Ramage & the Saracens (9 page)

He found he was becoming pleasantly excited: the prospect of an evenly matched fight against another frigate was sufficiently unusual to be welcome.

He gave an order to the quartermaster and told Aitken to harden in the sheets: he wanted to get to windward just another point, so there would be no question about the
Calypso
keeping up to windward of the enemy. Of course, the French frigate could always tack to the north-east—she could even turn on her heels and make a bolt for it. But Ramage was sure that she would come down to help
Le Tigre.
The French captain would not want to face a double charge—of cowardice, and deserting a comrade.

The frigate was a mile away now, sailing fast along the coast. Ramage glanced at the chart: there were no outlying rocks: they could manoeuvre without risk, except that if either of them was dismasted they would be blown on to the rocks, since this was a lee shore.

Could the Frenchman try any tricks? Ramage thought carefully and decided there was nothing he could not counter in time.

Three quarters of a mile, and her bow wave was curling away like a white moustache, with her sails bellying with the wind. All her guns were run out; they jutted from her side like stubby black fingers. As usual, the first broadside would be the most important because it would be fired carefully by men not coughing from gunsmoke, stunned by the noise of the guns firing, or wildly excited by the ritual of loading and firing.

Half a mile. “Orsini,” he called, “run round the larboard side guns and warn them they'll be firing in a matter of minutes.”

The Italian youth ran off down the quarterdeck ladder and Ramage was thankful he could trust the youngster: he not only understood the orders but what was more important he understood the significance of them. He had been in action dozens of times now and one of his proudest moments, Ramage knew, was that he had taken part in the Battle of Trafalgar. It was becoming clear now that that battle was going to be the new yardstick by which actions were measured. Previously a man could say, “I was at Copenhagen,” or “I was at the Nile,” or Camperdown, the Saintes, the Glorious First of June, and other men could measure him. But Trafalgar had changed all that: it had been a victory the like of which had never before been seen. It was a new Agincourt, Ramage thought, and it would be sufficient for a man to say quietly: “Yes, I was at Trafalgar.”

But what mattered for the moment was that the
Calypso
was off the east coast of Capraia steering north for a French frigate. Compared with Trafalgar there was little honour in that; but an unlucky shot or splinter could make you just as dead. That was the ironic thing about death; you were still dead whether you died in a great victory like Trafalgar or from falling down a hatchway on a dark night and breaking your neck. Death worked indiscriminately.

A quarter of a mile. Ramage could imagine the second captains cocking the locks and jumping back out of harm's way, and the gun captains would be taking up the tension on their lanyards …

He had a momentary picture of Jackson, poised at his gun. The sandy-haired American would be grinning; not because he was amused but because he always grinned at times of stress. Along with half a dozen others still in the
Calypso,
Jackson had served with Ramage since before he had been given his first command, here in the Mediterranean; he had been one of the men—the most important man—helping in the rescue of Gianna from that beach at Capalbio. Gianna had come to regard him as a favourite retainer. And Jackson? Ramage had the feeling that he thought of her as a wayward niece.

Now the gun captains would be waiting for that black blur to pass twenty yards off a gun port; a black blur which gave them the signal to tug the lanyard to send the gun coughing back in recoil.

No, the Frenchman had not altered course. He was just about hard on the wind, thanks to a bend in the coast, and could do nothing to prevent the
Calypso
keeping up to windward.

As the
Calypso
's first gun roared out Ramage saw a spurt of smoke come from the muzzle of the first French gun. A moment later, as Southwick and Aitken gripped the rail at the fore end of the quarterdeck, there was a confused roar made up of the coughing of the
Calypso
's broadside and the lighter thudding of the French broadside. The sound of ripping calico warned of French round shot passing overhead.

As though a flash of lightning on a dark night had lit up the scene for a moment, Ramage had a medley of impressions: the French frigate's black hull was stained with salt; the luff of the flying jib was wrinkled; there were at least two rusty holes amidships showing where round shot had penetrated, and there were several more further aft, showing that several of the
Calypso
's gunners had taken a few moments to react to the rapidly passing target. The Tricolour was streaming out; the sails were even more patched than he thought from his view through the telescope. The small group of officers on the quarterdeck had crouched down as the
Calypso
passed.

