by Dudley Pope
Five minutes later the Marie was reaching up to the nor’-nor’-west on the larboard tack with Dyson explaining that he wanted to get into the deep bay between Dungeness and Hythe and then bear away for the Downs, so that as far as any nosey Revenue cutter was concerned they had been fishing off the ‘Ness.
Then, sitting in the little cockpit with Dyson crouched over the compass and Louis, Stafford and Rossi down in the cuddy, Ramage was able to extract from a Jackson obviously impatient to hear of his Captain’s adventures a full report on the delivery of the despatches to Lord Nelson. The last courier had arrived in Boulogne on Sunday evening, Jackson said, with the news that “the Italian gentleman” had been arrested by the gendarmes, although at the time he left Amiens both Louis and Stafford were still free. He had emphasized to Jackson that the despatch he was delivering was of enormous importance.
Jackson said that as soon as he told Dyson they prepared to sail. By nightfall they were a mile off Boulogne and heading for the rendezvous. Fortunately the other Marie was fishing near the rendezvous, and leaving Dyson and Rossi to return to Boulogne, he went direct to Lord Nelson’s frigate in the Downs. Fifteen minutes after handing over the despatch he had been hurried below to the Admiral’s cabin and ordered to tell him everything he knew.
“I tried to avoid saying anything about the smugglers, sir, apart from the name of the smack,” Jackson said defensively, as if anticipating Ramage’s wrath, “but his Lordship said he wasn’t interested in people breaking a few laws, he was concerned about what had happened to you.
“So I just told him the bare bones of it, about how you’d been arrested in Amiens, but he saw through me: he might only have one eye, sir, but he can see through a six-inch plank. He got angry and told me you’d probably be guillotined, and the only chance of saving you depended on him knowing all the details.
“Well, I may have done the wrong thing, sir, but I then told him all I know—about the Corporal’s brother, and how you and Staff had gone off to Amiens with Louis, and how you’d passed the despatches back to Boulogne. At the end of it all he seemed very upset; he turned to the Captain of the frigate and said, ‘We’ve got what we wanted, but it’s cost us young Ramage: those damned French will chop his head off—probably have already. Damme, we can’t afford to lose young men like him!’
“Well, sir, I hadn’t much hope for you when we left Boulogne, and hearing his Lordship say that put the seal on it. When I got back on board the Boulogne Marie that night and told Slushy, he wouldn’t believe it though—credit where credit’s due. He reckoned that Louis was a match for them French policemen. Seems he was right!”
The hiss of a bow wave, the rattle of blocks and the flap of a sail high overhead made Ramage realize with a sudden shock which turned his stomach to water that the dark patch on the Marie’s larboard bow was a large ship steering north. A blinding flash and thud warned him that she had opened fire.
“Wear round and run inshore!” Ramage shouted at Dyson. “That was only a warning shot!”
Dyson thrust the tiller over and Jackson leapt to overhaul the mainsheet. Rossi, Louis and Stafford scrambled up out of the cuddy as the Marie’s bow began to swing.
The jib flapped and a moment later the big boom slammed over and the Marie heeled in response. Hurriedly the jib was sheeted in and Ramage looked astern. She was a frigate—that much was clear in the darkness—and the Marie’s sudden right-angled jink had taken her by surprise: already she had ploughed on to the north and the fishing-boat was safe from her broadside guns, though alert men at the stern-chasers might get in a shot.
As the frigate disappeared in the darkness, occasional shafts of moonlight through the clouds lit up her sails. No, she wasn’t wearing round after the Marie. Ramage looked round warily to the south: no, she wasn’t leaving the Marie to a consort following along astern.
“Sleepy lot over there,” Jackson commented to Stafford. “They left it too late to fire that warning shot.”
“I ain’t complaining,” the Cockney said. “So ‘elp me, ‘ow the ‘ell are we going to tell ‘em we’re reelly friends?”
