by Dudley Pope
She was Le Tigre: he could now read the name on her transom as she swung in the wind. Red lettering on yellow, a vivid slash of colour on an otherwise black hull. Guns not run out; fore and main-yards down on deck. Through the glass he could see a group of officers watching the Calypso from Le Tigre’s quarterdeck: no doubt waiting for the challenge to be answered and the Calypso to run up her numbers in the French Navy List.
They seemed to be in no hurry; there were three officers and a couple of seamen on the quarterdeck, and Ramage could see the sun glinting on a couple of telescopes, but there seemed no sense of urgency in the Frenchmen’s stance; no indication that they regarded themselves as in any danger.
They were fooled by the Calypso’s build and the fact that she was flying a Tricolour, a perfectly legitimate ruse de guerre, providing you lowered and hoisted your proper colours before opening fire.
Now he could distinguish the salt dried along Le Tigre’s water-line; her quarter-boats were lowered and secured to the boat-boom amidships; there was a line of laundry rigged forward and displaying a couple of dozen shirts in different bright colours.
Ramage noticed that the hammocks were not stowed in the nettings on top of the bulwarks: presumably they had been left slung below, in contrast to the Royal Navy’s strict practice of having them stowed first thing every morning. Apart from clearing out the lower-deck, it provided a thick canvas barricade against small arms fire.
Through the glass he could see a dozen men working on the main-yard and another dozen grouped round the foreyard. Obviously Le Tigre had sprung both yards; it looked as though a sudden change of wind (or a mistake by the men at the wheel) had resulted in the ship being caught aback, the wind on the fore side of the sails pressing the yards back against the masts. It was easy enough to do; and if that was what had happened, then Le Tigre was lucky to escape with only a couple of sprung yards; ships had been dismasted by being caught aback.
And that has passed another minute, Ramage realized, beginning now to feel excited rather than just tense: in another minute he would give the order to run the guns out; then number one gun on the starboard side would fire, and then the rest would follow in sequence.
There was one task remaining. He turned to Orsini and said sharply: “Lower the French colours and hoist our own!”
He turned to Aitken: “Run out the guns!”
He lifted the telescope to his eye again, watching the group of French officers. He saw one of them gesticulating and was conscious that behind him the Calypso’s Tricolour had been hauled down. But it was too late for the French now; in a few moments the British colours would be hoisted and a few moments after that the first round of grapeshot would be smashing into her stern—he could hear the rumbling of the guns being run out.
He glanced aft, saw the British colours hoisted home, and looked forward again. Almost at once a gun gave a throaty cough and smoke streamed out of the Calypso’s side; then there was a ripple of noise as the rest of the guns fired in succession.
The French frigate’s stern seemed to pass quite leisurely along the Calypso’s starboard side, giving the gunners plenty of time to aim, Ramage noted. And, as he watched, Le Tigre’s transom appeared to dissolve in a cloud of dust, the stern-lights of the captain’s cabin beaten in as the grapeshot smashed their way through and went on the length of the ship, killing or maiming anyone in their path and flinging up lethal splinters.
Finally the last gun in the broadside had fired and Ramage was beginning to cough as the smoke billowed aft, curling along in oily coils to cover the quarterdeck. He turned to Aitken: “Ready to wear round? Now we’ll give them the other broadside!”
A shouted order to the quartermaster set the men spinning the wheel, and Aitken’s bellows through the speaking-trumpet brought the Calypso round to larboard, her sails slatting as the wind passed across her stern. Seamen hauled at braces to swing the yards round and then others hardened in the sheets to trim the sails. Then Aitken shouted down to the gunners to prepare to fire the larboard broadside.
The Calypso did not have enough men to fire both broadsides at once and crews from the starboard guns ran across the deck to the other side. Gun captains hurriedly snatched up the lanyards and uncoiled them: second captains checked the quills in the vents and the priming powder before cocking the locks and standing back.
As Jackson and his crew ran across the deck Stafford exclaimed: “Did you see what we did, Jacko? Just about bashed his stern-lights in!”
