by Dudley Pope
“I expect Mr Hill thought he had seen the last of us, too,” Ramage said grimly.
Orsini went back to the jolly-boat and ferried the fat man before resuming escorting the cutters. Ramage could see the crowd of Frenchmen assembled on the beach growing larger and larger.
The fat man was made to stand at the gangway with two marines behind him. He was, Ramage thought, one of the most repulsive men he had ever seen. The fat on his stomach made him look like an inflated bladder; the fat on his face hung down like the jowls of a bloodhound. The man was greasy and unshaven. But even as he stood in front of the two marines he was wringing his hands, like an apologetic innkeeper. He said nothing but his hands kept on moving. Clearly, Ramage realized, the man expected to be shot and thrown over the side. Well, there was no reason to let him think differently—for a while, anyway.
“Well,” Ramage said coldly in French, “your commanding officer had surrendered the ship, hadn’t he?”
“Yes, m’sieur.”
“And that included you?”
“Yes, m’sieur.”
“Then why did you make my men hostages and tell the boat to keep off?”
“I don’t know, m’sieur,” the man said miserably.
“Don’t be stupid: you persuaded the rest of your ship’s company to follow you.”
“Oh no!” the man exclaimed. “No, they didn’t. At least, a few did but the rest said it was suicide. Why—they ran aft and surrendered the ship again just as you were going to open fire!”
“Oh, so it wasn’t you surrendering?”
“No, sir,” the man said, perspiring freely and wiping his forehead with his hand. “No, not me.”
“Why not? Didn’t you agree with them surrendering?”
“I was too scared,” the man admitted. “I thought you were going to rake us again—and I was afraid of being killed.”
Well, Ramage thought, at least you are an honest man. He turned and told Aitken in English to pass the word to Rennick to have a file of half a dozen marines line up on the gangway facing the fat man.
It took several minutes and during that time Ramage did not speak a word. The fat man, eyes bulging, watched every move round him. Finally the file of marines were ready and Sergeant Ferris saluted Ramage smartly. “The men you requested all fallen in and ready, sir.”
“Very well, Sergeant,” Ramage said formally, returning the salute.
By now there was almost complete silence on deck: seamen had stopped and were watching the fat man; Aitken and Southwick stood to one side of Ramage and Sergeant Ferris stood beside the marines.
Ramage turned again to the Frenchman, who was perspiring so heavily he looked as though he was melting.
“What you were doing,” Ramage said deliberately, “was fomenting a mutiny. Your captain—the lieutenant who had taken over command—had surrendered. In other words he had given you orders to cease fighting. But later you—whoever you are—gave new orders to the men: you told them to drive off the English, to whom your new captain had surrendered.
“Death!” Ramage suddenly thundered at the man, who immediately fainted in an untidy heap.
The two marines behind him put their muskets down on the deck and dragged him to his feet, letting go of him as soon as he could stand unaided.
Ramage said: “Death! That is what I could order, and there—” he pointed to the marines, “—are the men of a firing squad. Yes, death is what I could order for you. And I may yet. For the time being you will be taken below and put in irons.”
As soon as the man had been taken away, Southwick said: “I thought you meant it! It would have been the first firing squad you’ve ever assembled.”
“The fat man thought I meant it, too,” Ramage said. “I’ve never seen anyone faint like that before!”
Ramage waited until the two cutters had finished ferrying the prisoners ashore and as soon as they turned back towards the Calypso with the jolly-boat he said: “Pass the word for the carpenter, Mr Southwick: we’ll go over and inspect Le Tigre. I want to see what repairs have to be done to make her seaworthy.”
The three men went across in the jolly-boat to find Hill ready to greet them.
“I expect I gave you a few minutes of worry,” Ramage said to Hill. The third lieutenant grinned.
“You did, sir: I had a feeling that you were serious.”
“I was,” Ramage admitted, “but I thought the Frenchman’s nerve would fail first.”
