Ramage & the Rebels (21 page)

No, he simply would not take the responsibility. Duroc was the Captain; he should be on board now. He would—ah! Suddenly, with a spasm of irritation that he had not thought of it before, Bazin saw what Duroc obviously expected him to do: pass within hail of the
Calypso.
Then Duroc would shout across instructions. After all, Duroc would not want to risk damage to his own ship.

Meantime, he didn't want those damned guns run out with all those port lids triced up so that even the slightest touch of ship against ship would tear off lids and wrench guns from their carriages. The
Calypso,
he noted, did not have her guns run out.

He shouted orders to the Second Lieutenant, who was leaning on the quarterdeck rail as though expecting the ladies of the town to parade across the deck in front of him. Soon he could hear the rumble of the guns being run in, then the crash as port lid after port lid was allowed to slam shut, leaving the side as smooth as the walls of a house with the windows shut. Ah, he felt better now; he knew that Duroc would not have let him down like that. He looked round for the speaking-trumpet: he might need to reverse it and use it as an ear-trumpet. Duroc did not speak very clearly, even when sober, and he had been on board the
Calypso
for a good half an hour by now, so …

Ramage looked astern at the approaching frigate. Masts still in line, her jib-boom and bowsprit sticking up at an angle directly towards him like a hussar's lance. If you didn't know, you'd think she was going to ram the
Calypso!
Was she? The thought suddenly struck him that perhaps she had discovered that the
Calypso
was a British frigate and, not trusting to her guns, was trying to disable her. Had he made some silly mistake in the signals (in the challenge, perhaps) that had given him away?

Then Southwick ambled up and stood beside him, patting his ample stomach as though he'd just finished a good dinner. “So he's unsure of himself, eh?” the Master commented. “That Frog is going to range alongside and ask for instructions on how to pick up the tow.”

Ramage nodded, hard put to stop himself slapping Southwick on the back from sheer relief. “That must be it. He's just run his guns in and closed the ports—must be worried in case he comes too close and rips them off.”

Southwick glanced at him, uncertain whether the remark about ripping off gun ports was serious or not. “We've enough way on to be able to give ourselves a bit of a sheer one way or the other to dodge him.”

“A bit of a sheer.” Ramage repeated Southwick's phrase to himself and looked across the narrow stretch of sea between the
Calypso
and the reef. Half a mile? Already the dark blue had gone from the water; now it was much lighter, lacking the near-purple which showed extreme depth. Then, quite abruptly, the water became light green and then brown as it reached the reef. Or, rather, the brown tops of the staghorn coral showed near the surface. And then, beyond the reef, a band of very light green showed the shallow water (a fathom or two) running up to the beach, with an occasional splash of white where a wave had enough strength to break.

Take a bit of sheer, a bit of panic, and a bit of a chance, too! He called Orsini and snatched the signal book from him. Feverishly he flicked through the pages. And there it was, a single flag. “Hoist number eight!” Ramage snapped. It might be too late, but its very lateness might be a help.

“Number eight, sir—
'To turn to larboard.'
”

Ramage caught Southwick's eye and smiled: he knew exactly what was passing through the Master's mind: young Paolo seems to have memorized the whole French signal book, but he can never remember for more than a day the simplest mathematical formula.

An intermittent mouse-like squeaking high overhead showed a halyard was spinning the sheave of a block, and Ramage deliberately continued looking astern, defying himself to glance up at the flag. The squeaking stopped; the flag must be hoisted now. And
La Perle
was perhaps three lengths astern, a little over a hundred yards. If it worked it was going to be a close-run affair.

He said to Southwick: “Give her a sheer to larboard of one point.”

The Master turned and shouted to the quartermaster.

To Aitken, waiting by the binnacle, Ramage called: “Warn the men below to stand by!”

He could see a Frenchman perched out on the end of
La Perle
's jib-boom gesticulating aft and pointing at the
Calypso,
as though drawing his quarterdeck's attention to the signal.