Ramage strained his eyes in the darkness as a cloud across the moon hid the frigate’s sails. There was something damned strange about the whole episode. Her Captain was not sleepy—he was wide awake and probably standing on the quarterdeck with his night-glass: no one patrolling close inshore, watching for French ships trying to run the blockade, was anything but alert, and all his officers and lookouts too. There would be six lookouts—two on each bow, beam and quarter, and with a moon like this probably a man aloft as well.
Yet that warning shot had been fired astern of the Marie and much too late. It was fired when the frigate was in no position to cut her off and almost too far past to loose off a broadside. Given that she could not stop the Marie escaping, why fire a warning shot? Why fire when there was no time to wait for a response and, if none was forthcoming, follow it up with a broadside?
Ramage shrugged his shoulders: perhaps he was making too much of it: the frigate may have just fired a random shot to frighten a French fishing smack back into port, having spotted her at the last moment against the land and decided not to bother with a broadside. For the moment he was thankful that they were all still alive. But it was a long way to the English coast and that frigate might well turn south again, and she was certainly not the only one out patrolling that night.
They must assume that the Marie would meet her again. They could try to sneak out and hope for the best, risking the frigate thundering down and firing a broadside that would lift the Marie out of the water and scatter the pieces like driftwood. Or they could try getting close enough—waving a lantern, perhaps—and hailing her, explaining that the Marie was English. British, rather. He put himself in a frigate captain’s position and knew it would not work until they were within a few miles of the English coast. No frigate captain would believe a British fishing-boat could be sailing close along the French coast: he would immediately assume it was some sort of trick and open fire—and who could blame him: why risk a frigate for the sake of some wild shouts from a fishing smack?
One thing was certain: the Marie couldn’t spend the rest of the night sailing up and down the coast off Le Tréport. Of the alternatives, trying to sneak across the Channel was the most likely to succeed. Once again Ramage was puzzled by the frigate’s last-minute warning shot. It was as if she had been expecting to find a ship to seaward of her, and had only spotted the Marie inshore at the last moment …
“We’re getting close to the beach, sir,” Dyson murmured. “Water gets a bit shallow!”
“Very well, bear up and run south, parallel with the shore. Jackson, Stafford—stand by the mainsheet; Rossi and Louis—jib sheet!”
Dyson leaned on the tiller and the seamen heaved in the sheets until both jib and mainsail were trimmed to the wind now on their starboard beam. The clouds, still broken up, let patches of moonlight skim across the surface of the sea, but there was no sign now of the frigate’s sails over on the starboard quarter: she must have carried on northwards, probably intending to go up as far as Boulogne before turning south again. It was idle to speculate; all that mattered for the moment was that she had not turned back to investigate the Marie. No doubt her Captain assumed that she was a French fishing-boat and had scurried back into port.
Scurry back into port! Yes, the last thing the frigate Captain would expect was that she would go boldly offshore, heading for the middle of the Channel. Do the unexpected—surprise won battles. Ramage knew that most of his successful actions in the past owed more to achieving surprise than to clever planning.
“Stand by at the sheets! Dyson, we’re going to bear up again: I want to get well out into the Channel. Forget that damned compass; just get her bowling along hard on the wind. Southwest on the starboard tack should keep us clear of the frigate.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Dyson said crisply as the other four men made sure the sheets were clear.
For the
first time in many days (weeks, in fact) Ramage felt exhilarated: he was back at sea, making his own decisions and with a good crew. Admittedly the vessel he commanded was very small, but it was only a matter of scale: a fishing-boat escaping from a frigate; a frigate escaping from a ship of the line … The problem was the same.
The men were ready and he gave Dyson the order. The Marie slowly edged round to starboard and the men grunted and swore as they hardened in the sheets, while Dyson edged her closer and closer to the wind. With the sheets turned up on the cleats, Ramage looked questioningly at Dyson: the Marie seemed a little sluggish.
“She likes a bit more jib, sir,” he said almost apologetically. “Bit ‘ard-mouthed she is, at the moment.”