Ramage led the way below. Aft the captain’s day cabin, dining cabin and bed place were no longer recognizable: the bulkheads had been smashed in along with the stern-lights: there was no sign windows had ever been fitted in the transom. The grapeshot, after smashing in the cabins, had swept forward to pepper the mizen-mast and rip at the carriages of the aftermost guns.
On deck the main-yard had been hit by three shot which had, fortunately, not split the spar. The original damage which had caused the French to lower the spar down on to the deck comprised a long shake, or split, in the middle which the French had already begun to fish by fixing battens round it, like long splints.
The carpenter inspected the spar with Southwick, and then reported to Ramage: “A day’s work to repair it and the foreyard and sway them up again, sir.”
“Very well,” Ramage said. “Have as many men as you want. What about the damage below?”
The carpenter shrugged his shoulders. “We can’t do anything about the damage from our broadsides, sir: that’s a dockyard job. I’ll just check the steering and the foot of the mizen-mast, and sound the well. But that’s all I can do.”
“A day, eh? So we can get the ship under way in two days.”
“Unless I find the steering damaged, sir, or something unexpected.”
“Good. All I want is to get her under way; she need not be in fighting trim, but she must sail.”
He then sent for Hill, and talking to him from amid the wreckage of the captain’s cabin he said: “You are going to be the prize-master, with Orsini as your second-in-command. From now on you will live on board and start getting the ship ready for sea. I’ll send you twenty-five men, and as soon as you can you’ll have the rigging fitted and the main-yard and foreyard crossed.”
“Aye aye, and thank you, sir,” Hill said. “Where do I make for?”
“Naples. You’ll sail in company with the Calypso, but get what charts you might need from Southwick and copy them: we might be separated by bad weather.”
Having given his orders, Ramage took the carpenter back to the Calypso to collect the tools he needed and the carpenter’s mates. Ramage told Aitken to choose twenty-five men to go across and put themselves under Hill’s command. “There should be plenty of provisions and water,” he said, “but pass the word to Hill to check them.”
Fishing the two yards and plugging the worst shot-holes took the full day that the carpenter had estimated, but in the meantime Hill’s men had lowered the topgallant and foresails and overhauled them, before sending them up again. Hill had the main course spread out over the deck and overhauled, several patches being stitched in where there was chafe. Finally, the two yards were hoisted up and fitted in place.
Later that afternoon Jackson and Stafford were standing on the Calypso’s fo’c’sle with Rossi and Gilbert. The sun was still high, there was little more than a gentle breeze from the south-west giving the two ships a lee from Capraia at last—and the clouds were rounded into fantastic shapes, reminding Jackson of Trade Wind clouds and making him nostalgic for the West Indies.
“Yer know,” Stafford said, “I can’t see ‘ow all those prisoners from the two frigates are going to survive on that island. There can’t be much more food than the local people need …”
“I can guess who is going to go without,” Jackson commented. “Yus, so can I, but it don’t seem fair.”
Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “It wouldn’t be fair to have 350 French prisoners on board us, either. They’d outnumber us by a hundred or so, and with a few c
haps like that fat man they’d soon try to take the ship. Probably succeed, too: sheer weight of numbers.”
“All right, all right. I’m persuaded Jacko,” Stafford said. “But what d’you think, Gilbert?”
“I think Mr Ramage was right. It wouldn’t matter to me if Capraia was a desert island with no water: I wouldn’t keep those men on board as prisoners. They’d turn on us and cut our throats.”
“What’s Mr Ramage going to do with the fat man?” Stafford asked Jackson.
“How should I know? If it was up to me I’d throw him over the side, but I suppose he’ll be brought to trial, or something.”
“I thought I’d fall down laughing when he fainted,” Stafford said. “I quite believed Mr Ramage when he said ‘Death!’—it’s about the only French word I understand. I expected the marines to shoot him there and then.”
“So did I,” Gilbert admitted, “and it’s a pity they didn’t. That man is evil.”
“Well, he’s down below in irons now,” Jackson said.
“Yus, that’s all very well, but he could have been the death of Mr Hill and the marines. Mr Ramage was all ready to rake ‘em again!”
