Ramage's Challenge (29 page)

Southwick grinned cheerfully. “Better a mountain well ahead than breakers under the bow! That sandy beach'll have just the right slope to put us high and dry if we hit it. And, sir, that course assumes you'll be altering course now …”

Ramage gave the piece of paper to Aitken. “We'll steer that and hope for the best,” he said. “And watch our friend astern!”

Aitken gave the course to the quartermaster, who asked for it to be repeated. Southwick muttered, “There you are, sir. People think you've gone off your head!”

Aitken picked up the speaking-trumpet and was already shouting orders to trim the yards and sheets as the four men at the great wheel turned it, two standing to windward and two to leeward, while the quartermaster kept an eye on the nearest of the two compasses and the weather luffs of the sails.

Slowly, the
Calypso
's bow swung round to starboard, putting the wind nine points on the starboard quarter. Such a change in course would hardly go unnoticed in the French frigate, even though the visibility was closing in rapidly as night fell.

There was no mistaking the tension in Ramage as he watched the frigate astern. She had not altered course. Instead, she ploughed on to the north, sails bellying, bow shouldering aside the waves in great smothers of spray. No phosphorescence, Ramage noted thankfully. But no hint of her altering course either: she is ignoring the
Calypso.
And that is ironic—but no! The outline of her hull is changing, her yards are being braced up, the distance between her three masts is narrowing … Finally the masts were in line. Once again, the frigate was following in the
Calypso
's wake.

“Wonder what they're thinking now,” commented Southwick.

“Her captain has probably just remembered that we never answered his challenge,” Ramage said. “I was hoping he'd carry on to the north and leave us alone so we could go back to wait in the lee of Giglio.”

“It's an odd feeling, running away from a Johnny Crapaud,” Southwick commented, “even if it's not really running away.”

“You sound like that damned general,” Ramage said coldly. “To him, battle is ‘a direct frontal attack in regular order'—no matter that the Austrians lost every battle where they tried it against the French.” Ramage thought for a moment and added bitterly, “Why should I be responsible for killing even one Calypso if I can capture or destroy that damned frigate without losing a single life?”

“You know me well enough that I don't have to argue, sir. I'm not responsible for the present fashion at the Admiralty of judging a captain's skill in action by the size of the butcher's bill. I've seen that it's usually just the opposite: stupid captains have the heaviest casualties. Will you be challenging that general?” he asked in studied casualness.

“It won't be necessary. The man's a coward and a bully himself. He'll apologize.” He nodded towards the quartermaster. “Tell him that if he steers a quarter point either side of the course, I'll have him flogged.”

“Aye, that'll scare him,” Southwick muttered as he walked across the deck, trying to recall the last flogging that Ramage had ordered. Yes, Spithead, many years ago, a mutineer, and even then only a few lashes … Strange that some captains regularly ordered at least a couple of dozen lashes every week, yet Mr Ramage has never flogged a man since he was made post. Was it the ships' companies or the captains? That's a daft question; give a captain three months in command, and then it was rule of thumb: a bad ship's company pointed to a bad captain.

He warned the quartermaster, who warned the men at the wheel, but as he walked back, Southwick believed the quartermaster when he had exclaimed that they were holding the course so carefully it looked as if the compass needle had stuck.

“How far off is she?” Ramage asked Southwick, nodding at the frigate and wanting a second opinion.

“Half a mile. Hard to judge in this light, but I reckon no more. Another ten minutes and it'll be too dark to see her.”

“It's more important she sees us. Get the lamptrimmer to inspect the poop lantern; I might decide to use that, and I don't want it smoking.”

“But then the damned Frenchman will follow our every move!” Southwick exclaimed. “We'll never escape!”

“Exactly,” Ramage said coolly. “Not only that, if by now he suspects we might be British, he'll be even more puzzled when we show a poop lantern for him to follow us. Might even convince him his suspicions are wrong.”

Southwick shrugged, borrowed the speaking-trumpet from Aitken, and bellowed forward the order for the lamptrimmer to lay aft at once.

Ramage beckoned to Aitken. “Keep a lookout aloft when it gets dark, and we'll have the regular half dozen night lookouts on deck—one on each bow, at the main chains, and on each quarter. Warn them particularly to watch for land—along the coast north from Talamone. They've seen it before.”

Aitken nodded as Ramage said, “I'm going down to the great cabin for five minutes. Call me if there's any change up here. Watch our friend, in case he claps on more sail.”

With that Ramage went down to his cabin and, after pulling a chart from the rack, sat down at his desk. He unrolled the chart and weighted down the ends. It covered the area from Giglio to Argentario, then over to the mainland by Orbetello, northwards to Talamone, the mouth of the river Ombrone, and on far enough to show Castiglione della Pescaia, Rocchette, and finally Punta Ala.

And there, almost in the centre of the chart, just about midway between the island of Giglio and the mouth of the Ombrone, were the three rocks and attached shoals that were neatly marked “Formiche di Grosseto.” He took the parallel rulers, dividers, and a pencil from the drawer and spent the next three minutes measuring off courses and distances, noting them on a small piece of paper, which he tucked in his pocket before rolling up the chart and returning the navigational instruments to the drawer.

He did some calculations after checking depths of water, realized that the odds were against the great gamble he was about to take, and finally shrugged his shoulders. Often lack of an alternative made a man brave. This was a good example. He picked up the lanthorn to return it to the marine sentry on duty at the great cabin door. The nuisance of being at general quarters was that lanthorns, giving a very dull light, replaced the glass-fronted lanterns.

