Ramage & the Rebels (6 page)

“Aye aye, sir. With this light wind it's going to be a long 330 miles.”

Ramage pointed at
La Créole
astern, her great fore and aft sails hardened in, spray flying up from her stem, the ship rising and falling on the swell waves with the easy grace of the flying fish which every now and then flashed up to skim the surface. “Once she gets the wind on the beam you'll be hard put to hold her: she reaches like a bird, and these conditions suit her.”

“I know,” Southwick said ruefully, “that's why I had the men overhauling the stunsails yesterday. We'll look silly if she has to reduce sail for us to catch up.”

“If I was young Lacey I'd be making my plans,” Ramage said. “I'd have my best quartermaster chosen, staysails overhauled, largest flying jib bent on ready—and then I'd wait for the
Calypso
's signal to alter course south, and I had pass her before Captain Ramage had time to get another signal hoisted!”

Southwick was chuckling and rubbing his hands together. “Reminds me of the time we were in the
Kathleen
cutter, sir. Pity we never had a schooner; then we'd know some o' the tricks.”

“If you haven't learned enough tricks in—what is it, forty years?—to beat young Lacey, who has been at sea perhaps eight years, and in command of the
Créole
for less than eight weeks, it's time you went back to England and cultivated cabbages. Forty rows of eight cabbages each.”

“She's French-built, sir,” Southwick pointed out.

“So is this ship,” Ramage teased.

“Let's have a trial of sailing to windward in a blow, or running with the wind free. That'd show the whippersnapper. But reaching—that's what schooners are built for.”

“The trouble is the course is south, so the ‘whippersnapper' will probably show us,” Ramage said. “And most of the privateers we chase will be schooners, too.” He looked towards the land again. Saona and Punta Espada were almost in line as the
Calypso
sailed along to the north-east, close-hauled on the starboard tack, as though struggling to stay up to windward and sail through the Mona Passage and into the Atlantic beyond.

“We'll cheat a bit,” Ramage said. “Seniority must have its privileges. We'll go about now. That's an hour earlier than Lacey expects.”

Southwick gave an off-key sniff; one which neither acknowledged that he would have an advantage nor admitted that he needed it.

Ramage called to Wagstaffe, who was officer of the deck, and gave him his orders. A few moments later Orsini, the young midshipman, was busy with a seaman, bending signal flags to a halyard.

Southwick led the way to the binnacle and stared down at the compass card. “We're heading nor'-nor'-east on this tack.” He looked up at the luff of the main course and then at the dog-vane. “The wind's due east, so steering south we'll have the wind on the beam. If it'd pipe up a bit …”

By now Wagstaffe, speaking-trumpet in his hand, was giving the first of the orders which would turn the frigate and bring the wind from the starboard side to the larboard. The men stitching and cutting or just lazing, enjoying their “make and mend,” moved themselves out of the way of the men on watch who, in a few moments, would be hauling on tacks and sheets and braces as the great yards swung over.

The men at the wheel, one each side, watched the quartermaster who was standing to windward of them, alternately eyeing Wagstaffe and the luffs of the sails.

Ramage savoured the moment. Tacking a well-designed frigate was a joy if properly done, the ship swinging (in this case) through fourteen points of the compass without losing way and then sailing in almost the opposite direction at the same speed. A joy to watch the men you've trained moving in apparent confusion, but every man following his own special track, as if the deck was marked out with separate but invisible paths. The sails slamming and flapping, ropes squealing as they rendered through blocks—and then suddenly came peace and quiet as the last order was given with the sails trimmed on the new tack, and the quartermaster calling out the new course being steered. And the ship settled down to the ridge-and-furrow movement like the flight of a woodpecker. Some hours of peace before the next bout of war … the fascination of sea life, he realized, was its strange variety.