As Jackson reached for the lanyard coiled on the breech he grinned: “Yes, we’ve spoiled that French captain’s furniture!”
By now the Calypso had swung round and was steering an opposite course across the frigate’s stern. There were no last-minute aiming instructions: when they had loaded the gun they had left the barrel elevated just enough to hit the French frigate’s stern; the wedge-shaped quoin adjusting the elevation of the barrel was pushed in more than three-quarters of its length, so that the barrel was horizontal.
Suddenly, to Jackson’s right, the first gun of the broadside fired and was followed by the second, and by the time the French frigate’s stern was passing the port in front of Jackson the deck was a swirling cloud of smoke.
Jackson waited until the battered stern-lights were in his sights and then gave the lanyard a brisk tug. The gun barked and spewed smoke and flame before crashing back in recoil, and as soon as it was thrust hard up against the breeching, Rossi and the Frenchmen went into action: a water-soaked sponge was thrust down the bore, a powder monkey ran forward with a cartridge which Gilbert snatched up and cradled into the bore, Auguste pressed it in with the rammer and, as he felt it come hard up in the chamber of the breech, gave the rammer a sharp jab.
Albert slid in a wad which Auguste rammed home while Rossi stood by with the stand of grapeshot. He swung it up and into the muzzle helped by Louis and once again Auguste thrust with his rammer, helped by Rossi because of the weight of the grapeshot. Albert was ready with another wad, and as soon as it was rammed home he lifted his hand and the men ran to the tackles to run the gun out again. As soon as it had rumbled into position, Stafford thrust the pricker into the vent hole and wriggled it about to make sure the point had penetrated the cartridge case and made a passage for the powder. Then he slid in a quill and sprinkled priming powder on top. Now the gun was loaded and ready for the next broadside when the Calypso had worn again.
Jackson had coiled the lanyard ready and put it on the breech, and as soon as he saw that Stafford had finished he shouted and the crew ran back to their gun on the starboard side. By now the last gun of the larboard broadside had fired and yet again the Calypso’s sails were slatting as she wore round clear of the rocky tip of the peninsula.
By now the Calypso was streaming smoke through all her gun ports as she turned, drifting aft to the quarterdeck, where the smoke from the carronades already had Ramage, Aitken, and Southwick coughing and wiping their eyes.
Ramage could see that with Le Tigre’s transom now smashed in the grapeshot must be sweeping through the length of the ship below deck, and there could be few men left alive below.
“Orsini!” he shouted, “run round and tell all the officers at their quarters that I want their guns sweeping the Frenchman’s decks now!”
Paolo ran off down the quarterdeck ladder, glad to have something to do in a battle in which up to now he had been only a spectator. He quickly found Hill and passed on the order, which the third lieutenant at once bellowed to his excited gun captains. Paolo ran on along the length of guns passing the word to the red-haired Kenton and finally the fourth lieutenant, William Martin.
At once the gun captains shouted orders to their crews, who snatched up handspikes, long iron-tipped levers, which were slid under the breeches of the guns and took the weight while the quoins were pulled further out to raise the elevation of the barrels.
The Calypso was now ready for her third run across the French frigate’s stern and Ramage found himself wishing the wi
nd would freshen to clear the smoke from the deck. The thought had hardly formed in his mind before the first gun in the starboard broadside was firing, followed in turn by the bronchitic coughing of the rest of the guns.
Ramage watched the grapeshot sweep the French ship’s deck, seeing men fling up their arms as they were cut down.
Then the Calypso wore round again and the guns’ crews ran across to the other side, snatched up handspikes and adjusted their aim. With quoins newly positioned and the captains sighting along the barrels to make sure the elevation was correct, in a matter of moments the first gun was firing, followed in sequence by the rest of the guns.
Ramage could see the grapeshot slamming into the yards as they lay across the deck. The main-yard slewed slightly as all the grapeshot from one gun smashed into the end.
