Ramage & the Rebels (17 page)

Such a glare on deck, and with a French frigate coming over the horizon they won't be stretching the awning, so the sun will be scorching, and where is Uncle Nicholas?

Paolo saw him standing at the taffrail watching
La Créole
working her way round to windward of the
Calypso,
which seemed curiously dead in the water. Dead in the water!
Accidente,
the fore-topsail is backed and she's hove-to! What are they doing?

“The French signal book, sir.”

“Thank you, Orsini. Stand by me in case there are more errands.”

This was how Aunt Gianna said it would be. An hour at sea with Uncle Nicholas comprised forty minutes of waiting, nineteen minutes of wondering, and one minute of sheer excitement. Well, now he was fourteen years old he could make allowances for the way a woman saw things, but he could understand what she meant. Uncle Nicholas (the Captain, he corrected himself, because he wasn't really an uncle, yet anyway, and good discipline meant that the relationship was never referred to) was rather like a cat. He sat patiently for hours outside the mouse hole, but once the mouse came out it was all over in a moment. The trouble was, of course, that the prey was rarely a mouse; usually it was something like a leopard, not that he'd ever seen a leopard, except in those paintings on the walls of Etruscan tombs. All spotted. And,
accidente,
what breasts those Etruscan women had, too, and lately he seemed to be thinking more and more about women's breasts. Men did, he knew.

Anyway, Aunt Gianna had said the Captain would show him no favour; that this was the English system, and he'd probably be harder on Paolo than on anyone else, but it was all part of the training. Well, if that was the case then Midshipman Orsini would be the best trained in the Navy and would pass for lieutenant the first time he took the examination, and the examiners at the Navy Board would be amazed … except, if Mr Southwick was to be believed, for his mathematics and navigation. This spherical trigonometry—
Mama mia!
Galileo, Archimedes, Pythagoras, Copernicus, Leonardo—they were all Italians (or were some of them Greek? Leonardo was Italian, anyway, because he had visited the village of Vinci, where he had been born), and if they could do it, well, Paolo Orsini should be able to. But could Leonardo?

“Orsini!” “Sir!”

“That signal from
La Créole!
”

“Yes, sir, I … er …” Where the devil was the ordinary signal book? And the telescope?
Accidente,
that
stronzo
Leonardo, and Vinci was not in Tuscany anyway; it was though, just north of Empoli, but it wasn't in the Kingdom of Volterra, so he didn't really count.

“It's all right, Orsini; it's a special signal. But you'd gone to sleep.”

“No, sir, I—”

He saw Aunt Gianna's face and heard her words: “And, Paolo, you'll be blamed for things you didn't do and it'll seem unjust, but
never
make excuses.”

She really did understand the Navy—of course, she had made two or three passages in the King's ships. Or, he suddenly realized, perhaps she understood Uncle Nicholas—the Captain, rather. She knew his moods, because he could be very moody, and his sense of humour, which was dry. Very dry, at times; like this island. Did she know how thoughtful he was, though? How he was always concerned for his men, doing something for them, and no one—except perhaps Mr Southwick or Mr Aitken, or perhaps Jackson—ever knew? Several times in places like English Harbour and Port Royal, bumboats had come alongside and put many sacks of fresh fruit and vegetables on board for the men, and most people thought it was Navy Board issue, but Jackson had told him the Captain paid for it out of his own pocket, and it was to prevent the men getting scurvy.

What is going on? The
Calypso
hove-to and now a dozen or more seamen on the foredeck under Mr Aitken and Mr Southwick. Two men passing a line outside of everything to the jib-boom end. And a seaman balancing out there—is that a heaving line he's holding, half the coil in each hand? Yes, and one end of the heaving line is being made fast to the line leading back to the foredeck. If only he could ask the Captain, but Uncle Nicholas looked
preoccupato:
he was rubbing the upper of those two scars over his right eyebrow, and Paolo remembered one of the first lessons he had ever learned from Jacko, or perhaps it was Rossi: when you see the Captain rubbing that scar, keep clear!

