Ramage's Signal (33 page)

“I'm sorry, Captain!” Ramage shouted up in French. “I will come on board to make my apologies! What? Yes, Admiral, I will try to disengage myself this minute! Yes, sir—”

Stafford was nudging him. “Excuse me, sir, all the fuses are burnin' merrily …”

“Abandon ship!” Ramage bellowed. “Down into the cutter, m'lads, and then row like madmen!”

As he stood on the afterdeck of the little brig he was almost startled by the comparative silence that had suddenly come over the ship. The Frenchman's jib-boom creaked as it was pulled down by the weight of the
Merle
's foremast and rigging, which still hung from it, and the
Merle
's hull was grinding against the great ship's stem, but just round him, in the brig herself, there was only the thumping of bare feet running across the deck.

Ramage walked over to where Jackson had the cutter's painter hitched round a kevel.

“Two men missing, sir; I'm counting them.”

How many minutes had elapsed since the fuses had been lit? “Get down in the boat and wait three minutes, and then row away—”

“What are you—?”

“Do as you're told,” Ramage snapped and ran forward, snatching up one of the lanterns as he passed the hatch, noting that the burning ends of the fuses were already halfway up the coaming.

He made for the wreckage of the foremast and as he approached he could hear the muffled voice of a man swearing.

“Where are you?”

“Here, sir, some bluddy ratlines have tangled me up.” Ramage put down the lantern and began feverishly hauling at the rope, suddenly conscious that Jackson was beside him. “Where's the other one, sir?”

By now Ramage had burrowed into the tangled rope and was within a few inches of the trapped man. “There's someone else missing—have you seen him?” Ramage shouted.

“Oh, that'll be Hobbs, sir,” the man replied. “He was up on the yard. He got tossed overboard when the mast went, sir. I heard him shoutin' in the water.”

With that, Jackson helped Ramage wrench the last of the ropes clear of the man and grabbed an arm to pull him to his feet. The man fell flat again with a grunt of pain.

“My leg, sir, I think it's busted. Leave me ‘ere, sir, you'll all get blown up!”

“Lift him,” Ramage told Jackson. “Now sling him over my shoulder.”

Together Captain and coxswain staggered aft with the injured man. Jackson sniffed as they passed the hatch. “Those fuses are cooking well, sir.”

Finally they had nearly reached the quarter when Stafford, ‘Arry and several other seamen reached them.

“Come on, sir,” Stafford said in an offended voice as he and ‘Arry seized the injured man, “we wondered where you an' Jacko had gone.”

Quickly they lowered the man into the cutter.

“Has anyone seen Hobbs swimming around?” Ramage shouted.

“I'm ‘ere, sir,” Hobbs said. “I swam round and was first in the boat!”

“Cast off,” Ramage told Jackson. “Now, let's say goodbye to the
Merle!
”

With two men at each oar the cutter leapt through the water and as he looked astern Ramage was surprised how small the brig now seemed, jammed across the 74's bow.

“Didn't even break off the Frenchman's jib-boom,” Jackson said, having a quick glance himself.

“But sent our foremast by the board without much effort,” Ramage said. “Steer for the
Muscade:
I want to be sure Mr Southwick's gig hasn't been stove in.”

Ramage looked round for the man with the broken leg. “We'll get a seizing on that as soon as possible.”

“Don't you bother ‘bout me,” the seaman said cheerfully. “I just want to be far enough away to get a good view of the bang.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a great flash like lightning lit every hill and mountain, showing an enormous column of eerily green water mushrooming from where the ships had been and followed a moment later by an echoing thunder-clap which made their ears sing and a blast that Ramage thought would burst their eardrums.

For a few moments there was stunned silence and then, as gulls began mewing, Stafford said: “Blimey, it's raining!”

The sky was clear. Ramage realized that they were being showered by spray from the explosion. And if there was spray—

“Duck!” he shouted. “Crouch down below the thwarts.” At the same moment he launched himself across the body of the man with the broken leg.

Then pieces of wreckage from the
Merle
and the French ship of the line began falling from the sky as though an avalanche of trees was sweeping a mountain pass.

