Ramage & the Rebels (14 page)

Ramage said: “It can't be land, but he may have seen a cloud hanging over Aruba.”

“What ship is it?” Southwick muttered to himself. “Probably a cutter from Jamaica with fresh orders from the Admiral. Convoy work, more than likely …”

“Beat to quarters,” Ramage told Aitken.

Jackson hailed the deck the moment the drummer stopped beating the ruffles.

“Her hull is only just lifting above the horizon but from the cut of her sails she's a merchant ship. Could be American, sir.”

“Make a signal to Lacey,” Ramage said. “His lookouts are asleep.”

By the time the signal flags had been hoisted, acknowledged by
La Créole
and lowered again, Jackson was reporting from the foremasthead that the ship had just tacked, and was obviously bound for Curaçao. Aitken had just reported that the
Calypso
was at quarters when Jackson hailed once more to report that the strange sail was a merchant ship and almost certainly American.

American, and therefore wary of one of the King's ships, because a meeting at sea usually resulted in being boarded and having a Royal Navy officer checking through the ship's company for British subjects, who would be pressed immediately. Ramage pictured the American master groaning at the prospect of losing at least a couple of good seamen from a total of perhaps a dozen. On the other hand, masters of neutral ships were often good sources of information: they visited enemy ports, saw ships of war, and, because they were not taken as prizes, could talk about it afterwards. And the best way of making a master talk was to catch him in the moments of relief after he discovered that none of his men was going to be pressed …

The
Calypso
and the merchant ship were approaching each other fast; within minutes Ramage could see the American's hull above the horizon. “Have the guns run out,” he said to Aitken, “we want to look fierce. Then come below. I have more orders for you.”

Down in his cabin he explained his intentions. “The master of that Jonathan is going to curse as soon as he sees the British flag—he'll have identified us as a French-built frigate, and to him there'd be nothing out of the ordinary in a French frigate heading west after apparently sailing from Amsterdam. Then suddenly he'll realize his mistake.

“So you'll board him and examine his papers. He could have sailed from a port on the Main, Aruba or direct from somewhere in North America. If he has just left an enemy port, I want to know what ships he saw there and what ships he's seen at sea, especially privateers. Dates, positions, courses being steered …”

Aitken looked worried. “These Jonathans usually don't care to help us much, sir,” he said cautiously.

“No,” Ramage agreed, “because they've usually just had some of their prize seamen claimed as British and sent down into the boat. But you will make it clear that, providing he co-operates, you will not even ask to see the muster book …”

“And he'll be so relieved …”

“Exactly,” Ramage said, “but of course, if he is truculent, you know what to do.”

Aitken nodded. “I hope I find a few Scotsmen; we're outnumbered in the
Calypso,
sir.”

“I want quality, not quantity, Mr Aitken,” Ramage said ambiguously, laughing dryly.

“Aye, sir. I've heard say that the Admiralty tell commanders-in-chief that when they ask for more frigates.”

“I'm sure they do,” Ramage said, “that's why we make sure of having enough by going out and capturing our own.”

The young Scot gave one of his rare laughs. “I've never thought of it like that, sir; I wonder how often a frigate and a schooner go out on patrol together manned by the people that captured them?”

“In a year or two we'll have our own fleet. We'll charter it to their Lordships on a share-of-the-prizes basis!”

An hour later Ramage and Southwick waited at the quarterdeck rail. The
Calypso
was hove-to half a mile to windward of the American ship, which was lying with her sails furled, broadside on to the swell waves and rolling violently. Clearly her master did not trust her spars, rigging and sails enough to risk heaving-to. Shipowners often insisted that once in the Tropics their master used old sails as an economy. It was not an economy, of course, because tropical squalls were more sudden and vicious than people living in temperate climates realized; but most shipowners were men who cheerfully spent a guinea to save four pennies and congratulated themselves on the bargain.

The
Caroline
of Charleston, South Carolina. The moment he had seen the port of registry he had ordered Jackson to join the boarding party, warning Aitken to tell the American seaman what they were trying to discover, and explaining to the puzzled First Lieutenant that Jackson had been born in Charleston.

