WILLING AND requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said cutter to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments, with all due respect and obedience unto you, their said captain ... Hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril...'
Ramage finished reading his commission in as loud a voice as he could muster without shouting, the wind whipping the words from his mouth, and rolled up the stiff rectangle of parchment. He looked at the fifty or so men standing in a half-circle round him on the cutter's flush decks. Both he and they had heard a captain 'read himself in' many times before, legally establishing himself as commanding officer; luckily they'd never know his schoolboyish elation now he was doing it himself. Even the sonorous words took on a new significance - particularly the phrase about failing 'at your peril ...'
Well, they looked an efficient ship's company. The Master, Henry Southwick, was middle-aged and tubby; he had a jolly face and seemed popular and competent, judging by the way the seamen responded when he'd ordered them aft as Ramage came on board. The Master's Mate, John Appleby, was a former midshipman waiting for his twentieth birthday so that he could take his examination for lieutenant. A cutter did not rate a bosun, but the Bosun's Mate, Evan Evans, was a thin and doleful Welshman whose nose, bulbous and purple, obviously had an unerring instinct for pointing into a mug of grog.
After reading himself in, it was usual for the new captain to make a little speech to the ship's company which, depending on his personality, was full of threats, encouragements or platitudes. Ramage could think of nothing to say, yet the men expected a few words - it gave them a chance to size up their new captain.
'Well, I'm told you're good seamen. You'd better be, because in a few hours' time the Kathleen's going to try something which'll either give you a good yarn to spin to your children or make 'em orphans.'
The men laughed and waited for him to continue. Blast, that was supposed to be the end of his speech. Still, now was the chance to explain why they were going to risk their necks: it might well make them work that much faster when the time came. He described how the Belettes were marooned in the Tour Rouge and ended by saying: 'If we don't go and take 'em by the hand and lead 'em home, the French'll make butcher's meat of 'em - and if we make any mistake we'll be put down as "Discharged Dead" - that's if I remember to send the muster book to the Navy Board before I drown.'
With that the men roared with laughter and gave a cheer - a spontaneous bellow of enthusiasm and amusement. The fools, he thought; already, on no better evidence than flatulent claptrap, they'd put their trust in him. But before sunset tomorrow, if he misjudged a certain distance by as much as a foot, they'd all be dead ... But fools or not, they were willing and loyal, which was all that mattered.
'Very well,' he said. 'Fall out the ship's company. Carry on, Mr Southwick!'
He walked aft a few feet to the companionway and went down the narrow steps to his box of a cabin. Even with his neck bent so much that he was forced to look down at the deck he could not stand upright. The small lantern in gimbals on the bulkhead showed the cabin was furnished with a cot, a tiny desk, cupboard and rickety chair.
He opened the only drawer in the desk and found the Kathleen's muster book. Looking at the names he saw they were the usual mixed bag - the column headed 'Where born' revealed a couple of Portuguese, a Genoese, a Jamaican, a Frenchman and, last on the list, an American. He glanced across the page at the name and saw it was Jackson's - he'd already been entered as cox'n, just above his own name, 'Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage ... As per commission dated October 19th, 1796 ... Bastia.' The Master had made sure the paper work was up to date, Ramage noted with relief: the Kathleen's previous commanding officer had suddenly been taken to hospital several days before.
Glancing through the captain's order and letter book, he saw they contained only routine matters. Later he'd have to sign receipts for them and signal books, inventories and a host of other papers; but for the moment there were more important tasks. He called to the sentry at the door, 'Pass the word for the Master and tell him to bring his charts.'
Southwick was with him in a moment, a roll of charts under his arm.
'What's the condition of the sails and standing and running rigging, Mr Southwick?'
'Typical Mediterranean, sir,' Southwick said bitterly. 'Can't get a scrap of new stuff. All the running rigging's been turned end for end half a dozen times. Sails are as ripe as pears – and more patches than original cloths. The whole bloody outfit ought to have been condemned a year ago. Masts, spars and hull are sound though, thank God.'
'What about the ship's company?'
'First-class, sir, and I mean it. Being as we're so small, we've mostly been on our own and always at sea. None of the hanging around in harbour that rots the men.'
'Fine,' said Ramage. 'Now let's have a look at the chart for this coast to the northward.'
Southwick spread it on the desk, putting the muster book on one end to prevent it rolling up.
Briefly Ramage outlined their task while taking a pair of dividers from a rack over the desk and measuring off the distance to the headland on which the Tour Rouge stood, and comparing it with the latitude scale at the side of the chart. Fourteen minutes of latitude, so it was fourteen sea miles. The wind was now west and by dawn he could reckon on half a gale. Sails and rigging not too good; but the rescue was urgent. He needed daylight for the operation. A couple of hours from weighing anchor should see them off the Tower, allowing for a tack or two at the headland to size up the situation.
'Right, Mr Southwick, we get under way two hours before dawn.'
With the ship under-officered - he was short of a lieutenant and a second master - all the work would fall on Southwick, the young Master's Mate, Appleby, and himself.
'You'd better get some sleep,' he told Southwick.
For the next ten minutes Ramage studied the chart, converting it into a mental picture of the contours of the coast and the sea bed. He was cursing the sparseness of the soundings when he heard someone coming down the companionway and a moment later, after knocking on the door, Jackson came in carrying a letter and two parcels.
'Boat’s just come out with these, sir, addressed to you. A shore boat, sir.'
‘Very well, put them on the bunk.'
As soon as Jackson left, Ramage picked up the longer parcel, guessing its contents from the shape. He tore off the wrappings and indeed it was a sword. He unsheathed it and the blade was blue in the lantern light, except for its cutting edge, which glinted cold to the eye, the steel sharpened and then polished. The blade itself was extravagantly engraved - but solid and well balanced; the basket handle was finely carved, but strong. It was a magnificent fighting sword; not an expensive, lightweight piece of elegance for ceremonial use.
In the other parcel he was surprised to find a brass-bound mahogany case of pistols. As soon as he opened it he recognized a pair of duelling pistols which he had last seen only that afternoon, on a rack in Sir Gilbert's study: they had looked such a fine pair that he had commented on them. They were deadly accurate, although the hair-trigger meant they were not ideally suited to the rough-and-tumble of boarding an enemy ship; but they were as perfect an example of the gunmaker's art as anyone could wish for. The case was complete with a powder horn, extra flints, mould for casting shot, and cleaning brushes.
Ramage then opened the letter. It said simply: 'Please accept these three stalwarts who will, I hope, prove as reliable to you in an emergency as you have to - yours truly, Gilbert Elliot.'
He called to the sentry, 'Pass the word for my cox'n.'
When Jackson came down, Ramage gave him the case.
'Check these over, please: fine powder, good flints, and ready for me in the morning, loaded.'
'Phew!' Jackson exclaimed. 'They're a rare pair of barkers!'
Ramage thought that now was as good a time as any to talk with the American.
'Jackson - thank you for what you did over the trial: you took a tremendous risk.'
The American looked embarrassed and said nothing.
'But tell me, what evidence did you think you had that wouldn't be given by the Bosun and Carpenter's Mate?'
'Only the part while we were in the boat, sir.'
'But that was all spoken in Italian.'
Jackson looked puzzled.
'Well, sir, about going to the peasant's hut, and the Tower business, and how you carried the Marchesa, and how the other chap came to be killed - that sort of thing.'
Ramage glanced up quickly.
'How the other chap came to be killed?'
"Why yes, sir: you know, Count Pretty.'
'Pitti.'
'Count Pitti, then.'
'What do you know about that?'
'Only that he was shot in the head.'
"How do you know he was shot in the head?'
Jackson flushed, as if angry because he thought his word was being doubted, but for the moment Ramage was too eager for the man's reply to explain the question.
'Well, sir - you know when you carried the Marchesa and frightened the horsemen?'
'Yes.'
'Then a few minutes later you called me to come back to the boat?'
'Yes, yes - go on, man!'
'Well, as I ran along the top of the dunes, I dodged in and out of the bushes: there were still some Frenchmen dashing around, and I didn't want to bump into them.
'I just came to an open patch between the two lots of bushes when I saw a man lying on the sand, face downwards. I turned him over and saw his face was blown off. I guessed it must have been Count Pretty.'
'Oh Christ,' Ramage groaned.
'Why, sir, have I said the wrong thing?'
'No - no, on the contrary. It's just a pity Commodore Nelson didn't arrive a few minutes later - after you'd told that to the court.'
'But what difference would it have made?' Jackson was completely puzzled.
'I mentioned I was being accused of cowardice, didn't I..’
'Yes, sir.'