Now
La Perle
appeared to be sliding to Ramage's left as, below him, he could hear the rudder grinding a little as pintles rubbed against gudgeons. The
Calypso
's “bit of a sheer” to larboard was beginning, swinging the ship's bow to larboard a few degrees and moving her bodily towards the reef, narrowing the gap, like a drunken man walking along a road and curving slightly towards a wall.

Ramage turned forward towards Aitken. “Are those men with axes standing by on the foredeck?”

“Yes, sir.”

It would take them at least two minutes to chop through the towing cable. Looking over the
Calypso
's bow he could see the sheer had taken her well out on
La Creole
's larboard quarter. Let's hope Lacey has the wit to bear away, otherwise the
Calypso
's weight will haul his stern round (like someone hanging on to a dog's tail) and get the schooner in stays.

By the time Ramage looked aft again
La Perle
's topsails were fluttering slightly—the
Calypso
's sudden movement had, not surprisingly, caught the French First Lieutenant unawares, and now he was trying to luff up to obey the order to turn to larboard.

Lieutenant Bazin had been watching the transom of the
Calypso
grow larger as they approached. Her sternlights seemed occasionally to wink as the rippling surface of the sea reflected the sun from the glass. With the telescope he could see that the old nameboard had been replaced with a new one: the paint and gilt making up the name
Calypso
was much fresher than the rest of the design on the scroll.

There were very few people on board the
Calypso—
two or three officers on the quarterdeck (Duroc presumably among them), and a dozen or so men along the gangways. Ah, and a few seamen waiting on the fo'c's'le. So he could reckon on some help from the
Calypso
with that damned cable.

By approaching in the
Calypso
's wake, Bazin wanted to be absolutely sure that Captain Duroc realized what he was doing. He was sure it was what the Captain would want—Duroc was always interfering, never considering anyone could do anything properly without detailed instructions and constant overseeing. So by steering straight for the
Calypso
's stern and then bearing away to starboard at the last moment, ranging to windward close along her starboard side, he could listen to Duroc's shouts. Probably Duroc's drunken ravings in fact, because he couldn't imagine Duroc still sober and letting pass such an opportunity to show a senior officer how clever he was and how stupid everyone else. He had to admit he hated Duroc.

The
Calypso
is a handsome ship: one can tell by that graceful sheer that she is designed by a Frenchman because the British can never achieve that elegance. But what is wrong with her that she has to be towed? It can only be damage to the rudder because her masts, yards, bowsprit and jib-boom are all right. She is not leaking—there are no spurts of water streaming over the side, showing her pumps at work. And, oddly enough, no battle damage. At least, none that can be seen from astern. No shotholes in the hull, no fished yards. Not even a pane missing from the sternlights. Can that schooner towing her have actually captured her? It seems unlikely; there is some other explanation. Most likely another ship captured her and ordered the schooner to tow her to port. Yes, that is what happened!

He swore at the two men at the wheel as
La Perle
yawed in a momentary wind shift. They were nicely lined up now; he could even see the smooth trail, a path across the sea, which was the
Calypso
's wake. Another half a dozen ships' lengths or so, and he'd begin the turn to starboard which would let him pass alongside. Already the
Calypso
was being hidden by
La Perle
's bow; he'd have to perch on the breech of a gun and peer over the bulwark, or rely on seeing her masts.

Actually it isn't as difficult as one might think, commanding a frigate. Duroc makes a great performance of it, cursing everyone, clutching his brow, stamping a foot, shaking his fist, spitting to show his contempt, but it is only necessary to keep calm. Keep calm and make sure orders are obeyed promptly. One needs a dozen eyes, of course, but Duroc makes hard work of it by all the drama.

What is that fluttering in line with the
Calypso
's mizen? He lifted his telescope.
Merde!
Another signal, and at this stage! Number eight. Hurriedly he mentally skimmed the first page of the signal book.

“Deck there!”

Now a blasted lookout aloft is hailing.

“Deck here!”

“Foremast here—she's hoisted a signal!”

