Ramage's Signal (38 page)

Where the devil were the rest of the garrison?

“Supper time, eh?”

“Ah—no, sir,” the sentry said with an inane giggle, “the men are asleep. Today is the commandant's birthday, and everyone celebrated it. Some had a little too much Banyuls, and are … resting. The commandant …”

The commandant was very drunk. The door of his house flung open and a portly man, bald and bow-legged, lurched out holding a coat he was trying to pull over his shoulders, but in twisting his pear-shaped body to get an arm into the sleeve his belt came undone and he had to grab his trousers to prevent them falling.

The sentry stood paralysed, but Ramage moved quickly forward and, as if it was perfectly natural, said: “Permit me to hold your coat while …”

“Thank you … thank you,” the commandant said as he did up the belt. Ramage held the tunic and the Frenchman slid one arm into a sleeve with an almost desperate thrust but, Ramage realized, that had been luck: with the second arm he obviously still saw three or four armholes but lunged at the wrong one. Ramage retrieved the waving wrist, slid it into the sleeve and with Jackson's help pulled the jacket into place.

“De Vaux,
lieutenant de vaisseau,
commanding the frigate anchored down there, sir!” Ramage said briskly.

The commandant looked blearily down into the bay, obviously startled. “
Sacré bleu,
all those ships! When did they come in? Should I fire a salute? I never know about these things. Anyway, my one gun is honeycombed, they tell me, and will explode if I fire it. You understand ‘honeycomb?' Air bubbles trapped in the metal while casting? It is my birthday and the men gave me a party. But no honeycomb, which I like, but much Banyuls, which I also like. De Vaux, that was the name of a young man I met once, commanded a frigate, or a fleet. Navy, anyway; not a soldier.”

He stopped talking and screwed up his eyes, trying to concentrate. “That makes two of you, because you are called De Vaux, too. All those ships down there!” He turned on the sentry. “Why was I not told? You are the lookout!”

“But, sir,” the man protested, “I thought the tower would—”

“Thought, thought—you have never thought in your life! A fleet sails in and you keep the gate locked.”

The commandant realized that there were several men behind Ramage and Jackson.

“You've brought some friends, eh? Here, sentry, get some more Banyuls. A cask. Collect mugs from the barracks. Toasts for the Navy. The Navy can toast me! Fifty-one years old and I can still chase the women.”

The sentry hurried off, heading for the first barrack building. Ramage glanced at Jackson and raised his eyebrows for a moment. Then he waited for the sentry to emerge again.

The commandant, meanwhile, had been buttoning up his tunic with ferocious concentration but, starting at the bottom and putting the next to lowest button in the lowest buttonhole, the whole garment was now askew and too tight, giving him the lopsided appearance of a man tottering along a steep slope.

At that moment the sentry came out of the building clutching an armful of mugs. He was alone. No one in the building, Ramage guessed, was prepared to help him or, more significant, not interested, or capable, of drinking more wine with the newly arrived sailors.

All the pretence with the “prisoners” in handcuffs had been completely unnecessary—thanks to the fact that the commandant had been born 51 years ago today. Had his mother been a day earlier, or a day later …

Ramage looked round at his men, giving a wave which attracted their attention because they were all watching him.

“Calypso,” he said conversationally, his voice pitched so that the men could hear him, and they split into four groups each heading for a hut.

The commandant, now obviously realizing that either the wine had warped his body or something was radically wrong with his coat, tried to look down the row of buttons, but the outward curve of his belly meant he could only see the top three. He craned his head forward to see the rest but the effort was too much and he toppled forward, sprawling flat on the ground as though crucified.

The groups of seamen passed the sentry who, concentrating on balancing the armful of mugs, took no notice of them—if indeed he saw them.

Ramage saw six pairs of handcuffs lying scattered on the ground, and their former wearers now had pistols.

“We'll leave him there,” Ramage said to Jackson, gesturing towards the commandant. “He'll probably go to sleep.”