And then he was yelling at Aitken while watching the passing enemy: “Come about! Don't let him get away!”

The last gun of the
Calypso
's broadside had hardly fired before topsails were slatting as the frigate tacked. Ramage realized that the enemy had the advantage in speed because she had all plain sail set; but she would be more difficult to handle with all that canvas. As the
Calypso
swung round to starboard, Ramage looked over the quarter at the enemy just in time to see her beginning to clew up her courses. So she was going to fight under t'gallants and topsails. Ramage was sure the French would soon furl the t'gallants; they were not handy sails for fighting—but furling them took topmen away from the guns …

The
Calypso
quickly turned and Ramage saw an opportunity. “Steer across his stern,” he ordered Aitken. “We'll give him a raking broadside, even though at long range.”

The
Calypso
seems to be spending most of the day raking French frigates, Ramage thought, although this time it would be at a range of a couple of hundred yards, instead of twenty.

As soon as the ship came round on to the other tack and Aitken had braces and sheets trimmed, Ramage watched the departing enemy frigate closely and gave helm orders which would make the
Calypso
pass across the enemy frigate's stern at an oblique angle, so that she had plenty of room to wear again to avoid running aground.

Now the Frenchman had his courses clewed up—and yes, he was furling his t'gallants: at least he was getting down to topsails, the usual rig for fighting. And it meant that he was slowing down, reducing the range for the
Calypso
's raking broadside.

By now the first of the
Calypso
's larboard broadside was firing again, the gunners hastily adjusting the quoin for the increased range. Ramage found himself counting with the slower rate of fire. He took up his telescope and trained it on the Frenchman's stern, and was just in time to see a spark as a round shot hit a piece of metalwork, probably a fitting on the rudderhead. As his count reached sixteen Ramage realized that the French frigate—he had just read the name on the transom as
Le Jason
—was bearing away and was going to cross ahead of the
Calypso.

“She's going to rake
us,
” growled Southwick.

“And there's nothing we can do to stop her,” Ramage said quietly.

Nor was there. The
Calypso
was committed to wearing to get away from the shore, which was fast approaching, and the Frenchman would pass across her bow firing a raking broadside into her. Ramage thought of the ship of the line they had encountered earlier in the day: please, no damage to the jib-boom and bowsprit!

The quicker the
Calypso
wore, the less time her vulnerable bow would be exposed to the Frenchman's broadside. Ramage listened to the slamming of the sails and hoped the gunners were hard at work reloading.

And then
Le Jason
was crossing the
Calypso
's bow, wreathed in smoke, her whole side a line of winking red eyes as her guns fired. Ramage heard a crash aloft and glanced up to see a wild shot had smashed six feet off the end of the fore-topgallant yard. The calico ripping noise of a dozen more round shot passing overhead showed him the French gunners had not yet settled down.

There were four or five shot-holes in the topsails: nothing that needed repairing. And the jib-boom and bowsprit were still standing, with no damage apparent from where Ramage stood.

“We've been lucky,” he commented to Aitken, and a moment later saw he could turn the tables on the Frenchman.

“Luff up and we can rake his stern as he goes past.”

He looked round for Orsini. “Warn the gunners that they'll be able to rake the Frenchman on the starboard side!”

By now the Frenchman was heading north-west, steering for the shore and obviously about to tack or wear. The
Calypso
bore up slightly and
Le Jason
's stern came round on to her starboard beam. Sounding like a huge drum being beaten irregularly, the
Calypso
's guns started firing, and once again Ramage saw sparks as round shot glanced off metal. And the stern-lights were now an irregular shape: instead of being rectangles enclosing the glass, they were ragged shapes, chewed at by round shot.

Would it work? “Wear round,” he shouted to Aitken, “we'll rake him again!”