Finally it stopped and, with his night vision completely destroyed by the flash, Ramage was thankful for the moon to give him a sense of direction. The men resumed their places at the thwarts and Ramage found that only one couple had let go of their oar, which was quickly fished back on board.

“Right, let's find Mr Southwick and see what he thinks of our firework display.”

“Beats anyfing I ever saw at Vauxhall Gardens,” Stafford admitted, “but I fink I bin permentually deafened.”

“‘Permanently,'” Jackson corrected automatically. “No, it'll soon go, more's the pity.”

Southwick and the gig saw the cutter first against the moon and hailed, and five minutes later both boats were lying alongside each other, the two crews exchanging stories.

Southwick scrambled into the cutter. “I'm sorry, sir, I let you down,” he said sheepishly, “but I swear that reef isn't on the chart!”

“I know it isn't, and it's lucky we both didn't hit it. Anyway, we all overestimated the amount of powder needed!”

“I'm ashamed to say we had the best view, sir,” the Master said. “And we knew you had escaped in time because we caught sight of the cutter in the flash. But the water it threw up—it even drifted down to us, and we're to windward. And the wreckage! We could see yards and great baulks of timber landing hundreds of yards away. The splashes showed up in the moonlight.”

“The wreckage missed us,” Ramage said thankfully, “but there were some enormous lumps crashing round. Well, by the time we get to the
Calypso
I'll be ready for breakfast.”

B
Y NOON the
Calypso
's Surgeon, Bowen, came to Ramage's cabin to report that Palmer, the seaman with a broken leg,

was resting comfortably. “I gave him a drop of medicinal brandy, sir.”

“Ah, so much better than the ordinary sort.”

“Ah, yes indeed; it eases the pain like other spirits, but the seamen taste it so rarely that its effect seems magical,” Bowen said with a straight face.

Ramage thought back. How long ago? It had been two or three years since Bowen had joined Ramage's ship and proved to be an alcoholic. A brilliant surgeon, he had had a flourishing practice in Wimpole Street until his patients were scared away by his drinking. Finally an impoverished wreck of a man went to the Navy, the only people who would pay him for practising his profession—and let him buy his liquor duty-free … But by chance Bowen had been sent to serve in a ship commanded by Lieutenant Ramage.

What followed had been desperate for Bowen and thoroughly unpleasant for Ramage and Southwick, but Ramage, having neither the time nor the authority to get rid of Bowen because the ship had to sail at once for the West Indies, was determined that his seamen's lives should not be in the hands of a permanently drunken surgeon. So once at sea he and Southwick had cured

Bowen by cutting off his liquor. It had been a dreadful nightmare for them all; for days Bowen had been ravaged by delirium tremens; during the worst hours when they sat with him both Ramage and Southwick had themselves almost seen the imaginary horrors that attacked the struggling, fevered man. And finally it had been all over; Bowen was cured and now never touched spirits; he could sit down to dinner and pass the wine and prescribe medicinal brandy. He viewed the world with a clear eye and, when needed, used a scalpel with a hand that did not tremble.

“Palmer would like to see you, sir.”

“Yes, I was going to call in the sick bay. I see you have no other customers,” he said, holding up Bowen's daily report. “It's amazing how the prospect of action cures costive complaints and rheumatic pains!”

“If we were in action once a week, I could retire and spend my time working out chess problems,” Bowen admitted. “When you go into battle you have so few casualties that you won't get rapid promotion, sir,” he added dryly. “The Admiralty seem to judge a captain's ability and bravery by the size of his butcher's bill.”

“I know,” Ramage said evenly, “that's obvious from the despatches published in the
Gazette
and the subsequent promotions. However, if the price of getting the command of a 74 is having a thousand men killed and wounded round me over the years, I'll happily stay with a frigate.”

“Palmer wants to see Jackson as well. He won't tell me why.”

“They're probably friends and Jackson knows where he's hidden his tobacco!”

“It's not that; it's as if he owes both of you money and can't repay it.”

Ramage shook his head, puzzled. “You're sure that the pain, or the brandy, has not left him—well, a bit off his head?”

