The shout was faint as the following wind hurled the man's words ahead into the darkness but Aitken snatched up the speaking trumpet and, aiming it aloft, bellowed: "Foremast, quarterdeck here!" He then quickly reversed the trumpet, placing the mouthpiece against his ear and aiming the open end at the lookout.
Ramage could just hear the words without using a speaking trumpet as an ear trumpet. "Breakers ahead!"
"Down with the helm!" Ramage shouted at the quartermaster. "Come round to larboard and steer west."
Looking over the bow he could not see any telltale line of waves breaking on the beach, but the lookout had the advantage of height. Suddenly the lookout on the starboard bow reported breakers, but by then Aitken was bellowing orders which were wearing the frigate, getting the yards braced round and the sheets trimmed. From reaching along on the starboard tack, the Calypso was now turning seaward; by the time she was sailing on the course Ramage had ordered, she would be on the opposite tack with the wind on the larboard quarter.
Reaching in a strong wind is easy on the gear but hard on the men. Now the frigate was heeling as men braced the yards and made up the sheets as soon as the sails were trimmed. Was she overpressed? Many a ship running before a strong wind found she needed to reef when she put the wind on or forward of the beam. The reason was quite simple: running before the wind, the ship was making say ten knots, so ten knots was subtracted from the wind speed. But by putting the wind on or forward of the beam, ten knots had to be added to the wind speed - and that was usually the amount that entailed another reef and sometimes meant handing the topsails altogether. But the change from having the wind one point abaft the beam on the starboard tack to snug on the larboard quarter made no difference.
As the Calypso wore round, Ramage's eyes had swept in a circle. Starting at the bow he looked for the breakers, then inspected the topsails to see if the wind was too much as the frigate swung on to the new course, turned to see if the French frigate was following, and finally came round full circle to try to penetrate the darkness and haze to spot the beach.
"The Frenchman's coming round, sir," Southwick muttered, "though I'm damned if I know whether he's just following our poop lantern or has seen the breakers himself."
"Following us," Ramage said shortly. "I doubt if they have a masthead lookout aloft at night in this weather."
"That's true," Southwick said with a sniff. Anything describing French incompetence always found Southwick in agreement.
Ramage took the small piece of paper from his pocket and as he unfolded it he walked over to the dim light coming from the lanthorn in the binnacle box. He turned to the quartermaster, but made sure Southwick heard: "Now you'll steer exactly south-west by west a quarter west," he said.
"South-west by west a quarter west," the quartermaster repeated and then, taking a deep breath, said: "If you don't mind me sayin' so, sir, t'aint the sort o' weather fer steering quarter points."
Ramage laughed drily as he watched the men turning the wheel a few spokes. "You were quite happy with a quarter point on the other tack. A quarter point now might make all the difference between scattering your sovereigns at Portsmouth Point or drowning within the hour."
"I wuz only meanin' the weather's got worser, sir; I wuzn't sayin' it couldn't be done," the man said apologetically.
"No, of course not," Ramage said, and sighted the long white line of breakers now on the Calypso's starboard quarter.
He turned to find Southwick standing beside him. "Sir, this course . . ."
"I know," he said. "You'd better get those men down to the cable tier in a quarter of an hour and the boys with the lanthorns. And three men with sharp axes and half a dozen hefty men at the bitts."
"But. . . but. . . we're clear of the breakers . . ."
"Where exactly are we?" Ramage asked tartly. "Do you want me to tack inshore again so you can get a sight of a tower?"
"Well, I don't know what you intend, sir," Southwick said helplessly, unwilling to commit himself and puzzled that Ramage should be anxious to know the ship's position so precisely.
"Well, I just spotted the Torre Collelungo a moment ago, the old square one," Ramage said. Luckily he had been looking towards the beach as he spoke to the quartermaster; even luckier that the tower, its shape unmistakable, had appeared in the darkness beyond the line of breakers like the ghost of Hamlet's father peering over a wall. Had the tower been round and not standing on a small hill, he would have had to tack inshore again to pick up another, but square, and in that position . . .
