The distant outline of the Alpes de Provence was just appearing to the eastward, shaped by the first hint of dawn beyond, when Ramage jumped on to the beach from his gig and answered the respectful greetings of Martin and Rennick with a cheerfulness that startled them and made Paolo glance quickly at Jackson.
The acting signalmen, with nothing to do until daylight showed the towers at Aspet and Le Chesne, had come down to the beach to help hold the gig, anticipating heavy swells from the previous days' storm, but the sea had calmed.
'Somefing's up!' Stafford whispered to Jackson. 'Whenever 'e's so cheerful this time o' the morning it means trouble.'
'Action, not trouble', Rossi corrected.
''S what I mean. I'm getting fed up wiv pulling them bloody 'alyards, I don't mind telling you. Black an' white squares', he exclaimed scornfully. 'Beats me 'ow people can stay awake playin' chess!'
'They're usually yellow, not white', Jackson said.
'Even worse. Wearin' a yellow dress can make you miscarry, so my sister says.'
'Yes', Jackson said briskly, 'that's why I never wear one. Now the captain's on shore we might as well get ready to go up the tower.'
'We got hours yet', Stafford protested.
'All right, you stay here and let the mosquitoes eat you. But that tower is just high enough that the lazy ones don't bother to fly that high, and they'll be swarming in another ten minutes.'
'Is right, I come with you', Rossi said, slapping at early-risers who were already biting his bare arm. 'The higher you go the not so many zanzari.'
Inside the signalmen's hut, appropriated by Martin as the officers' quarters and serving as his combined headquarters and gunroom, the lantern light seemed very yellow, an even stronger hint that dawn was breaking. Again Ramage indicated the trio should sit down, and from his jacket he took a slip of paper. 'This signal must be sent westwards at first light. I don't want the Le Chesne station to see it, so we must try to send it off before they man their tower.'
He unfolded it and gave it to Paolo. 'Read it aloud in French', he said, and when the midshipman had done so, he said: 'Now translate it for Mr Martin and Mr Rennick.'
Paolo paused a few moments, obviously changing the French construction into English, but equally obvious to Martin and Rennick was that reading the French version had brought first puzzlement and then excitement to the midshipman's eyes.
Paolo began reading aloud: '"Figures 34, Convoy to sail immediately for Baie de Foix where escort will join. Figures 1." That's the signal and', he added for Rennick's benefit, 'it's to the station at Barcelona, which is thirty-four, from Toulon, which is number one.'
Martin gestured impatiently for the paper but Ramage realized that the movement was a delaying action as much as anything: young 'Blower' Martin, confronted with an entirely unexpected situation, was giving himself time to think. And then, as he realized the consequences, he gave a cheerful grin.
'Shall we have enough men to make up prize crews, sir?'
'Don't count your prize money before the prizes are caught', Ramage said. 'There are just two or three possible snags, aren't there, Rennick?'
He knew the Marine had spotted them - more perhaps by instinct than logical thought, because Martin was twice as clever as the burly Marine.
'Yes, sir: if the French authorities somewhere between here and Barcelona get suspicious and send two or three frigates to see what's going on in the Baie de Foix, or the real escort arrive in time or meet the convoy on the way and sail with it to here. Or, a third alternative, they meet the convoy, hear of the signal from Toulon about going to Foix, reckon it no longer applies because the convoy now has an escort, and sails direct to its original destinations.'
Ramage nodded. 'The first two are risks; the third will be the disappointment.'
Martin said: 'But, sir, supposing the merchantmen refuse to risk sailing without an escort? If they're anything like our own shipmasters, they can be a damned independent crowd.'
'It could happen, but Barcelona would report to Toulon. We would intercept the signal and after a suitable interval send back a reply threatening the shipmasters. I doubt if they dare play the games the British ones do: they have no Committee of West India merchants or Lloyd's Coffee House to back them up ...'
He glanced up as there was a knock at the door, and at a word from Martin, a Marine came in with two jugs, which he put on the table, went to a cupboard and came back with four mugs.
'Tea, sir?' he asked Ramage politely, and when Ramage nodded and watched a mug being neatly filled from one jug was surprised to hear the Marine ask: 'And milk, sir?'