As Aitken shouted out the orders to bring the Calypso round again, Southwick gave a bellow of delight and snatched at Ramage’s arm. He was pointing aloft at the French frigate, and a few moments later Ramage realized what the master had seen: the French ship’s colours were being lowered. She was surrendering. Honourably so, Ramage thought: with those two big yards down on deck and unable to manoeuvre, it was only a matter of time before the Calypso, wearing relentlessly across her stern, pounded her to pieces.
Ramage was just about to tell Aitken to order the guns to stop firing when he realized that a breathless sailor was standing in front of him. “Mainmast lookout, sir, I can’t make you hear,” he gasped. “There’s a French frigate coming down from the north, close in with the coast.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ANOTHER frigate! This part of the Mediterranean seemed to have become a French sea! Ramage hurriedly passed the lookout’s report to Aitken and Southwick and tried to think clearly with the thunder of gunfire still numbing his brain.
Le Tigre had surrendered but there was no time to take possession of her: that probably meant that she would wait until she saw if her compatriot defeated the Calypso and then hoist her colours again. But what of the second frigate?
There was no choice: that made the decision a lot easier, he thought grimly: no time for second thoughts or misgivings or, for that matter, doubts. He called Orsini, told him of the second frigate, and ordered him to warn the officers at their quarters, and make sure that all the guns were loaded with round shot.
There was no chance of any tricks to gain surprise: the approaching frigate would have seen the gunsmoke, even if at this distance she could not distinguish the British colours. There were probably a few moments of doubt as they saw a French hull attacking a French hull, but the smoke would have been enough to send their men to general quarters: by now all her guns would be loaded and run out, ready to engage whichever of the two ships proved to be the enemy.
“Get the boats hoisted out and towing astern,” he said to Aitken. That would reduce the risk from splinters.
“It’ll make a change,” grunted Southwick. “Just a ship-to-ship action, with no nonsense.”
With his “no nonsense” Southwick dismissed actions against ships of the line and disabled frigates: the forthcoming action, he clearly considered, would be fought on equal terms, frigate against frigate. All else, his four words implied, was heresy; not to be considered by honest men.
How to tackle this frigate? A battle of broadsides or try to board? Ramage picked up the telescope and looked at the distant ship. Yes, like Le Tigre, she was a 32-gun frigate, the same as the Calypso; gun for gun they would be evenly matched. How many men would she have on board? Like the British, the French were always short of trained seamen; but unlike the British they frequently drafted soldiers on board. It was not unusual to find a ship with half a battery of artillerymen serving the guns. With luck, Ramage reflected, if there was anything of a sea running, the artillerymen had to fight seasickness as well as the enemy, so their rate of fire was slow and erratic.
But the sea was not rough; the brisk breeze was scudding clouds across the sun and knocking up white horses, but not enough to make a frigate roll or interfere with queasy gunners.
He turned to Aitken: “Steer straight for her, and warn that the guns on the larboard side will probably be firing first.”
And that, he thought, covers the tactics: stay up to windward of the enemy, so that the smoke of the guns blows clear, and then it would be a straightforward battle of broadsides, hoping that the enemy would make a mistake.
Through the telescope he could see that the approaching frigate was painted black and her sails had enough patches to indicate that she had probably been at sea some time. Was she part of a squadron which had included the two ships of the line? Was it a coincidence that she was coming along the coast of Capraia when Le Tigre was at anchor doing repairs? Ramage shrugged: the answers to the questions hardly mattered: she was approaching from ahead, and that was the only thing that concerned him for the moment.
The Sea Service pistols stuck in his belt were bruising his ribs; they grated every time he took a breath. He pushed them further round after deciding not to put them down: there was always a chance that the Calypso would end up boarding the frigate, and he did not want to waste time looking round for a brace of pistols.
He found he was becoming pleasantly excited: the prospect of an evenly matched fight against another frigate was sufficiently unusual to be welcome.