Ramage tugged the watch from his fob pocket and while he bent down to let the binnacle lamp's feeble light show the face, he said to Aitken: "A cast of the log, if you please Mr Aitken." He did not need Aitken's reproachful look to remind him that he should have warned the first lieutenant so that the men would be standing by ready.
A hurried shout and three seamen ran up to the quarterdeck. One carried a reel on which the logline was wound; another had two log glasses - one called the long, the other the short. The long one, in which the sand ran out in twenty-eight seconds, was used when the ship was estimated to be making less than five knots; the short, fourteen seconds, was for above five knots.
The third man carried a triangular-shaped piece of wood, the logchip, which had three lines attached to it, one to each corner. One of them was secured only by a peg pushed into the hole, and all three were made up to the logline itself.
The man with the logchip went to the lee quarter, and as the second seaman with the reel held it above his head by its handles so that it could spin, the logchip man called: "Is the glass clear?"
"Clear glass," the third seaman answered.
The logchip was dropped in the water, and the reel started spinning as the logchip, now immersed in the sea, dragged it off. As soon as a piece of bunting passed the logchip man, he shouted, "Turn," and the short glass was inverted to start the sand running.
The line, unreeling fast, had a knot tied in it every forty-seven feet three inches, and the knots were in the same proportion to a nautical mile as the glasses were to an hour. If three knots ran out with the long glass, the ship was making three knots; with the short glass she would be making six.
The third seaman with the short glass called "Stop!" as the sand ran out, and the line was checked by the first seaman. This jerked the peg out of the logchip, which went flat, skating along the top of the water as the men counted up the knots. Four.
"Eight knots, sir," the man with the reel reported to Aitken, doubling the number because he was using the short glass.
While the seamen were streaming the log, Ramage walked over to the compass and stared down at the card. The black lubber's line was within a hair's breadth of the letters SW x W¼W printed against a small black triangle, and he called to the men at the wheel: "Obviously your favourite course!"
The four helmsmen and the quartermaster were still laughing when Aitken reported: "Eight knots, sir. Will you be wanting another cast?"
"Yes, in ten minutes or so. Stand by."
And there astern the French frigate was now inching her way up to windward to get directly into the Calypso's wake, having taken longer to wear round. Well, Ramage thought to himself, the odds are now almost in my favour. He took the slate from the binnacle box drawer and noted down the time the coast was sighted (a guess from the time he had ordered the course alteration and looked at his watch), the course they were now steering, and the Calypso's speed. The lives of many people now depended on three factors, time, speed and distance - and yes, the breaking strain of hemp ...
Now for the bloody mathematics. The Calypso had seven miles to run from the mouth of the Ombrone river, but they had turned away from the coast opposite the Torre Collelungo which was, he remembered, almost three miles south of the river mouth.
There was a northgoing current but running at no more than a knot at the moment. Seven miles to run at eight knots - that will take . . . yes, fifty-three minutes from the time we altered course. In fact we have to run slightly more than seven miles because we started off south of the Ombrone - but then, the guess of a knot for the speed of the northgoing current is on the low side. So the two, extra distance and current will, probably, cancel each other out. He went to the binnacle lamp and looked again at his watch. Forty-one minutes to go.
The quartermaster, misunderstanding why Ramage had gone to the binnacle, said defensively: "We're steering as close to a quarter point as makes no difference, sir. Coming off mebbe a quarter point either side as she yaws, and it evens out nice."
"It had better," Ramage said with a cheerfulness he did not feel, but not wanting to make the quartermaster think he was distrusted. "Otherwise all of us will be marked down 'DD' within the hour!"
