadrant, adjusted the arm and looked at the scale. "Overhauling her fast, sir. Do you want distances? I have a table of mast heights of most British and French ships o' war."

  Ramage shook his head. "We need only get within gunshot, and we can judge that by eye!"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The six men serving number four gun on the starboard side were as puzzled as their captain. Stafford was by far the most outraged at what he regarded as the perfidy of the Jason, although his anger was mixed with contempt for her poor shooting.

  "Beats me," he declared, "how they could all miss. I mean ter say, if it was a single broadside fired all at once, then the ship could have rolled at the wrong time. But there she was, sailing across our bow, bang, bang, bang . . ."

  "For me it is enough that those gunners did miss," Gilbert said, his French accent more pronounced, as though the sudden shock had affected his English, which was normally good.

  Rossi had no doubts. "She is captured by the French," he declared. "She comes down with the enemy's colours - we've done it, so we can't make of the complaining. And she rakes us. But the gunners are not used to the guns."

  "A gun is a gun," Stafford pointed out. "You load it, aim and fire it. Doesn't make any difference whether the gun was cast by a British or a French gunfounder."

  "Is true," Rossi admitted, "but if these were privateersmen, used to shooting 6-pounders and smaller from the deck of a tiny privateer, then they would not find it so easy firing 12-pounders from a frigate."

  The other Frenchmen, Louis, Auguste and Albert, demanded a translation and Gilbert explained. Louis made the only comment: "I do not think a French privateer could capture a frigate, and she was not damaged ..."

  Gilbert translated and Stafford exclaimed: "Good for Louis, I never noticed that. All right, then, how did they capture her?"

  Rossi sighed and said: "We must remember to ask them. But it can be done."

  "Rubbish!" Stafford said flatly. "Bound to be shotholes in the hull: you can't repair them and paint 'em over at sea."

  Rossi pointed towards the convoy and said triumphantly, "What about L'Espoir and La Robuste? We captured both of them without scratching the paint!"

  "Oh well, t
hat's us," Stafford said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You're not suggestin' a lot of Frogs could do that, are you?"

  Gilbert said quietly: "Four Frogs helped Lord and Lady Ramage capture the Murex brig and sail her out of Brest ... we did not scratch the paint, either ..."

  "All right, all right," Stafford said. "I was wrong. But Gilbert, when I say 'Frogs' I mean Frenchies, I don't mean you four."

  "But we're 'Frenchies', too," Gilbert said mildly.

  Stafford sighed, the picture of a schoolmaster trying to keep his patience as he explained a complicated point to an obtuse pupil. "Listen, Frogs and Frenchies is Boney's men. They're the ones we're fighting."

  Gilbert grinned, enjoying himself as he led Stafford into the trap. "Then what are we?" he inquired in the tone of a man genuinely seeking enlightenment. "Louis, Auguste and Albert were born in France (admittedly under the Ancien Régime), and I doubt if they'd even been twenty miles from Brest until they joined Mr Ramage. I was born near Brest but occasionally accompanied the Count to places like Paris. But I never left France until we fled to England. Yet, we're all French - why, those three speak no other language."

  "But you are Royalists!"Stafford seized the word with the same energy as a drowning man grasping a rope. "That's the difference."

  "Is not," Rossi announced. "Is French and is a Royalist. You, Stafford, are two things, just like them."

  "I'm not two things," Stafford declared emphatically. "I'm me, and that's that!"

  Jackson had been sent down to his gun and arrived in time to hear Stafford's protest.

  "What Rosey means," Jackson explained, "is that you are English and a Royalist - you support the King. Gilbert and his mates are French but they support the King, or did until he was murdered."

  "What about you, then?" Stafford demanded suspiciously. "You and your lot are revolting. You don't even have a king now."

  "No, I'm a bit different," Jackson admitted. "It doesn't matter after all these years, does it Staff?"

  "Well, no, I suppose not," the Cockney admitted. "I mean, I don't fink you'll suddenly turn on me with a barker in each hand and shoot me."

  "Jacko is like me," Rossi said. "You and Bonaparte have a fight, and Jacko and me like a good fight too, so we join in."

  "Why didn't you choose Boney's side, then?"

  "Accidente! Are we the cat in the hiding?"

  "The what?" Stafford was startled at Rossi's sudden anger. "What cat, for Gawd's sake?"

  "Gatto in covo - an Italian expression. I don't know the English."

  "He means 'A snake in the grass'," Jackson said. "No, Rosey, don't get cross with our friend from London. He thought he could beat Boney by himself and doesn't like having to admit he needs help."

  Stafford looked round at all the men and said with quiet pride: "All right, I get a bit muddled at times, but this I do know: my country started fightin' the French more'n ten years ago, and we're the only country left still fighting 'em. All the rest have quit or changed sides or - like your crowd, Jacko - been careful to stay out of it. But when Boney's beaten it'll be because my country kept on fighting him. Thanks for any help you lot give us - but just remember my words."

  "Yes, yes," Gilbert said soothingly, "you are right and this is a silly argument. We all hate Bonaparte, and surely this gun's crew is a good example - four Frenchmen, an Italian, an American and an Englishman."

  "All right, then," said a mollified Stafford and, acknowledging Jackson's tap on the shoulder and pointing finger, said: "We're overhauling her fast. Soon be raking 'er - and I 'ope she's not relying on us to aim high."