Then he remembered the three cows in the meadow behind the guardhouse. 'A little, please', he said.
Ramage had stood on the tower platform with Paolo and Jackson while Rossi and Stafford hauled on the halyards, watched by an anxious Martin. Before daylight they had hoisted the yellow flag, warning Aspet there was a signal for them, so that the first signalman at Aspet to look at Foix would see it. Ramage had watched the tower at Le Chesne for signs of movement, particularly when Paolo exclaimed that Aspet had answered and the signal could be sent. A shout down to Stafford and Rossi started the shutters rising and falling, Jackson watching Aspet for any request for a repetition while Ramage kept an eye on Le Chesne for any indication that they had noticed that Foix's shutters were working.
Finally, after Paolo had shouted down the last letter of the signal and the shutters had risen and then crashed down again, so the tower was once more without window-like openings, Jackson took the halyard, raised and lowered the yellow flag twice, and said to Ramage: 'Now the signal's on its way, sir. As the postchaise coachman says: "Next stop Barcelona".'
And, Ramage thought to himself, it will probably take all day to reach Barcelona, allowing for a noon delay for the meal and siesta at about station twenty ... so the convoy could sail about noon tomorrow. The distance from Barcelona to Foix was almost exactly 150 miles, and the course followed the coast because the ships had to round the cape just north of Palamós. They needed plenty of south in the wind to bring them north without too much delay.
Without an escort to crack a whip behind them, they would make perhaps four knots with a fair wind, so at the earliest there would be no sign of them until thirty-six hours after they sailed. Thirty-six hours from noon tomorrow. It was a long time. And he had to spend the rest of the day on shore, just in case a signal came back unexpectedly before sunset. In the meantime he looked across at the Calypso swinging at anchor in the bay, a glorious sight washed by the pinkish-orange of a good sunrise following the gale.
Ramage climbed down the ladder, telling Paolo to hail the moment a signal started to come through from either Aspet or Le Chesne - he was more curious about the method than what the message might say. His first task for the morning was to inspect the Marines.
This was set for eight o'clock, and Ramage knew Rennick would be happy for the rest of the day - even if, by some miracle, the captain spotted a dulled button or a speck of sand on a musket barrel. Flints - ah yes, just to tease Rennick (without the men realizing it) he would insist on all muskets being 'snapped' - cocked and fired, without being loaded - to check the strength of the spark in the flintlock. And he would play merry hell if even one failed to spark, because in action a misfire could cost the man's life.
At eight o'clock, on the only flat area between the huts not dug for a garden - but certainly not used as a parade ground by the French - Rennick had his men drawn up, and when Ramage strode out with all the nonchalance expected of the captain of one of the King's ships, Rennick gave a smart salute and bellowed: 'One sergeant, one corporal and twenty-eight men, all present and correct, sir! One corporal and six men on detached guard duty!'
'Very well, lieutenant; I will inspect the men.'
Escorted by Rennick and followed by the sergeant, Ramage began to walk along the first of the four ranks of men. The corporal was the first he reached.
'Have him make sure his musket isn't loaded; then I want to see him snap the lock.'
Rennick barked out the order with his usual confidence; the corporal flipped up the pan cover and blew into the vent while the sergeant blocked the barrel with his thumb over the muzzle and then took it away suddenly so that a 'whoosh' of the corporal's breath showed the gun was unloaded.
'Cock the piece and squeeze the trigger', Rennick ordered. Ramage watched the flint strike the steel. There was no spark.
'Cock the piece and squeeze the trigger', Rennick repeated.
Again there was no spark.
'Take this man's name, sergeant', Rennick said as Ramage walked on to the first Marine in the front rank. The locks of twenty-eight muskets sparked satisfactorily and Ramage, already feeling sorry for the wretched corporal, decided not to check the sergeant's musket.
After Rennick dismissed the men, he led the way to the guardhouse where the second corporal and six men were drawn up outside the hut. Knowing their muskets would be loaded, Ramage confined himself to inspecting the French uniforms the men were wearing.
'They were never as smart with Frenchmen inside 'em', he commented to Rennick. 'Even if the Frenchmen were shorter.'