The men at the wheel and the quartermaster laughed at Ramage's grim forecast: in wartime a man could leave a ship (and therefore the Navy) for one of only three reasons, which were written as initials beside his name in the muster book as "D" for Discharged (to another ship, or a hospital), or "DD" for Discharged Dead, meaning he had died or been killed, or "R", the Navy's curt way of saying that a man had Run or deserted, an offence which could end, if he was caught, with the man swinging by the neck from a yardarm. In fact in wartime the Navy was so short of men that a recaptured deserter was usually flogged and sent to sea again.
"Another cast of the log, if you please Mr Aitken, and I'll thank you to have a man ready in the chains with the lead."
The wooden triangle attached to the logline was thrown over the stern again and the seaman held up the reel by its handles so that it spun freely, while the third man turned the glass, timing how quickly the measured length of line took to run out. Aitken had shouted the order for the leadsman, and Ramage could picture the seaman tying on his leather apron and collecting the coiled up leadline, holding the actual lead (which looked like the weight of a grandfather clock) before going to the lee side to stand on the thick board fitted lengthwise along the ship's side abreast the foremast. This, known as the chain-plate (there was one each side in way of a mast and the shrouds were secured to it), formed a good platform. The leadsman put lines round himself (the breast ropes) and made the ends secure to the shrouds, so that he would not fall into the sea if there was an unexpected lee lurch.
Holding the coil of rope (marked at various depths by pieces of cloth and leather, because he would be working by feel) in his left hand, he had the end of the line secured to the lead in his right.
When the call came for the cast of the lead he would let six or seven feet of line pass through his right hand and then swing the lead back and forth, like a pendulum, finally letting it go when he judged it was swinging far enough forward that the lead would plummet into the water and hit the bottom as the ship sailed above it.
As soon as he felt the weight coming off the line he would feel for the nearest piece of cloth or leather, and know how much line was in the water, and thus the depth. As he shouted it out, he would be hastily hoisting up the lead and coiling the line, ready for another cast. And the leather apron would prevent the water streaming off the line from soaking him.
Forty minutes. After telling Aitken he was going to the fo'c'sle, Ramage walked up to see Southwick, who by now was wearing oilskins as the Calypso's bow butted into the seas, sending up showers of spray.
"She seems to like this length o' swell," Southwick commented. "The men are down in the cable tier, and I've the others up here." He was obviously hoping for some explanation and, knowing that the next orders would be bellowed at Southwick from the quarterdeck, the voice distorted by the speaking trumpet, Ramage described his plan in detail.
Southwick nodded from time to time as both men clung to the breech of the weathermost bowchaser, ducking occasionally from spray hurling itself into the air to be blown aft by the wind.
"Yes," Southwick agreed. "I think the cable will hold." He thought for a moment. "Anyway, it'll be all up with us if it doesn't!" he grunted.
"Ten fathoms," Ramage repeated.
"Aye aye, sir. I'll get plenty of cable up on deck, faked out and ready to run. I - er, well, if I may say so, sir, I wouldn't mention to Sir Henry what you intend doing . . ."
"Why on earth not?"
"Well, sir," Southwick said uncomfortably, "it's difficult to put it into words, but. . ."
"But what?" Ramage demanded. "Spit it out, man; since when have you come along blushing with a bunch of flowers in your hand?"
"Well, sir," Southwick started again, "I've sailed with you so long that I expect the unexpected; it's sort of - well, I've received some very strange orders from you, sir, but I've carried 'em out and later I see you were absolutely right, and you took Johnny Crapaud by surprise. What I mean, sir, is that Sir Henry hasn't - well, he hasn't sailed with you before and he - well, he might..."
"He'll probably think I've gone mad?" Ramage offered.
Southwick swallowed hard. "Yes, sir, he might. Aitken and the rest of the Calypsos know better; in fact few of 'em realize that half the time your orders'd sound odd to the usual run of frigate captains because you succeed, so as far as our fellows are concerned that's the way to do it."