Well, the accusation was that I pushed off in the boat and deliberately left Count Pitti behind wounded. It was even said that as we rowed away someone heard him calling for help.'
'But didn't you come up and find him after putting the Marchesa in the boat, sir? I saw footprints in the sand from the boat to the body and back: I thought they were yours.'
'They were, but no one saw me go back. Nor was there anyone - as far as I knew - who could corroborate that I found him with his face blown off.'
'Except me, sir.'
‘Yes, except you. But I didn't know you knew - and,' Ramage gave a bitter laugh, 'you didn't know I didn't know you knew!'
'Trouble was, sir, you were all talking in Italian. I knew you were having a row with that other chap, but none of us knew what it was about... Still, I can square that when the court sits again.'
'Maybe - but I'm afraid the court might not believe you now: they might think we made the story up.'
They could, sir; but they've only got to ask the rest of the lads in the gig. They can vouch that I told them what I'd seen soon after I got in the boat: before the lady collapsed.'
'Well, we'll have to see. You'd better take the pistols and check them. And tell the steward to get me some supper.'
'Man the - er, windlass,' Ramage told the Bosun's Mate, and at once the shrill, warbling note of his call pierced the ship, sounding eerie in the darkness.
Ramage was tired; his eyelids felt gummed up, and he cursed himself for not making an inspection of the ship the previous evening: handling a small fore-and-aft-rigged cutter was a vastly different proposition from a square-rigged frigate: apart from the sails, the little Kathleen had a tiller instead of a wheel and a windlass instead of a capstan: he'd nearly made a fool of himself with almost his first order, just managing to change 'capstan' to 'windlass' in time.
The foc's'lemen and the ship's half dozen Marines ran to the foredeck and a couple of them disappeared below: they would stow the cable as it went down into the cable tier.
There was plenty of wind; too much but for the fact that the sea would be calm close in, where the mountainous coast formed a lee. He'd have to watch out for the tremendous gusts funnelling along the occasional valleys which ran down at right-angles to the sea: that was how many a ship lost her topmasts....
Despite her ripe sails, he saw the Kathleen had a solid enough mast, thicker than a man's waist and made of selected Baltic spruce - well, no doubt the Admiralty contractors swore it was selected. The long boom, just above him as he stood on the quarter-deck, projected several feet beyond the taffrail, like a gundog's tail. The heavy mainsail was neatly furled along its full length, secured by gaskets, and the gaff lashed down on top.
Jib and foresail were in tidy bundles at the foot of their respective stays: the big jib on the end of the bowsprit - which stuck out horizontally beyond the bow for forty feet, like a giant fishing rod - and the foresail at the stemhead itself.
'At short stay, sir,' Southwick shouted from the fo'c'sle. The anchor cable was now stretching down to the sea bed at the same angle as the f orestay.
'Right - keep heaving.'
Now to hoist the mainsail. Jackson passed the speaking trumpet, and Ramage bellowed, 'Afterguard and idlers lay aft!'
A group of seamen ran towards him.
'Ease away downhauls and tack tricing lines ... Off main sail gaskets!'
Swiftly some of the men slacked away ropes while others scrambled along the boom to untie the narrow strips of plaited rope holding the gaff and mainsail to the boom.
'Up and down, sir!' called Southwick from the fo'c'sle. With the anchor cable now vertical, the anchor had no bite on the sea bed: blast, he'd left it a fraction late: the anchor wouldn't hold, yet he had no sail set to give him control.
'Anchor's aweigh!' yelled Southwick.
'Man the topping lift - haul taut and belay ... Overhaul mainsheet... Man throat and peak halyards.'
The men tailed on to the ropes that would hoist the heavy gaff and sail up the mast. As soon as he saw they were ready he shouted:
'Haul taut - hoist away! Handsomely, now!'
Slowly the sail crawled up the mast, the canvas flogging in the wind.
'Man and overhaul the mainsheet ... Look alive, there! Right, tally aft the mainsheet.'
He turned to the quartermaster and seaman at the tiller. "Up with the helm - now, meet her ... That's it - steady as you go.'
The topping lift was slackened away so that the mainsail took up the weight of the boom. Hmm - it was patched but sat well.
It was good to be under way again, even if getting a cutter out of a crowded anchorage presented plenty of problems. He'd never commanded one before and didn't know how long she took to react to various combinations of rudder and sail. Some fore-and-aft-rigged ships preferred the headsails hardened in and the mainsail trimmed fairly free; others just the opposite.
But he was damned if he was going to ask Southwick — it’d very soon be obvious which the Kathleen liked. The only gamble for the moment was how quickly she'd gather way and give the rudder a chance to get a bite on the water, so he could control the ship. If she was slow, making a lot of leeway before picking up speed, then there were enough ships anchored to leeward - including Commodore Nelson's - to make a collision inevitable.
The anchor and cable were still hanging vertically and dragging in the water under the bow like a brake, but judging from the increased speed with which the men were working the windlass, in a few moments the anchor itself would break the surface. He rattled out a series of orders as the ship's bow paid off to starboard, and first the foresail and then the jib crawled up their stays as men sweated at the halyards.
Both were quickly sheeted home and at once the ship came alive: no longer was she inert in the water, pitching and rolling to her anchor cable like a lumbering ox at the end of a rope: the sea gurgled round her straight stem and swirled along the hull before tucking under her quarter and bubbling aft in the wake.
On the foredeck men hooked the cat to the anchor and hauled it up the last few feet to the cat-head, the beam of wood sticking out on each side of the bow like a tusk of a wild boar, where another tackle clapped on one of the flukes hoisted the whole anchor parallel with the ship's side.
Because her bows had paid off to starboard he'd been able to hoist the headsails with the wind on the larboard side; and it was the larboard tack that would take the Kathleen northward towards Macinaggio.
Like a trotting horse breaking into a gallop, the Kathleen surged ahead: her stem sliced through the sea, flinging up a foaming white bow wave. He saw the shadowy outline of a big transport anchored ahead and promptly ordered the sheets to be hardened in and the helm put down to bring the Kathleen hard on the wind.
As she heeled well over under the increased pressure on her sails, with the sea swilling in at the lee gun ports3 Ramage noticed a nervous glance from Southwick, who had just come aft: the Master wasn't used to passing close to windward of big ships, when the slightest miscalculation - or even an extra large wave - meant all the difference between clearing by a few feet and colliding. Southwick was, of course, quite right; it was safer to pass to leeward, but it wasted time because the sails of a tiny vessel like the Kathleen would be blanketed by the sheer bulk of a big ship and lose the wind for several valuable moments.
Ramage told the quartermaster to bear away slightly, ordered the sheets to be eased, and gradually brought the cutter round on to the course which would take them up to the wreck of the Belette. There was a lot of weight on the tiller for just two men. If the wind increased he'd have to use relieving tackles. Should he set the jib topsail? No, nor the gaff topsail: the cutter was already making a good eight knots and clapping on more sail would only make her heel more without adding to her speed. It was a mistake many people made.
Bastia was sliding astern. Gianna would not have seen him leave in the darkness, although the Kathleen must have passed within half a mile of the bottom of the Viceroy's garden. Ramage had been so absorbed in handling the ship he hadn't even glanced that way.
'Mr Southwick, hand over the conn to the Master's Mate and come aft with the Bosun's Mate.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
As the Kathleen thrashed her way northward Ramage felt a sudden exhilaration: a cutter might be one of the Navy’s smallest warships, but she was one of the handiest: her fore-and-aft sails allowed her to sail so much closer to the wind that she could outmanoeuvre a far bigger square-rigged opponent, her ability to dodge helping to make up for the enemy's overwhelmingly superior guns. It was the story of the terrier and the bull - the terrier was safe enough as long as he dodged the sweeping horns and the violent kicks.
Ramage went over to the weather rail abreast the mainmast, where he could use one of the Kathleen's carronades to steady himself if the ship gave a particularly violent roll, and talk to the Master and Bosun's Mate without everyone overhearing.
Hellfire, those shrouds and runners looked old: if appearances were anything to go by they should part any minute and let the mast go by the board. The mainsail, bellying upwards above him, had more patches than a Neapolitan beggar's cape; even the darkness couldn't hide that.
'Oh yes,' he said, suddenly noticing Southwick and Evans waiting. 'Oh yes, there are a few things I want to go over.'
Swiftly, For Evans' benefit, he explained how the Belette was lying at the foot of the cliff.
'It's no good making detailed plans until we get a good look at her. But if she scraped over the reef losing only her rudder, then with our draught the reef's no danger to us. We can go in on the same course as the Belette. All we want is deep water close along her larboard side.'
How shall we get the men off, sir?' asked Southwick.