“I know. Keep a sharp lookout.” He looked round and spotted the Second Lieutenant. “Where's the signal book,
crétin?
”

When the Lieutenant handed it to him he snatched it and began flicking through the pages.

“It's number eight,” the Second Lieutenant said.

“I know that!” Bazin snarled.

“It means to turn to larboard.”

“Why the devil didn't you say so, then, instead of giving me the book?”

“You asked me for it. The book.”

Now there was shouting from the bow.

“What goes on there?” Bazin shouted back.

“The frigate's hoisted a signal!”

“I know. Just keep a sharp lookout.”

“We'll ram her in a minute,” the Second Lieutenant said lugubriously. “Captain Duroc will have you court-martialled.”

“And I'll tell him how you fooled around with the signal book,” Bazin said hotly, and then looked ahead again.

The
Calypso
was no longer ahead: suddenly she was way over to larboard.

“Crétins!”
Bazin screamed at the men at the wheel. “What are you doing? Who told you to turn to starboard?”

“We didn't. The
Calypso
suddenly turned to larboard.”

And Bazin saw she had: the schooner was still some way to starboard, but the
Calypso
was so far over to larboard it was now doubtful if he could get
La Perle
to point high enough to pass her to larboard.

Snatching up the speaking-trumpet that he had been expecting to use as an ear-trumpet, he began bellowing orders to get the yards braced sharp-up, and a moment later gave more orders to the men at the wheel.

The
Calypso
seemed glued on
La Perle
's larboard bow; then slowly, almost reluctantly, she began to move slightly to starboard. Or, Bazin corrected himself, she appears to, although of course it is
La Perle
turning to larboard at last. But now the wind is increasing—that helps her up to windward but it is also increasing her speed, and she is approaching the
Calypso
's larboard quarter crabwise.

Then Bazin glanced up and saw the luffs of the sails fluttering, beginning to be starved of wind.

“Bear away, you fools!” he bawled at the men at the wheel, but even before they could haul down on the spokes he realized that bearing away, turning to starboard, would inevitably bring
La Perle
's starboard bow crashing into the
Calypso
's larboard quarter.

“No, no! Luff up, luff up!”

“Merde!”
screamed one of the men, stepping back from the wheel, “make up your mind—sir!”

Bazin saw that the name
Calypso
was painted in blue on a gilt background, and edged with red. The colours were bright. The studding-sail boom irons on the outer ends of the
Calypso
's yards were newly painted in black, in contrast to
La Perle
's, which were stained with rust.

This is a funny time for the
Calypso
to be hauling down the Tricolour. They have the Tricolour on one halyard and the British flag on another, so they can haul down one independently of the other. Perhaps the halyard has chafed through. Anyway, there is only a British flag now. And it is going to be a dreadful collision.

Southwick gave yet another of his prodigious sniffs, a sniff that contained a lifetime's contempt as well as a lungful of air. “That Frog Lieutenant couldn't be trusted with a bumboat full of whores,” he said crossly. “Just look at those luffs fluttering. Ah—now he's having the yards braced up, but that isn't going to help him. And—the fool, he's paying off so much he's making more leeway than headway!”

La Perle
was now coming crabwise down on to the
Calypso
's quarter. Two ships' lengths, Ramage reckoned.

“General quarters,” he snapped at Aitken. “Guns run out, boarding party to stand by.”

The flapping of flags overhead reminded him. “Orsini! Get that Tricolour down! Leave our own colours flying.”

“She'll stave in our larboard quarter, spring a dozen planks and carry away the mizen,” Southwick said matter of factly, drawing the great sword he had been wearing slung round his waist. “But if she damages us too much we can all shift on board her …”

Seamen were streaming up from below. Some were tricing up the gun ports while others ran out the guns. Men grabbed boarding-pikes from the racks round the masts, others took up pistols from wherever they had stowed them. Marines scrambled on to the hammocks stowed in nettings round the quarterdeck, muskets loaded and waiting for orders from Lieutenant Rennick who suddenly appeared on the quarterdeck and posted himself near Ramage, ready for instructions.