Ramage patted Southwick's arm. "Don't worry, I understand what you mean and thanks for saying it. Anyway, Sir Henry seems happy enough wrapped up in his oilskins and sitting undisturbed on a carronade aft. Aitken says he's dreaming of the days when he was young and commanded a frigate, and not a fleet!"
Back on the quarterdeck, Aitken reported to Ramage that the Calypso was still making almost exactly eight knots, and the time and speed had been written on the slate. And the French frigate, Aitken added, was following in the Calypso's wake, barely a cable distant.
Ramage went to the binnacle and looked again at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes. The damned timepiece seemed to be going backwards. Well, Southwick knew what he had to do. Now to give Aitken his instructions, then he would take a turn round the deck, telling Kenton, Hill, Martin and Orsini what was expected of them. And, even though the present quartermaster was a good man, Ramage had an almost superstitious preference for having Jackson as the quartermaster, watching the helmsmen and the weather luffs of the sails, when they went into action - not that they were going into action, but... He gave the order to Aitken, and while the word was passed for the American, Ramage told Aitken what he intended doing.
Ramage watched the first lieutenant's face closely in the darkness, having already absorbed Southwick's honest comments, but Aitken revealed no reaction: Ramage could have been telling the Scotsman something routine - such as that tomorrow morning they would be anchoring in a quiet bay and he wanted the ship's boats away wooding and watering because they were down to fifteen tons of water and the cook was complaining he was short of wood for heating the coppers.
Aitken repeated the course that Ramage had mentioned, asked for a confirmation of the distance to be run, and suggested that he should visit all the officers at their divisions of guns, nodding contentedly when Ramage said he would do that himself.
Then, unexpectedly, Aitken had nodded his head aft. "Are you telling the admiral what you intend doing, sir?"
The Highland accent was strong, and Ramage knew the Scotsman was more excited than he had revealed. Hearing Southwick's warning, Ramage shook his head. "He might think I'm trying to get his approval."
"Aye, he might that. And I'm thinking you wouldn't, sir; to anyone not used to our ways it does sound a bit of a gamble. Our necks in a rope, one might say!"
"Yers, s'obvious, innit," Stafford declared. He, Rossi, Jackson and the four Frenchmen were crouched down in the lee of the fourth 12-pounder on the larboard side. The black enamelled barrel of the gun glistened wetly with spray in the diffused light from a moon fighting through haze and fast-moving cloud. "Yers - we're tryin' to lead this Frog frigate a dance. The Capting's got some trick ready so's we lose the Frog in the dark. Justchew wait'n see."
"Gilbert," Jackson said, "just check that apron: some of these gusts are a bit fierce."
The Frenchman stood up and worked his way to the breech. He ran his hand over the small tent of canvas protecting the flintlock from spray and rain.
"Is all right," he said, crouching down again beside the other men. "Tell me, Staff, supposing these 'Frogs' have already guessed what Mr Ramage intends doing? What then?"
"Frogs is a daft lot," Stafford declared, completely oblivious that number four gun on the larboard side was served by four Frenchmen, one Italian, one American and one Briton. "Needn't worry yerself Gilbert. Here, Jacko, they're callin' fer you from the quarterdeck. Wotchew bin doing then?"
For a moment, as he listened again for the hail, making sure it was for him, Jackson tried to decide whether Stafford was anxious for his wellbeing or afraid he might have missed something.
Yes, the hail was for him. "You're gun captain now, Staff, and Rosey, you move up one. Right?"
With that he walked aft in a series of splay-footed zigzags, looking like a drunken duck while moving from one handhold to another as the ship alternately heeled to stronger blasts of wind and then came upright in the lulls, like an inverted pendulum.