'I want to luff up alongside and hold on long enough to get them all on board. Holding on is your responsibility, Evans.'
'Grapnels, sir?'
'Yes, but first of all, protection for ourselves: I can't luff up suddenly and slap our bow alongside her because we'd lose the bowsprit: we've got to do it gently. On the other hand I don't want to scrape down her side - her chainplates and davits would tear our rigging to pieces. So make up three long sausage-shaped fenders: boarding nets stowed with hammocks, old rope - anything. When I give the word, sling one forward, one amidships to protect our own chainplates, and the other right aft, on our quarter.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
'And I want half a dozen boarding grapnels ready, each with at least ten fathoms of line. Pick six of the best men and detail off one for the bowsprit and the rest along the starboard side - cat-head, main chains and so on. They've got to give a good heave when I give the word and hook on to the Belette.
'Make up some heavier lines to hold ourselves alongside if necessary,' he added. 'The grapnel lines may not be stosng enough.'
Southwick said, 'There'll be a lot of men coming on board...'
'Yes: as soon as they arrive, send 'em below: the Belette’s officers are the only exception - unless we're under fire, in which case I'll need their Marines to help.'
'Are the French likely to be making trouble?' Evans asked.
'Yes, but probably not at first: they'll be attacking the Tower, I imagine.'
'They could set fire to the ship, sir,' Southwick pointed out.
'Yes, they could; but soldiers won't know how badly she's damaged, so I think they'd probably leave her for their own people to salvage.'
'Now, our carronades won't elevate enough to be much use covering the men's escape from the Tower to the wreck; but our Marines can have a bit of target practice. Pick half a dozen seamen who are handy with muskets to help them. Get all the spare muskets loaded and stowed, with powder and shot, somewhere dry and easy to get at, ready for the Belette's Marines.
'That's all: any questions? No? Right, carry on, then.'
Ramage went down to his cabin after glancing round the horizon. The wind had not increased and Appleby, the young Master's Mate, was keeping the men busy trimming the main and headsail sheets, slackening and tautening as occasional valleys and headlands varied the wind's direction.
At the bottom of the ladder he acknowledged the sentry’s salute, crouched as he went into the cabin and sat down on his cot, letting it swing as the Kathleen rolled.
He was enjoying himself. He listened to the rudder creaking on its pintles, and occasionally a sea surging up on the quarter hit the tuck of the stern with a thump. His nose reminded him that just below the little cabin was the breadroom, stowed with sack upon sack of hard biscuit and, judging by the musty smell, none too fresh. And also beneath him was the magazine, filled with barrels and bags of gunpowder. It was often said, as an illustration of the pitfalls facing a captain, that commanding one of the King's ships was like living on a powder barrel. A cutter was one of the few types of vessel where this was not just a simile.
The Tower and the wrecked Belette were hidden beyond another small headland until they were almost abeam of the Kathleen. Ramage was relieved to see the frigate lying roughly as he expected, like a huge whale thrown ashore in a gale. But blast her lieutenant for not mentioning in his report that there was this second headland to the south, barely a couple of hundred yards from the one on which the Belette was now stranded. The chart did not show it, but Ramage saw that after the Kathleen turned to come alongside the wrecked ship, if he made a mistake and overshot slightly, the cutter could easily run on to the second headland before she could bear away to seaward and get clear....
'Mr Southwick!'
The Master hurried over. 'Make a sketch in the log of how she's lying in relation to those two headlands: you can modify it in detail later. It'll be useful if someone else has to come in to salvage or burn us!'
Ramage looked at the Tower again. Magnified several times in the telescope, it appeared to be only a few hundred yards away. Sixteenth-century Spanish in design and in good condition, it stood a reddish-grey circular column a short distance from the edge of the headland, its only entrance a hole in the side some fifteen feet above the ground.
A puff of smoke from the top of the Tower drifted away in the wind, looking harmless enough, then another, followed by several smaller ones. The Belette's crew were busy with their brass six-pounders and muskets, but he could not see their targets.
The Tower did not seem damaged, so presumably the French hadn't been able to bring up field pieces - hardly surprising since it would be tough going even for a mule across this sort of countryside.
Ramage looked again at the Belette herself. As the Kathleen continued northward, the bearing of the frigate had changed and he could now see she was in fact lying at an angle of about thirty degrees to the cliff, her stern to the northward, just as Probus had said. Her masts, snapped off close to the deck and leaning against the cliff, looked like three steep catwalks.
What on earth was that on top of the Tower? Pieces of bunting? No, three signal flags! They were lashed to a pole which someone was waving violently, though careful to keep his head below the parapet.
'Jackson! The signal book, quickly.'
But his days as a midshipman were close enough behind for Ramage to read the flags and remember their meaning. Blue, white and blue vertical stripes; plain red; and a French Tricolor. The first two were signal number thirty-one, which meant 'Ships seen are—'. The Tricolor indicated the ships were French.
A puzzled Ramage glanced round the horizon, but there was not a vessel in sight, except for the stranded Belette. The signal could mean 'ship' or 'ships' - ah, yes! They were warning him that French soldiers were on board the frigate.
'Jackson, acknowledge that signal.'
The American hurried to the flag locker.
'Master's Mate!' Ramage snapped, 'help with the signals. Mr Southwick! Take over the conn for the time being.'
Blast the signal book: in trying to explain his intentions to the Belette's captain in the Tower, Ramage was limited to a couple of hundred words or routine phrases listed in the book with the corresponding flag numbers: signals such as 'Furl sails', 'The Fleet to moor’, 'Caulkers with their implements to repair to the ship denoted'.
Let's hope the Belette's captain has some imagination, Ramagc thought to himself and glanced through the signal book to refresh his memory.
'Jackson, a yellow flag from the ensign staff — yes, yes, I know: ship the blasted thing, I only want it up for a couple of minutes!'
He'd anticipated Jackson's protest that it was dangerous to ship the ensign staff while under way because the boom might smash it: that was why at sea the Kathleen's ensign flew from the peak of the gaff.
It took a moment to get the yellow flag streaming out astern over the taffrail, and he was relieved to see the signal acknowledged from the Tower. As he glanced round to tell Jackson to lower the flag and stow the staff he saw the puzzled look on the faces of the Master and various other men who'd seen it hoisted. Hardly surprising, Ramage thought, because they knew that normally it indicated someone was about to be flogged or hanged. The clue was in the precise wording of its official meaning in the signal book - 'Punishment going to be inflicted'. Its significance ought to be obvious to the men in the Tower.
'Beat to quarters, Mr Southwick. The French are in possession of the frigate,' he added.
The Master had hardly bellowed the first part of the order before the rat-a-tat-tat of a drum sounded out from forward. The Carpenter's Mate and his crew bolted below to collect their tools and prepare shot plugs; the Gunner's Mate followed him to unlock the magazine and issue locks and cartridges for the carronades; the Bosun's Mate had seamen half filling shallow tubs with water and placing them near the carronades, ready for the slow matches - in effect slow-burning fuses - to be stuck in notches round the brim, the lighted end hanging over the water, for use in case the flintlocks misfired. Other seamen scattered wet sand along the deck and down the companionways, so the men's feet should not slip and, more important, the friction of shoes or the recoil of the guns would not ignite any stray grains of gunpowder. Men who had followed the Gunner's Mate down the ladder to the magazine and powder room soon came running up on deck again carrying a hollow wooden cylinder in each hand. Safely stowed in the cylinders were flannel bags filled with gunpowder - the cartridges ready for loading the first broadside.
'I'll have the guns loaded but not run out, Mr Southwick. Make sure the tompions are replaced, and the locks covered.'
Ramage glanced at the signal book again. Trying to convey his intentions to the men in the Tower was like playing some elaborate game of charades.
'Jackson, get this signal bent on, but don't hoist it until I give the word: one-three-two. As soon as it's acknowledged I'll want one-one-seven ready for hoisting. Have you got them?'
He repeated the number and saw Appleby, the young Master's Mate, scribbling them on the slate used to note the ship's courses and speeds.
'Appleby,' he called, 'go round and tell each gun captain on the starboard side that we'll soon be opening fire on the Belette: we'll pass her close but I'll try to wear round slowly. Each gun is to fire individually as it bears. I want to rake her, so aim only at the transom.'
What else was there to remember? On the face of it, raking a stranded frigate manned by French soldiers to drive them off was simple enough: it should take up one line in his written report. Going alongside the frigate afterwards and getting the Belettes on board - another two lines. In fact the whole operation, from leaving Bastia and returning with the men on board, should take up eight lines at the most.
