The Ramage Touch

by Dudley Pope

  ‘We’ll have to make do with what we’ve got. The Battle of Punta Ala – or do you prefer the Battle of Punta Hidalgo, that’s this point close to us.’

  ‘Ala,’ Southwick said firmly. ‘Hidalgo sounds foreign. It’s not an Italian word, is it, sir? Seems more Spanish to me. Haven’t I heard it in connection with horses, or estates or something like that?’

  ‘Gentleman. Just a gentleman. Perhaps you’re thinking of a gentleman riding round his estate on a horse.’

  ‘Why should there be a Punta “Hidalgo” here, then?’ Southwick asked, gesturing towards the headland to seaward of them, which had Punta Ala beyond to the westward.

  ‘Not so long ago the Spanish owned all this. Most of these castles and watch-towers along the coast were built by the Spanish, by Philip II. Just down the coast here, at Santo Stefano, there’s one of his splendid fortresses which is named after him, the Fortezza di Filippo Secondo.’

  ‘But what did the Spanish want with all this land in Italy?’

  ‘The Spanish want land wherever they can get it! Anyway, the Grand Duke of Tuscany is a Habsburg. He’s a weak man who just buckled under to Bonaparte. Don’t mention his name to the Marchesa! Her mother reckoned that every Habsburg should be hanged with a thin rope from a tall tree.’

  Ramage picked up the French signal book and began flicking over the pages. He had a personal rule never to trust his memory, so he looked through the signals again. There was only one that could be applied, ‘All captains to report immediately to the flagship.’ The Calypso, even while pretending to be French, was certainly no flagship; but obviously her captain was by far the senior officer present – at most the galliots would be commanded by lieutenants and if the one that had emerged briefly during the night was anything to go by, they were former mates or even bosuns of coasting craft pressed into the Navy to serve the new Republic.

  Ramage held up the book and pointed out the flags to Southwick. ‘You’re right; I suppose we might as well hoist them now. The captains will be wakened eventually and they’ll get nervous because they won’t know how long the signal’s been up.’

  Southwick sniffed, a quiet but contemptuous sniff which in one brief indrawn breath revealed his opinion of the French Ministry of Marine, French naval officers in general, and commanders of galliots in particular. ‘When do we let them know we’re British, sir? I mean, do you want all the officers to wear trousers and shirts, not uniforms?’

  ‘Yes, then they need not stay out of sight of the ships. Marines had better dress as seamen. I could send Renwick over now with his men, but we might just as well make it a bloodless capture. Renwick won’t thank us, but we’re more likely to find out what we want from the French officers this way, because the alternative is being put back on board their ships and having one of our broadsides follow them.’

  Leaving instructions that he was to be called the moment there was any sign of movement on board either ship, Ramage went below to shave, change into a shirt and nankin trousers, and have his breakfast. One thing that could be said in the Mediterranean’s favour was that, as in the West Indies, it was easy to get fruit and vegetables – in the summer, anyway.

  Ramage had just finished shaving, in cold water because the galley fire was out, and was tying his stock when Southwick called down the skylight: ‘Couple of fellows moving about on deck in the galliot to starboard, sir. They haven’t noticed the signal.’

  His steward was handing Ramage his shoes (the fourth best pair with silver buckles) when Southwick reported a man relieving himself over the side of the other ship to larboard without, apparently, even noticing the Calypso. Ramage had just finished his breakfast and was dawdling over a cup of green tea when Southwick called down that there were now half a dozen men on board the vessel to starboard and they had just noticed the signal.

  ‘I hope you’re not in uniform,’ Ramage said, irritated that he had not finished his tea.

  ‘Pusser’s shirt and trousers, sir,’ Southwick answered. ‘I look as though I’ve just been elected by a Revolutionary committee. Ah, that looks like the master, or captain. Yes, he’s gesturing to have the boat lowered. Seems to be in a fine fury. The boat in the transom davits seems to be the only one they have. Yes, he’s run down to his cabin – back he comes with his hat. And rubbing his face with a wet cloth. Hah! Sword in one hand, wet cloth in the other, and his headache thudding, too, I’ll be bound. Phew, they let the boat drop with a run – marvel it hasn’t stove in some planks. The captain heard it and he’s fairly dancing round with rage. In fact he’s just hit a man with the flat of his sword. Now the rope ladder’s been let fall…he’ll be on his way, in a few minutes.’