  Ramage walked from one side of the quarterdeck to the other, pausing every couple of minutes at the quarterdeck rail to look forward. In the past, just before going into action, he had been frightened, apprehensive, cheerful, miserable, exhilarated and doubtful. But, he now admitted to himself, he had never before been just puzzled.

  There she was, the Jason frigate. Still the British colours flapped in the wind. Still she steered the same course which would, in a few minutes' time, take her (if there were no interruptions) five miles astern of the convoy. None of her sails were particularly well trimmed, but they would satisfy a slack captain. Her guns were still run out, but there was still no sign of men moving about on deck - even though, as the Calypso closed on her, one would expect to see a few bright shirts through the glass as seamen moved about.

  Nor was there any sign of officers on her quarterdeck. Surely there must be an officer of the deck, and the captain too, considering that a hostile frigate was overhauling her fast and indeed was now barely five hundred yards astern and so placed in the Jason's wake that she could sweep down to attack either side. Surely a captain would be on deck, trying to guess which side the Calypso would choose, since his crew could not man the guns on both sides at the same time. Were all the officers at their divisions of guns, crouching down and peering through the ports, like voyeurs?

  He lifted his telescope as a thought struck him. That was strange - there was not a single lookout aloft. In fact for all one could see, the Jason was a ship being sailed by phantoms. That was a fanciful thought until one remembered that these phantoms fired guns (and presumably could reload and run them out again, too).

  Which meant that the Jason had another neat trap for him. What was it? This one, if he did not spot it, might be a complete success. Like a headmaster reviewing an erring pupil's activities for the day (before administering a painful caning), let us go over the events, he told himself. First, Aitken was right: the Frenchmen in the Jason recognized the Calypso as being French-built and were being wary in case she had been captured by the British, and finding that she was they had tried to rake her. It was an attempt that deserved better luck - yet it was damned odd that all those gun captains aimed high. He shrugged his shoulders - yes, privateersmen might be used to smaller guns and shorter ranges, and might have called for more elevation (and thus range) than was needed with the 12-pounders. Yes, that was it! Why the devil had he or Aitken or Southwick not thought of that before? Anyway, after the raking by the Jason had failed to bring down any of the Calypso's masts she had carried on to leeward and, in effect, tried to lure the Calypso into following her - that could be the only explanation of why she was being so badly sailed. But what exactly was the trap they were trying to set?

  The choices for the Frenchmen are limited, he thought. If there are two or three hundred of them on board the Jason (unlikely, unless she is now a French national ship, part of the French navy and not a privateer's prize) they would not want to get alongside the Calypso and try to carry her by boarding.

  So she would want to keep the Calypso at a distance, fighting a battle of broadsides. But having seen the failure of his attempt to rake the Calypso, would the French captain rely on his gunners? No - unless the raking was just part of the trap, a deliberate attempt to make the Calypso think the French gunners were fumbling and inexperienced, so that she would get close alongside - to find the French guns firing with deadly accuracy.

  Yes, the more he thought about it, the more likely that seemed. It meant that the French captain of the Jason thought fast and had a well-trained crew.

  Very well, what now? Ramage turned yet again as he paced from one side of the deck to the other. From his own experience, captains planning ingenious ways of gaining that all-important advantage of surprise were also more likely themselves to be taken by surprise: they were much more prone to underestimate the enemy. He was himself a good example of that: having captured those two frigates, L'Espoir and La Robuste, by legitimate ruse de guerre, the very next time he met the enemy, which was now, he had fallen for the same trick.

  It was important now to accept that the Jason was being commanded by a cunning enemy, and try to guess what he was trying to make the Calypso do. Once you start having to react to what the enemy does, Ramage told himself sternly, you have lost the battle: the whole art of combat, whether with swords, fists, armies or ships of war, is to make sure the e
nemy always has to respond to your move: always keep him off balance, wondering where or when the next blow will fall. Ramage almost laughed at the lecture he was giving himself: it was all quite correct, but hard to apply while chasing an enemy frigate across a bright tropical sea under a bright tropical sky with both ships heading into a gaudy tropical sunset which turned flying fish skimming the surface into pink darts.

  Very well, he could not see any men on board the Jason. What did that mean? Was it intended to make him think the ship was short of men and lure him into boarding her? No, that was too crude a trick; a ploy intended to puzzle the Calypso, perhaps, but otherwise of no significance. And the slow progress? Probably nothing more than the Jason's wish to bring the Calypso into action before there was any chance of the other two frigates now escorting the convoy joining in the action.

  There is only one decision to make, Ramage told himself sternly; all the rest is idle speculation. How are you going to attack the Jason? Are you going to get a hundred yards away on her starboard or larboard side, and pound her with broadsides. Or slap the Calypso alongside and try to take her by boarding?

  He looked across at the Jason as she rolled her way to leeward, now almost directly under the sun and dazzling the eye. Five hundred yards away? The Calypso was overtaking her, all right, but the wind was dropping with the sun, and the swell waves, with the wind waves rippling over the top of them like muscles, were flattening.

  The decision seemed to make itself, and he turned to Aitken.

  "I want grapnels rigged from the starboard yardarms, and a dozen more ready on deck in the hands of men who can throw them accurately." Already, before Ramage had finished giving his orders, the Scotsman was grinning, his worry that the captain had at last run out of ideas, or not yet recovered from the trick just played on him, now dispelled. "All men except the afterguard to have pikes, half-pikes, pistols, cutlasses or tomahawks; whatever they choose. And pass the word for Rennick, there'll be work for his Marines."

  Southwick was still standing close and he nodded approvingly as Aitken started giving a string of orders.