Yet, if he failed in any particular - touched a rock and holed the cutter, had an unlucky shot from the French send his mast by the board or damaged the ship getting her alongside -he'd face yet another trial. The Navy was a harsh judge. In time of war, with hundreds of warships always at sea, an operation like this had to be routine for a captain. Success didn't enter into it: he either carried out the task or not. If not, then he had to face the consequences, and it was the same in battle: judgement was based first on the knowledge that luck and determination were almost as important as the weight of a broadside, and secondly the tradition that one Briton was equal to three Frenchmen or Spaniards.
But if he overshot and let the Kathleen range alongside, and the French soldiers knew how to handle the Belette's guns properly, then he'd be lucky if they didn't sink the cutter - yet no one would normally expect a small cutter armed with ten small carronades to attack a frigate carrying twenty-six 12-pounders and six 6-pounders: it would be suicide and a cutter's captain who bolted for safety would be justified and probably complimented. But if the same frigate was stranded ... that was a different story: she was a wreck, and wrecks were regarded as helpless.
Yet the Belette was far from helpless: Ramage knew the French would fire the whole of the frigate's larboard broadside into the Kathleen if he took her into the frigate's arc of fire: thirteen solid shot, each more than four and a half inches in diameter and weighing twelve pounds, and three more each of six pounds. For they could use grape shot, with the 12-pounders firing more than 150 grape - iron balls weighing a pound each - and the six-pounders eighteen more at half a pound each.
'You are still on trial...'
Probus's phrase came back to him: to have the cutter sunk by a wreck: that would just about finish me, Ramage thought: he'd be the laughing stock of the Service: he could hear the gossip – ‘Have you heard? Old Blaze-away's son was sunk by a wreck!'
Through the telescope he thought he could see faces peering cautiously from one or two of the Belette's gun ports. The French would be gambling he didn't know they were on board: they'd laid a neat trap and were just waiting for him to get within range. But they didn't know he'd already been warned. Moreover, he knew just how far aft the Belette’s broadside guns could be trained, so that until the cutter reached a certain bearing on the frigate's quarter, she would be safe from their fire: it was as if the arc of fire of the guns was a huge fan poking out sideways from the centre of the ship. But if the Kathleen passed into the fan, then it needed only three guns to be fired accurately to smash the little cutter into driftwood.
Ramage tried to do a quick calculation in his head: if the Belette's guns were trained as far aft as possible and he took the Kathleen in at about seven knots and passed a hundred yards off her quarter at, say, forty-five degrees to the frigate centreline and then wore round...
He cursed his unreliable mathematics and then stopped calculating: if he overshot and could not bear away in time he'd be fired at anyway. Yet he had to get in close - and thus risk overshooting - if the pelting from the grapeshot of his carronades was to do any harm: at much over a hundred yards the little iron eggs would scatter too much: he had to be close enough to ensure they were still grouped together as they blasted their way in through the Belette's transom and, he hoped, cut down the French soldiers in swathes.
Ramage felt his previous elation disappearing: the task ahead was far more difficult than anyone had appreciated, if a cutter was caught by a frigate at sea she could use her greater manoeuvrability to avoid the frigate's massive broadside, and there was a slight chance a lucky shot from the cutter’s guns would damage the frigate's rigging and allow her to escape. But the Kathleen had no such chance: the wrecked Belette was in effect a fortress, and the French gunners, admittedly firing at a moving target, had another great advantage - their guns were on a steady platform, while the cutter was rolling.
Ramage looked over the Kathleen's larboard quarter: from his present position the Belette was foreshortened: he could see her stern and part of her quarter: it was time to tack, to sail in towards the headland on a course very similar to the one that the Belette had taken when she ran aground.
'Mr Southwick: we'll tack now, if you please.'
The Master roared a string of orders and seamen ran to the jib, foresail and main sheets, while others overhauled the lee runners, ready to set them up.
Southwick glanced forward along the deck and then aloft to check everything was clear.
'Ready ho!'
He turned to the men at the tiller. 'Put the helm down!'
The cutter's bow began swinging to larboard, towards the shore. She came into the wind's eye and both jib and foresail started to flog as the wind blew down both sides; then the big main boom swung across overhead.
'Helm's a lee! ... Let go and overhaul lee runners ... Aft those sheets!'
Seamen who had let go the starboard sheets for both jib and foresail moved unhurriedly — or so it seemed: in fact they were fast but, being well trained, used the minimum of effort - to the larboard sheets and began hauling them in, bellying both the headsails as the wind once again blew life and shape into the canvas.
'Look alive, there,' called Southwick. 'Meet her,' he snapped at the two men at the helm. They eased the tiller a fraction to let the ship pay off and gather speed, so that her bow would not be pushed too far round by the punch of the waves.
Ramage said, 'Thank you, Mr Southwick, I want her hard on the wind.'
'Tally aft jib and foresail sheets,' bellowed Southwick. 'Aft the mainsheet! Quartermaster - starboard a point!'
Ramage watched the Kathleen's sharp bow come up into the wind. The alteration was only a few degrees but she responded instantly. From the time they left Bastia until she tacked the cutter had been on a reach, with wind and sea abeam, and she had hardly pitched at all: the waves coming in from the larboard side slid under the ship and thrust at her deep keel, but the wind in her sails balanced the thrust so the cutter slipped along well heeled and with easy grace.
But now, beating to windward, she was meeting the seas at a sharp angle; her bow rose up and crashed down diagonally on to each advancing line of waves, shouldering the solid crests and smashing them into showers of sparkling spray which flung up over the weather bow and soaked everyone forward of the mast.
Ramage balanced himself on the balls of his feet without even realizing he was doing it, and the muscles of his legs alternately slackened and tautened to keep him standing upright
He looked at the Belette: she was fine on the starboard bow, and the Kathleen's course now converged slightly with the coast. Without realizing he was doing it, Ramage worked out the ship's leeway, saw she would pass too far off, and ordered, 'Quartermaster, come on the wind until the leech begins to shake... Right, steady as you go.'
'South by west a half west, sir,' the man said automatically.
'Right, Mr Southwick - a swig aft with the sheets, if you please.'
And that, Ramage thought, is just about right: the Kathleen should shoot up to the Belette as if she was going to poke her bowsprit into the windows of the captain's cabin. It was going to require perfect timing for him to bear away at the last moment, yet if he was going to give his gunners a chance, he could not bear away too quickly.
Fortunately any big warship's most vulnerable part was her stern: the great transom was flimsily built compared with the sides. If the Kathleen's grapeshot could smash in through the transom they'd sweep the whole of the after part of the ship. The effect on the French soldiers would be terrifying: the fact they weren't used to the half-darkness and low headroom of a frigate's gun deck put them at a disadvantage; if they heard the transom being smashed down and then saw their target spin on her heel and sail out to sea again without ever getting anywhere near the arc of fire of their cannon, it would make them nervous. And the steps from nervousness to fear, and fear to panic, were very small...
'Bosun's Mate! Pass the word down to the Carpenter's Mate that we'll probably be under fire on the starboard side in less than five minutes' time.'
That would make sure the Carpenter's Mate's crew would be ready with shot plugs, sheets of leather and of copper, and liberal quantities of tallow, ready to stop up any holes. Because she was pitching violently, the chance of a shot hitting the underwater section of her bow as it rose in the air was considerable; and with the wind coming off the land the Kathleen was also heeled to larboard, showing a lot of the copper sheathing along her vulnerable starboard bilge below the waterline.
Up and over: the Kathleen's bow lifted to a wave, sliced off the top in spray, and sank into the trough. Suddenly an extra strong gust of wind heeled her right over so that the sharp wedge of the stem cut into the next crest at a much sharper angle, scooping solid water over the weather bow and sluicing it aft along the flush deck. Seamen grabbed handholds on guns and rope tackles as, a moment later, they were knee high in water which cascaded along like a river, snatching up everything loose on deck - including thick rope rammers and sponges used for loading the guns, and some of the match tubs.
Southwick bellowed to the men at the aftermost guns on the lee side and they grabbed the flotsam before it swept out through the gun ports.
Ramage just cursed to himself. Thank God he'd ordered the tompions to be put back in the carronades to seal the muzzles.
'Mr Southwick — make sure the guns' captains wipe the flints and the locks.'
Ramage could now see every detail of the Belette quite clearly without the telescope. He called Southwick over, quickly ran through the plan and told him again, emphasizing each word: 'As soon as we're in range I'll begin to pay off to bring the guns to bear. The minute the last gun's fired, we wear ship to get clear to seaward.'
'Aye aye, sir: I understand.'
'And overhaul all the sheets and runners.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' Southwick said cheerfully. 'We'll do it just as if the Admiral was watching.'