  Some ten minutes later Southwick whispered a hoarse warning through the skylight and then the sentry gave a double knock and pushed the door open. A slim man with a wrinkled, tanned face and wearing a faded blue shirt and well-patched white trousers, a broad leather cutlass belt diagonally across his shoulders, walked nervously into the cabin, looking left and right like a bird fearing a trap.

  The Frenchman had reached this far without anyone speaking a word: as he came up the side he had been met by Southwick, who pointed to the companionway, and then the sentry had pointed at the open door.

  Suddenly the man caught sight of Ramage sitting at the table, a cup and saucer in front of him. He smiled uncertainly, careful as he walked towards Ramage not to bump his head on the deck beams above. There was considerably more headroom than in his galliot, but still not enough to allow him to stand upright.

  ‘Renouf,’ the man said by way of introduction, ‘lieutenant de vaisseau…’

  Ramage stood up with just the right pause to be expected from a captain in the Revolutionary Navy. ‘Ramage,’ he murmured, giving his name its French pronunciation and turning an old Cornish surname into the French word for the music of birds. He held out his hand and the Frenchman shook it as though it might bite him and then sat in the chair to which Ramage had gestured.

  ‘You have your orders?’ Ramage asked in French with suitable brusqueness.

  Renouf burrowed into the pocket sewn inside his shirt and brought out a twice-folded sheet of paper. He opened it, smoothed it carefully on his knee and then handed it to Ramage.

  The orders told Renouf, commanding Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor, bomb vessel, to proceed to Candia, on the island of Crete, and there await further orders. (Ramage was amused to notice that despite the Revolution, French orders were written in the same dead language contrived by British government officials.) Each ship was commanded by a lieutenant, but the two were treated as a little squadron of which Renouf was the senior officer.

  The paper was coarse, and at the top was a circle with an anchor in the centre surrounded by ‘Rep. Fran. Marine’ with ‘LIBERTÉ’ in capital letters printed separately to the left and ‘EGALITÉ’ to the right. The unbleached paper, an economy measure or perhaps just poor papermaking because it soaked up the ink like cloth, had a faint greyness as though the colour of communications from Le Ministre de la Marine et des Colonies in Paris was always like this, even when the actual orders came from the Chef d’Administration de la Marine, Brest (although given in the name of the Minister and la République une et indivisible).

  The orders were dated – Ramage paused, working out the new French calendar – four months ago. It had been a long voyage for the two galliots, all the way round the Spanish peninsula from Brest. Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor…that name was a special date, but what the devil was it? The first of September was the fifteenth of Fructidor, so the eighteenth was the fourth of September. What had happened then? It did not give the year, either. The new Revolutionary calendar began on 22 September 1792, and introduced a ten-day week. So the 18 Fructidor could be the birth of the galliot’s original owner’s mother-in-law.

  Ramage searched his memory. Several years ago Robespierre had fallen and the new government had exiled to Devil’s Island everyone suspected of being lukewarm towards the Revolution. Within a year or so there
had been revolts against the Revolutionaries (the Convention, rather)…Then there was the Paris rising, which was put down when a young General Bonaparte fired on the Paris rebels with grapeshot, and a new Constitution came into force. The currency collapsed, food prices went up like celebration rockets, and never came down again. The new Directory was not popular. Then General Bonaparte returned from Italy, marched on the capital and scores of deputies were arrested and exiled to Devil’s Island.

  That coup d’état, or whatever it was called, had been on 4 September 1797, which was le dix-huit Fructidor in year five of the Revolution? Well, Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor, galliot, named after the event, was herself going to suffer a coup d’état within the next half-hour. As far as she was concerned the Revolutionary wheel would have turned a complete revolution. The thought made him smile, and he realized that Renouf was smiling back rather uncertainly, wise enough to know that junior officers always smiled when their seniors smiled.