The
Caroline
from South Carolina: it sounded like the beginning of some lullaby. If she was bound for Amsterdam (there could be little doubt about that) could he use her in some way, a Trojan horse that would get him among those damned privateers?

He could seize the ship and, putting his own men on board, send her into Amsterdam under her American flag. With his officers dressed in old clothes, they could pass themselves off as Americans and deal with all the paperwork with the Dutch authorities. They would, of course, anchor near the privateers. And soon after dark they would board them, set them all on fire, and then sail the
Caroline
of South Carolina out again, trusting that the Dutch would not fire on her, assuming she was getting clear of the flaming ships and never suspecting or guessing she was the cause.

Ramage shook his head. These were crazy thoughts: the diplomatic rumpus would be enormous; any British officer who used an American ship in this fashion would be court-martialled by the Admiralty and probably jailed; relations between Britain and North America were bad enough already; an incident like that could set off a war. Apart from all that, he thought ruefully, it was an excellent plan.

“Aitken and Jackson are getting ready to go down the ladder, sir,” Southwick reported. “Ah, that fellow with the wide-brimmed straw hat, he'll be the master. He's shaking hands with Aitken. And with Jackson, too.”

Ten minutes later the boat was alongside the
Calypso,
and the
Caroline,
letting fall her sails, was getting under way again to continue her tedious series of tacks to get up to Amsterdam. It was unusual to see a square-rigged ship of her size sailing under the American flag: most of the trade in the West Indies was done with schooners. She was at least painted in the traditional dark green, the colour favoured by slave ships because it matched the mangroves which lined the banks of the rivers in the Gulf of Guinea where the slavers hid.

Aitken hurried over to Ramage, obviously excited, and Jackson, the next man up the side, was grinning broadly. Ramage saw the First Lieutenant glancing astern, towards Aruba, and then he was reporting, making an effort to speak clearly.

“It worked just as you expected, sir: I suspect half his men are British. He says a French frigate anchored off Aruba was due to leave for Curaçao a few hours after the
Caroline
weighed. He half expected her to be in sight by now.”

“Has he seen any privateers?”

“No, sir: he commented on it. Normally he sees three or four between the Windward Passage and the Main: they always board him to check his papers. But he did say he has seen more British warships: he wasn't surprised when he saw us—or so he says. And Jackson was able to have a chat with some of the seamen.”

Ramage looked at the American. “Well, did you meet any old friends?”

Jackson grinned. “Not old friends, sir, but I knew one of the men; he was sweet on my sister—when they were both about five years old.”

“What else did you discover?”

“Quite a bit, sir, but it only confirms what Mr Aitken just said. They—the men in the
Caroline—
met some of the seamen from the French frigate on shore in Aruba. Said they were an undisciplined crowd; they didn't pay much attention to their officers. Called each other ‘citizen.' And they wouldn't pay the Dutch shopkeepers the prices they asked: they just took what they wanted, paid half what was asked, and drew their swords when a crowd gathered.”

Even as Jackson talked Ramage was thinking of the small book in the drawer of his desk: the French signal book. He looked at Aitken. “You did very well with the
Caroline.
” He turned to Jackson. “You, too. Now make a signal to
La Créole
: I want Mr Lacey to come on board at once.”

An hour later, long after the men had run in the guns and secured them, put pikes, cutlasses, muskets and pistols back in the arms chests, and swabbed down the decks, Ramage looked round his cabin at the perspiring but eager faces of his officers. He had finished explaining his plan and said to Lacey: “Have you any questions?” The captain of
La Créole
had none.

Aitken, however, was worried about darkness. “Supposing she comes up from Aruba during the night, sir?”

Ramage shook his head. “With no moon and the risk of cloud, would you choose to make a voyage of 48 miles at night, the current foul, when you could time it to make your landfall in daylight?”

“No, sir,” the First Lieutenant said apologetically, “it was a silly question. I'd hope to be about fifteen miles west of the island—west of Westpunt Baai—at dawn. Then if the wind was lighter than I expected I'd be that much later, and there'd be no risk of running ashore in the darkness.”

