Ramage & the Saracens (5 page)

The report had to go to the Admiralty because he was sailing under Admiralty orders; otherwise it would be to a commander-in-chief, and he would probably be seeing the admiral personally at the time he handed in the letter containing the report.

The watch changed and the third lieutenant, George Hill, took over the deck from Kenton. Hill was an unusual man: debonair, tall and thin, he was bilingual, thanks to a French mother who had married his father, a banker, and then found herself almost completely unable to learn English.

He had a dry sense of humour which Ramage found amusing; he was a very competent officer, and the men liked him. Almost more important, he could make Southwick laugh.

“Have you ever heard of a collision like that one, sir?” he asked Ramage.

“No, never. But they were unusual circumstances.”

“Perhaps we were lucky in coming across a Frenchman so sensitive about his jib-boom and bowsprit.”

Ramage laughed and then said: “If I'd been him I'd have been just as sensitive. If you're a Frenchman this is no place to lose a foremast.”

“You'd already worked that out, sir?”

Ramage shook his head. “No,” he said frankly, “at the time it seemed the only way of escaping from at least one of the Frenchmen. Not escaping really, of course, since we'd have been pinned by him, maybe even holed. But that would have been better than being trapped between them and pounded to pieces: we'd have lost most of the ship's company.”

“Well, we've learned a new trick!”

Ramage held up a cautionary finger. “It's not one we're likely to be able to use again.”

Hill grinned and said: “No, sir, true enough; I'm thankful we were able to use it once!”

Both men glanced aloft as the lookout at the foremasthead hailed.

“Land ho! One point on the starboard bow!”

B
OTH Ramage and Hill picked up telescopes. Ramage could just make out a faint blur, a blue-grey hump with a dark cloud just above it. “It's probably the island of Capraia,” he said shortly.

Was it a coincidence that the two French ships of the line had passed so close to the island? It was a barren sort of place, admittedly. It might be a good idea to pass close and have a good look: he would look a fool if the French had put a couple of battalions on shore there, though he could not think of a good reason why they should.

“We'll harden sheets so that we can lay the island, Mr Hill.”

The third lieutenant gave an order to the men at the wheel and then picked up the speaking-trumpet. The men on watch hauled on sheets and braces and the ship steered a couple of points to starboard, heading for an invisible place to windward of the island.

Capraia. From memory, there was just a small fishing port once protected by an old fortress called San Giorgio. And six years ago there was the tragedy of the
Queen Charlotte.

“Capraia, sir? Why does the name stick in my memory?” Hill asked.

“Pirates and the
Queen Charlotte,
I expect.”

“Ah yes, she blew up, didn't she?”

Ramage nodded. “It's a barren sort of place but pirates love it. As far as I remember, the people living there appealed to Lord Nelson—who was in Leghorn at the time—to send them a ship to get rid of the pirates. His Lordship sent the
Queen Charlotte,
but while she was on passage and passing Gorgona at the north end of this group of islands she caught fire and blew up, killing more than six hundred men.”

“So Capraia never did get rid of her pirates?”

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Probably not. We might find some there …”

“Where do they come from, sir?”

“Most of them from the Barbary Coast, I think. The local people just call them
Saraceni.
At one time nearly all pirates in the Mediterranean were Saracens, but now I suspect that quite a few of them are Algerines.”

“There must be a good harbour there.”

“No, it's just a small fishing harbour. The pirates only come there during the summer. That's why we aren't very likely to find any now—too early in the year: they don't want to get caught in a storm with no port to leeward.”

By now Hill, who did not know the Mediterranean at all well, was intrigued at the idea of meeting pirates, and looked at the distant island once again with his telescope.

“What do these pirates do, sir?”

“Mostly raid towns and villages. Seize a few fishing boats, but mainly they're interested in targets on shore. They are not seamen; just Arab bandits with boats to get to the various islands. They even raid places on the mainland of Italy, looting, kidnapping men for their galleys and women for the brothels.”

