Ramage's Signal (4 page)

“Then how are—”

“Give me your slate,” Ramage said, reaching up for a chart, which he unrolled and held flat with his stone weights. “Now, gather round, all of you.”

He put his finger on a section of the coast. “You see this large bay, a perfect half moon, sheltered from all winds between southeast and south-west by way of north. It deserves to be better known. Now, here inside the eastern end and a mile or so inland is the village of Foix. Out on the end of the point is the semaphore tower and the little barracks.

“Now, look at the western side of the bay. No villages until you get to Aspet, twelve miles round the coast but only eight as the crow flies across the water from the semaphore tower at Foix. And what do you notice about Aspet, Mr Martin?”

“It's almost at the end of the headland at the other end of the bay, sir.”

“And, Mr Orsini?”

“That's where the next semaphore tower will be, sir.”

“I hope so,” Ramage said. “We'll soon see. And once we sight the tower at Aspet, we'll alter course for Minorca.”

Martin was just about to exclaim “Minorca!” when he noticed that Aitken was using the dividers to measure the distances from Aspet back to Foix. Quite what that had to do with Minorca, Martin could not understand, but he had the wit to realize that one could also phrase the question another way—what had Minorca to do with Aspet and Foix? Then he realized that the distant island was a likely destination for a French frigate; no coastal lookout would be at all surprised to see the
Calypso
bearing away in that direction.

Deciding that he would not speak unless in answer to a question—that was the safest way of not making a fool of himself—Martin watched the Captain, who was now looking at the drawing on the slate which Aitken had put down on one side of the desk.

It was curious how his Lordship (Martin still worried about referring to him as the Captain, which he was, or his Lordship, which he was also, even though everyone said he did not use his title) looked at the slate and then the chart, then at Rennick and then back to the chart, without moving his head. His face was deeply suntanned and lean, his cheekbones high and his nose hooked, but the eyes were what attracted attention: they were brown and deep set, almost hooded, so that as he stood looking down at the chart Martin was put in mind of a hawk he had once watched closely as it sat on a bough: it did not move its head but the eyes missed nothing.

Yet, Martin realized with a shock, the Captain was only six years older than himself: until the birthday a couple of weeks ago he had assumed Mr Ramage was—well, approaching forty, and was startled to discover he was not yet thirty. He did not look forty, or even thirty; it was simply that to have crammed so much action into so few years meant that Captain Ramage was still alive only because of a series of miracles. The hair had just grown back on that tiny bare patch on his head where he had been wounded in the West Indies—taking a Dutch island, Curaçao wasn't it?—although the left arm obviously still gave him trouble: he sometimes held it awkwardly, as though the elbow was stiff with rheumatism.

He saw Ramage point to some soundings marked on the chart, and Aitken wrote them in on the slate. The bay in fact was quite shallow: six and seven fathoms in the centre, but a gradual shoaling up to the beach probably indicated that the sand went well out. The wind was north-east, so it would be calm enough in there.

Martin nodded with the rest of them when Ramage asked casually: “You all have the details in your memories?”

Then Ramage said: “Before I roll this chart up and put it away, can you remember enough to take in a boat tonight, with no moon, and land it fifty yards to the west of the tower, on the bay side of the headland?”

Several sheepish “Well sirs …” had Ramage sitting down in his chair again and twisting the chart round for them all, grouped in the front of the desk, to study it more easily.

“Take as long as you need,” Ramage said. “If anyone wants to make notes or copy anything, here is pen and paper.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of ink, pen and a pad.

As he looked at the group, Ramage suddenly had an idea which seemed so absurd that for a moment he thought he was just daydreaming. Then he thought about it again with deliberate concentration. It still seemed absurd, but a faint possibility of it working emerged like a drowning man waving a hand. He drove it out of his mind for a full minute, then let it back and considered it for a third time. Even limited success would need a great deal of luck, but there was one important factor in its favour—complete failure neither endangered the
Calypso
nor her disguise, nor killed a lot of men. That was a rare situation; probably sufficient to justify an attempt.

