Ramage's Devil (21 page)

Which was why Swan wanted to make it clear that he had disposed of the signals. But he would certainly be tried—a court martial could clear a man of any suspicion just as well as it could find him guilty.

“You have witnesses?” Ramage said. “You may need them.”

Swan said: “Yes, I understand, sir. Phillips saw me, and the two men at the wheel, who did not mutiny.”

“Good, they'll be sufficient. Now, let's start carrying out our present orders. First, steer north-north-west, and warn the lookouts to watch for two frigates, one French-built. Both of them are well to the north of the fleet. We have to visit the northernmost one, the French-built.”

“Like your last ship, the
Calypso,
” Swan said, smiling at the thought.

“She is the
Calypso,
” Ramage said, and gestured towards the taffrail. As the two men walked up and down the windward side, out of earshot of the men at the wheel and the quartermaster, Swan pausing from time to time to shout orders through the speaking-trumpet to get the brig under way, Ramage described what had happened, and why the
Murex
was being sent to the
Calypso.

“Captain Bullivant,” Swan said, “just made post, obviously. We served together as lieutenants in the
Culloden.
”

“A pleasant fellow, eh?” Ramage said, realizing that Swan would be careful not to criticize one captain to another but hoping the man would realize that he needed to know as much as possible.

“He had his friends,” Swan said carefully. “His father is one of the biggest contractors to the Navy Board.”

“I heard about that,” Ramage said. “Salt meat, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” Swan said, unable to keep a bitter note out of his voice. “You know, a cask of salt beef, and stencilled on the outside it says ‘Contains 52 pieces' …”

“And when the master counts them, there are only 47,” Ramage finished the sentence. “And although every ship in the navy notes it down in the log—the contractor's number on the cask and the number of the pieces short—and although the log goes to the Admiralty and the Navy Board can trace the contractor in each case from the number, nothing is ever done about it.”

“But the Bullivants of this world and the people they bribe at the Navy Board get richer,” Swan said, thankful that the new temporary captain of the
Murex
needed only a pointing finger, not a detailed chart.

The two men walked over to the binnacle, and after a look at the compass card and a glance up at the luffs of the sails, Ramage nodded to the quartermaster.

He was, Ramage noted, one of the original men of the
Murex,
but Swan had already said that he was only an ordinary seaman. He wondered why the
Murex
's captain had not rated the man “able.” Perhaps he had a bad record, a good seaman but a heavy drinker. All too many men disobeyed the regulations and “hoarded their tot”—instead of drinking their daily issue they kept it until the end of the week so they could get very drunk. They knew before they put aside the very first tot that if they got drunk they would probably be flogged, but all too many seasoned topers reckoned a dozen with the cat-o'-nine-tails a fair exchange for ending Saturday night in an alcoholic stupor.

With the wind almost on the beam, the brig was sailing fast. Already the line-of-battle ships making up the fleet were on the
Murex
's starboard beam, and in half an hour they would be well aft on the quarter, their hulls beginning to sink below the horizon, hidden by the curvature of the earth.

There was little for him to do until the
Blackthorne
and the
Calypso
were sighted, so he went below to talk to Sarah. As soon as he saw her sitting on the settee, he remembered the family's London home in Palace Street. There Mrs Hanson, the butler's wife, was also the housekeeper, and Ramage had once heard her describe a disgruntled person as “on the turn, like yesterday's milk in a thunderstorm.”

Sarah's expression showed that she was far from happy; Mrs Hanson would regard it as definitely curdled. No wonder the
Admiralty Instructions
forbade officers to take their wives to sea in wartime!

“So you're back,” she said bleakly. “Are we bound for Plymouth now?”

“No, not yet,” he said. “One of the frigates with the fleet is the
Calypso
and—”

“But she's yours!” Sarah exclaimed, suddenly coming to life.

He shook his head. “With war breaking out so quickly and the First Lord having to send out a Channel Fleet, he would have taken every ship that could get to sea. Obviously the
Calypso
had not been paid off, so as I wasn't there a new captain was sent down and he took her round to Plymouth to join Admiral Clinton.”