'Better than that,' Ramage grinned. 'It's a lot worse being blown up by a Frenchman than rubbed down by an Admiral.'
At that moment Ramage thought of Gianna: what was she doing? He deliberately pushed the thought from his mind, otherwise he'd start wondering if he'd ever see her again. A reasonable enough question, though, looking at those 12-pounder guns whose snouts were already sticking out through the Belette's ports.
Something over half a mile, with four or five minutes to go, and the cutter sailing too fast and rolling too much to give the gunners a real chance.
'I'll have the guns run out, Mr Southwick. Leave the tompions in.'
He watched the carronades being hauled out on their slides, ordered a slight alteration of course, and suddenly decided on a brief few words with the men. He put the speaking trumpet to his lips — what a beastly taste the copper mouthpiece had -and shouted:
'D'you hear there! Mr Appleby's explained what we are going to do. Remember - every shot through the captain's cabin! And look lively at the sheets when we wear round or those Frenchmen will knock off your heads and the Kathleen’s stern!'
The men yelled and waved: they were soaking wet from spray but cheerful.
The cutter was finding calmer water in the lee of the cliffs: now he had to watch out for sudden unexpected gusts of wind. He wanted to reduce last-minute rushing about, and anyway she was still heeling too much.
Haul down the foresail, Mr Southwick, and check the main sheet a fraction.'
The men at the mast let go the foresail halyard while others slackened away the sheet. After flapping for a moment or two it slid down the stay. At the same time other men eased away the mainsheet and, with the mainsail holding less wind, the cutter slowed down, her motion at once becoming less violent.
Damn ... as usual he was leaving things too late; but still, the less time anyone - including himself - had to think about the Belette's guns the better.
Jackson was standing near and Ramage said: Hoist the first signal - number one hundred and thirty-two.'
The American hauled one end of the light halyard, keeping tension on the other by letting it run through his legs.
Ramage had been watching the men at the tiller: they were good helmsmen, and it’d be easier to tell them where to go than try to give a course.
'Steer as if you were going to put us ashore three hundred yards this side of the frigate.'
By now the signal flags were streaming out in the wind and through his telescope Ramage saw the acknowledgement waved from the Tower.
Would the Belette's captain understand when it was reported to him that the cutter had just signalled, 'To exercise guns and small arms'? Ramage wanted him to make a diversion; but even if he missed the significance, it would not spoil the plan.
The Belette seemed to be deserted, but Ramage knew hidden telescopes were watching him and seeing the exchange of signals with the Tower.
'Lot of shooting from the Tower, sir,' reported Jackson.
Ramage looked up at the cliff, yes, the British had taken the hint and were doing their best: puffs of smoke were squirting from the top of the building and vanishing quickly in the wind.
Looking forward along the deck, Ramage saw the cutter was still smashing into an occasional larger-than-usual wave and throwing spray over the weather bow.
'Ease her to the big ones,' he snapped to the men at the tiller: he did not want more water over the guns.
The cliffs were getting very close now and the Belette was end on.
'Stand by to ease sheets, Mr Southwick! Quartermaster - steer as though you were going to lay us alongside!'
The Master shouted an order.
Ramage was suddenly worried that he might have taken the cutter too close, so the carronades couldn't be elevated high enough. Southwick saw his expression, misinterpreted it and, glancing up at the cliffs, said with his usual cheerfulness:
'If we hit a rock, sir, it'll be just a bit o' bad luck: should be ten fathoms under our keel with cliffs like that.'
Ramage nodded: steep cliffs usually meant deep water close in, while a low coastline normally went with shallow water.
With the Kathleen racing down on the frigate Ramage was conscious of a stream of impressions: the sea was much calmer, though the cliffs weren't blanketing the wind nearly as much as he'd expected, and he could see only the top of the Tower - the edge of the cliff hid the rest
Tfou are still on trial' - whatever Probus meant, the next trial wouldn't lack witnesses but if he made a mistake they'd lack someone to charge.
God, but they were approaching the frigate quickly! He saw Jackson looking at him and realized he was rubbing the scar on his forehead. Damn that American! Self-consciously he clasped his hands behind his back, telescope under his left arm. Once more unto the breach, dear friends....
Now he could see the panes of glass in the frigate's stern lights - they'd need re-glazing soon. And there was the jagged remains of the rudder post where the rudder had snapped off close under the tuck of the transom. Curious how the masts had fallen in just the right position against the cliff.
Three hundred yards to go; no, less, much less.
He put the speaking trumpet to his lips, then took it away and wiped the mouthpiece free of salt water - he was thirsty enough already.
'Remember, you men: every shot must count! Don't hurry -and remember I'll be bearing away slightly as you fire, so don't worry about training the carronades. Out with the tompions!'
Now he could see some details of the gilt scrollwork on the Belette's transom and quarter galleries. A face appeared for a moment where a pane of glass was missing.
'For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,' Jackson said blithely.
Two hundred yards to go to the firing point: the cutter was creaming along like a yacht - one needed a few beautiful women on deck, laughing and joking... One hundred and fifty yards ... Women like Gianna, asking questions, mispronouncing unfamiliar words, her voice like music, her body ... One hundred yards: the quartermaster was balancing at the windward side of the tiller, easing it a fraction this way and that, the other man pushing or pulling in unison.
'Stand by to ease sheets, Mr Southwick.'
An unnecessary order - he'd just said that. Ramage rubbed his forehead again, not giving a damn whether or not Jackson noticed, and glimpsed the face at the window again.
From where he was standing it was sixty feet to the Kathleen's stemhead and her bowsprit stretched out another forty feet beyond: a little over thirty yards altogether.
Then a momentary spasm of terror gripped Ramage: he realized that it was impossible to rake the Belette and then wear the cutter round in time to avoid passing through the field of fire of the frigate's aftermost guns. He'd misjudged both his course and the curve of the Belette's quarter; but it was too late to do anything about it.
Fifty yards to the point where he could begin to bear away. Half these men now tensed by the guns would be dead in a couple of minutes' time.
'Quartermaster — bear away slowly now! Mr Southwick -sheets! Stand by at the guns!'
Slowly the cutter's bow, which had been heading almost directly at the frigate's stern, began to turn away to seaward. Ramage thought he'd never seen a ship turn so slowly and was just going to tell the quartermaster to put the helm hard up when he saw the captain of the first carronade drop down on one knee four or five feet behind the gun and peer along the barrel, the trigger line taut in his right hand.
Steady, he told himself... But God Almighty, a frigate was a damn big ship viewed from the deck of a cutter.
A sudden crash from forward as the first gun fired made him jump, but instinctively he glanced at the target; a complete section of the Belette's stern lights where the man had been standing disappeared in a cloud of dust: strange how shot hitting light woodwork always sent up dust. Some rusty-coloured pockrnarks round the hole showed where a few scattered grapeshot had smashed through planking.
Another crash as the second carronade fired, and the grapeshot blasted into the starboard side of the transom. Most of them hit below the windows, sending up more dust, showers of splinters, and sparks where they ricocheted off metaL
The third gun fired, punching in the centre section. But the Kathleen was still swinging seaward and Ramage could now look along the side of the frigate. He saw the ugly short muzzles of her broadside guns poking out of the ports, trained round as far aft as possible. He could imagine the Frenchmen, their hands taking up the slack on the trigger lines, waiting for the cutter to sail into their sights....
The smoke from the Kathleen's carronades drifted aft and although Ramage was not watching it, the smell was there, acrid and biting in the back of his throat. The noise and smell of battle: the combination drove many men temporarily crazy, transforming them from quiet, amiable sailors into bloodthirsty killers. This was the moment - particularly with boarding parties - when officers had to be alert to keep the men firmly in the grip of discipline. They rarely if ever did; but success needed no excuses, and in case of failure dead officers could not reproach themselves.
'Mr Southwick - stand by to wear ship!'
The fourth carronade fired: one more round to go: he looked at the fifth gun, the last of his puny broadside. The Gunner's Mate, Edwards, was kneeling down aiming it: even now he was calling for a slight adjustment in elevation.
The trigger line was tight in his hand. Would the damned man never fire? He looked along the barrel, glanced through the port to make sure no large waves were coming, paused a moment for the roll - and then jerked the line.
Ramage was hardly conscious of the crash of the gun: but saw the smoke spurting from the muzzle.
'Wear ship!'
The Quartermaster and his mate swung the tiller; seamen hauled desperately at the main sheet to ease over the main boom; others heaved at runners and jib sheet. The cutter's bow began to swing seaward, but slowly, hell, how slowly. Ramage watched the big boom bang across, then glanced astern.