He gave an order to the quartermaster and told Aitken to harden in the sheets: he wanted to get to windward just another point, so there would be no question about the Calypso keeping up to windward of the enemy. Of course, the French frigate could always tack to the north-east—she could even turn on her heels and make a bolt for it. But Ramage was sure that she would come down to help Le Tigre. The French captain would not want to face a double charge—of cowardice, and deserting a comrade.
The frigate was a mile away now, sailing fast along the coast. Ramage glanced at the chart: there were no outlying rocks: they could manoeuvre without risk, except that if either of them was dismasted they would be blown on to the rocks, since this was a lee shore.
Could the Frenchman try any tricks? Ramage thought carefully and decided there was nothing he could not counter in time.
Three quarters of a mile, and her bow wave was curling away like a white moustache, with her sails bellying with the wind. All her guns were run out; they jutted from her side like stubby black fingers. As usual, the first broadside would be the most important because it would be fired carefully by men not coughing from gunsmoke, stunned by the noise of the guns firing, or wildly excited by the ritual of loading and firing.
Half a mile. “Orsini,” he called, “run round the larboard side guns and warn them they’ll be firing in a matter of minutes.”
The Italian youth ran off down the quarterdeck ladder and Ramage was thankful he could trust the youngster: he not only understood the orders but what was more important he understood the significance of them. He had been in action dozens of times now and one of his proudest moments, Ramage knew, was that he had taken part in the Battle of Trafalgar. It was becoming clear now that that battle was going to be the new yardstick by which actions were measured. Previously a man could say, “I was at Copenhagen,” or “I was at the Nile,” or Camperdown, the Saintes, the Glorious First of June, and other men could measure him. But Trafalgar had changed all that: it had been a victory the like of which had never before been seen. It was a new Agincourt, Ramage thought, and it would be sufficient for a man to say quietly: “Yes, I was at Trafalgar.”
But what mattered for the moment was that the Calypso was off the east coast of Capraia steering north for a French frigate. Compared with Trafalgar there was little honour in that; but an unlucky shot or splinter could make you just as dead. That was the ironic thing about death; you were still dead whether you died in a great victory like Trafalgar or from falling down a hatchway on a dark night and breaking your neck. Death worked indiscriminately.
A quarter of a mile. Ramage could imagine the second captains cocking the locks
and jumping back out of harm’s way, and the gun captains would be taking up the tension on their lanyards …
He had a momentary picture of Jackson, poised at his gun. The sandy-haired American would be grinning; not because he was amused but because he always grinned at times of stress. Along with half a dozen others still in the Calypso, Jackson had served with Ramage since before he had been given his first command, here in the Mediterranean; he had been one of the men—the most important man—helping in the rescue of Gianna from that beach at Capalbio. Gianna had come to regard him as a favourite retainer. And Jackson? Ramage had the feeling that he thought of her as a wayward niece.
Now the gun captains would be waiting for that black blur to pass twenty yards off a gun port; a black blur which gave them the signal to tug the lanyard to send the gun coughing back in recoil.
No, the Frenchman had not altered course. He was just about hard on the wind, thanks to a bend in the coast, and could do nothing to prevent the Calypso keeping up to windward.
As the Calypso’s first gun roared out Ramage saw a spurt of smoke come from the muzzle of the first French gun. A moment later, as Southwick and Aitken gripped the rail at the fore end of the quarterdeck, there was a confused roar made up of the coughing of the Calypso’s broadside and the lighter thudding of the French broadside. The sound of ripping calico warned of French round shot passing overhead.
As though a flash of lightning on a dark night had lit up the scene for a moment, Ramage had a medley of impressions: the French frigate’s black hull was stained with salt; the luff of the flying jib was wrinkled; there were at least two rusty holes amidships showing where round shot had penetrated, and there were several more further aft, showing that several of the Calypso’s gunners had taken a few moments to react to the rapidly passing target. The Tricolour was streaming out; the sails were even more patched than he thought from his view through the telescope. The small group of officers on the quarterdeck had crouched down as the Calypso passed.