  Renouf, however, was looking too comfortable. The narrow Gallic face with its olive skin, the hair black and wavy, the queue long and tightly bound, the eyes brown but bloodshot and trying to avoid the glare from the rising sun now beginning to come through the stern lights behind Ramage, needed shaking up. Renouf needed reminding that his head throbbed, that he felt shaky from the night’s wine bibbing. He had to be unwary and weak: unwary while he still thought that the Calypso was French; weak when he found that he was a prisoner.

  Ramage coughed in the way that most superior officers did before finding fault or blaming juniors. Renouf glanced up nervously to find that the Calypso’s captain had folded the page of orders and was using it to tap the table top.

  ‘Citizen Renouf –you seem to be taking your time over this voyage. When the Chef d’Administration at Brest gave you these orders, I’m sure…’

  ‘But the additional orders,’ Renouf protested. ‘From Toulon – they modify those.’

  ‘What additional orders?’ Ramage demanded heavily, deliberately sounding doubtful, as though accusing Renouf of lying.

  Again the Frenchman ferreted around in his pocket and, with the clumsiness of a man not used to handling papers, came out with another folded sheet, which he handed to Ramage after opening and smoothing the page.

  Obviously the bomb ketches had called in at Toulon to repair damage or get supplies, instead of making the passage to Italy direct from the Strait of Gibraltar, and, all navies being the same, the unexpected arrival of a couple of extra ships had to be turned to some advantage, however brief. Then Ramage read the extra orders again more carefully and discovered that his first glance had given him the wrong impression. Apparently the ketches were far more important to the French than he had thought, and they were to be escorted by two frigates. These frigates would meet them just down the coast on the other side of Argentario at Porto Ercole. He cursed the Revolutionary calendar but worked out that it meant in five days’ time. The two frigates were going there after landing some stores at Bastia, in Corsica. The ketches should by then have watered, taken on what provisions they needed (and which were available locally), and then be waiting at anchor outside the harbour because the frigates would then enter to water as soon as they arrived and embark cavalry, infantry and field artillery and transport them to Crete while escorting the bomb ketches.

  Ramage considered the dates as he folded the letter. It was now the 8th, and the two bomb ketches had to be watered, provisioned and anchored outside Porto Ercole by the 13th, when the frigates were due. By then cavalry and field artillery would have arrived at Porto Ercole from somewhere nearby, ready to be embarked. Presumably they would bring forage for the horses. But why on earth were the French sending a couple of bomb ketches and a couple of frigates to Crete with cavalry and artillery?

  ‘You have the charts for Crete?’ Ramage asked casually.

  Renouf grimaced expressively and shook his head, ‘The frigates are bringing one. I don’t even have a chart showing where it is; just a latitude and longitude written down.’

  ‘You sound as though you do not even know why you’re going to Crete!’

  ‘I don’t,’ Renouf said bitterly, thinking that Ramage’s little trap was an expression of sympathy. ‘All I know is that since we left Brest we’ve sailed as far as across the Atlantic by the southerly route, and we still have a long way to go. They must have some important fortresses to knock down in Crete, that’s all I can think.’ He scratched the back of his head and added viciously: ‘I hope so, anyway; we deserve to have something to blow up, after all this sailing.’

  ‘Crete is larger than Corsica,’ Ramage said casually. ‘A squadron of cavalry, a few field guns and two bomb ketches are not going to make much impression. You’ll probably meet a fleet there and go on somewhere else. Back to Egypt, perhaps…’

  Renouf looked alarmed at the mention of Egypt. The defeat of the French fleet there – Nelson had captured or burned eleven ships of the line out of thirteen – and Bonaparte’s narrow escape (at a cost of abandoning his Army of Egypt to its fate) was still fresh in every Frenchman’s memory, and the prospect that the Dix-Huit de Fructidor and the Brutus might be part of a new plan by Bonaparte to return to those scorching sands (even though the Royal Navy had quit the Mediter-ranean) did not appeal to him. Then, he composed his face – it was an expression Ramage had often read in books, but he had never previously seen someone actually doing it. Clearly Renouf had suddenly realized the danger of letting a senior officer glimpse his feelings: charges of treason made as the result of a look, let alone a careless word, had led to a man making the short walk to the guillotine or the long voyage across the Atlantic to Devil’s Island, just a few miles north of the Equator. ‘The convoy to Cayenne’, meaning trans-portation, was as common an expression in France these days as ‘taking a ride in a tumbril’ and ‘marrying the Widow’ were for being guillotined.

