Ramage's Signal (37 page)

At that moment Rossi appeared from below.

“Better we fight that frigate with our tongues than our guns, sir,” he said in Italian.

“We may not have the choice, but you have the right idea,” Paolo said, sarcastically. “We must think of the right thing to say to the French. Like ‘What a
bella figura
you make standing on your quarterdeck, Captain!'”

Rossi chuckled at the thought as he went to Paolo's cabin to get the key to the
Caroline
's pitifully small magazine.

Rennick in the
Matilda
had long ago identified the distant ship as French and at this moment had all his men, except for the lookout and the man at the wheel, standing in a circle round him.

“Mr Aitken's order, if the convoy is attacked by an enemy ship, is to disperse,” he told the men. “That means we all sail off in different directions. But one of us is bound to be caught, and if the Frogs put a prize crew on board her quickly enough they can go after another ship. In fact if they're awake they can capture all six of us.”

“Prison,” muttered one of the Marines. “I've ‘eard about them French prisons.”

“So have I,” Rennick said grimly. “But you remember what Captain Ramage always says … Come on, now!”

The men shuffled their feet and sucked their teeth, brows furrowed with concentration, and increasingly embarrassed at Rennick's impatience.

“Come on! Come on!”

“Surprise!” the Marine corporal yelled triumphantly. “Yer gotta do somefing ter surprise the barstids!”

“Exactly,” Rennick said, proud that it was a Marine and not a seaman who had come up with the right answer. “Do the unexpected. Now, what would that Frenchman not be expecting, eh?”

“Us to attack ‘im,” a seaman said firmly, as if disposing of that possibility once and for all.

“Exactly!” Rennick said once again, slapping his thigh and laughing with delight. “Mr Aitken can't give us any orders because of the signalling problems, so we must use our common sense.”

He looked round at the eight men, the man at the wheel and the lookout aloft. Ten, led by himself as the eleventh. Well, it could not be helped. Surprise would have to provide the equivalent of the other two hundred and ninety men he would prefer to have.

“Our common sense tells us,” Rennick said firmly, glaring round him for any sign of dissent, “that if we can save five ships of the convoy, we'll have won.”

There were enough “Ahs” and “S'rights” showing agreement that Rennick promptly seized the moment to tell them his plan.

“So we ram the frigate with the
Matilda.
”

Without knowing that he was repeating a tactic used by Ramage against a 74 only a few days ago, he explained: “We go for her jib-boom and bowsprit. If we can carry them away we'll send her foremast tumbling by the board.”

“They won't arf be cross wiv us,” a Marine muttered gloomily. “Still,” he added, brightening up, “it'll be quite a sight!”

“Good, good,” Rennick said briskly. “As soon as the Frogs recover they'll board us. We don't fight; we surrender. There'll be no dishonour. We'll be outnumbered about thirty to one, and if her foremast has gone, we've nothing more to do. So we'll be prisoners.

“Now listen carefully. Being taken prisoner means marching to prison, maybe across Spain and halfway across France. So make sure you've got shoes or boots, and put on two pairs of socks if there's room. And wear any thick coat you have. You'll look dam' silly now but later, trying to sleep alongside a mountain track in the snow, you'll be glad of every stitch you've got.

“Roll up blankets so you can put ‘em round your neck like a horse collar. The French may steal them, but if they don't … And if you have any money, get below right now and sew the coins into a thick part of your clothing. You've ten minutes to do that, so dismiss!”

Orsini took one more look at the still distant enemy sail and knew she would never notice any unusual move by the
Caroline.
The idea had come to him just like that, “out of the blue,” a very good expression the English used. But he needed Mr Aitken's approval before trying it—indeed, there might be a dozen reasons why the French would not fall for the trap, but it was worth suggesting, even if it made Mr Aitken angry.

