Ramage (5 page)

‘Right, carry on, then.’

He gestured to Wilson: ‘Collect some topmen and stand by to set the mizentopsail and spanker. Do nothing until I give the word: then haul as if you were heaving for Heaven. Then get the boats round to the ports at the half-deck, starboard side.’

The
Barras
was less than three hundred yards away now: hard to judge in this light. Perhaps five minutes to go. Providing, he thought with a sick feeling of apprehension, the Frenchman does what he’s supposed to…

‘Bosun, Carpenter’s Mate, Wilson–’

He jumped down from the bulwark as the three men gathered round. ‘As soon as we’ve turned and the way’s off the ship, go below and get the men into the boats. Cast off as soon as you’ve enough on board. Try to keep in touch – we’ll pass a line from boat to boat as soon as we can. Otherwise we’ll rendezvous five hundred strokes due north: that’s roughly five minutes’ rowing towards the Pole Star. Any questions?’

There was none. The Bosun was calm enough: now someone was giving him orders he was reacting smartly and efficiently. The Carpenter’s Mate was a phlegmatic soul and Wilson was a devil-may-care sort of man.

‘Carry on, then.’

The Bosun hesitated a moment as the other two turned away and from his stance seemed embarrassed.

‘I wish your Pa was ’ere, sir.’

‘Don’t you trust me, then?’

‘No, no!’ the Bosun said hastily. ‘I mean – well, I was with ’im that last time, sir. It was all wrong what they did. But ‘e’d be proud, sir!’

With that he disappeared forward. Strange, thought Ramage, that he’s never previously mentioned sailing with Father. Hardly encouraging to remind the son of ‘what they did’ at this particular moment – although it is, in a way; as if the Bosun intended to reaffirm his loyalty.

Two more things remained and yet another glance at the
Barras
warned him he had very little time. He looked round to make sure Jackson was near by, and the American said wryly, ‘You’d just about reach her with that knife of yours, sir!’

Ramage laughed: his prowess at knife thowing – he had learnt the art as a child in Italy from his father’s Sicilian coachman – was well known.

He walked across to where the wounded were lying, careful not to trip over the dead men sprawled in grotesque attitudes.

‘You men – I’ll be seeing you soon at Greenwich!’

One or two of them raised a wry cheer as he mentioned the home for disabled seamen.

‘We have to leave you, but we’re not abandoning you!’ (Would they understand the difference? He doubted it.)

‘With half a dozen guns left we can’t fight and they’ – he pointed towards the
Barras
– ‘can board us whenever they like. They’ve a surgeon and medical supplies while we haven’t. Your best chance is to be taken prisoner. One of you will be given the ensign halyard: let it go as soon as we leave the ship, so that the French just walk on board: that will make sure none of you gets more wounds. We who haven’t been wounded – well, I suppose we’re running away – but to fight another day. People will always talk of the
Sibella
’s last fight. So – well…thank you…and good luck.’

It sounded lame enough and he was embarra
s
sed because emotion tightened his throat so he had to force out the last platitudes. Yet it brought a cheer from the men.

‘Bosun – all ready forward?’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘By the way,’ he told Jackson, ‘if the French open fire and anything happens to me, tell the Bosun at once, and destroy the letter you saw me put in my pocket: that’s absolutely vital. Now give the ensign halyard to one of the wounded and make sure he understands what he is to do.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Curious how reassuring that American was, Ramage thought.

Ramage climbed up to the hammocks on the bulwark. God, the
Barras
was close now – a hundred yards perhaps, and just about abeam. He could see her bow wave, a little smother of white at the stem. He put the mouthpiece of the speaking trumpet to his ear and pointed the open end towards the
Barras
, but could hear nothing.

For the moment it seemed the French captain intended to bring his ship alongside without undue haste. Anyway, that was the seamanlike thing to do – no point in crashing alongside and risk the yards of the two ships locking together.

Unless – Ramage shivered momentarily, shocked by an awful fear: unless I’m completely wrong. I must be wrong, because the Frenchman must know just how badly damaged the
Sibella
is: she’s low in the water and rolling sluggishly: he knows she’ll never be towed back to Toulon. And he’s slowly closing to administer the
coup de grâce
: it’ll come any moment now: a sheet of flame rippling along the
Barras’
rows of gun ports like summer lightning on the horizon, and I and the rest of the Sibellas will be dead.

I’ve been so clever, convincing myself the Frenchman’s vanity will make him want to tow the
Sibella
home as a prize; but I persuaded myself because I want to live: I didn’t consider any other possibilities. Now – well, I’ve as good as murdered the wounded on the quarter-deck: men who gave me a cheer a few moments ago.

While these thoughts milled round his head he was listening intently; but he took the speaking trumpet from his ear. What’s the use, he thought bitterly: I’ll never hear the French captain’s order to open fire at this distance; and what difference does it make, anyway?

Suddenly anger with himself drove away his fears: there was still a way out. It involved a gamble, certainly: he had to gamble that
Barras
would come within hailing distance before firing her final broadside. At the moment she was too far away from him to be certain they would hear if he shouted.

Ramage found himself thinking about the XVth Article of War, which laid down with harsh brevity that ‘Every person in or belonging to the Fleet–’ (God, what a time to be reciting this) who yielded his ship ‘cowardly or treacherously to the enemy…being convicted…shall suffer death.’

Well, if he was a coward or traitor, at least he would have to be alive for them to sentence him to death, and the way he’d been muddling along so far that possibility was fast becoming remote.