'Yes. I've been trying to persuade the sergeant that although a couple of inches of ankle showing at the trouser leg would cause a sensation at Portsmouth, it doesn't matter here. He now agrees. He issued the uniforms', he added, 'so it's hardly surprising his own is the only perfect fit.'
Suddenly Ramage heard Jackson hailing from the top of the tower. 'Captain, sir! Captain, sir!'
Ramage, knowing the limitations of his own voice, nodded to Rennick, who bellowed: 'The captain is here, at the guardhouse.'
'Signal coming from Aspet, sir.'
'Very well.'
Ramage looked towards the corporal. 'Your men are a credit. Don't forget though, if anyone arrives, no talking, and blow the whistle for Mr Orsini.'
With that Ramage hurried over to the tower, noting that Rennick and the sergeant were heading for one of the huts, presumably to deal with the unfortunate corporal whose flint refused to spark.
By now the sun was well above the horizon, bringing warmth with it and putting new vigour into the insects which were beginning to buzz about the yellow flecks of flower among the gorse bushes. Feeling he needed the exercise, Ramage climbed the ladder, although he did it at a speed which made it clear to any onlooker that the captain was simply climbing the ladder to get to the top of the platform, not to demonstrate how topmen should go up the ratlines wearing breeches.
Paolo, eye glued to the telescope on its stand, and aimed at Aspet, was calling out letters of the alphabet which Jackson was writing down on a slate. Ramage looked over the American's shoulder and saw it was a signal from Barcelona to Toulon.
'That's all', Paolo said briskly, 'now dip the flag twice and then they can go to sleep again over there, happy in the knowledge we have the signal.'
'I wonder where that signal spent the night', Ramage reflected. 'It started off from Barcelona in broad daylight yesterday, for certain, but it was benighted before it travelled very far. It can have travelled through only two or three stations today.'
'Probably delayed by rain, sir', Jackson offered, 'especially when you remember how the thunderstorms roll down the side of the Pyrenees. Cuts visibility to a few yards.'
Paolo took the slate from Jackson and held it out for Ramage to finish reading. Then he asked: 'Do we pass it on, sir?'
Ramage shook his head. 'No, put it in the log and add a translation.'
'The fools may have trumped your ace, sir', he said sympathetically. 'One can never trust the Spanish.'
The signal when translated said quite simply: 'Convoy now fifteen ships refuses await escort and sails tomorrow.' Obviously 'tomorrow' meant today, because it was now only half past eight in the morning.
Ramage knew that only one question needed an answer now: would the Spanish (and probably French) merchantmen have left Barcelona before his faked order arrived telling them to make for Foix?
Most British convoys Ramage had ever seen - admittedly large West Indian ones, often comprising more than one hundred ships - took all day to get out of the harbour and sometimes all the next day to form up properly.
With Aitken, Southwick and Kenton on board the Calypso Ramage could spend the day at the semaphore station, although apart from giving an immediate answer to any questions concerning signals there seemed little else for him to do, and he enjoyed the atmosphere of the maquis.
Thirty-six hours from noon: that was about the earliest he could hope to sight the convoy, providing his signal arrived in time - and providing the real escort had not reached Barcelona. It was a sequence of events, he reflected gloomily, in which the word 'providing' appeared too frequently.
Idly he watched the Calypso and saw the red-and-green cutters being hoisted out. As soon as they were in the water they would be filled with water casks - Aitken's men were to spend the rest of the day 'wooding and watering': parties would be collecting firewood for the Calypso's coppers within the limits of the camp while others were filling casks with fresh water from the well. With luck the Calypso by the end of the day would again have thirty tons on board, the amount with which she had left Gibraltar to begin the present cruise. The cook was not going to be pleased with the wood, though; most of the trees were stunted and would yield logs more suitable for brightening the hearth of a cottage than heating a frigate's big coppers.
'Le Chesne, sir', Jackson reported to Orsini. 'They've got their flag up.'
'Answer and stand by', Orsini said, swinging the telescope round to the eastward and focusing it on the Le Chesne tower. Jackson hoisted and lowered the red flag and then picked up the slate. The signal was from Toulon and directed to station sixteen, which Ramage guessed was Séte. As Orsini called out the letters and Jackson wrote them down, Ramage realized the signal was a routine one about a discrepancy between stores reported used and the amount actually found in a recent inventory, and the commanding officer was required ...