“I wonder,” Jackson said. “He wanted the fat man to think so, and the only way to do that was to sail across his stern. But don’t you reckon he was bluffing?”
“There’s no way of telling,” Rossi said. “If he was bluffing, well, it worked, and that’s all that matters.”
“Gave Mr Hill a bad five minutes, though.”
“Gave everyone a bad five minutes,” Jackson said, “including Mr Ramage. If his bluff hadn’t worked, he’d have had to open fire, and can you imagine how he’d have felt, firing on his own men?”
“Not half as bad as the men,” Stafford said ironically. “But you’re probably right, Jacko; he was bluffing, and he guessed right that the fat man’s nerve wouldn’t hold out.”
“It wasn’t Mr Ramage’s first bit of bluff today,” Gilbert pointed out. “That was bluff when he steered across the bow of that ship of the line.”
Jackson shook his head.
“I don’t agree with you there, Gilbert. No one knew the Frenchman would turn away, and I’m damned sure Mr Ramage wasn’t going to. It’s just that the French captain lost his nerve.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Gilbert, showing excitement for the first time that Jackson could remember. “The French captain’s nerve broke before Mr Ramage’s, just as the fat man’s did. That’s where Mr Ramage is so clever, he knows the French so well. He knows exactly when they will break.”
Jackson shook his head again, only this time it was because of near incredulity. “I believe you are right, Gilbert. I never thought of it like that but, as you say, it’s the second time today.”
Gilbert nodded contentedly. “Yes, to understand Mr Ramage’s mind, you have to think like a Frenchman.”
“He’s right, Jacko,” Rossi said. “He understands the French mind. The Italian, too: you remember all the tricks he played when we’ve been in Italy.”
“Well, he speaks Italian and French: they’re very much alike, and perhaps speaking the language gives you an insight into the way they think.”
“Try and think of another explanation,” Stafford said. “There isn’t one. Not unless you want to believe in magic and voodoo.”
“I tell you someone else like Mr Ramage,” Gilbert said, “and that’s Mr Orsini.”
“You’re right!” Jackson exclaimed. “He would have stayed almost alongside that frigate this morning if I hadn’t steered us away without orders. I thought then he was just excited and forgot to get us out of range, but I think you’re right; he knew Mr Ramage was bluffing.”
“He’s a bright young lad, that’s for sure,” Stafford said. “It’s a pity the marcheeza can’t see him.”
“Marchesa,” said Jackson. “She’s dead by now,” he added lugubriously. “Boney’s men will have murdered her.”
“I don’t see why,” Stafford said.
“Don’t be stupid!” Rossi said explosively. “You don’t think Bonaparte would let her go back to Volterra, do you? Why, if she suddenly arrived just about everyone would rally to her and revolt against the French.”
“Yus, but he can put her in prison in Paris.”
“That’s not Bonaparte’s way. He’d be afraid she would escape. No, he’d kill her. Then there’s no risk of her escaping and no risk of her marrying and having children, which would mean heirs.”
“She was a wonderful woman,” Stafford said. “What times we had with her on board. I always reckoned Mr Ramage would marry her.”
“Religion,” Jackson said laconically. “She was Catholic, he’s a Protestant. Anyway, she was very hot-tempered, you know; I don’t reckon she would have suited Mr Ramage over the long haul. I reckon Lady Sarah suits him in every way. A fine woman, Lady Sarah.”
“I’m not saying she isn’t,” Stafford said hastily. “I was just thinking about the marcheeza. It’s horrible to think of her murdered. She was so young—and so, well, alive.”
“Well, you’d better get used to the idea that she’s dead,” Jackson said quietly. “I’m sure both Mr Ramage and Mr Orsini think she’s dead. Not that they have any way of knowing one way or another.”
“It’s a damned shame,” Stafford said. “Such a beautiful lady she was.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
REAR-ADMIRAL Charles Rudd was extremely angry. “Damnation, Ramage, you let a couple of ships of the line slip through our fingers while you went chasing after a couple of frigates!”