He was looking right into the muzzles of four 12-pounders on the frigate's main deck, and four smaller guns on the deck above: staring straight at the proof of his error of judgement. Because the Belette's fat hull curved round to her narrower quarters, the aftermost guns could train farther round: he'd misjudged the extent of that curve, and even now the French gunners must see the Kathleen filling their sights.
Jackson was muttering, 'Jesus... Jesus!'
The muzzle of the aftermost gun on the Belette's lower deck winked a red eye and spurted yellowish smoke. A split second later there was a crash overhead and Ramage glanced up to see the Kathleen's topmast slowly toppling down. He could not stop himself looking back at the frigate. The next gun forward winked and breathed smoke. A sudden sound like ripping canvas warned him the shot had passed within a few feet, but a hideous metallic clanging and the shrieks of wounded men told him, even before he could glance round, that it had ploughed down the line of guns on the starboard side.
But as Ramage's eyes were drawn back to the frigate the aftermost gun on her upper deck fired, followed a moment later by the second.
He waited for pain and noise; instead there was a splash in the sea thirty yards astern of the cutter and a vicious whine as the shot, ricocheting off the water, spun away overhead. The second shot must have been too high.
'One man aiming the upper-deck guns,' commented Jackson. 'Don't know where he sent the last one, though.'
The third of the upper-deck guns fired, followed by the third on the main deck. A heavy thud and splintering wood warned a shot had smashed through the Kathleen's taffrail, but a quick glance at the tiller showed the steering had not been damaged: then he saw the men hauling in the mainsheet had dissolved into a bloody tangle of bodies: the shot had landed in the middle of them.
The Kathleen was heading north-eastward and still swinging fast. Ramage waited for the fourth of the lower-deck guns to fire. With a bit of luck the rest still could not be brought to bear.
Southwick was already sending men aloft to clear the wreckage of the topmast and he came over and reported.
"We can cut the topmast away without difficulty, sir: hasn't damaged anything else. Three of the starboard side guns dismounted. At a guess, a dozen or so of the lads killed, and maybe a couple of dozen wounded.'
'Very well: see the wounded are taken below at once.'
A bloody mess - but it could have been a lot worse. What now, though? How the devil was he going to get the men from the Tower on board if he couldn't use the frigate as a landing stage? All right, all right, he told himself: don't panic. Itemize, Ramage; itemize carefully.
Hmm ... Item: only two guns left out of the five on the Kathleen's starboard side. Very well, if I want to attack again on the starboard side, shift over larboard side guns to take their place. That'll take time, though, with the ship heeled.
Item: all three of the shots fired by the Belette's lower deck guns hit the Kathleen; so if I have a whole broadside fired at me, I can reckon on at least ten hits out of thirteen. Ten hits would leave the Kathleen as so much driftwood.
Item: the Belette is impregnable so far as the Kathleen's concerned: despite being raked with grapeshot, her aftermost guns had fired, and fired accurately. The guns' crews might have been killed, but others quickly replaced them.
Item: the - a sudden thought struck him: although the Belette's impregnable so far as the cutter is concerned, what about the Belette's former crew in the Tower? Supposing they made a sally and recaptured her by boarding, using the masts as ladders?
Short of the Kathleen boarding, which is impossible because we can't get alongside without being blown out of the water, that's the only chance. The more Ramage thought about it, the more convinced he became.
It left two unknown factors: how many French soldiers are there in the Belette; how many French soldiers are besieging the Tower?
Ramage reckoned there were at least six score seamen and Marines in the Tower; and he'd have to chance that most of them had muskets or cutlasses. If he organized it properly, the Belettes would have a vital ally - surprise; often the most decisive factor in any battle. A horde of British seamen suddenly yelling and whooping their way out of the Tower and making a bolt for the cliff top might well get them through a French cordon of twice their number. And in the Belette herself, the seamen would have all the advantage of fighting in a ship they knew intimately, while the French soldiers would be tripping over everything.
That settled it. Ramage rubbed his forehead: how could he convey the idea to the Belette's captain, marooned in his lofty Tower? There's no signal in the book to cover it.
Meanwhile the Kathleen was still running north-eastward, wasting time. He glanced up and saw the men lowering the last few pieces of the shattered topmast to the deck, and Jackson was walking towards him.
'All the wounded have been taken below, sir. Ten dead and three won't last long.'
Thirteen men killed unnecessarily, Ramage thought bitterly.
'How many wounded altogether?'
'Fifteen, sir.'
Twenty-five killed and wounded out of a ship's company of sixty-five: more than a third - nearly a half, in fact. Enough to satisfy anyone who rated a ship's effectiveness in battle by the size of the butcher's bill, even if her captain was still 'on trial'.
Yet he was lucky - Southwick, Appleby, Jackson and Evans had all escaped.
'Mr Southwick - a moment, if you please.'
The Master came striding over, a cheerful look still on his face: a man who thrived on difficulties, Ramage noted thankfully.
'How long before I can tack? We're wasting time standing out to sea like this.'
'Give me two minutes, sir. I’m just making sure all the halyards are free to run and checking the shrouds and stays.'
'Very well.'
He said to Jackson: 'Signal book, please.'
Ramage flicked over the pages, glancing at the numbers of the signals on the left and their meanings on the right.
First, he would hoist 'Prepare for Battle'. The Belettes will understand that easily enough. They'll have seen the damage to the cutter and the captain's no doubt wondering what Ramage was going to do next.
Ah! Ramage jabbed the page with his finger - he should have thought of that: the 'Preparative' flag, followed by the signal to board the enemy. The actual wording was 'To lay the enemy on board as arriving up with them', but when hoisted with the 'Preparative' flag, the Belette's captain would not obey it until the Preparative flag was hauled down.
He'd just told Jackson to get the flags bent on the halyards in readiness when Southwick came aft to report that the mainmast was now clear of wreckage.
'Right,' snapped Ramage. 'We'll go about at once.'
Three minutes later the Kathleen had turned and was plunging in towards the shore again, hard on the wind, sluicing spray washing away the dark stains on the deck by the dimounted guns and farther aft, where the men at the mainsheet had been killed.
If the French gunners had used grape or caseshot instead of ordinary round shot ... Grape would have done much more damage aloft than just smash the topmast; case shot - forty-two iron balls each weighing four ounces - would have fanned out to kill just about everyone on deck. Ramage shivered.
He'd better give the Belettes as much time as possible to get ready - it would be no easy task giving orders to four score or more seamen crowded into that Tower.
'Jackson - hoist both the signals, but make sure you've got the "Preparative" before the second one.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Ramage watched a red flag followed by a flag quartered in red and white squares soar up the halyard.
To Prepare for Battle, one of the most exciting signals in the book....
Through his telescope he saw the Tower acknowledge.
Then, on another halyard, Jackson hoisted a flag divided horizontally into five blue and four white stripes: 'Preparative'.
Finally the American hauled away at a two-flag hoist, the first a blue cross on white, the second horizontal stripes of blue, white and red - 'To lay the enemy on board...'
Once again the Tower acknowledged.
Everything depends on the timing ... everything depends on the timing ... Well, not everything: if the men in the Tower failed to carry the Belette by boarding, no timing in the world would save the Kathleen from being blown out of the water because he wouldn't know of their failure early enough to get clear.
Looking round the deck, Ramage saw the rolls of hammocks in boarding nets which he had ordered the Bosun's Mate to prepare for when the Kathleen went alongside-before he knew the French were in occupation. It'd be worth getting them rigged over the side. And the hands for grapnels - had any been killed? He walked over to Southwick and gave him the necessary instructions.
Perhaps the wind was easing off after all: earlier he had noticed momentary pauses, as if the Libeccio was occasionally holding its breath. He had often seen half a dozen pauses like that herald the change in ten minutes from a strong wind to nothing, leaving a ship becalmed and wallowing in a nasty sea, with everything aloft thumping and slatting and everything below jumping up and down as if it had St Vitus' dance. Supposing he was becalmed a hundred yards short of the Belette, after the seamen had left the Tower... ?
Ramage swayed in time to the cutter's rhythmic roll: the Belette was a mile ahead and he was steering the same course as before. The 'Prepare for Battle' and 'Board' signals were flying, the latter qualified by the all-important ‘Preparative'. The main and jib sheets were eased so that both sails were spilling a lot of wind, reducing the cutter's speed to about five knots. They'd be alongside the Belette in about twelve minutes.
Ramage walked over to the quartermaster, who was standing on the weather side of the tiller, with a seaman to leeward.
‘You understand your orders?'
The quartermaster grinned confidently.