Wagstaffe glanced across at Ramage who, seeing all was ready, nodded and wondered wryly as he looked astern at
La Créole
whether post captains had played similar tricks on him when he was a nervous young lieutenant commanding the
Kathleen
cutter. Small and at the time inexplicable episodes now took on meaning; sudden alterations of course, sudden and odd orders hoisted by signal flags when the wind direction meant the flags streamed out end-on and indistinguishable—yes, other post captains had done it. Now, years later, he could admit they were quite right, too: it had kept him on his toes. Even today, when he could rely on his men and had no need personally to watch a horizon for a strange sail or keep an eye on a flagship in anticipation of a hoist of signal flags suddenly appearing, it was rare for anyone on deck to spot them before him. Lookouts up at the masthead would sight a distant ship first because their height of eye gave them a longer range, but …

His thoughts were interrupted as Wagstaffe snapped orders at the quartermaster, and the men began to spin the wheel. Tacking or wearing off a coastline always gave this curious effect that the ship was still heading in the same direction and it was the land that was sliding one way or the other. Now the whole coastline of Hispaniola seemed to be sliding to the west, as though someone was pulling a rumpled green baize cloth across a table.

He still found it hard to leave an evolution entirely to the officer of the deck. He had enough self-control to keep his mouth shut, and thus give the impression of not interfering; of treating the whole evolution with lofty disdain, as though merely tacking the ship was beneath the interest of the captain, apart from giving the initial order. Yes, he managed to keep his mouth shut, but sometimes it was difficult—like now, when the wind is out of the after sails and Wagstaffe is going to be several seconds late in ordering: “Raise tacks and sheets!”

Then he saw that as Wagstaffe put the speaking-trumpet to his mouth and bellowed the order the lieutenant's eyes were in fact on Southwick, who was glaring at him. Southwick knew it was late and now Wagstaffe knew, so why, Ramage asked himself, don't I just admire the view?

The canvas of the sails was flogging with a noise like great wet slaps. Wagstaffe was bellowing: “Mainsail haul!”—and what the devil were Jackson and his crowd doing? They had suddenly begun pointing upwards after making sure he could see them.

Up aloft the lookouts at the foremast and mainmast were gesticulating wildly, their hails lost in the slamming of yards and flapping of sails. Quickly Ramage ran to the larboard side as the
Calypso
's bow swung. Is that a fleck on the horizon? Perhaps two? Specks that are the sun making light and shadow of the sails of one or more distant ships? He could not be sure.

Finally Wagstaffe gave the last order: “Haul off all!” and with the quartermaster watching the compass and the luff of the mainsail and cursing the men at the wheel, Ramage heard the excited hails from aloft: “Deck there!”

For a moment he nearly cupped his hands to reply, but Wagstaffe had the speaking-trumpet and shouted aloft.

“Mainmasthead,” came the faint shout. “One sail, probably two, fine on the larboard bow, sir!”

Wagstaffe glanced round and saw Orsini, who was waiting for the order to hoist
La Créole
's signal. “Quick, boy, take the bring-'em-near and get aloft. What ships and what courses are they steering!”

The young midshipman snatched the proffered telescope and raced to the main shrouds. Wagstaffe looked at Ramage, obviously worried about the signal, still bent on the halyard, a heap of coloured cloth, but a glance told Ramage that Lacey was already tacking
La Créole
without orders: he had probably seen the flags being bent on and saw Orsini suddenly scrambling aloft, and there was now only one order that mattered.

“Beat to quarters, Mr Wagstaffe.”

Already the deck was clearing of men: they had heard the lookouts' hail and were snatching up their pieces of cloth and rousing their sleeping mates and making their way to their quarters for action. The gunner was running up from below to ask for the key to the magazine and Bowen, the Surgeon, who had apparently been dozing on the fo'c's'le, was hurrying below to set out his instruments.

Ramage looked out over the larboard bow, balancing himself on the breech of the aftermost twelve-pounder gun. It took a few moments to spot the fleck again. Flecks, rather, because there were definitely two ships, though they'd seemed closer together when first he saw them.

And whatever they were, it was important to keep up to windward.

“Mr Wagstaffe, steer hard on the wind; man the lee braces and tend the weather ones … get those fore-tacks close down … Let's have those yards braced sharp up!”