Accidente!
Just look at
La Créole
now! They've eased the sheets and are just—what is the word, just “jilling”—across our bow! They'll collide, rip out our jib-boom, spring the bowsprit, tear away the forestay and bring the foremast down—why doesn't someone do—but the Captain is just standing there watching. Rubbing the scar, but not bellowing orders. In fact, Paolo realized, no one was speaking a word: whatever was happening was planned.

With
La Créole
sailing slowly at an angle across the
Calypso
's bow, the man holding the heaving line on the jib-boom end was balancing himself as the whole bow gently rose and fell on the swell waves. Now he's twirling the coil in his right hand and the men who had passed the heavier line from the foredeck to the jib-boom end are holding it out clear, as though to prevent it snagging on anything. But why should it snag?

That schooner! There's Mr Lacey standing beside the men at the wheel. He's just standing there like a statue. One of the men heaves down a spoke or two. The hiss of the schooner's bow wave—he could see every plank in the hull, every seam where the heat of the sun had shrunk the wood. He wanted to shut his eyes as the schooner hit the jib-boom but was even too frightened for that.

Suddenly the man on the jib-boom jerks as though shot—now the thin snake of the heaving line is darting towards the schooner's main chains. Men seize it as the schooner crosses ahead and the men along the
Calypso
's jib-boom jump back after letting go of the line, as though it was suddenly hot. The line is racing over the bow—it's secured to the cable and now that too is going over the side after the line, and they're hauling in like madmen in
La Créole!

Now the first words in the
Calypso
came from Mr Wagstaffe, clear across the open water—to brace up the fore-topsailyard, so that it draws. Now he leans over for a quick word to the quartermaster and the men at the wheel heave at the spokes. And Uncle Nicholas is just standing there, quite still except his eyes move—from
La Créole
to the
Calypso
's jib-boom, to the fore-topsail, to the wind-vane on top of the bulwark nettings, to the foredeck and that heavy cable which is smoking where it chafes on the bulwark as it goes over the side. He hasn't said a word nor made a movement.

It had all happened, Paolo realized, exactly as the Captain had intended. It had taken—well, perhaps three minutes. Three, Aunt Gianna, not one. But to what purpose? The cable was paying out slower than he expected—
La Créole
was deliberately spilling wind from her sails to move slowly; the
Calypso,
with her fore-topsail now drawing, was gathering way and Mr Wagstaffe was getting her into
La Créole
's wake. Now he could see the heaving line and the heavier line had been taken on board
La Créole
and men were hauling vigorously to get the end of the
Calypso
's heavy cable on board.

Now Mr Wagstaffe was bellowing orders to furl the topsails. And courses.
Furl,
not clew up. But the topmen are making a poor job of passing the gaskets: the sails look like so much old laundry. And Uncle Nicholas is just watching and nodding to Mr Wagstaffe, obviously approving. And the courses—bundling up the canvas, that's what the men are doing, not furling. The jibs are being dropped and just left at the bottom of the stays, as though milady was stepping out of her clothes.

What are those men doing with the ensign? No, it isn't the ensign, there's too much white. A broad expanse of white cloth. And of blue. And red, too, wide strips of plain colours with no design. Ah, now they have the blue ensign of old Foxey-Foote, and they are bending it on below this other flag. Mr Wagstaffe is pointing upwards, and they're heaving down on the halyard, and hoisting the flags.

Accidente!
The fools! They've hoisted a big French Tricolour above the British ensign! And Uncle Nicholas is looking at them as they go up, the cloth blowing out straight in the wind, and he is making some joke to Mr Wagstaffe.

A shout from Mr Aitken on the fo'c's'le and Mr Wagstaffe yells at the men at the wheel. They spin the spokes—ah, yes, the strain is about to come on the cable; all of it is off the fo'c's'le now; it leads direct from the
Calypso
's bow to
La Créole
's stern. And
La Créole
has hoisted a large French Tricolour. There's no British flag under it, though.