  Renouf saw that his companion was nodding and smiling understandingly, so no harm had been done, but the mention of Egypt was enough to turn a man’s stomach. One could not trust such a fellow as this too far, however. He was from Paris, judging by his accent, or maybe from the Orléans area. Obviously once an aristo – Renouf could tell that from his voice. But he, or his family, must have done good work for the Revolution, or else paid a lot of money, to keep his head on his shoulders, and even more to have obtained and kept command of a ship like this frigate.

  Renouf admitted that the ship was in good order: he had seen enough while being rowed over, and the decks were spotless: he had noticed that in the brief walk from the entry port to the companionway. As scrubbed as they always said English ships were!

  Still, the damned man might at least offer him a drink. His mouth tasted as coppery as a moneylender’s leather pouch. There was something he did not understand about this young man. He had the face of an aristo: high cheekbones, a slightly hooked nose, dark brown eyes very deepset under thick eyebrows. Not really a French face – but then what was a French face? Long and narrow with crinkly black hair and a boasting tongue like a Gascon? Leathery, the body wiry, like a man from one of the provinces along the Pyrenees? Or stocky, round-faced from too much eating, like those living close to the Swiss border, neither men of the mountains nor the plains? There was no really typical Frenchman, but nevertheless this capitaine de vaisseau looked different. Perhaps his mother was a foreigner.

  Renouf decided that the eyes were disconcerting: they seemed to look right through you. The two scars over the right eyebrow must be sword cuts – one newer than the other. He held his left arm as though the muscles were slightly wasted. He must be recovering from a wound. Renouf always warned his men that if you had a wound in a limb, you could say goodbye to it. At least this fellow had escaped the surgeon’s saw.

  This frigate, Renouf thought, was not one of the two that were supposed to meet him at Porto Ercole since the Captain knew nothing of his orders. Curious that there should be a third frigate in such a small area. Perhaps this fellow was trying to catch hi
m out; trying to make a case against him for wasting time? No, there was no doubt about the Captain’s surprise when he read the second set of orders.

  Renouf was startled by a double knock at the door, which had been left open. He heard uneven footsteps coming down the companionway and a moment later the lieutenant commanding the Brutus entered. The fool was drunk; Renouf spotted that immediately although someone who did not know Michelet so well might take a few minutes to realize it.

  Renouf stood up at once. ‘Captain,’ he said hastily, ‘may I present Citizen Jean-Pierre Michelet, commanding the Brutus, who is not only a fine seaman but a man of considerable skill in the use of the mortars.’

  Renouf had not fooled the Captain, who nodded towards a chair and said sarcastically: ‘Citizen Michelet had better sit down: he finds the ship is rolling rather heavily at the moment.’

  Certainly Michelet had walked in as though trying to keep his feet in a rough sea, and now he turned and headed for the chair. Renouf guessed that Michelet could see three chairs and hoped he would sit down in the middle one. But the drunken lieutenant must have seen four and sat on the third because a moment later he fell over backwards. The startled look on his face before he hit the deck made Renouf think of a man who found himself falling over a precipice.

  The Captain did not move, did not smile and did not start cursing. Nor did he threaten Michelet. In fact he did not even look down at him as the man struggled to his feet.

  ‘Does he often do that?’

  The eyebrows were slightly raised and the question might be facetious, or it could be serious. The voice was quiet enough. Renouf knew it could bode ill for the two bomb ketches, because commanding officers had been court-martialled for much less. Travelled in a tumbril for less, because Michelet was on duty, and sleeping or being drunk on duty was punishable by death.

  ‘Er, no, sir.’ He had not intended to say ‘sir’, but the Captain had an odd effect on him. Renouf thought of him as ‘sir’ and the old phrase had slipped out. ‘No, Citizen, but we have had a long voyage and I’m afraid we all celebrated last night.’