The Frenchman seemed to be manoeuvring very slowly; after raking the
Calypso,
Ramage expected
Le Jason
to tack or wear to get offshore again, but she was staying on the same course, northwest, as though careless of the risk of going up the beach.

Then Ramage stared hard through his telescope.
Le Jason
was leaving no wake: she was stopped in the water! And he noticed that her rudder was hard over.

“She's aground, by God!” exclaimed Southwick just as Ramage was about to speak.

“We must have damaged her rudder with that raking broadside,” Ramage said.

“How close in can we go?” Southwick growled, reaching for the chart.

“Close enough to rake her again,' Ramage said grimly. “And again and again. It probably won't take them long to repair that rudder.”

Aitken gave orders to the quartermaster and the
Calypso
came round a few degrees. Ramage looked round for Orsini and sent him off to warn the gunners to expect to rake the enemy with the starboard broadside.

Ramage saw a red winking at the transom and realized that
Le Jason
had got a stern-chase gun in action. Almost immediately there was a crash aloft and the
Calypso
's fore-topgallant mast crashed down, hanging by rigging, the yard swinging like a pendulum.

“Go and sort that out,” Ramage ordered Aitken. “I'll take over the conn.”

Of all the damnable luck: at least, damnable for the
Calypso
and almost beyond belief for
Le Jason.
That a single shot from a stern-chase gun should bring down the
Calypso
's fore-topgallant mast was an almost unbelievable piece of good fortune for the French.

But it did not make the
Calypso
unmanageable. By now she had worn round and Ramage was giving the quartermaster careful orders which would bring the frigate into a good firing position.

Another red wink and puff of smoke at
Le Jason
's stern showed the French had managed to get a second stern-chase gun into action, and Ramage found himself admiring their coolness; they were in a lot of trouble, but they still had the will to fight back.

Ramage heard nothing of the shot and assumed it must have missed. At that moment Orsini appeared in front of him. “A message from Mr Bowen, sir.”

What had the surgeon to say at a time like this? “Well?”

“He said six men dead and five wounded, two seriously, from two round shot and splinters, sir.”

Ramage was dumbfounded: he had not heard or felt shot hitting the ship and knew nothing of casualties.

“Very well. Does Mr Bowen need help?”

“No, sir, I asked him. He has a couple of loblolly men and three seamen to help him, and that's enough.”

Six men dead…. And he had not realized that the ship had been hit. Yet when he thought about it, it was obvious that some shot from
Le Jason
's broadsides would have struck home. Fighting at these ranges meant casualties. He wondered how many Frenchmen had been killed.

Two points to starboard and trim the yards and sheets. That should bring them across
Le Jason
's transom. How was the Frenchman going to get off? He had run ashore at an oblique angle; there was just a chance that if he ran all his guns over to the larboard side, hardened in the sheets on the starboard tack and prayed for a strong gust of wind, then he might just come clear. But Ramage realized that would not help: the Frenchman probably had no rudder, or at least not one that functioned, and without that the wind would just blow him harder aground. Was he actually aground on the beach, or an off-lying shoal? It was hard to tell from this angle.

Ramage decided that a hundred yards was as close as he was going to approach; there might be a spit of land or a spur of the shoal stretching well out, and having the
Calypso
going aground on the same bit of shoal would be a piece of irony he could do without.

“Do you need me here, sir?” Southwick asked. “Otherwise I'll go and give a hand clearing up that mast.”

“No, I can manage,” Ramage said. “The sooner we get that wreckage down on deck the better. It'll be ripping the topsail any minute.”

The two pieces of the mast, along with the yard, were swinging like pendulums on pieces of rigging and halyards, and each time the ship rolled or there was a stronger than usual puff of wind, they slammed into the side of the topsail. Ramage could not understand why the splintered ends of the broken mast had not yet torn the canvas. Yes, he could order the topmen to furl the topsail, but the
Calypso
would be hard to handle with only the maintopsail, and anyway Aitken needed the topmen to secure the wreckage.