‘Y es, sir: same as before, only this time I luff her up and lay alongside the Belette, so our transom is level with theirs.'
'Good: do your best: mind the bowsprit — we don't want to harpoon the Belette with it.'
Both the quartermaster and seaman laughed.
Ramage was thankful he'd hove-to and shifted over the larboard-side carronades to replace the damaged ones to starboard: it had been hard work, but worth it. He walked over to the crew of the aftermost gun. Their cutlasses and boarding pikes were stuck into the bulwark on each side of the port, ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice. The gun was loaded, and the tompion closed the muzzle against spray. A gaudy yellow and red striped rag — judging from the grease one of the men had been wearing it round his forehead - covered the flintlock, and the trigger line was laid on top. To one side of the gun was a grapnel, its line coiled down. The once-smooth planking of the deck was deeply scored where the shot from the Belette had flung aside the carronade that this one replaced.
'Who's the man for the grapnel?'
A burly seaman in grimy canvas trousers and faded blue shirt stepped forward.
'Me, sir.'
'And you know where I want that grapnel to land?'
'If we get alongside like you said, sir, then I pop 'im over the bulwarks just above the second gun port from aft'
'And if we stop short?'
'Over the taffrail, sir.'
'Fine. Don't forget to let it go when you throw: I don't want you to fly across to the Belette.'
The rest of the gun's crew laughed and a moment later the seaman, who had not at first understood Ramage's joke, joined in.
Ramage walked forward, having a word with the crew of each gun. He checked how the sausage-shaped fenders had been lashed over the side and made sure they were clear of the muzzles of the guns.
Standing by himself near the stemhead, Ramage found a small, thin and almost bald seaman waiting patiently with a grapnel and coil of line at his feet.
He seemed hardly the right man to heave a grapnel, yet the Bosun's Mate had chosen him to be in the most important and difficult position of all - at the end of the bowsprit, clear of the jib.
Ramage asked him: ‘How far can you throw that?' 'Dunno, really, sir.'
'Forty feet?'
'Dunno, sir: but a deal farther than anyone else on board.' ‘How do you know?'
'Last cap'n had a sort of competition, sir. Got meself an extra tot.'
'Good,' Ramage smiled. ‘Heave like that again and you'll get a couple of extra tots!'
'Oh, thank'ee, sir, thank'ee: John Smith the Third sir, able seaman. You won't forget, sir?'
The man's eyes were pleading. For all he knew, in - well, about eight minutes' time - he would be out on his lonely perch facing a murderous fire from the French, and the prospect left him unworried. But the chance of an extra couple of tots of rum - that made his eyes sparkle and brought with it a sudden anxious fear, that the captain might forget.
'I'll remember,' Ramage said, 'John Smith the Third.'
'Akshly, sir, I just remembered it's "the Second" now, sir: one of the other two dragged his anchors at number four gun.' Ramage looked ahead at the Belette. So three John Smiths had sailed from Bastia. With luck two would return. The other, as his namesake had just phrased it in seamen's slang, was dead. Bastia... Gianna was doing - what?
He strode aft again along the weather side of the deck, calling to Jackson for his telescope.
'Might as well have these, too, sir,' the American said, offering him the pistols Sir Gilbert Elliot had sent on board.
'Oh - yes, thank you.'
He undid the bottom buttons of his waistcoat, pulled the flaps back and pushed the long barrels into the top of his breeches.
'And this, sir.'
Jackson handed him the sword.
Ramage waved it away. 'You keep that: I've enough already.'
He bent down and eased the throwing knife so that it was loose in its sheath in his boot.
Southwick came aft, beaming.
'Satisfied, sir?'
'Perfectly, Mr Southwick.'
'If you did it like you did last time, sir, we'll be all right.'
Ramage glanced up sharply and was just about to tell him to watch his tongue when he realized the man was serious: the fool really thought the first attempt was well done. Well done -with ten corpses already bundled over the side without ceremony and fifteen men below wounded, three of them - in John Smith's phrase - dragging their anchors for the next world....
He put the telescope to his eye and looked at the Belette, judging the distance. He waited and then without looking round called to Jackson, Haul down the "Preparative"!'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Half a mile away: that’d give the Belettes six minutes to get out of the Tower and board the frigate. God, it had been a temptation to give them ten minutes, so there would be no risk to the Kathleen: in that time they'd either have captured the ship, or the survivors would be jumping over the side in confusion, giving him plenty of warning of their failure.
But by allowing them six minutes he was gambling on the Kathleen coming alongside a couple of minutes after they had boarded, just as the French quit the guns to fight them off. The Kathleen's carronades barking at their heels might tip the scales, showing the French they were trapped between the boarders from the Tower and the guns - and possibly more boarders - from the Kathleen.
He looked at the Belette's transom and was surprised to see the damage done by the Kathleen's carronades. Realizing it would do the Gunner's Mate good to see the result and tell the: men, Ramage called: 'Edwards — take the glass and have a look at the damage. I want the next broadside to be as effective, if we have to fire it.5
The man ran aft and took the telescope, steadied himself, and gave a whistle. 'Well, we certainly wrecked the cabin!'
A typical reaction, thought Ramage, smiling to himself: the idea of smashing up the captain's accommodation in one of the King's ships while acting under orders obviously appealed to him.
'But sir—' exclaimed Edwards, and then stumbled as the ship gave a violent roll. He steadied himself and again looked through the telescope. '—Yes! By God, sir, more men are going on board!'
Ramage snatched the glass: Edwards was right, but the men were British: dozens were lining the edge of the cliff and jostling their way down a few feet to swarm across the fallen masts, and the masts themselves were already thick with sailors.
'Run out the guns, Mr Southwick! Quartermasterl Steer as if your life depends on it!'
The Belettes had quit the Tower and started to board much more quickly than he'd allowed, blast it: now he had to increase speed to help them - just when he wanted to make his final approach as slowly as possible: a cutter took a lot of stopping.
He swung the telescope downwards again to the root of the masts: there was no sign of smoke, so perhaps the French in the ship had not yet spotted the seamen scrambling down towards them. Ramage said a silent prayer that the men were not yelling, so they could benefit from surprise.
Looking back along the edge of the cliff he could see the seamen were thinning out: a good half of them were on the masts or already on board. Why were there no French uniforms on the cliff? The break-out from the Tower must have taken them completely by surprise.
Ramage shut the telescope with a snap: the Kathleen was so close he could see enough with the naked eye.
The cutter's quartermaster was watching the leeches of the jib and mainsail like a hawk, reacting with the tiller to every gust of wind. The ship was so close under the cliffs that the wind was fluky, much of it blowing down at an angle, and changing direction slightly.
'Mr Southwick - I want those men in position with the grapnels and heaving lines. Tell the foredeck men to be ready to back the jib.'
The frigate's stern was looming up large: now he could see right along her side: the guns were run out and again trained as far aft as possible. He could see that her chainplates, thick boards sticking out edgeways from the hull and originally supporting the shrouds that held up the masts, would be a problem. No, maybe not - they might be just a bit too high to tear at the Kathleen's shrouds.
He saw seamen, each with a grapnel in his hand, stationing themselves along the side of the cutter, and John Smith, lately the Third and now the Second, was already out on the end of the bowsprit, partly hidden by the luff of the jib.
Six men with grapnels, another half dozen to handle the jib sheets and halyard, ten more to get the mainsail down - well, there were very few left to handle the guns.
The most dangerous time will be after the Belettes are on board the Kathleen and she's getting under way again: if the French manage to get the guns and fire even a couple of rounds...
Ramage rubbed his forehead as another idea came to him.
Since his own carronades would not do much good - firing them into the ship risked killing Britons as well - he decided to gamble on the Belette's guns having been left while the French tried to fight off the boarders.
'Jackson! Pick a dozen men and as soon as we get alongside, board her and cut through as many of the breechings and side tackles as you can. Then do what you can to help the Belettes.'
If the French fired a gun without the thick rope breeching -which stopped it after being flung back a few feet by the recoil - the gun would career right across the deck, killing anyone standing in the way.
Jackson grinned with pleasure, drew the sword presented to Ramage by Sir Gilbert, and ran along the guns picking his men.
Two hundred yards to go ... How much way did this damned ship carry? Blast, a wave punched her bow round to larboard, but the quartermaster quickly put the tiller over for a second and the cutter came back on course.
Yet Ramage was in a better position than he thought: he could now see the full length of the frigate's side and the Kathleen's course was parallel to and fifteen or twenty yards to seaward of the frigate's centre-line.
A hundred and fifty yards ...
'Mr Southwick - ease the mainsheet.'
That began to slow her up handsomely.
'Overhaul the mainsheet and the weather jib sheet.'