He saw four of his seamen hurrying towards him, one coming from each of the huts. The first to arrive reported: “Nine men in the hut, sir, all blind drunk. We'll never get ‘em on their feet!”

The other three seamen reported the same thing. Ramage remembered the two men he had seen sleeping under the olive tree and sent a seaman to see if they were insensibly drunk. Then the sentry arrived, the only man in the garrison, as far as he could see, capable of controlled movement.

Jackson caught his eye. “Knock him out and then put those handcuffs on his hands and legs,” Ramage said. “And bring a pair of handcuffs for the commandant; we'd better secure him in his bed so that he doesn't fall out!”

He turned to the four seamen. “Very well, leave the drunks and meet me with your men at the tower; we'll do the job ourselves, since the wine has deprived us of French labour.”

Half an hour later, while the commandant snored in his bed, his wrists secured beneath it by handcuffs so that he could neither sit up nor turn over, and the sentry lay in the barracks, unconscious and also secured by handcuffs, the Calypsos hacked at the heavy beams supporting the semaphore tower. It was just as substantial as the one at Foix, but the seamen who had been carrying axes sent it toppling without being relieved. After that, hands blistered and muscles aching, they handed over to other groups who took it in turns to destroy the whole structure, so that none of the wood could be used again.

While the men hacked, Ramage watched the bay below with his glass. Apparently no one down there had noticed the tower toppling. Nor was that surprising; the noise would not carry that far, and from the village they could only see the tower end-on, so that it seemed more like a tree trunk, and it was unlikely anyone would see it at the moment it toppled.

Finally Jackson came up to report: “There's not a piece of timber left that's more than two feet long, sir.”

“Very well,” Ramage said, closing the telescope. “We haven't disturbed anyone down there, so we'll march back in regular order to the boats. There's no need to spike that cannon over there,” he added, remembering Jackson would not have understood the commandant. “It's honeycombed and they dare not fire it.”

It was almost dark by the time the
Calypso
's topsails filled aback and she did a long stern-board out of Collioure, followed by the
Passe Partout
which could easily wear round and pass the frigate on her way to the open sea.

Southwick had thoroughly enjoyed Ramage's recounting of the assault on the Collioure semaphore tower, which he had watched by telescope, and had promptly named it the Battle of Banyuls.

“With a bit of luck no one at the other two stations is going to know about it until tomorrow at the earliest,” he commented.

“And those men up there aren't going to sober up tonight,” Ramage said. “Even when the sentry recovers consciousness there's no one to hear his shouts. And by sunrise the commandant will have such a bad head that he'll be scared it'll fall off if he raises his voice. Anyway, a good job done with no casualties.”

“Will it save Aitken, I wonder?” Southwick speculated soberly.

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “It might. We've just done all we can; the rest is up to luck. Now, I want every bit of canvas set, and let's hope between here and Europa Point we sight the convoy.”

T
HE MEN in the six merchant ships watched the French frigate stretching along to cross ahead of them, spray slicing up from her cutwater like a rain shower. Few of them realized that to the frigate they were still friendly ships whose strange position warranted investigation; to them any ship flying a Tricolour, other than the
Calypso,
was an enemy, to be bluffed, evaded or, by some miracle, sunk.

Orsini studied her with his glass. She moved with the controlled power of a galloping stallion. Black hull unrelieved by a different-coloured sheer strake; sails patched but clearly serviceable. The lower part of the jibs dark from spray. Her port-lids were down, so obviously the French were not anticipating action, otherwise the lids would be triced up and the guns run out. The courses were neatly furled on the yards and so were the royals, and the topsails were drawing well. No gilt-work anywhere; not a glint of sun flickering on polished brasswork. The black hull had hints of purple in it, revealing aged paint exposed to too much hot sun and salt sea.

“Not such a nice sheer as the
Calypso,
” Baxter commented to Rossi.

“Paint in a white or yellow strake and she'd look better,” the Italian said.

