Ramage (36 page)

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 seabed at the same angle as the forestay.

‘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 mainsail 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 seabed: 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 underway 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 ports, 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.

Hell-fire, 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 strong 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.