That ensured the ropes would be clear for the moment he ordered the jib to be backed, when the wind against the canvas would try to thrust the bow to leeward, away from the frigate. But hardening on the mainsheet at the last moment and putting the tiller over would push the bow up into the wind towards the frigate. The two opposing forces should balance and cancel each other out, leaving the cutter hove-to right alongside the frigate, close enough for the men to throw the grapnels and hook them over the bulwarks.
A hundred yards, maybe less, and the blasted cutter was going along like a runaway coach: damnation, he had to risk it. If she stopped short of the frigate they were all in trouble, whereas if she was travelling too fast as she came alongside there was at least a chance of stopping her with the grapnels, or banging her hard against the frigate's hull with a sudden luff. 'Mr Southwick - we'll heave-to alongside. As soon as the grapnels are over, pull us in. I'll pass the word when to let fly the main and back the jib.'
Seventy-five yards at a guess, and it was a rough guess at that.
No one looked worried: Southwick's face was placid, the quartermaster was concentrating on steering, and Jackson was making some swipes with Sir Gilbert's sword, testing its balance.
'Mr Southwick, back the jib!' Ramage snapped.
Blast, he was going to overshoot. What's that popping noise? Muskets! Andhe could hear yelling on board the frigate.
'Starboard a point! Aft the main sheet!1
He'd overshoot by thirty yards at least, probably more.
No, maybe only twenty yards - less if the grapnels held.
The backed jib trying to shove the bow to leeward was fighting its own battle with the mainsail trying to thrust the bow to windward; but, more important, the resulting stalemate was slowing down the cutter better than he'd expected and closing the gap.
A few yards to go now and they'd pass ten feet off; already the Kathleen's bowsprit end was passing the frigate's stern.
'Quartermaster, hard down with the helm.'
Once the rudder was over more than about thirty degrees it acted as a brake. Now—
‘Let fly jib and main sheets, Mr Southwick!'
Southwick bawled out orders. The jib flapped and the great main boom swung off to larboard, the sail slatting with the wind blowing down both sides and exerting no pressure.
Ramage realized Southwick was shouting, 'Neat, oh very neat, by Christ!'
Snatching up the speaking trumpet, Ramage yelled, 'Get those grapnels over!’'
He watched John Smith the Second poised on the bowsprit, the grapnel swinging from his right hand, body slack, apparently nonchalant; but then he stiffened, swung his body round and his right arm back. Suddenly the arm and shoulder shot forward and the grapnel soared up, the line momentarily forming a bow in the air. The grapnel disappeared over the frigate's bulwarks and Smith let go of the line, leaving men in the bow to haul in the slack. The Kathleen had stopped so close it had been an easy throw; but Smith was in credit to the extent of two tots.
One after another the remaining grapnels soared up and disappeared over the Belette's bulwarks. Hurriedly the seamen hauled and a moment later the Kathleen thudded alongside the frigate.
'Away boarders!' Ramage bellowed into the speaking trumpet and saw Jackson leap from the cutter's bulwarks in through one of the Belette's gun ports with more men following him.
On a sudden impulse Ramage flung down the speaking trumpet, dragged the pistols from the waistband of his breeches, and jumped on to the aftermost carronade, intending to follow Jackson, but at that moment several men appeared along the bulwarks of the frigate's poop, high overhead.
Ramage, off balance, knew he could not raise his pistols in time and waited for a volley of musket shots. Instead he heard cheers - British cheers.
He scrambled down from the carronade, feeling sheepish. He put down the pistols, retrieved the speaking trumpet, and shouted:
'Come on, you Belettes, get on board, fast!'
Someone was shouting down at him with an authoritative voice and he saw a hatless officer with an epaulet on each shoulder standing at a gun port: a captain of more than three years' seniority.
Amid the din of flapping sails, musketry and shouting, it was difficult to hear, so Ramage jumped back on the carronade. The captain shouted: 'Give us five minutes - we want to finish off these Frogs.'
'Aye aye, sir,'
Thank Christ for that, thought Ramage, the Belettes have the upper hand. But—
‘What about the French on the cliff, sir?'
'Don't worry - we can stop 'em coming down the masts: that's all that matters!'
Even as he spoke there was a popping of muskets from the other side of the ship and Ramage saw that French soldiers had appeared along the edge of the cliff, but they dodged back almost at once.
Captain Laidman of the Belette was as good as his word: in less than four minutes seamen — among them Jackson and his party - were climbing down her side on to the Kathleen's decks and Laidman shouted from the poop:
'Everyone's off except the Marines: are you ready to get under way?'
'Ready when you are, sir.'
'Right'
Laidman disappeared from the port and a minute later redcoated Marines, still clutching their muskets, began scrambling down the frigate's side. As soon as they reached the Kathleen's decks, and before Ramage had time to give them any orders, their lieutenant had them lining the cutter's bulwarks, loading their muskets and ready to fire. In the meantime the rest of the Belettes had been bundled below, out of the way.
Jackson, who had been waiting an opportunity to report, said:
'All breechings cut on both sides, sir.'
'That was quick work.'
'Some of the Belettes gave a hand, sir, but I checked every gun myself.'
'Very well, stand by here.'
Finally Captain Laidman appeared again at a gun port and climbed down to the Kathleen.
‘Welcome on board, sir.'
‘Thank you, m'lad: sorry there were uninvited guests on board the Belette when you first arrived.'
Ramage laughed. 'At least you announced them! But if you'll excuse me, sir—'
Captain Laidman nodded, and Ramage looked round for the Master.
'Mr Southwick - sheet the jib aback and hoist the foresail.'
As she lay alongside the frigate, the Kathleen's bowsprit pointed at an angle towards the cliffs on which the Belette's bow rested, and Ramage saw the only way to sail out was to let the wind swing the cutter's bow round while her stern was held against the frigate. That would take her clear of the rocks at the foot of the next headland.
'Evans,' he called to the Bosun's Mate, 'cut away the for'ard four lines, but hold on to the aftermost two. Pay out and snub if need be, but keep our stern in. Quartermaster, put the helm down.'
By now the jib had been sheeted in aback so that the canvas was as flat as a board. The wind began to push the cutter's bow round to seaward, but her long, narrow keel diverted some of the effort into a fore-and-aft movement so the Kathleen began to move astern.
Ramage glanced aft: the frigate's stern gallery, looking very battered from the Kathleen's earlier assault, was drawing level with the cutter's transom. Evans was directing seamen and alternately paying out the grapnel lines to allow for the movement astern, and then snubbing them, to keep the cutter's stern against the frigate and help lever the bow round.
Ramage watched until the Kathleen's stem was well clear of the outlying rocks ahead. The foresail had by now been hoisted and, like the jib, sheeted aback.
'Mr Southwick, I'll have jib and foresail sheeted home, if you please.'
As soon as they started drawing, the Kathleen's sternway would be checked and she would start moving ahead but, without the mainsail drawing, would still pay off to leeward.
'Quartermaster, tiller amidships.'
A sudden crackling of muskets made him glance up at the cliff: a group of French soldiers were kneeling, muskets at their shoulders. Almost at once the Marines along the Kathleen's bulwarks fired back and the French promptly ducked.
The Kathleen heeled slightly as the wind filled the headsails, and gradually started gathering headway.
'Evans, cut away those lines! Quartermaster, meet her! Mr Southwick, aft the mainsheet!'
Ten minutes later the Kathleen was broad-reaching along the coast heading for Bastia, and Ramage handed over the conn to Southwick while he went over to Captain Laidman who had, he realized, been tactfully keeping himself to the lee side of the quarter-deck.
'My apologies for not giving you a proper welcome, sir: I am Ramage.'
'Laidman,' he answered gruffly. "Damn' fine piece of seamanship, m'boy: y' can rely on me to make that clear in m' report. Now, meet m' officers. They're at your disposal. Use what men you like: you're pretty short-handed, aren't you?'
Without waiting for a reply he called over his lieutenants, master and Marine lieutenant, and introduced them.
‘By the way,' Laidman said. 'If you can get your galley fire lit, none of us have eaten for some time....'
'Of course, sir, I'll see to it'
Ramage called to Jackson, 'Tell my steward to arrange some food for the officers.'
He looked round for the Bosun's Mate. 'Evans - tell the cook he can have as many hands as he wants from the Kathleens and the Belettes, but I want both ships' companies to have a meal within an hour.’'
Then he walked over to Southwick, who simply held out his hand. Ramage shook it.
'Thanks. I'm just going below to have a word with the wounded. The galley fire's being lit. In the meantime, every man on board is to have a tot, but serve two to John Smith the Second!'