Stafford is probably right, Jackson thought; that Cockney is shrewd, and he has sailed with Mr Ramage for several years. But if Mr Ramage intends throwing off this French frigate, he is going to have to do it soon: the moon will be up all night, and the Frenchman was quick enough to follow the Calypso round on that last tack and shows up again at a cable's distance. Tacking and wearing across the Tyrrhenian Sea is all very well, but those Frenchmen can obviously work their ship fast enough to match tack for tack.
Once he reached the quarterdeck ladder he saw the first lieutenant and the captain standing together by the binnacle. Mr Aitken was still holding the speaking trumpet and had obviously hailed him.
"Sir," Jackson said, "you passed the word for me?"
"Yes. You take over as quartermaster."
As Jackson relieved his predecessor he listened as the man first repeated the course and described the sails set and wind direction. The American saw that the four men at the wheel were reliable and a glance at the compass showed the ship yawing comfortably about a quarter of a point either side of the course. Very good: the men were letting the ship find her own way rather than sawing the rudder first one way and then the other - nervous steering which usually ended in frayed tempers.
Jackson knew very well that he was always Mr Ramage's choice as quartermaster when going into action. But action on a night like this? Was Mr Ramage suddenly going to turn and steer down towards the Frenchman? With the Calypso rolling enough to make gunnery as near as dammit impossible? The two ships would pass each other at a combined speed of at least sixteen knots, so there would be time enough for only one broadside, and that would do precious little damage. Anyway, by the time the Calypso came near, the Frenchmen would probably be tacking, to get out of danger. At the moment - he pictured it clearly - they were like a donkey going uphill with the peasant holding on to their tail. Everywhere the donkey went, the peasant (in the shape of the French frigate) was sure to follow. Some nursery rhyme came to mind.
Yet up here on the quarterdeck Jackson did not feel there was any tension: Mr Aitken had gone back to his usual place at the quarterdeck rail; Mr Ramage moved up to the weather side, out of the reach of the spray. And that man sitting on the after carronade, oilskins glistening, must be the old admiral. Hicks, the other quartermaster, had gone off without sulking, and the whole ship's company knew that Hicks sulked as easily as the shine wore off brass in the sea air: in fact within a month of joining the ship the fellow had been nicknamed "Brightwork Hicks". If he was not sulking now, then Mr Aitken or Mr Ramage must have explained why he was being replaced. So at the moment, the American thought wryly, "Brightwork Hicks" knows a great deal more about what is going to happen than I do.
At that moment he saw the captain going down the quarterdeck ladder on the weather side. Five minutes ago he had been up on the fo'c'sle, where Mr Southwick was still waiting with a handful of men. Jackson shrugged his shoulders, quite satisfied with his present ignorance: with Mr Ramage anything could happen, and it usually turned out for the best.
Ramage found Hill at the first division of guns, eight 12-pounders forward on the starboard side. His men were cheerful and obviously the Calypso's new third lieutenant was popular. More important, he had a knack of keeping the men on their toes, even after hours at general quarters, which with so much spray coming over the bow and sweeping along the lee side of the ship, meant they were in effect sitting in showers of salty rain.
It took only a couple of minutes to give Hill his orders and assure him that he should now explain things to his guns' crews. Kenton was equally cheerful but had obviously given up the task of trying to keep his hat on his head. His thatch of red hair, soaked with spray, looked black and was sticking out in all directions like sprouting grass in a high wind.
"Long time since we had a chance to fire these in anger, sir," Kenton commented, slapping the breech of one of the guns.
Ramage looked round at the seamen, who appeared more like pirates than ordinary seamen or men rated able in the King's service. Most had narrow strips of rag tied round their foreheads, intended originally to stop perspiration running down into their eyes in the heat of battle but, at the moment, serving the same purpose against spray. Although they had gone to general quarters wearing only trousers, all now wore shirts and some had jackets. Few had bothered with oilskins but had long since daubed jackets with tar, turning them into tarpaulin coats which kept out rain and spray - until the canvas began to crack with age and use.