As he climbed down the ladder and recalled the contents of the original French signal log, he decided that pilfering, selling government stores and taking inventories were the main occupations of the commanding officers of the various semaphore stations.
Two days later Ramage sat on the Calypso's quarterdeck in a canvas-backed chair in the shade of the awning, which was rigged again to provide shelter from the blazing sun returning after the mistral. The sea was calm with a gentle breeze from the west so that the frigate was lying parallel with the beach. Over at the semaphore tower, which he could see on the larboard quarter, the tiny awning was rigged on the platform and he could just make out two figures, Paolo and Jackson, swinging the telescope round from time to time, keeping a watch on Aspet and Le Chesne.
Aloft in the Calypso seamen kept watch seaward, but by now he was sure that the convoy had sailed from Barcelona direct for their destinations before his signal had arrived ordering them to Foix, and no doubt the French escort had joined them.
Tonight, he decided, the Calypso would sail to look for the convoy - though he was uncertain whether to head eastward, close along the coast, on the assumption that it had passed in the darkness, or southeast because perhaps it had found a different wind once it left Barcelona and could comfortably lay Marseilles, its first destination.
He was not sure whether his semaphore signal had been a wild idea and a waste of time, or whether it had been a good idea unluckily ruined by the impatience of the French masters of merchantmen. Anyway tonight, as soon as it was dark, the tower would topple under the Marines' axes, the barrack huts would be wrecked, the powder casks rolled into the sea, and the cattle turned loose - the villagers would soon find and appropriate them. Burning down the whole place would attract far too much attention to the Calypso - the flames would be seen for miles - and to the French the important part of the camp as a link in the signal chain was not the accommodation (which could be replaced by tents) but the tower, which was as easily destroyed by axes as flames.
A fruitless chase after the convoy, he thought miserably, then a few weeks' cruising along the French and Spanish coasts sinking xebecs, tartanes and suchlike small coasting vessels, and then back to Gibraltar because the time limit for his orders would have run out. He could destroy a few of the semaphore towers, every fourth one, say, but he could not see Their Lordships (or even the port admiral at Gibraltar) realizing what a blow that would be to the French naval communication system. The Board and admirals could understand ships captured or sunk; signals were dull affairs.
A few seamen in the waist were exercising French prisoners, allowing them up a dozen at a time. They were made to run round the fore and mainmasts a few times (they showed a great reluctance to exercise themselves voluntarily) and before they were sent below had to be inspected by Southwick.
Although the old master spoke not a word of French, he always made himself clear: a tug at a shirt collar and a growl told the man it needed washing; an accusing finger pointing at uncombed hair or a badly tied queue was enough of a warning.
The French lieutenant was proving a worry to Ramage: the man had sunk into a deep gloom, convinced that if the British did not shoot him they would hand him back to his own people, who would lop off his head, although for what crime Ramage could not discover, because being taken prisoner was no offence on either side.
He decided to have another talk with the wretched fellow: he was still irritated at having more than thirty French prisoners on board and was thinking of releasing them as the Calypso sailed. However, doing that meant the Calypso's French disguise would be revealed.
Ramage called to a seaman to fetch another canvas deckchair and signalled to Aitken, whom he told to send a reliable seaman to bring the French lieutenant who, once he was seated in the chair, was to be guarded only from a distance.
'He's a sad puir fellow', Aitken said after the seaman had departed. 'Lost a louis and found a centime. I canna believe it's just because he's a prisoner.'
The 'sad puir fellow' came up the ladder from below, squinting with his eyes almost closed from the glare, and shuffling his feet as if on his way to the scaffold. The seaman guided him to the chair and when the man stood as though puzzled what to do next, gave him an unceremonious shove to make him sit.
Ramage nodded to him and said in French: 'The sun is strong.'
The French lieutenant said sadly: 'Yes, and my eyes are weak.' He looked incuriously round the Calypso's deck, appeared to notice the big hill in the centre of the bay, and equally incuriously looked farther round to the semaphore tower and the camp which for a year, until a few days ago, he had commanded. Now, Ramage was certain, he had no interest in it at all; he looked at it just as a sleepy dog looks up when roused in front of a fire.