“But sir, I could never have got here in time for you to send a force to take those ships.”
“How do you know? You’ve no idea how long it took them to get seaworthy again. I’d been looking everywhere for them. It was your duty to get here as fast as you could and warn me.”
Ramage repressed a sigh. He had already described to the rear-admiral in both words and a written report the circumstances of the collision, and how he had considered and finally turned down the idea of making a dash for Naples to raise the alarm, knowing there was no time, but the rear-admiral could not get out of his mind the picture of two ships of the line locked together and helpless, just waiting to be captured.
It was hot in the cabin of the flagship; the Defender was lying at anchor in an airless Naples Bay, a 100-gun ship with two 74s nearby. Rudd, a thin-faced, morose man with a high-pitched voice, had greeted the Calypso’s arrival with Le Tigre without enthusiasm. Almost his first words when Ramage had reported on board the flagship had been: “Let me have your written report.” It was only after he had read the report and discovered about the collision between the two French ships that he had become enraged, vowing that his two 74s could have got to the French before they could have made themselves seaworthy.
The sinking of one frigate and the capture of another, even though the circumstances were fully described in the report, were dismissed as being of slight importance. Finally Ramage thought of a way to change the subject slightly.
“The prisoners I put ashore on the island of Capraia, sir: I doubt if there is nearly enough food on the island for them and the local people.”
“I should think not,” Rudd growled. “I don’t know why the devil you landed all the prisoners there.”
The remark was so stupid and unfair, in Ramage’s view, that he made no comment: one could not argue with flag-officers, at least not with this one, who seemed to be singularly obtuse.
Rudd’s day cabin in the Defender, extending the width of the ship, was sparsely furnished. Either Rudd liked to live a Spartan existence or he was a poor man, unlucky where prize-money was concerned. There were half a dozen chairs, a small table that showed he did not do much entertaining on board, a battered mahogany wine cooler which most flag-officers would have scorned, regarding it as only suitable for the wardroom, and the curtains drawn back on either side of the stern-lights were of heavy red velvet, well faded by sunlight.
The furnishings of the cab
in, Ramage thought, were a clue to Rudd’s attitude: he was a disappointed man.
Rudd tapped Ramage’s report, which he was still holding in his hand. “I shall forward this to Their Lordships, and I can tell you they won’t like it. No, they won’t like it a bit. They will consider—as I do—that you have not backed up your flag-officer: instead, you have chased after prize-money. Well, I warn you now, I may not buy in Le Tigre; she needs a great deal of repair, judging from your report, and I have next to no facilities here. So let that be a lesson to you: do your duty instead of chasing after prize-money.”
The remark was so obviously that of an embittered man that before Ramage could stop himself he said: “I don’t need the money, sir.”
“Ha, that’s an old excuse! Where do you think your present command came from?”
“I captured it in the West Indies,” Ramage said quietly, and Rudd gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Well, Ramage, you arrive here with a frigate and another one which is badly damaged, and a tale of four hundred prisoners abandoned on the island of Capraia. What am I supposed to do?”
Ramage realized that whatever he said would be wrong: the rear-admiral was still dazzled by the prospect of two French ships of the line locked together, just waiting for him to come along and capture them and pocket the prize-money—and buy some new curtains, Ramage thought.
And why, Ramage thought angrily, if I can sink one and capture another French frigate in a morning, are Rudd’s frigates and 74s spending their time at anchor in Naples Bay? Yet he knew that a junior post captain expecting to be treated fairly by a new flag-officer was whistling in the dark. Or, rather, singing to the moon.
“I suppose I have to collect those prisoners,” Rudd continued. Then apparently not realizing the contradiction, said: “I’ll need to send both my 74s if there are four hundred of them.”
So, Ramage thought bitterly, two 74s are going to be sent to carry out a task that a few minutes ago you expected to be done by one frigate’s ship’s company …
“You’ll forfeit the head-money,” Rudd said. “I’m not paying out for prisoners I have to collect myself.”