“No, he's sane enough. How did it happen—the broken leg? He's not too sure.”

“If he isn't sure then we'll never know. When we collided with the French 74, her jib-boom sent our foremast by the board and somehow Palmer was trapped in the rigging.”

“How did he escape?”

“Some men pulled him out.”

“After the fuses had been lit?”

“Yes, but they had plenty of time.”

“Palmer didn't think so. You and Jackson, I suppose.” Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “The rest of the men were already in the boat.”

“The Admiralty might say that when it comes to choosing between the life of one of its best young captains or an ordinary seaman with a broken leg, the captain comes first, sir.”

“Probably,” Ramage said dryly, “but the Admiralty are not responsible for taking the ship into action or the well-being of her men. Come along, we'll get Jackson and then see Palmer.”

Ramage came up on deck to find the launch, pinnace and both cutters streaming astern, and forty or fifty men waiting in the waist of the ship after having been inspected by Southwick.

The Master came up to him. “I wonder how many masters have gone off to start destroying six ships at anchor, sir.”

“Not many. In fact you may be the first, but the gunner and I will be following. What a waste of ships …”

“At least we know six of the largest are on their way to Gibraltar with Aitken, otherwise I'd be scuttling more,” Southwick commented. “You're definitely keeping the
Passe Partout,
sir?”

“Yes, she may come in useful. She helps our disguise, too. A French frigate with a tartane in company is just what another French frigate would expect to see.”

“By the way, sir, we know the name of that 74 now. She had it painted on a board at the entry port, and a couple of the men read it.
Scipion,
sir. Seems a funny sort of name, but they're sure of it.”

“I know the name,” Ramage said. “She's in the French List of Ships. Built at Toulon since the war, I believe. In fact she must be one of their newest ships of the line.”

“Can I tell the men, sir?”

“Yes. I wonder if she was a flagship.”

Southwick paused, took off his hat to run his fingers through his hair, and then gave a sniff to indicate his irritation. “We'll never know that now, unless the
Moniteur
reports it. That's the worst of blowing a ship to pieces; one doesn't get prisoners.”

The boats left the
Calypso
and went to the anchored merchant ships. Ramage, thoroughly exasperated by the gunner, had given him those carrying powder but, weakening at the last moment, had told him he could scuttle them instead of blowing them up.

Ramage had noticed that at the north end of the gulf, to leeward of several of the merchant ships and near some huts, a group of fishermen were watching. At least, he assumed they were fishermen because they were near some fishing boats drawn up on the beach.

The fishermen must only just be scraping a living. The soil was barren; apart from olives, he had seen a few fig trees and vine terraces, so the harvest had to come from the sea. One of the French brigs to be scuttled carried a general cargo—everything from pots and pans to bales of hides, olive oil to sugar.

He had told Southwick to leave the brig to him, and not to be surprised if he saw it set a foresail. Taking Jackson, Stafford and a dozen seamen with him in the gig, he went over to the brig, saw that in fact she was lying to windward of the flat stretch of shore that the fishermen had taken as their village, and ordered the brig's cable to be cut.

With the gig towing astern, they watched as the brig drifted inshore under the windage on her hull and spars. They were a mile from the beach when a random current, flowing between the mainland and the island of Sant' Antioco, caught her and began to carry her northwards.

“Let fall the fore-topsail,” Ramage said, “and get it drawing. Jackson, take the wheel and steer for the fishermen's beach.”

The seamen were going about their various tasks but obviously they were puzzled, and Ramage shouted to them: “Those fishermen over there: this ship represents a king's ransom to them, and we were going to scuttle her. We might just as well let her run up on the beach—no one will ever get her off again, and the fishermen can take their pickings as a reward for not bothering us. They're neutral, anyway.”

Were they? Ramage suddenly found himself far from sure. About eighty years ago Savoy and Austria exchanged Sicily and Sardinia, so Sardinia now belonged to Savoy. But Savoy was at present under the French … Anyway, the only practical attitude to adopt was that anyone who did not shoot at you was friendly or neutral, and as a convoy anchorage it did not matter.