Ramage's Trial (15 page)

Oh yes, an old French trick: dismantling shot to tear sails and rigging to pieces but leaving the hull and spars undamaged so that when they boarded the helpless ship they need only hoist up some spare sails and bend them on, and knot the parted standing, and splice the running rigging, and they had a ship they could use.

But what
were
the French doing? They were not racing for the convoy, nor were they tacking or wearing round to attack the
Calypso
again. What was their target? Their objective? The attack on the
Calypso
had been more like a flippant gesture than an act of war…

“You'd think they were just passing on their way to Guadeloupe!” Aitken exclaimed wrathfully, “and they didn't even bother to wave…”

“Follow in her wake,” Ramage instructed Jackson, and Aitken began giving the orders to trim the sheets and brace the yards.

Ramage found himself tapping his cupped right hand with the barrel of the telescope, which he was still holding in his left hand. His brain had apparently stopped working: the shock of what had just happened had, in its unexpectedness, numbed him.

“Well,” he asked Aitken, “we've a few minutes before we catch up with that scoundrel. Any ideas?”

“Absolutely none sir!” Aitken admitted. “Why, I was waving at her when you ordered me to back the foretopsail, and that – well, that woke me up as I watched to see how close we were to a collision. Thirty yards, I reckon. Then the broadside started.”

Ramage turned to Southwick, who shook his head as a woman might spin a mop after it had dried. “Same with me, sir. I was waving to the scoundrels when they began firing. I thought her captain was being very silly and showing off by passing so close across our bow. She looked like the
Jason
, though.”

“She was the
Jason
all right,” Ramage said. “I recognized her and remember her figurehead, and she had it carved on her transom and nicely picked out with real gold leaf…”

“So why did she open fire on us?” Southwick asked. “Must have been captured by the French. But those damned French gunners were drunk or something to have aimed so high.”

“After our sails and rigging,” Aitken said.

“Don't believe it,” Southwick exclaimed. “They were firing roundshot. The
Jason
probably doesn't have dismantling shot in her locker, since few British ships carry it, but if you're after sails and rigging you use grape or case. A keg of case or grape through a sail shreds it well enough. A roundshot – well, you can see–” he gestured aloft, “–just a hole punched through the cloth; nothing that can't be patched or stitched.”

“Very well,” Ramage said, watching the
Jason
as the
Calypso
finally turned into her wake, “all that's over. What's she going to do now?”

“Beats me,” Southwick admitted. “She's not even heading for the convoy. I'd understand her raking us in the hopes of sending one of our masts by the board, and then carrying on to attack the convoy – she's nicely placed to windward for that.”

Aitken took his hat off and scratched his head, a signal which Ramage interpreted as meaning he had a suggestion about which he was doubtful. Ramage looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“I was wondering, sir, if whoever commands the
Jason
is puzzled because the convoy is surrounded by three French-built frigates? If he's a Frenchman, could he have thought three French frigates had captured the convoy and he was coming down to join us to drink a toast to Bonaparte? Then suddenly at the last moment he saw we had British colours and bore up to rake us? That would account for her captain staying on the same course now and not making for the convoy.”

Before Ramage had time to answer, Southwick had seized on the same flaw that Ramage had spotted. “Why was she flying the
Jason
's pendant numbers and British colours, then? If she thought the
Calypso
was also French, surely she'd have been waving a Tricolour and some French signal or other? But approaching another French frigate under British colours – that'd be asking for trouble, apart from being quite unnecessary.”

Aitken nodded. “Yes, you're quite right: I didn't think long enough before I spoke.”

“We haven't much time,” Ramage said, “so let's hear thoughts when they arrive!”

“What do you reckon, sir?” Southwick asked.

The more Ramage thought about it, the more puzzled he became. He acknowledged Jackson's report of the
Jason
's course. “I'm certain of only one thing: we aren't going to find any answers by following her so far astern: let fall the courses, Mr Aitken. Out with your quadrant, Mr Southwick, and let's have some angles on the
Jason
's masts: I want to know the minute we start overhauling her.”

As Aitken turned away, calling out orders, Paolo, obviously annoyed at having no role to play so far, asked: “No signals for
La Robuste
or
L'Espoir
, sir?”

“No, they know that they have to stay with the convoy. This is just the moment that a privateer lurking on the horizon would be praying for.”

As Southwick left the quarterdeck to get his quadrant and seamen swarmed up the ratlines and out on to the great lower yards to untie the gaskets securing the lowest and largest sails, Ramage relived the few brief minutes when the
Jason
raced across the
Calypso
's bow and her guns started firing.

There had been something he had noticed, something which, even while he was shocked by being raked by what everyone thought was a British ship, seemed odd. Something discordant, something which did not fit into the picture either of the French attacking under a
ruse de guerre
, or a – a what? Anyway, he'd noticed it in those split seconds but now he was damned if he could remember what it was. If he
could
remember, would it provide an answer? He was not even sure of that. It was in fact little more than a nagging thought, as though he had forgotten something but could not remember whether it concerned a button missing from a coat or to remind the butler that the dining-room clock had stopped and needed winding.

The maincourse dropped from the yard with the gracelessness of a fat woman flopping into a low chair, but Aitken's staccato orders snapping across the deck from the mouth of the speaking trumpet sent some men forward hauling on the mainbrace and others aft, hardening in the sheets. A few moments later the forecourse came tumbling down, freed of the gaskets, and the yard was braced as the sail was sheeted home and trimmed.

Southwick bustled up with his quadrant, cursing that the courses would now get in the way, spoiling his view of the
Jason
.

“Not if you come over here,” Ramage said from the starboard side of the quarterdeck.