“I don't think I want to live around here,” Hill said.

Half an hour later the lookout reported a small sail ahead, following up with a hail saying it was a fishing boat which had just altered course to cross ahead of the
Calypso.

Ramage pinched his nose. Altering course to cross ahead? That was unusual: normally, local fishing boats kept away from ships-of-war; they could be visited by press-gangs on the lookout for able-bodied men. It was not unknown for a party from a frigate to confiscate their entire catch.

“Send Jackson aloft with a glass,” Ramage told Hill.

Jackson, rated one of the sharpest-eyed men in the ship, was soon shouting down to the deck that the fishermen were waving cloths, trying to attract the
Calypso
's attention.

What had the fishermen got to say? Surely they were not trying to sell their catch. Ramage shrugged: there was only one way of finding out.

“We'll heave-to just to leeward of them,” he told Hill. “Pass the word to Mr Rennick to have a dozen marines standing by at the entry port.”

Rennick, the red-faced marine lieutenant, would be only too glad of the opportunity to parade some of his men: he had about the most monotonous job in the ship. No, perhaps the surgeon did, since it was rare for any of the frigate's men to report sick.

At that moment Southwick came up on to the quarterdeck.

“Trouble, sir? I heard the lookout hailing.”

Ramage shook his head. “No, just a fisherman up ahead who is trying to attract our attention.”

“Probably wants to sell us some fish,” Southwick said gloomily. Ramage nodded. “That's what I thought. Still, some fresh fish would be welcome: our men don't seem to be having any luck with the lines we're towing astern!”

Southwick rubbed his hands together. “Yes, a nice tuna steak would not come amiss.”

Ramage could see the fishing boat quite clearly now through the glass. It was quite large; he could make out eight or nine men on her deck, several of them waving cloths, probably their shirts.

Their little ship flew no colours, but that was not surprising. They were almost certainly from Capraia, the island ahead.

Hill gave an order to the quartermaster, who passed it to the men at the wheel. The
Calypso
bore away a few degrees to larboard, so that the fishing boat was now ahead and under half a mile away.

She had once been painted red and blue, but now her sides were salt-caked and the nail sickness, the streaks of rust from the nails used in her planking, looking like dark tear stains. Her sails were so patched that there were more patches than original cloths, and as she pitched Ramage could see baskets on her foredeck, waiting for fish. Or maybe they held the catch they wanted to sell.

Ten minutes later the
Calypso,
her fore-topsail backed, was lying stopped to leeward of the fishing boat and Ramage, the speaking-trumpet reversed so that the mouthpiece was against his ear, was trying to understand what the fishermen, who seemed excited, were trying to shout to him.

Finally he put down the speaking-trumpet. “It's no good, I can't make out a word,” he told Hill. “Hoist out a boat and bring the captain over.”

Southwick sniffed disapprovingly. “We're going to a lot of trouble for a pack of fishermen,” he muttered. “Why not let ‘em use the boat they're towing astern?”

“It'll be quicker using one of our own boats. And,” Ramage said, “they're not trying to sell fish.”

“You heard that much, then?”

“No, but all their baskets are empty—I can see them from here. So they're not selling fish. They may be reporting seeing some ships. Perhaps they saw the two French ships of the line and want to tell us about them!”

It took several minutes to hoist out a boat and then Jackson clambered down into it with a crew. The boat was rowed over to the fishing boat which, sails now lowered, rolled heavily.

The fishing boat's captain, when he came on board, was a tall man so thin his face was gaunt. He had several blackened teeth and very large hands on the ends of extraordinarily long arms.

He saluted Ramage awkwardly and started off a long explanation in Italian which had a heavy local accent.

Ramage listened carefully, nodding from time to time, but otherwise standing with his head inclined forward while the Italian gesticulated frequently, holding up a finger to emphasize a particular point.