“Rossi, give him a couple of feet on that jib sheet,” Ramage said. “Easy now, mind it doesn’t run away with you. Here, Stafford, tail on the end!”
Almost at once the Marie came to life; the sluggishness vanished and she was as skittish as a fresh horse, her bow rising and falling gracefully as she drove to windward across the crests and troughs, her stem bursting random wavetops into sheets of spray.
Ramage tapped Dyson on the shoulder as he hunched to one side of the tiller. “I didn’t know she had it in her; she’s a real thoroughbred!” And Dyson knew how to get the best out of her, that was clear enough. Not only get the best out of her, Ramage suddenly realized, but how to sneak her past the frigates! He had probably been doing it once a week for several years! Ramage felt a bit sheepish at his earlier fears and was thankful he had kept them to himself. Not that this was the time to relax—the frigates would be patrolling very close in to Boulogne, since that was nearly every blockade-runner’s destination. Down here, where the coast was a series of bays and headlands, they would be patrolling a much wider band, since blockade-runners might try to stand several miles out or creep along a mile off the beach.
Ramage gestured to the seamen. “Stafford and Rossi—you keep a sharp lookout to larboard; Jackson and Louis—take the starboard side. We’re small enough to stand a chance of spotting someone else before they see us, so we’ll be able to dodge.”
The jail cell at Amiens seemed a lifetime away now; the time he and Stafford had spent hunched over the candle in the hotel room opening those seals was so remote that it might have happened to someone else. Soon, all being well, they would be working their way into Folkestone. No, not Folkestone! It would be too complicated trying to explain to the Revenue men why there were two identical smacks called Marie in the same port! If they made for the Downs, it would give him time to explain things to Lord Nelson. Then, perhaps, the Admiralty would write a discreet letter to the Board of Customs, and after a few expressions of outraged indignation, the Customs might agree …
“Fine on the larboard bow, sir!” Stafford hissed. “A schooner or summat: hundred yards away an’ convergin’.”
“Bear away!” Ramage snapped. “Let the sheets run, lads!”
Rakish hull, two masts, fore-and-aft rig—that much Ramage could see as the Marie began to turn away and then he was momentarily blinded by a ripple of flashes along the stranger’s bulwarks. Above the squealing of the sheets running through the blocks, the flogging of the heavy sails and the creak of the gaff jaws on the Marie’s mast, he heard the dull popping of muskets.
Thank goodness the Marie turned on her heel like a dancer. A French chasse-marée! Damnation, that was what the frigate had been hunting! He dodged across the Marie’s deck to keep her in sight as the fishing-boat headed inshore again, and saw that both hull and sails were shortening: she was turning after them: any moment she would wear and, with the wind right aft, she would be down on them long before they could get into shallow water.
Where the devil was that frigate now, he thought bitterly as he watched first the big mainsail and then the foresail swing over on the chasse-marée. They were in no hurry because they had their quarry in sight and knew they had the legs of her. The Marie had only one advantage, and that slight enough: she could tack and wear more swiftly, jinking like a snipe in front of a sportsman’s gun.
If the Marie waited until she was nearly on her, until the chasse-marée’s damnably long bowsprit was almost poking down their collars, then wore right across her bow at the last moment, risking a collision? It might catch the French ruffians unawares because they would expect the Marie to turn the other way. Not much of a surprise really, except that the men with the muskets would be waiting on the starboard side, and would have to dash over to the larboard as the Marie suddenly ducked under her bow.
The chasse-marée Captain must be out of his mind, risking revealing his position to a British frigate by firing a lot of muskets at a fishing smack, for the flashes could be seen a long way off. Unless the Frenchman did not know the frigate was around … But surely he must have seen the flash of her warning shot at the Marie?