The master stood, legs wide apart to balance himself against the rolling, and carefully adjusted the quadrant until it showed him the angle between the
Jason
's mizenmasthead and her waterline. He scribbled the figure down on the slate kept in the binnacle box drawer.

“Timed that nicely,” he commented. “Just as our courses started to draw. We'll soon see what effect they're having.”

Ramage nodded. “But we'll have to get up the stunsails unless…” He did not finish the sentence for a few moments. “We have to keep the convoy in sight. If we haven't caught up with her by the time the convoy's drawing astern, we'll have to let her go.”

“Then we'll never know what the devil's going on, sir,” Southwick grumbled.

“Maybe not, but our job is to protect the convoy, and anyway, I'm anxious to get home!”

Southwick nodded in agreement about the convoy. “I can see that, sir: we don't want a long beat back. You can bet the wind'll die on us.”

“Or
La Robuste
won't be tough enough on the stragglers, so that at dawn we'd find the convoy spread right over the horizon.”

Southwick sighed as he lifted the quadrant once again. “They're like a crowd of schoolchildren, those mules,” he grumbled. “Turn your back for a moment and they're up to all sorts o' mischief.”

Then he gave a more contented sigh after looking at the scale. “Well, that's good news, sir: we're catching up fast!” He lowered the quadrant, yet Ramage could see that the old man was puzzled. “We're catching up faster than setting the courses can account for – at least, by my reckoning.”

“Those Frenchmen may have only just captured the ship,” Ramage said. “It'd take a few days for them to get the best out of her.”

“Not if her officers are proper seamen,” Southwick said contemptuously.

“Come on, be fair,” Ramage chided. “The poor beggars spend most of their time swinging round an anchor in places like Brest. Our blockade doesn't give them much chance of getting experience at sea.”

“My heart,” Southwick said, giving his chest a thump, “it fairly
bleeds
for them.”

“And well it might, right now,” Ramage said teasingly. “Just put yourself in their place on board the
Jason
. They nearly collided with an enemy they were trying to rake, failed to send even one mast by the board or cut any important piece of rigging, or destroy a sail. Now, as if that wasn't enough, their target is not only chasing them but catching up. And there isn't a damned thing that they can do – that they
know how to do
– to make their ship go faster.”

Southwick sniffed as he lifted the quadrant. “Don't go on, sir, you'll have me in tears…Ah!” he exclaimed as he looked at the curved scale and read off the angle. He then looked up at the frigate ahead, took another reading and then said: “If they weren't French, sir, I'd say they were deliberately dawdling, trying to trap us into coming alongside.”

“They're not actually going any slower, surely?” Ramage asked. “I get the impression that they're still making about the same speed as when they crossed our bow, and that once we bore away and followed in her wake we didn't start overhauling her until we let fall the courses.”

“Yes, sir,” Southwick agreed. “I just meant that with the same canvas set, we're overhauling her.”

Aitken had just joined them and, hearing Southwick's remark commented: “Perhaps the difference is that the
Calypso
's hull was designed by the French and the
Jason
's by the English.”

“Aye,” Southwick said sourly, “and I notice the Scots never seem to design anything– except new shapes for haggises.”

Aitken did not answer, knowing he had made his point.

“Stunsails, sir?” he asked Ramage.

“Not for the moment: we're overhauling her nicely, and I want to have a leisurely look with the glass.”

He thought a moment and then told Aitken: “Jackson has the
Jason
's course. Look at the chart and see if you can work out where she's bound. She's not changing course. Too far south for Guadeloupe, I think, but she is not steering for the convoy.”

“She might yet,” Southwick said grimly. “She might be trying to pluck up enough courage. If Aitken's guess is right, she had as big a shock as us, only she got hers a few minutes earlier!”

“How are we doing?” Ramage asked pointedly, not wanting to start the inquest over again.

Southwick raised the quadrant, adjusted the arm and looked at the scale. “Overhauling her fast, sir. Do you want distances? I have a table of mast heights of most British and French ships o' war.”

Ramage shook his head. “We need only get within gunshot, and we can judge that by eye!”

 

The six men serving number four gun on the starboard side were as puzzled as their captain. Stafford was by far the most outraged at what he regarded as the perfidy of the
Jason
, although his anger was mixed with contempt for her poor shooting.

“Beats me,” he declared, “how they could all miss. I mean ter say, if it was a single broadside fired all at once, then the ship could have rolled at the wrong time. But there she was, sailing across our bow, bang, bang, bang…”

“For me it is enough that those gunners
did
miss,” Gilbert said, his French accent more pronounced, as though the sudden shock had affected his English, which was normally good.

Rossi had no doubts. “She is captured by the French,” he declared. “She comes down with the enemy's colours – we've done it, so we can't make of the complaining. And she rakes us. But the gunners are not used to the guns.”

“A gun is a gun,” Stafford pointed out. “You load it, aim and fire it. Doesn't make any difference whether the gun was cast by a British or a French gunfounder.”

“Is true,” Rossi admitted, “but if these were privateersmen, used to shooting 6-pounders and smaller from the deck of a tiny privateer, then they would not find it so easy firing 12-pounders from a frigate.”

The other Frenchmen, Louis, Auguste and Albert, demanded a translation and Gilbert explained. Louis made the only comment: “I do not think a French privateer could capture a frigate, and she was not damaged…”

Gilbert translated and Stafford exclaimed: “Good for Louis, I never noticed that. All right, then, how
did
they capture her?”

Rossi sighed and said: “We must remember to ask them. But it can be done.”

“Rubbish!” Stafford said flatly. “Bound to be shotholes in the hull: you can't repair them and paint 'em over at sea.”

Rossi pointed towards the convoy and said triumphantly, “What about
L'Espoir
and
La Robuste
? We captured both of them without scratching the paint!”