“And that's where we will be,” Ramage said. “We'll be close to Westpunt Baai, and with the coast trending south-east towards Amsterdam, Lacey will be able to show how
La Créole
can pull with the bit between her teeth.”

He looked round to see if anyone had more questions, and Wagstaffe said: “The privateers in Amsterdam, sir: are we leaving them alone?”

“For the time being, yes, although they won't realize it. Watchers along the coast will be reporting us going westward, but at twilight we'll turn back towards Amsterdam so that the Dutch lookouts report that we are doubling back and obviously intend to spend the night off the port—just the sort of trick one would expect. But of course once it's dark we'll turn back yet again …”

“And hope it is not so dark we run ashore,” Aitken said dryly. “Sint Christoffelberg is twelve hundred feet high,” Ramage said. “We should be able to see it from five miles off, and Lacey here has only to keep an eye on our poop lantern.”

He stood up and said slowly: “Remember, gentlemen, that timing is vital. If we see the fish isn't taking the bait, we have to act immediately, otherwise dozens of our men will be killed or wounded unnecessarily.”

B
Y DAWN Southwick and a dozen men had about half of the smallest of the
Calypso
's anchor cables, a ten-inch-circumference rope the thickness of a man's forearm, ranged on the foredeck after being led out through a hawse-hole and back on board again, with a light messenger rope made up to the end.

All her guns were loaded and run out, the decks had been wetted and sanded, and cutlasses, tomahawks, pistols and muskets had been issued. The
Calypso
was once again ready to greet the first light of day, the only difference being the cable lying on the fo'c's'le like a sleeping serpent.

Ramage, walking round the ship, could sense the men's excitement and he stopped here and there in the darkness to warn that they might have to wait two or three days for the Frenchman to appear. The men were delighted that the Captain should stop and pass the time of day but were obviously ignoring his warning: they had made up their minds that the French frigate would show up today; that she would be reported in sight to leeward as soon as the lookouts went to the masthead at daybreak and had a good look round. One of the men had given it enough thought to realize that the Frenchman approaching from the west might see the
Calypso
against the lighter eastern sky and bolt, and he was relieved when Ramage assured him that in fact they would be hidden against the blackness of Sint Christoffelberg and the hills at the western end of Curaçao for that first critical fifteen minutes of the day.

The special lookout posted aft and staring into the
Calypso
's wake continued to report every ten minutes or so that
La Créole
was still astern. Although it was a dark night there was plenty of phosphorescence, and every now and again a pale greenish swirl astern showed where the schooner was faithfully following and revealing herself occasionally as her bow sliced into a swell wave.

From his own experience in the past, Ramage knew that Lacey would have had little sleep, worried that his lookouts forward would lose sight of the
Calypso
's poop lantern. The young lieutenant, knowing how important it was that he should be only a few hundred yards from the
Calypso
at first light, was unlikely to have left the quarterdeck: he had probably spent the night in a canvas chair, boat-cloak over his shoulders, occasionally dozing and frequently nagging whoever had the watch and interfering as only anxious captains know how. Yes, Ramage thought to himself, I know just how you feel …

La Créole
had to be close at daybreak, just in case: Ramage had been most emphatic about that. He personally did not think they would see the Frenchman at dawn whichever day she arrived, but there was always a chance that she sailed at the proper time and made a fast passage, which would bring her off Curaçao at first light. No gambler would ever bet on a Frenchman being punctual, but the whole success of the operation depended on
La Créole:
he had made sure that Lacey really understood.

Ramage looked through a gun port. He could just distinguish the toppling waves; they had a grey tinge, and the stars low on the eastern horizon were dimming slightly, Orion's Belt had crossed overhead and dipped, the Southern Cross and the Plough had revolved, Polaris had remained fixed, and the sun would soon be dazzling them all. Yes, Sint Christoffelberg was over there on the starboard beam so high that it was distinguishable as a black wedge pointing upwards and obscuring the stars low on the north-eastern horizon.