Ramage stopped himself: there were plenty more instructions for getting the
Calypso
steering as fast and as close to the wind as possible, to cut off the distant ships' escape if they were enemy, but Wagstaffe knew them all, and any moment Aitken would be on deck.

Ah, there was the Marine drummer striding up and down, whirling his drumsticks with a flourish that sent men to quarters, and already several had anticipated the order and were rigging head pumps and running up on deck with buckets of sand while others were casting loose the guns.

“Mr Wagstaffe, make to the
Créole
‘Sail in sight' and give the bearing.”

Southwick gestured astern, and Ramage saw
La Créole
was already hauling her wind to get into the
Calypso
's wake, and at that moment three hoists of signal flags broke out.

“Never trust young lieutenants with the signal book,” Southwick muttered, “and Lacey must have seen Orsini going aloft!”

Wagstaffe had his telescope to his eye and began reading off the signals. “350—
I have discovered a strange fleet
… 366—
The strange ships lye-by,
and 315—
The ship is ready for action.
”

“Acknowledge,” Ramage said, and winked at Southwick. “He trumped our ace, don't you think?”

Southwick grinned ruefully. “It's the way you've trained him, sir. He's picked up some of your habits. A rod for your own back!”

By now the lookout at the mainmasthead was hailing again, passing on Orsini's reports. “Deck there … two ships, sir, both lying-to. One—the nearest, Mr Orsini says—is a merchant ship. The other is smaller … fore- and aft-rigged … much less free-board, big sweep to her sheer …”

Wagstaffe acknowledged, but a few moments later the lookout was hailing again. “Deck there … the smaller ship's a schooner and she's getting under way. The merchant ship's backing and filling as though there's no one at the helm, so Mr Orsini says, sir.”

From the moment the lookout had shouted down “… both lying-to …” Ramage had known what was going to follow, and he turned to Aitken, who had just hurried up, buckling on his sword, and told him: “Fine on the larboard bow, a privateer schooner has caught a merchant ship. She sighted us just as we saw her, and now she's getting under way.”

The masthead lookout hailed again: “Deck there! Schooner's steering a couple of points to starboard of our course, sir, but the merchant ship's swung so everything's aback.”

Ramage saw Baker and Kenton hurry up to the quarterdeck and report to Aitken, who came up and said formally: “The ship's company at quarters, sir: do you want the guns loaded and run out?”

“Not for the time being.”

And here was Jackson with his sword and a pistol. Ramage turned while Jackson clipped on the slings of the scabbard, and then took the pistol and clipped it into his waistbelt.

Now Southwick was reporting the wind freshening, and yet another glance showed
La Créole
was in the same position in the frigate's wake, heeling more now. There was no chance, Ramage realized bitterly, of her overhauling that privateer schooner out ahead of them. It would be dark in six hours, and the old saying that “a stern chase is a long chase” was very true. And he was not going to risk splitting his tiny force at this stage.

Yet such was the contradictory nature of men, if he had told them that they would soon be going into action, with the inevitable corollary that some of them would be killed and others would be badly wounded and maimed for life, so that Bowen would have to saw off limbs with the patients biting a piece of wood and befuddled with rum to help them bear the pain, they would have cheered him. Instead he would soon be telling them that unless something entirely unforeseen happened, there would be no action today, and they would groan with genuine disappointment.

“Deck there! The schooner has tacked up to the nor'-east, sir.”

And in half an hour, Ramage thought bitterly, she'll tack again, gradually working herself well up to windward, knowing no square-rigged ship like a frigate could get near her and sure that no schooner so far to leeward would ever catch her up. By nightfall she'll be out of sight, and the
Calypso
's log will note that she was “last seen in the south-east quadrant.”

By now, as the
Calypso
worked her way to windward, occasional spray flying over the fo'c's'le like a heavy shower of rain, the merchant ship's hull was beginning to lift over the curvature of the earth, the line of her deck just now visible in the telescope but the rest of her hull still below the horizon. Ramage saw that she was heading eastward, all her sails aback; and even as he watched she began to pay off and swing round, the wind pressing on backed jibs.