Finally the Italian finished his story, with Southwick, Aitken—who had come on deck as the
Calypso
hove-to—and Hill watching him impatiently, not having understood a word. They saw Ramage hold out a hand and the Italian shake it vigorously.

As the Italian went to the entry port to climb back down into the boat, Southwick looked at Ramage questioningly. Ramage looked puzzled and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “It seems there are a lot of Frenchmen around these parts. He was reporting the two ships of the line but what really worries him is that there's a French frigate at anchor just outside the harbour at Capraia.”

“Have they landed any troops?” Aitken asked.

“No, but they marched some seamen through the streets—probably just to impress the local people—that was all.”

“And the frigate, she's still there, sir?”

“She was still there when that fellow sailed last night.”

“So they're not interfering with the fishermen?”

“No, the fishermen are free to come and go. He couldn't think of any reason why the Frenchman is there.”

“Just waiting for us to come and do him in,” Southwick growled. “Two ships of the line and a frigate will make a good score.”

Ramage nodded and rubbed a scar on his forehead. It was a gesture Southwick recognized at once, and knew there was no need for any more talk.

As soon as Jackson returned with the boat it was hoisted in. They watched the fisherman hoist its lateen sail and draw clear, and then Ramage said: “Very well, Mr Hill: let's get under way again. Steer direct for the island—you can just about lay it with this wind.”

Hill bellowed a string of orders through the speaking-trumpet and the watch on deck hauled on the brace which swung round the fore-topmast yard while other men hauled on the sheet, so that the sail filled and then curved into shape as wind filled it. From being dead in the water, stopped by the backed fore-topsail's weight pressing against the thrust of the other sails, the
Calypso
slowly got way on: the water began chuckling under her stem, the men at the wheel had to brace themselves against the rudder's kick, and the ship came alive.

The frigate began to pitch as she beat up towards the island and Southwick spread a chart across the top of the binnacle and began to comment on what he saw.

“It's a mountainous island, steep-to on this western side and sloping down on the eastern side. A chain of mountains runs roughly north and south the length of the island, with a very high peak at the north end and at the south end. Nothing on the west side of the island except cliffs and rocks; the only place is Porto Vecchio, which is simply a wide bight, with the small harbour of Capraia in the south-west corner. A couple of old forts … that's all there is. I can't see anything to interest the Frenchman.”

Ramage thought for a moment. Why assume the French frigate had called at the island for any reason concerning the island? Clearly Capraia had nothing to offer except shelter—and olives, fish and goat meat if you were hungry.

“Perhaps the Frenchman is doing some repairs,” Ramage said. “Repairs that need a quiet anchorage for a few hours …”

Southwick slapped his knee and said enthusiastically: “That's it! Sprung his bowsprit, most likely. Or shifting yards. Probably sailing in company with those two 74s, and then bore up for the lee of Capraia when something went wrong. Not that Capraia gives much of a lee with this wind, but it looks as though it will haul round to the west, and the French captain may think the same.”

The old master seemed relieved. “It was worrying me,” he admitted. “I couldn't for the life of me see why a French frigate would call there. But to do some repairs—yes, that's a good enough reason.”

Through his telescope Ramage could make out the largest peaks on the island: there were four, one at the northern end of the island and another at the southern, as if to balance it, with two in between. It was so mountainous—on the western side anyway—that the inhabitants must live a hard life. Southwick had said that it sloped down on the eastern side, but it would give little land suitable for crops since the whole island could not be five miles long.

He considered a nagging thought. Those two French 74s. Should he have made more of an effort to destroy them? He took off his hat, wiped the inside of the band and jammed it back on his head, perplexed. The only thing he could have done was sail back and forth across their sterns, raking them. They would have brought up a couple of stern-chase guns each, so four would have been firing at him as the
Calypso
raked them with sixteen 12-pounders. It would have done as much good as a mouse gnawing at a thick oak door. He knew that; but would Their Lordships take the same view, or the admiral at Naples when he reported to him?