'You are satisfied with the way your men are being treated?'
'My men?' He paused, obviously puzzled, and then said: 'Oh yes, they are all right, or so the sergeant tells me.'
'And yourself?'
The lieutenant shrugged. 'It is all a farce, m'sieur, and the sooner it is over the better.'
'What is a farce?' Ramage asked casually.
'Treating me as a prisoner.'
'What do I intend to do, then?'
'Shoot me.'
'I do not shoot my prisoners.'
'Then hand me back to the French authorities, which will be the same thing.'
'Why should setting you free - for that's what it would be - amount to the same as shooting you?'
'I shall be punished.'
'For what?' The man seemed to be almost in tears and Ramage was reminded of stories of penitents submitting to the Inquisition.
'There ... a ... deficiency ... they had an inventory ... when they return to Sète and compare what we have in our stores with what the inventory shows ...'
'There will be a difference?'
'A big difference.'
'In what materials?' Ramage was curious now; the scope for peculation seemed limited.
'Rice, flour, olive oil, wine ...'
'How did it happen? Where did it go?'
'The villagers paid a good price: their crops failed this year and they were hungry.'
'So you sold them Army stores?'
'It was not quite like that', the lieutenant said lamely. 'They were starving, you understand.'
'You could have given them food.'
'It came from them in the first place, all except the rice', the lieutenant explained.
'From them?' Ramage was puzzled but a suspicion was forming in his mind.
'Yes - you see, we requisition what we need for the troops.'
'But what did you sell to the starving villagers?'
'Well, the surplus.'
'How could there be a surplus if you requisitioned only what you needed?'
The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders. 'It was hard to estimate.'
'So having deliberately stolen - not requisitioned, but stolen - more than you needed, you then made a cash profit by selling it back to the villagers?'
Ramage's voice was so cold and his eyes seemed but slits, like sword blades viewed from the point, that the lieutenant said nothing.
'How did the Army authorities find a deficit?'
'We kept two sets of books and the wrong ones were given to the quartermaster's department at the time of the survey.'
Ramage stood up and stared down at the lieutenant, trying to control his anger. 'You rob your own people of their food and sell it back to them, and when your quartermaster's department find out, you feel sorry for yourself and fear the guillotine, eh? Well, I'd hang you - slowly. Get out of my sight' - he pointed to the ladder leading below and the seaman escort hurried back - 'in case I decide to do the job for your authorities.'
As soon as the man had gone below - bolting like a rabbit, in comparison with the way he had shambled up - Aitken came over to find his captain sitting down again and shaking with rage.
The Scot, who had never seen Ramage like this before, asked bluntly: 'What happened, sir?'
Ramage told him, and Aitken commented: 'It's a temptation to hand him over, isn't it, sir. But it'd give ourselves away. Of course', he added slowly, 'we could keep the French seamen and hand him over to the villagers. They'd probably string him up from a tree.'
Ramage shook his head. 'There's always a government informer in every village. It'd end up with the people of Foix being massacred.'
'We'll just make his life a bluidy misery, then', Aitken said. 'We'll have him wakened every half an hour at night for a start, with someone asking him if he's hungry.'
Ramage told him the phrase to use, and the Scot repeated it to himself a few times. 'That's not too difficult; I'll have some men from each watch practise it. His water ration can be a bit smelly. And his wine issue vinegary. And if he finds more weevils in his bread than usual, well ...'
Ramage nodded. 'But this sort of requisitioning is going on all over France where there's a garrison: the French Army lives off the land - even in France.'
The sun was dropping so low now its rays were coming under the awning. Down on his desk were fifteen sheets of paper, each intended for the master of one of the ships in the convoy, and each neatly written in French by Paolo last night. Paolo's handwriting was typically that of a Latin: he wrote French easily, his pen flowing without the hesitation of someone pausing to check the spelling of a difficult word.
Had the convoy arrived, Paolo would have been rowed to each of the ships in his French Army uniform and delivered a letter to the captain - in fact a brief paragraph of new orders - and the convoy's departure and subsequent capture would have been assured without a shot being fired. But Paolo's time - and the candle consumed in the lantern at the signalmen's hut - had been wasted.