“Clinton? The Scots family?”

“I think so: he speaks with a Scots accent. Why?”

“He was out in the East Indies once and I met him when he called on father. I think he's quite well regarded.”

“Yes, we're lucky he's commanding the Fleet.”

“It hardly matters, surely, if we are going to Plymouth.”

“Dearest, I have no idea whether we'll be sailing for Plymouth or Jamaica or the Cape of Good Hope. All I know is that Admiral Clinton has given me orders which I am carrying out. They should take only a few hours, but”—he softened his voice—“they concern a ship, men and the sea, so nothing is certain.”

She gave a ghost of a smile, as if to start making up for her earlier tartness. A start, but by no means an acceptance of the fact she was now (for the first time in their brief marriage) very definitely the moon in her husband's life; the navy was the sun. This was, of course, precisely what the Countess of Blazey had warned her about before the wedding. Sarah admitted to herself that she had thought Nicholas's mother was being too protective (of both of them) when she warned that navy wives always came second. Well, that had not prevented the Countess's own marriage being a most successful one—the Earl of Blazey, apart from being one of the navy's finest admirals until falling victim to politics, clearly loved and was loved by his wife.

“Am I allowed to know what Admiral Clinton's orders are?”

“Of course!” he said, snatching at the tiny olive branch which was being inspected rather than proffered. Quickly he explained how the
Calypso
had hoisted what seemed a bewildering signal. It took longer to explain that there were only three physicians in the entire navy, while surgeons were numbered in hundreds, but she was intrigued.

“What do you expect to find?”

“I have absolutely no idea; nor has the admiral, which is why he is sending me.”

“But this new captain, Bullivant, what … ?”

“I'm sure he is not going to be very pleased to see me!”

“Why not? I should have thought that—”

He cut her short. “Just imagine it. The
Calypso
is not famous but people know about her. I captured her, was put in command, and took her into action several times. All the officers and many of the ship's company would be regarded by a new captain as ‘my' men because normally he selects his own officers when commissioning the ship—certainly his first lieutenant and midshipmen, and probably the master.

“This wretched fellow Bullivant—I feel sorry for him. He knows that whatever he does, from how he wears his hat to the way he gives orders, everyone on board is comparing him with the previous captain. It can't give him much confidence. He must hate the thought of me—I know I should!”

“You wouldn't, you know: you'd just make sure you did everything better—and quicker, too. You are one of the lucky people who have confidence in themselves.”

Ramage's laugh was bitter. She could never guess the hours before going into action when he had completely lost confidence in himself and his plans, and would have changed them completely but for there being no time or no obvious alternative. Even as late as two nights ago, when he led the four Frenchmen and Sarah to capture the
Murex—
did she think he had no doubts and fears? Well, perhaps it was better if she (along with everyone who had served with him in the
Calypso)
thought he had not.

He heard shouting from aloft, and then Swan's question to the masthead lookout. “Where away? … You are sure? … French-built from the sheer? Very well, keep a sharp lookout!”

Then the shout from the top of the companion-way, “Captain, sir,” but by then Ramage had given Sarah a hasty kiss and his foot was already on the first step.

Swan repeated the bearing. “Dead ahead, sir, and the lookout says he sees her well as we lift on the swell waves. Thought I glimpsed her sails for a moment.”

“Strange how helpless one feels without a bring-'em-near,” Ramage commented. “I should have borrowed one from the flagship.”

“I can't see anyone giving up his glass, even for Captain Ramage,” Swan said jocularly.

“There!” called the master, “I glimpsed a sail then. That's her, dead ahead!”

A
N HOUR LATER the brig and the frigate crossed tacks, the
Murex
passing half a mile ahead.

“No signals flying,” Swan commented.

“So I see. But now we are to windward of her, so hoist her pendant and make number 84.”

Swan snapped out an order to two seamen, who began hoisting the three flags forming the
Calypso
's pendant numbers, and told two more to hoist eight and four.