How far was she now? It was damned difficult to judge in the near darkness. Seventy yards? He put the speaking trumpet to his ear. Yes, he could hear French voices calling to each other now: just the normal order and acknowledgement. They must be pretty sure of themselves (and why not?) otherwise there’d be a lot of chattering. Would they open fire too soon? If only something would happen in the
Barras
to create a little confusion and uncertainty: that would gain him the time. Ramage put the speaking trumpet to his lips: he’d confuse them, he thought grimly.

He stopped himself from shouting just in time, and called forward: ‘Boson! Belay what I said about cutting when you hear me speaking French: don’t start until I give the order.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

He put the speaking trumpet to his lips again and bellowed across the water at the French ship:
‘Bon soir, messieurs!’

With the mouthpiece to his ear he heard, after what seemed an age, a puzzled ‘
Comment?
’ being shouted back from the
Barras’
quarter-deck. He could imagine their astonishment at being wished good evening. Well, keep the initiative.

‘
Ho detto “Buona sera
”.’

He almost laughed at the thought of the expressions on the Frenchmen’s faces as they heard themselves being told in Italian that they had just been wished ‘Good evening’. There was an appreciable pause before the voice repeated: ‘
Comment
?’

By now the
Barras
was not more than fifty yards away: the bow wave was sharply defined and he could pick out the delicate tracery of her rigging against the night sky, whereas a few moments ago it had been an indistinct blur.

This is the moment: once again he lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips. Now, he thought, let us commend ourselves unto the XVth Article of War and still take as long as we can about it, and he yelled in English: ‘Mister Frenchman – the ship is sinking.’

The same voice answered: ‘Vot say you?’

‘I said, “The ship is sinking”.’

He sensed Jackson anxiously shifting from one foot to another. There was a strange hush in the
Sibella
and he realized the wounded were not making a sound. The
Sibella
was a phantom ship, sailing along with no one at the helm, and manned by tense and silent men.

Then through the speaking trumpet he heard someone say in French, ‘It’s a trick.’ It was the voice of a man who held authority and who’d reached a difficult decision. He guessed the next thing he’d hear would be that voice giving the order to open fire.

‘You surrender?’ came back the question, in English this time.

Hurriedly Ramage turned his head towards the Bosun and called softly: ‘Bosun – start chopping.’

He had to avoid a direct reply: if he surrendered the ship and then escaped the Admiralty would be just as angry as the French at a breach of the accepted code.

Putting the speaking trumpet back to his lips he shouted: ‘Surrender? Who? Our wheel is destroyed – we cannot steer – we have many wounded…’

He heard the thud of the axes and hoped the noise would not travel across to the
Barras
: he must drown it with his own voice, or at least distract the Frenchmen’s attention.

‘–We cannot steer and we have most of our men killed or wounded – we are sinking fast – we’ve lost our captain–’

Damn, he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Jackson suddenly whispered, ‘Livestock’s killed, guns dismounted, burgoo’s spoiled…’

‘Yes, Mister,’ Ramage yelled, ‘all our pigs and the cow have been killed – all the guns are dismounted–’

‘
Comment?
’

‘Pigs – you’ve killed our pigs!’

‘
Je ne comprend pas!
You surrender?’

‘You’ve killed our pigs–’

The devil take it, would that foremast never go by the board?

‘–The cow has been dismounted – the guns don’t give any more milk – the pig’s making water at the rate of a foot every fifteen minutes!’

He heard Jackson chuckling and at that moment there was a crackling from forward and a whiplash noise as several ropes parted under strain. Then there was a fearful groan, like a giant in pain, and against the night sky he could see the foremast beginning to topple. It went slowly at first; then crashed over the side, taking the yards with it.

‘Wilson! the topsail and spanker!’

He saw the spanker being sheeted home to the boom end as the topsail was let fall from the yard. A few moments later, when he looked back at the
Barras
, she had vanished. He realized the
Sibella
was swinging round to larboard faster than he expected, and he glanced aft. The
Barras
had been caught unawares – she was still sailing on her original course and had gone too far for her guns to be able to rake the
Sibella
’s completely unprotected stern.

He felt shaky with relief and his clothes were soaked with perspiration. He scrambled down from the bulwark, and as he jumped to the deck his knees gave way slightly and Jackson caught him. ‘Pity about that cow, sir,’ he said dryly, ‘I just fancy a mug o’ milk.’

For more than half an hour Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage’s little world had been limited to the boat, the sea and the great blue–black dome of the night sky, which was cloudless and glittering with so many stars and planets it seemed to hold every spark that had ever fallen from a blacksmith’s anvil.

The launch was heavy, but the men sitting on the thwarts facing him were rowing with a will: as they leaned back in unison, pulling with all their strength, the oars creaked against the wooden sides of the rowlocks. Who was it who said in ancient times, ‘Give me a fulcrum and I’ll move the Earth’?

At the end of each stroke the men involuntarily gasped for breath, at the same time pushing downward on the looms of the oars to bring the blades clear of the water. Then, leaning forward like rows of seated tenants bowing to the landlord, they thrust the looms in front of them, and at the end of the movement dipped the blades into the water to haul back and begin the new stroke.

Lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward; lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward… Ramage, his arm resting along the top of the tiller as he steered, could feel the boat spurting forward under the thrust of each stroke. Occasionally he glanced astern, where the Bosun’s cutter and the other two boats followed, each linked by a line to the next ahead.

‘Sir!’ exclaimed Jackson, gesturing astern: there was a small red glow in the distance but, even while Ramage watched, tongues of flame spurted up, as if a blacksmith’s bellows suddenly fanned new life into a forge fire.