Aitken said tactfully: 'Should I take over the saws and axes to the camp and arrange what the men have to do tonight, sir?'
'Yes. Make sure they destroy completely the mechanism of the tower, once they've brought it down.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
'And don't forget to make sure the cattle are freed.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
'And make sure Orsini brings back the signal log and the copies of the semaphore code.'
'Aye aye, sir', Aitken said patiently, sensing how his captain's disappointment over the convoy was now mixed with anger over the despicable French lieutenant. It would be unfortunate if any of the Calypso's officers or seamen made a bad mistake today - at least, within sight of the captain.
Aitken was just climbing down into the red cutter when there was a bellow from aloft, and out of habit he paused to listen.
'Quarterdeck there - foremast here!'
'Deck here!' Ramage shouted back, not bothering to use the speaking trumpet.
'Sail ho, being sou'sou'west, sir.'
'How distant?'
'Just sighted her topsails. And there's another - there's two of 'em, sir.'
'Very well, keep a sharp lookout.'
Two ships. He could sail out, seize them and be back in Foix to take off the Marines at nightfall. Olive oil, grain and that sickly, sweet, red wine from Banyuls that's as bad as Marsala, Ramage thought crossly. Perhaps some hides, just to add their hideous stench to everything. Well, xebecs, tartanes, droghers, caiques, fishing boats - he did not give a damn; from now on they would be captured and sent in as prizes, or scuttled. He might keep a fast little xebec to act as a tender; young Martin could command it and he and Orsini would learn fast about the xebec's extraordinary rig. It could act as a scout and get into shallow places where the Calypso dare not venture.
'Deck there, foremast here. Three ships, sir, and maybe more: I need a bring-'em-near up here.'
Ramage realized he was becoming lethargic; a few days ago a lookout's hail of a single ship would have meant someone immediately going aloft with a telescope. And now Aitken was coming back on board again.
'Deck there!' the lookout bawled. 'There's dozens of the buggers, sir! Stretching from sou'sou'west to west by south.'
'It must be the convoy, sir', Aitken murmured, and as Ramage nodded doubtfully he said: 'I'll get aloft with the glass. Fifteen ships, wasn't it?'
'Fifteen. Any extra might mean the escorts found them.'
Aitken grabbed a telescope from the binnacle box drawer and ran to the ratlines while Ramage turned his own glass to the southwest. He could see nothing; from where he stood the ships were still hidden below the curvature of the earth.
He had been so sure he had missed the convoy that even now he suspected the sails belonged to a flock of coasters which, after sheltering in the same port from the recent mistral, were now sailing together out of habit; the old routine of 'Let us proceed together for mutual protection'.
Aitken was perched comfortably aloft and Ramage had to walk out from under the awning to watch him. Now he was pulling out the tubes of the telescope, checking that they were lined up with the marks giving the right focus for his eye, and then looking out to the southwest. He seemed to be taking an age and it was as much as Ramage could do to avoid calling up to him. Finally the telescope was lowered.
'Deck there, sir.'
'Deck here.'
'Fifteen ships, sir, and all apparently steering for this bay.'
'No escorts?'
'None in sight, sir; just merchantmen jogging along under easy sail. They've a soldier's wind out there; south from the look of it. We might be lying to a local breeze in here.'
'Very well, Mr Aitken, come down when you're satisfied. Lookout! Report any change of course or increase or reduction of sail.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
By now Southwick, roused from below by the shouting, was standing beside him, a happy grin on his face.
'So our signal did get through, sir!'
'Seems so', Ramage said, mildly irritated that Southwick had said from the start that it would, an example of the master's usual optimism swamping logic. 'We'd better change into trousers and shirts and join the ranks of the sans culottes because this is supposed to be a French frigate and we may get a visit from the senior master of the merchantmen.'
'Do you think we could fool him, sir?'
'No, which is why I want to spot him early and, if necessary, pay him a visit.'
'He'll probably be flying some sort of pendant and throwing his weight about', Southwick said.
Aitken walked up, rubbing his hands on a piece of cloth, trying to remove tar stains picked up from the rigging and balancing his telescope under his arm.