“
Pass within hail,
isn't it, sir?” Swan asked. “You have the book,” he said apologetically, “but I'm presuming it hasn't been changed.”

“Yes, but whether or not Captain Bullivant chooses to obey is another question. He might assume a brig is still commanded only by a lieutenant.”

“I think if I was him and a brig tacked across my bow and gave a peremptory order, I'd assume she had a senior officer on board!”

“We'll see,” Ramage said. “In the meantime, have 173 bent on and ready for hoisting, and have number one gun on the larboard side loaded with a blank charge. There's no need to send the men to quarters: have Bridges and a couple of men do it. Here's the key to the magazine. It was still in the desk drawer.”

Swan was enjoying himself hoisting flag signals with orders for Bullivant, that much was obvious, and his enjoyment revealed more about Bullivant than his earlier comments. Ramage handed him the Signal Book, knowing that the first lieutenant could not remember the meaning of 173.

He quickly leafed through the pages, which were cut at the side with the signal numbers printed in tens.

“Ah,” Swan said, “a gun and that should produce results!”

“Yes, we'll tack again; they're ignoring 84.”

Ramage saw Bridges and two men running to the forward gun on the larboard side, where seamen in answer to Bridges' earlier shouted order were already casting off lashings.

Out came the tompion; a man held the flintlock in position and hurriedly tightened up the wing nut to clamp it down. The gun was quickly run in and a cartridge slid down the bore and rammed home. The gun was run out again, a quill tube pushed down the vent and priming powder shaken into the pan.

Bridges held up his hand in a signal to Ramage, who was watching the
Calypso
as she sailed on, approaching their starboard bow.

“Mr Swan, we'll pass very close across the
Calypso
's bow …” Ramage gestured to the two seamen who had bent on the three flags representing the signal 173,
Furl sails.

Ramage watched the
Calypso
out of the corner of his eye and said to the seamen: “Leave up the pendant numbers but lower 84.”

By now Swan was bellowing orders and the brig's bow was turning to starboard, canvas slatting, the ropes of sheets and braces flogging, spray flying across like fine rain as the bow sliced the tops off waves. Then, with Swan giving the word to haul, the yards were braced round and sheets trimmed so the sails resumed their opulent curves. The
Murex
began to leap through the water again—right across the
Calypso
's bow.

“Oh, nicely, nicely!” Swan exclaimed. “Less than half a cable—we'll be able to throw a biscuit on to her fo'c's'le as we pass across her bow!”

“Stand by,” Ramage shouted, and saw the gun captain kneel with his left leg thrust out to one side, the trigger line taut in his right hand.

The
Calypso
was a fine sight, bow-on and just forward of the
Murex
's beam. Men were peering over the bulwarks; Ramage thought he saw the lookout at the foremasthead gesturing down to the deck.

“Hoist 173!” Ramage said to the seamen and watched the three flags soaring upwards. He turned forward. “Mr Bridges, fire!”

The gun spurted flame and smoke, and a moment later came the flat “blam” of an unshotted gun firing, the standard signal drawing particular attention to a hoist of flags.

Ramage watched the
Calypso
for the first sign that she was altering course or clewing up sails. There was only one more signal that he could make (108,
Close nearer to the Admiral
) but if Bullivant ignored that too, what next?

Were the luffs of the courses fluttering slightly? As the
Murex
passed across the
Calypso
's bows the frigate's masts had for a few moments been in line, but now the brig was hauling out on the
Calypso
's beam and it was hard to distinguish an alteration of course. But … yes …

Swan exclaimed: “She's bracing her courses sharp up, sir! Yes, I can see men going up the ratlines. There, she's starting to clew up!”

Ramage judged distances and times. Better than Bullivant he knew how long it would take to clew up the big forecourse and the main course, the lowest and largest sails in the frigate; then as the
Calypso
slowed down the foretopsail would be backed, the yard braced sharp up so that the wind blew on the forward side. With well-trained crew and Aitken and Southwick, she could be hove-to a good deal faster than the smaller but undermanned
Murex.