To anyone sailing past now, Paolo suddenly saw with almost bewildering clarity, it looked as if the French schooner
La Creole
was towing in a British prize …

Ramage flicked over the pages of the French signal book. Poor quality paper, bad printing, and very few signals, perhaps a third of the number contained in the British book, so pity French admirals trying to make their wishes known to their captains. Still, there were enough for his purposes and the sailmaker and his mates had made up enough flags, even if some of the cloth was stiff because it had been coloured with thinned paint.

It would never work. The captain of the French frigate would never fall into the trap. Instead of saving his men's lives, Ramage knew now he'd end up with half of them killed and the other half taken prisoner. He looked at the French frigate, a mile away and beating up to them fast. It was not too late to call it all off; to cut the cable, warn Lacey, let fall the
Calypso
's topsails and fight.

A few words to Aitken, who was now officer of the deck, would be enough: “Belay all this nonsense, Mr Aitken; cut the cable, let fall the topsails and we'll fight ‘em ship to ship!” That was all it needed, and the only thing that prevented him from saying it was his pride, which was working like a gag.

Yet a few days ago—yesterday, in fact—he had been sure it would work. He'd thought of the idea, spent a couple of hours trying to find faults in his plan, and had spent many hours since looking for loopholes. So why did he now think it would not work? The explanation was quite simple, of course: he was a coward, and before any action he always had these moments of quiet desperation, quiet panic, quiet fear. The quiet coward. Some men were secret gamblers, others secret drinkers. Some were wife-beaters, and others had nameless secret vices. And you, your Lordship? Oh, I'm a secret coward …

Now it was too late to change his mind; the French frigate was slicing her way up to them, spray flying from her bow, port lids triced up, guns run out, Tricolour streaming out in the freshening breeze. Her sails were patched and the wetness of her hull could not hide the lack of paint. She was being sailed well but her Captain was letting her sag off, so she'd have to tack to stay up to windward … Now she was furling her courses. Very sensible and the standard move before going into action. She should clew up her topgallants, too—ah, yes, she was doing that now, and the men were going out on the yards to furl them.

The
Calypso
must be a puzzle to that French Captain: sails bundled untidily on the yards, ports closed, a dozen or so men lounging on top of the hammock nettings, idly watching the approaching frigate just as they might look incuriously at passing bumboats in port. The large French Tricolour hoisted over the British ensign showed she had been captured. She was obviously French-built, so presumably had been a British prize. But there could be no doubt about the little schooner bravely towing her towards Amsterdam: French-built, Tricolour flying, her decks lined with men.

More important, Ramage had reckoned, the French Captain of
La Créole
would have shifted to his new capture, the
Calypso.
Apart from having considerably more comfortable quarters, it would be the obvious place for him. Now it all depended on the Captain of the approaching French frigate. Was he a flashing-eyed revolutionary or a rough sea-lawyer the Revolution had dragged up from the lower-deck and put in command? Or a former royalist who had hurriedly turned his coat in exchange for keeping his neck intact and getting promotion? By now France was getting over the shortage of trained captains caused by the Revolution's habit, in the first few months, of executing anyone that looked like an aristocrat, a bout of republican enthusiasm which had killed off France's best captains and admirals and often put in their place men who made up in political glibness what they lacked in seamanship or leadership.

Whatever the type of man commanding that frigate, Ramage knew the whole success or failure of his operation depended on him seizing (and keeping) the initiative. The enemy ship was now close enough that telescopes could distinguish flags.

“Hoist the French challenge,” he told Aitken, and warned Orsini: “Watch for the reply.”

Two seamen hurriedly hauled at the halyard on which the three flags of the French code making up the day's challenge were already bent. Ramage was thankful that the French system of challenge and reply was less complex than the British—and the page on which it was printed in tabular form and which had been slipped into the signal book was for a whole year.

He aimed his telescope at the French ship. Over there the French Captain would be puzzled all right. The Frenchman would be assuming that the schooner's Captain would be only a lieutenant and therefore his junior. He had every reason to think that he would now take command of the whole situation; that he would escort
La Créole
and her prize into Amsterdam (and no doubt find a way of claiming a hefty share of the prize-money).