“Yes … white would best bring up the curve, I think,” Baxter said judiciously. “An' look at the rust marks down ‘er side. And the rusty boom irons on them stunsail yards … Cor, Mr Southwick would go mad!”

On board the
Matilda,
Rennick had completed his preparations. Grapnels were ready to hoist from the yardarms, two men at the wheel had been reinforced by two more, in case any were wounded, and Rennick found that, faced with what seemed certain death within the next fifteen minutes, he was curiously resigned; there was none of the feeling of panic that he had always anticipated in the many occasions he had thought about such a situation. It was rather more an acceptance that he had made his plans, given his orders, and there was nothing left now but wait with as much patience as possible. He was sorry not to be seeing his parents again; he regretted no farewell handshake with Mr Ramage. But his men were cheerful, and it was up to him to make sure they continued cheerful until the very last moment when the
Matilda
rammed the Frenchman. He was puzzled that the
Caroline
had gone up to the
Sarazine
and hoped all was well with young Orsini. He liked the lad; it was a pity he was getting caught like this, at the beginning of such a promising career.

At first Aitken had been delighted with Orsini's plan but the more he thought about it the more it seemed a three o'clock in the morning idea that emerged after the brandy bottle had tilted too often and was embarrassing when looked at in the cold light of dawn. Still, beggars could not be choosers, and even if the attempt failed some ships might have a better chance of escaping as they dispersed in different directions.
Might.
If he commanded that frigate, no one would; still, the Frenchman might be content securing one prize instead of going on to the rest. He then dismissed that possibility, remembering Mr Ramage's warning that in war the most dangerous habit was to underestimate the enemy's strength, cunning or ability.

Kenton looked across at the French frigate as she came up fast on his starboard quarter, obviously intending to pass close abeam and then cut across his bow to get into position ahead of the
Golondrina
and
Sarazine.
He too found himself resigned to it; there was not a chance of these slow, tubby merchantmen doing anything except trying to bolt like hobbled cows when Aitken gave the order to disperse. The loss of this convoy, he suddenly realized, would wipe out all the
Calypso
's officers except Wagstaffe, who was away in Gibraltar, and Southwick. The First, acting Second, and acting Third Lieutenants, Lieutenant of Marines, Midshipman and bosun. And he knew Mr Ramage would feel the loss even worse because he would not be there when it happened. Orsini was the Marchesa's nephew; he would have to tell the woman he loved that her nephew and heir …

Paolo Orsini found he now had a tendency to tremble. Well, not tremble, but there was a shaky sensation in his knees and his hands, and his stomach was knotted as though he had eaten a sour apple too quickly. Yet he knew it was not fear: he was just nervous about the timing, which had to be
preciso.

He looked at Rossi, still acting as quartermaster and keeping a sharp eye on the two men at the wheel. Rossi looked just the same—a big, kindly Genoese with black curly hair and a little overweight, a friendly, round face and gleaming white teeth. Kindly to his friends, Paolo amended. He was full of good humour and had a collection of funny remarks which were just what a midshipman—just what the captain of a ship, Paolo corrected himself—needed at a time like this.

The French frigate was heeling to a puff, showing dark green weed on her bottom, despite the copper sheathing. As she heeled again he saw she had several sheets of copper missing round the bow. Not uncommon, of course; in most ships it became thin there, slowly dissolving away. There must be some scientific explanation.

“Getting close now, sir,” Rossi said, with all the anticipation of a highwayman watching an approaching coach. The frigate was about eight hundred yards away on the
Caroline
's starboard quarter, and still steering a slightly converging course that would take her close across the
Golondrina
's bow.

But if he, Paolo Orsini, midshipman, acted too soon or too late they would all get sunk or killed or captured; it needed a little—well, a little finesse, to place the
Caroline
in the right place at the right time. Machiavelli, Borgia and—Orsini!

The right time to start, he decided with a calmness that astonished and delighted him, was now.

“Very well, Rossi!
Andiamo!
”

The Italian hissed an order to the men at the wheel and involuntarily walked closer to them, at the same time glancing frequently at the French frigate.