Well, even his first plan, which he was about to describe to these men, had an air of absurdity about it. The second—really only the second part of the first—he would keep to himself for the time being. A few hours spent mulling it over would either improve it or reveal some drawback, when he would quietly forget the whole thing.

Aitken was now back in his chair; Kenton folded a sheet of paper on which he had made notes, carefully wiped the tip of the quill and put the cap back on the inkwell; Rennick read through some notes and Martin crouched down on one knee to look at both chart and diagram for a sea-level view, or rather to see the view he would get from the thwart of a boat. Paolo stared for a few more moments, as though lost in thought, and then sat down.

Ramage looked round at the five of them and said casually: “There's likely to be a garrison of twenty-five to thirty men at Foix. Probably the same at all the signal stations, so there's no advantage in attacking another one in preference to this. In fact this one has several advantages, hasn't it, Rennick?”

“Yes, sir. Sandy beach, so the boats can land without making a lot of noise.” He was grateful to the Captain for that casual mention because Aitken looked surprised—obviously, the Marine considered, the First Lieutenant had not thought of it. “It's conveniently placed so we could draw a detailed plan of the position of the buildings and be fairly sure what they're used for. We can see they have no great guns, so there'll be only a normal guard with muskets. It is too far from the village for any general alarm to be raised, and the only road in is likely to be on the landward side of the camp, so the sentry will be there.”

Ramage nodded. Rennick had given the soldier's point of view; a sailor would add that a frigate could come into the bay towing her boats and anchor, reducing the distance the landing party would have to be rowed. And since they had no idea of the absurd second half of his plan—in the last few minutes he had decided to attempt it—they could not appreciate the greatest advantage of all.

“Very well, we'll say a garrison of thirty. It hardly matters but I am assuming they have six signalmen working two watches during daylight, so they'll be off watch and asleep when we arrive. Cook, carpenter's mate, various petty officers and a commanding officer—he'll probably be a retired or disabled naval lieutenant—and the rest of the garrison supplying sentries.”

He picked up the quill and scribbled on the pad. “Our two cutters carry sixteen men each for cutting out, so your Marines, Rennick, can be split between those two boats. We'll row six men in each, Mr Aitken, so we have a dozen seamen available once the cutters are beached.”

“Commanding the cutters, sir?” Aitken asked.

“Kenton can take one, Martin the other.” He saw Paolo's face fall. And Aitken, too, was nodding in the businesslike manner which Ramage recognized as his way of hiding disappointment.

“You will command the
Calypso,
Mr Aitken, and you must be ready to deal with thirty or so French prisoners. I will take my gig, rowing eight oars, with a cutting-out party of sixteen seamen, in case Rennick needs a hand. Not with the attack,” he added tactfully, “but in getting the prisoners into the boats. Mr Orsini can command the gig.”

He added up two columns of figures. “Yes, that gives us nearly fifty Marines and seamen available, without using boats' crews—I hope they're going to be busy rowing back and forth with prisoners.”

He glanced across at Martin. “Well, you were the last to pass his examination for lieutenant, so you'll remember what gear a boat needs when sent on ‘distant service' …”

It was obvious Martin could not remember and thought he was going to be asked. “A compass, sir … water … yes, and provisions …”

“Mr Martin,” Ramage said sternly, “you wouldn't reach the horizon. What about your spyglass, quadrant, book of tables, lead-line, grapnel, spare oars and tiller? A lanthorn and candles, tinder box, keg of water, scuttle for bread? An arms chest, flints, watch? You'll stay behind now and write out a complete list.

“However, I wasn't going to ask you about ‘distant service,' so I hope you've learned the lesson of never answering a question unless it is asked. You, Kenton, what do we need for tonight's expedition?”

“The Marines and boarding party will have their arms,” Kenton said briskly, “so each boat needs a grapnel and line, lead-line, compass, muffling for the oars, at least one axe and a maul, spare tiller, night-glass, handcuffs for prisoners … cutlasses and arms chest or skip of pistols for the oarsmen… blue lights or whatever you decide for signalling …”

“Very good,” Ramage said. “We won't use blue lights or rockets, though, because the wrong eyes might see them, and lanterns must be kept shielded.” He pulled his chair round so that he was facing the men directly. “Now, listen carefully. This is what we are going to do.”