Fifteen minutes later the
Caroline
was sailing with her lar-board bow only a few yards from the
Sarazine
's starboard quarter, with Rossi at the wheel. Baxter was perched in the
Caroline
's foreshrouds carefully watching the
Sarazine
's quarter, which was close enough for him to lob a biscuit into the muzzle of one of her nine-pounders, and giving helm orders to Rossi, whose forward vision was limited by the fo'c's'le so that he could see only her masts and rigging. Orsini was standing on the
Caroline
's bulwarks right forward, gripping part of her anchor and waiting to get close enough to Aitken, who was sitting astride the
Sarazine
's taffrail, the mouthpiece of a speaking-trumpet to his ear.

“Can you hear me, sir?”

Aitken waved.

Paolo then explained his proposal, Aitken listening carefully. Finally, putting the speaking-trumpet to his lips, Aitken shouted: “It's a good idea and it might work. Try it. I'll leave the timing to you.” He then shouted a word which Paolo could not understand, but Rossi called: “
Va bene,
sir, I know it.”

Aitken gave another wave and shouted: “Good luck, lads; I'll see you all in Gibraltar!”

Paolo walked back to the wheel, his heart thumping with pride and excitement and his face flushed with pleasure, but he was met with a growl from Rossi. “For how long we stay in this position, sir? Any minute we lose our bowsprit through hitting the
Sarazine!
”

With a muttered curse Paolo returned from the dizzy realms of convoy tactics to the mundane problem of getting the
Caroline
back into her position as the second ship in the starboard column. The French frigate, he noted, was about a mile away and tacking once again in the long zigzag to get up to the convoy. On this tack he estimated she would stretch up to the head of the convoy and pass just across the
Golondrina
's bow, allowing for the convoy's forward speed remaining the same. Unfortunately there was no chance of any change in the wind's strength or direction; indeed, with the sky blue and dappled with small white clouds and the sun still hot, he was reminded of Trade wind conditions. The Mediterranean weather was being kind when the convoy needed it to be at its most treacherous.

Aitken watched the
Caroline
dropping back into position and had to admit that Orsini was ingenious, particularly considering his age. Was he sixteen yet? The idea might not save them, but certainly it was their only chance. The French frigate was obviously intent on getting ahead of the convoy, and that made sense because, as Aitken reminded himself, by now her captain would be sure the convoy was French, all the ships flying Tricolours, and would have no suspicions. The convoy knew he was their enemy, but the French captain was just following the usual routine. The only thing that would concern him was the whereabouts of the escort and why the convoy was so far south and steering west. And he would know that whoever was the senior captain of the convoy would probably be in one of the two leading ships. It was a pity, Aitken thought, that there had not been time to have the
Golondrina
and the
Caroline
exchange positions.

If only the
Calypso
would come in sight now! But even that would be too late; the French frigate was less than a mile away and fairly racing along, every piece of plain sail drawing. Ah,

now she was clewing up her courses, because she needed only topsails for manoeuvring round the convoy—and, as if to show how right he was, Aitken saw the royals being furled as well. The way the frigate had tacked up to the convoy, never once overstanding a hundred yards, and the way she was being handled now, left no doubt that her captain was an experienced officer. Yet for Orsini's scheme that was an advantage; the more experienced the better.

T
HE SUN had just dropped behind the mountains in a blaze of red when the two cutters and launch left the
Calypso,
heading for the
Passe Partout.
Both peaks and valleys were darkening as shadows quickly lengthened, and Ramage steered the launch for the tartane, leaving the red and green cutters to circle as though keeping guard. The launch came alongside the tartane in full view of the semaphore tower, and the moment the boat was hooked on, several dozen seamen stood up, holding muskets. Ramage gave a loud hail.

Jackson appeared at the rail and, a few moments later, six seamen wearing handcuffs scrambled clumsily over the bulwarks one after the other and went down the ladder, covered by more men with muskets who had just appeared along the
Passe Partout
's rail.

The six prisoners—it was obvious to any watchers on shore that they were prisoners of some sort or another—were pushed and cuffed in the launch and made to sit in the centre of the three middle thwarts, with the armed men already in the boat keeping them well covered.