"Yes," Ramage agreed, "it's a long time, but firing heats up the barrels and burns off the blacking, you know. And we have such a sloppy ship's company that when they have to paint the guns again they spill more blacking on the deck planking than they get on the metal."
"Aye, sir, that's true," Kenton said solemnly as the seamen laughed. "I've even heard it said that's why we never go into action."
"Of course," Ramage said equally seriously, to the delight of the men. "Why scrub the deck white if careless fellows are going to make it black again?"
After giving Kenton his orders, Ramage crossed to the larboard side, to find Martin sitting on the breech of a gun, holding his flute and explaining its finer points to the seamen gathered round him.
"Don't let me disturb you," Ramage told a startled Martin, who had not seen him approaching in the darkness, "but tell me, 'Blower', have you ever left aside the chanties and sampled the delights of, say, Georg Telemann?"
"Why, sir," Martin said eagerly, sliding off the breech, "do you know his work?"
"I do," Ramage said with mock irritation in his voice, "but no thanks to you. I haven't heard you play a note of Telemann while serving in this ship."
"No, sir, because the men prefer the popular tunes they know. But I play Telemann in my imagination almost every day. I've worked my way through the concerti with my imagination providing the orchestra and any other necessary instruments - oboes, violins, bassoon, harpsichord, whatever is called for. Now I'm halfway through the overtures."
"But the music - you can't know it all by heart?"
"No, sir, but my trunk's half full of sheet music. I don't need music for Telemann's fantasies, of course. And I've Handel's sonatas for the flute - my mother gave me all fifteen for flute and oboe just before we sailed."
Ramage cursed silently to himself. Music was the one thing he missed at sea - he blotted out thoughts of Sarah, thinking only of the time before he was married - and he had never thought of Martin playing anything on his flute but tunes for the men. All those evenings when he could have been listening to Telemann, who was one of his favourites. Did Aitken like music, and Kenton? Hill, come to think of it, probably did.
"Don't get that damaged," he told Martin, pointing to the flute. "After tomorrow we'll try and improve this ship's appreciation of serious music."
Martin grinned and said: "I have two flutes, sir. I always think of this as my working one. My best is in its own baize-lined case. I rarely do more than take it out and polish it."
"You can start sorting through your sheet music tomorrow," Ramage said. "Meanwhile time passes. What I want you to dowhen you get the order is this." Quickly, with the seamen listening and most of them nodding approvingly without realizing it, Ramage gave his instructions and then made his way aft, to find Orsini.
The young Italian was standing at a gunport, peering out and trying to glimpse the frigate astern while the gun captains chatted and most of the crews sat on the deck, backs against the carriages. Some seemed to be asleep, despite the spray, the creaking of the ropes of the tackles and the grumbling of the trucks as the guns moved an inch or so with each roll of the ship.
Orsini listened attentively as Ramage gave him his orders, ending with: "Any questions?"
"Not about the orders, sir. But are we leaving Tuscany for good?"
Ramage shrugged. "It depends, but I doubt it."
He understood immediately that it was no idle question, knowing Orsini's deep love for Tuscany, since he shared it. Most British seamen seeing the Lizard fading in the distance as they started off on a voyage from England wondered whether they would ever see their home again. Paolo must be wondering if that fleeting glimpse of breakers in the darkness would be the last time he saw Tuscany. The last time, or anyway, the last time for many years.
"It depends on whether our trick works," Ramage said, "if 'trick' is the right word."
After joking with the guns' crews, Ramage went back to the quarterdeck to find that Aitken, in anticipation of his return, was waiting for the seamen with the logline to report the Calypso's speed. While he waited Ramage looked yet again at his watch in the light from the binnacle. Fourteen minutes to go, and damnation, he had forgotten to have a word with the lookouts. Still, perhaps that was all to the good: in a few moments he would send round a couple of seamen to warn the lookouts that in ten minutes or so they should see ... should, but with the darkness and haze would they . .?