“There’s a battery on the coast just north of Mers,” Dyson said, as though reading Ramage’s thoughts. “That chasse-marée probably thought they fired the shot, not the frigate, and came up to have a look. Not our night, it ain’t …”
Ramage guessed that that explained why a chasse-marée had opened fire on what was apparently a French smack: a shot from a shore battery would tell her that an enemy vessel was around. But there was no more time for idle thoughts: the chasse-marée was now racing up astern, her bow wave showing clearly in the patches of moonlight. She was slightly to larboard of the Marie’s wake and fifty yards away: any minute now those muskets would start popping, trying the range.
“Dyson,” Ramage snapped, “we’re going to wear right across this fellow’s bow at the very last moment. Just shave his stem. I’ll give the word, but be ready. The rest of you, stand by at the sheets. One kinked rope jamming in a block and she’ll cut us in half, so have a care!”
He looked back over the Marie’s larboard quarter but as he turned his head, he caught sight of a large, dark shape: a dark shape topped by a series of rectangles that glowed in the moonlight like distant phosphorescence—the frigate was back, reaching south along the coast and steering to intercept the chasse-marée, which seemed to have not yet sighted her.
“Belay all that,” he told Dyson hastily, “here comes the frigate!”
At that moment the chasse-marée sighted her and immediately wore round to larboard, her booms and gaffs crashing across with a noise that could be heard from the Marie, hardening in sheets at the run and obviously hoping to claw up to windward of the frigate. But it was going to be close. It was the Frenchmen’s only chance, and a desperate one, with the chasse-marée’s Captain gambling that he could pass the frigate so fast on an almost opposite course that their combined speeds would spoil the British gunners’ aim.
The frigate’s starboard side suddenly dissolved in a blinding flash. The roar and rumble of her whole broadside came across the water and moments later echoed back from the cliffs.
“Cor, that blinded me!” Stafford exclaimed.
“Likely to have done more than that to the Frenchies,” Dyson said. “An ‘ole broadside!”
“Dismasted her,” Jackson said quietly. “I can just see her. She’s lying—”
“I see her,” Ramage said, “but that damned frigate’s seen us: she’s going to leave the Frenchman for a few minutes and deal with us.”
The frigate ploughed on towards the Marie and Ramage knew there was now no chance: she would be on them before they were close enough inshore to get her Captain worried about the depth of water under her keel, and with her gunners alert the
Marie’s chances of tacking and wearing her way out of trouble were nil.
Surrender! The frigate would soon heave-to and hoist out boats to deal with the dismasted chasse-marée, so there was a chance they would accept the Marie’s surrender, and that would give him time to identify himself.
“Jackson and Stafford—let go the main halyards! Watch your head, Dyson! Rossi, let the jib halyard run!”
At the same time Ramage jumped over and le
t the jib sheet fly: the sail started flogging immediately, and he jumped back to the weather side with Dyson as the heavy boom, mainsail and the gaff crashed down like a collapsed tent.
Slowly the Marie lost way and paid off with the wind and sea on her beam. A minute or two later the frigate was to windward and Ramage heard shouts and blocks squealing as she tacked, and a voice shouted in bad French: “You surrender?”
“We’re British,” Ramage bellowed. “Yes, we’ll wait here!”
“You surrender,” ordered the voice, magnified by a speaking-trumpet, in a disbelieving and uncompromising tone. “We’ll send a boat in a few minutes.”
With that the frigate bore away and headed back to the chasse-marée, now a wallowing hulk, and hove-to just to windward. Ramage could imagine the bustle as boats were hoisted out. One would be enough for the Frenchmen—they would have no fight left in them, and the frigate was perfectly placed to give them another broadside if necessary. And one boat would be enough for the little Marie!
“Dyson, see if you can get into the cuddy: we need a lantern. It might save a lot of misunderstanding when the boat gets here.”
With that they began hauling the heavy folds of sail away from the hatch. It was hard work, with both boom and gaff sliding a few inches one way and another as the Marie rolled. Several minutes later they had cleared enough space for Dyson to slide down into the cuddy while the five of them leaned hard against the boom in case it slipped and crushed him.