“Sir, excuse me,” Aitken interrupted with the sudden anxiety of a man afraid of forgetting something in the forthcoming bustle if he does not mention it at once. “Fever ports. Will we have any quarantine problems in Gibraltar after landing here?”

Ramage thought hard and then took out his letter book from a drawer in the desk. He sorted through several until he found one from the port admiral in Gibraltar, informing Captain Ramage, newly arrived in the
Calypso
from the West Indies, that the following were fever ports, and ships from them were not to be boarded without risk of the
Calypso
having to serve quarantine. Ramage read through the list, which included almost all along the North African coast which had the plague or yellow fever, and several in Spain. “Cadiz, Málaga, Alicante, Cartagena … they are the only ones likely to concern us if we take prizes. Toulon is clear, otherwise Wagstaffe would find himself in trouble when he arrives at Gibraltar with our frigate prize, because she sailed from Toulon. Anyway, this stretch of the coast is clear.”

He put the letter book back in the drawer and nodded at Aitken. “Thank you for reminding me. We should look silly swinging at the quarantine buoy in Algeciras Bay and just looking at Gibraltar … Now, I want the boats prepared like this …”

B
Y SUNSET the coastline to the north was a thin, purple band with several gold-tipped peaks to the west, flat land to the north-east—the Camargue and the marshy mouth of the Rhône—and the Alps of Provence to the east, as if balancing the Languedoc peaks at the other end of a seesaw.

Ramage watched Southwick examine the mountains of Languedoc with his telescope and then pick up his quadrant, holding it horizontal to measure the angles between three of them and noting down the figures.

He looked at the chart as the Master put the quadrant away in its baize-lined mahogany box and guessed he must be using Mount Caroux, a second peak just east of Montpellier which was not named, and another anonymous one (as far as the chart was concerned) north-west of Minerve.

“Just where we wanted to be, sir,” Southwick reported.

“Not so far from Roquefort sur Soulzon,” Ramage commented.

“Is that so, sir?”

“The cheese, you know.”

“I'm sure you're right, sir,” Southwick said cautiously.

“You don't know what the devil I'm talking about,” Ramage said, laughing. “Double Gloucester—now, you'd recognize that!”

“Oh, you mean a cheese for eating? A French one. This—what was it you said, Rockyfour—it comes from near here?”

“Yes, from a place up in those mountains you were looking at. Made from ewe's milk and left in caves to age.”

“Ewe's milk, sir?” Southwick repeated suspiciously. He thought about it for a few moments. “I don't think I'd fancy sheep's milk cheese.”

“You ought to try the Italian
goat's
milk cheese—so strong that it lifts the top off your head. That's why so many Italian men are bald and have to wear hats.”

Southwick instinctively removed his hat and ran his fingers through his mop of white hair. “Is that so, sir? Why do they eat it, then?”

“No, I'm only joking, but it's strong stuff.”

At that moment a screeching from forward revealed that the big grindstone had been brought up from below and Marines and seamen were starting to—in their words—”put a sharp” on cutlass, bayonet and tomahawk blades, and the triangular points of boarding-pikes.

A lanky, sandy-haired seaman came up to Ramage and saluted. “Permission to collect your sword from your cabin and sharpen it, sir, and load your pistols.”

Ramage felt guilty about both sword and pistols: they had been given to him by Gianna. The sword was a splendid example of the work of one of the best sword cutlers in London, Mr Prater at Charing Cross, and the pistols were a fine, matched pair which she had bought him from Mansfield, in Bond Street, when he was made post. But in fact he preferred to use a seaman's cutlass and have a pair of heavy Sea Service pistols hanging at his waist by their belt-hooks. Sword blades could shatter; a pistol once fired was often flung at the enemy's head as a last resort. He might hesitate for a second if he used Gianna's gifts—and a second could make all the difference between life and death. But the landing? This was a time when he could use them, and he realized that Jackson thought the same. The American seaman had been with him several years and had an uncanny knack of reading his Captain's thoughts—uncanny because sometimes he seemed to anticipate what the Captain would decide before Ramage had even considered the point.