The launch left the
Passe Partout
and when one of the cutters then went alongside her, the rest of the men on board climbed down into it and, with the other cutter, followed the launch, which was making for the first little beach inside the bay and just under the semaphore tower.

There was now neither wind nor swell waves, and the launch hissed as a few powerful strokes with the oars drove it up the sand. Seamen jumped out to hold the boat and first the guards with muskets scrambled up the sand to the foot of the cliff, turning to keep the boat covered.

Then the men in the boat drove out the handcuffed prisoners, who jumped down on to the sand, unbalanced with their wrists pinned together, and two of them sprawled flat on their faces.

Their cursing was so violent that Ramage, still in the launch, hissed: “Shut up, you fools!” Then sheepishly he remembered it was perfectly all right for them to speak and swear in English; it was the guards who were supposed to be French.

Leaving two boat-keepers, one of whom was busy securing the grapnel they had dropped as they came in, ready to haul the launch out again when required, Ramage went up to the armed men and the prisoners and waited while first one and then the other cutter ran up on the beach and landed its men.

Ten minutes later Ramage was at the head of a column of 48 men, most of whom carried muskets and four of whom had axes, keeping the blades concealed with rags. Near the head of the column stumbled six bedraggled men in handcuffs, all of them doing their best to look like prisoners. Wet hair, a few smears of sand and soil, and sodden clothes, made them seem pathetic figures, but a sharp-eyed onlooker would have noticed that each guard marching beside a prisoner, his musket at the ready, wore two pistols with belt clips, while all the other men with muskets had one pistol each. One would have to be very close to notice that none of the handcuffs was secured with padlocks; in fact the prisoners were having to hold them on.

The track up to the gateway to the semaphore tower was steep but smooth, the stony surface worn over the centuries by donkeys and peasants who had used it long before muskets and pistols existed.

Finally at the gate Ramage gave a sharp whistle and held up his arm to halt his men. A French soldier emerged from the guardhouse beyond the gate, weaving slightly and hastily pulling on a coat. He recognized Ramage as an officer and in a slurred voice politely asked his business.

“It is none of your affair,” Ramage answered arrogantly. “Take me to your commanding officer!”

“But, sir”—the sentry gestured helplessly at the locked gate—”orders. ‘Admit no one without him stating his business.' It's more—”

“—than your life's worth!” Ramage interrupted impatiently. “All right, go at once to your commanding officer and tell him that the Captain of the frigate anchored in the bay down there has urgent business with him and requires a room in which to lock some English prisoners.”

The sentry nodded nervously, caught sight of the men in handcuffs and scurried along the track towards the buildings.

Ramage turned casually but hissed to the prisoners: “Make sure none of you drop those handcuffs until you hear me give the word ‘Calypso!'”

The men muttered in reply and Jackson, now standing next to Ramage, said quietly: “Bit of luck they don't have a full guardhouse like Foix, sir. One man! Still, at least he keeps the gate locked!”

Ramage saw the sentry running back down the track, struggling to remove a large key from a trouser pocket.

“The commandant's compliments, sir. He asks that you come to his house at once!” He turned the key in the lock and swung the gate open. “I didn't have time to tell him you were not alone, sir, but—”

“Lead us to him; we have to sail before nightfall.”

“Yes, sir, indeed, please follow me, I'm sure he will understand …”

He prattled on as he walked, but Ramage, realizing that the man was drunk rather than naturally stupid, looked carefully round the buildings. The only other soldiers in sight were two sprawled under a gnarled olive tree, their positions showing they had collapsed there drunk and would soon become the target for swarms of mosquitoes.

“How many of you garrison an important station like this?” Ramage asked amiably.

“Normally 35, sir, but we have two men in Port Vendres with venereal disease, and one awaiting court martial. So today there are 32. And the commandant, of course.”

Four buildings just like the barracks at Foix; that larger house at the end of this track and towards which the sentry was leading them must be the commandant's. Beyond it, on the rising ground, the great semaphore tower stood like a section of a wooden wall, its lookout now off duty.