'Half a dozen of them are fair-sized ships, sir', he reported. 'The rest range from large coasting brigs to tartanes and a small xebec. They're in no sort of formation, although they're following what seems the largest ship. She probably wants to get into the bay first to find a good depth. There'll be a few foul berths and fouled anchors in here before the night's out!'
Aitken's words reminded Ramage that he had many decisions to make before the merchantmen arrived, and he went aft to the taffrail and began striding athwartships, still protected from the glare of the setting sun by the awning, and able - for what it was worth - to look at the semaphore tower.
Twenty short paces from the larboard side to the starboard let him form in his mind the question of the semaphore tower. Leave it or cut it down? In favour of leaving it was - well, nothing: the French Army would find out soon enough that its garrison at Foix had vanished, and perhaps Aspet would mention the French frigate that had been at anchor near by. Would the Army put the two together? It was unlikely; there were no signs of a struggle; the French would just find the barracks empty and the tower unmanned. And the cows missing, providing they knew about the cows. The villagers would be no help - they would be hiding (and regularly milking) the cows, and from what that despicable lieutenant had said, would be delighted that all those robbers had vanished. No doubt the older folk who did not agree with the Revolution would regard it as intervention of Divine Providence and say a few prayers of thanks - until the replacement garrison arrived.
So cutting down the tower would raise the alarm with the French Army authorities; leaving the tower and the rest of the camp intact would puzzle them as well. And, Ramage realized, he knew enough now about semaphore camps to attack a dozen of them once he had disposed of the convoy.
Five turns back and forth across the quarterdeck was a hundred paces, and had been enough to make up his mind about the tower. The cutters could go over at sunset - which would be before the merchantmen were close enough to see what was going on, but the time when sending semaphore signals stopped for the day - and bring back the Marines, leaving them enough time to tidy up the camp and remove any sign of their visit. The idea of the French Army (through the men at Aspet and Le Chesne) slowly discovering that their Foix camp was deserted appealed to him; he knew it would have a ghostly effect on many French soldiers who, though atheism was the official creed, had been born and bred as Catholics, and no matter what Revolutionary talk had subsequently been dinned into them, still retained enough of their childhood training to cross themselves in moments of extreme danger and have a healthy fear when nearly forty men suddenly vanished without trace.
He turned once again - the sun was lower now and peeping under the forward side of the awning - and considered the convoy now approaching under orders (his orders!) to anchor in the Baie de Foix to await an escort.
One 36-gun frigate should be enough of an escort, though a few cautious masters would no doubt complain. The longer theships stayed at anchor the more chance there was that people from the merchantmen could discover that the Calypso was British: men might row to the camp at Foix, planning a night's carousing with the garrison, and raise the alarm.
It would take a day or two for Aspet or Le Chesne to react to having no answer to their flags - Ramage realized that Foix had no horse, so it was reasonable to suppose the other two were without horses too, so they would have either to march to Foix or commandeer a horse from a village (more likely adonkey or mule) to find out why the answering flag was not hoisted. He could just imagine a soldier sitting astride a donkey, feet nearly touching the ground, and jolting his way to Foix. The poor fellow would probably prefer to walk; in fact from Ramage's own experience walking was always preferable to riding bareback on a donkey.
That made eleven more double crossings of the quarterdeck; 220 paces to decide about the merchantmen. He realized he had examined the problem in detail and from every angle, but had made no decision. His feet ached, his eyes ached, his head ached. And the Calypso had swung close enough to the shore to have mosquitoes arriving any moment, each demanding their pint (it seemed) of blood. Very well, the merchantmen would have to come into the Baie and anchor while Orsini was rowed to each of them to hand over the written orders.
So that was decided, and it had taken another forty paces, a total of 260.
What was he to do with the convoy once he had control of it? He could not expect them to sail to Gibraltar and deliver themselves up to the prize marshal, but he could not spare fifteen prize crews - and guards for all the prisoners.
Would they sail to the place he really wanted to have them anchored, where he could deal with them at his leisure? For three turns across the quarterdeck he repeated the place's name, as an infatuated lover might say the name of his mistress. It might work, and he had nothing to lose (except for fifteen merchant ships) if it did not. He went down to his cabin for one more look at the chart before the light went.