Up on the quarterdeck he was surprised just how dark it had become while he was below. Looking astern, he could just make out the French frigate, a dark blur in the
Calypso
's wake. But could the Frenchman still see the
Calypso?
The British frigate was sailing into the darker eastern sky and, even though the visibility was bad, it was still lighter to the west, where the sun, despite having long since ducked below the horizon, still gave some reflected light.

“We'll have the poop lantern, Mr Southwick.”

The lamptrimmer, a hulking man, was carrying a lanthorn, and he opened the front so that he could use the flame of the candle to light the wick. The wind blowing hard over the quarter seemed to fence with the flame, although the lamptrimmer did his best to shield it with his body. Finally the big poop lantern was lit, and Ramage saw that Sir Henry was still standing at the taffrail. He turned to Aitken. “Send someone for my boat-cloak— the admiral must be soaked with spray.”

“It's all right, sir,” Aitken said, “I had some oilskins brought up for him while you were below in your cabin. I have the impression,” he added quietly, “that the old gentleman is enjoying himself. It's probably a quarter of a century since he rushed round in a frigate!”

The sight of the lamptrimmer making his way back down the quarterdeck ladder reminded Ramage, and he called over Southwick so that he could give both the first lieutenant and the master their orders at the same time.

“Mr Southwick, first, when I give the word I want four or five strong men sent down to the cable tier, with a couple of boys holding lanthorns, so they don't fall over each other or get tied in knots.”

Southwick nodded but was puzzled, although he knew better than to start asking questions at this stage.

“Second, I want three men on the fo'c's'le with axes.
Sharp
axes. And a couple of lads with lanthorns. And six men at the bitts.” He saw that Southwick would have apoplexy if he was not allowed to ask a question, and eased his curiosity by adding, “We may be anchoring in a hurry, so I want the men down in the cable tier to make sure the cable is ready to run smoothly. I want the men with axes to cut away the anchor, which at the moment is catted; and I want men at the bitts to secure the cable after I've decided we've veered enough. Does that satisfy you?”

“Doesn't sound as though you've much faith in my navigation, sir,” Southwick grumbled. “Good lookouts, a man in the chains singing out the depths as he finds them with the lead, and there shouldn't be much chance of running up on the beach.”

“Well, we can't be too sure,” Ramage said, amused that Southwick had drawn the wrong conclusion. “Now, Mr Aitken, I see you've set the lookouts. As soon as Mr Southwick reckons we've nearly run our distance to the coast, I want a man in the chains with a lead, and you make sure those lookouts are looking! We shall wear round soon after sighting the coast. Perhaps even instantly. And now you have five minutes to go below and tell our guests what is happening. Should General Cargill offer any remarks that reflect on anyone's honour, you have my permission to leave and come back here at once. Do not,” he emphasized, “answer back.”

Once Aitken had gone below, Ramage walked aft to find Sir Henry. “If you would prefer to be with us at the rail, sir …”

“No, no, my dear fellow,” the admiral said. “Your first lieutenant was kind enough to give me some oilskins, and I'm happy enough here. Isn't often I get the chance of a frigate action, you know!”

“Action!” Ramage repeated jokingly. “I thought we were running away!”

“Oh yes, we are, we are. What I believe our army friends would call a tactical withdrawal if they were doing it.” He pointed at the poop lantern. “Would that by any chance be a red herring?”

“Why, no, sir,” Ramage protested innocently. “That's what we rough sailors call a poop lantern, so that any ship astern of us can follow in the darkness.”

Sir Henry smiled as he said, “Ah yes, it's just like a big coach lantern, isn't it. Well, I'll be your postilion, if you like.”

“Much appreciate it, sir,” Ramage said, giving a bow. “Now, if you'll forgive me, I'll rejoin the ladies.”

As he turned away he was not sure if he could still see the frigate. The poop lantern was well screened so that it threw most of its light astern, but few stray beams reached the quarterdeck to interfere with anyone's night vision. Occasionally seas surged up so high that broken crests caught some of the light and threw reflections back on board, as though the waves were momentarily swirling piles of sparkling diamonds.

Aitken rejoined him at the quarterdeck rail. “The marquis thanks you on behalf of the rest for letting ‘em know what's happening, sir. The general—the junior of the two, I mean—said nothing.” Aitken glanced up at Ramage, who sensed rather than saw the twinkle in the Scot's eye. “I had the impression that General Cargill was verra subdued. Aye, verra subdued. Like a man who has bet a lot more money than he has in his purse, and sees his horse starting to run lame.”

Southwick sniffed contemptuously. “And that's about what he's done, with that cowardice nonsense. A pistol ball at twenty paces—yes, he can already feel it lodged in his gizzard! Probably he's already rehearsing his dying speech!”

Ramage laughed and turned to look astern. Yes, the frigate was still there, but he saw her bow wave rather than the hull. The French captain had not set more sail—surely an obvious move, once the
Calypso
altered course. Was the Frenchman fearful for his masts or unused to driving his ship in heavy weather? Or simply following the
Calypso
because he thought she was probably commanded by an officer senior to himself? Many questions and no answers, but as long as she followed the
Calypso
's poop lantern, all was well.

She was following, all right, but Ramage realized that if his all-or-nothing gamble was going to succeed, she would have to be a good deal closer. A couple of ship's lengths, a cable at the most, although it was damnably difficult to judge a couple of hundred yards in this light.

How he hated the late twilight, which distorted shapes and colours. It made him want to blink. Then, for a brief time after twilight, one somehow could not accept that it was dark. Daylight is the natural time for human beings to hunt; only certain animals hunt in the dark—a time when the human is at a great disadvantage, lacking the animal's sharper hearing and sense of smell. And, Ramage speculated, an animal's sense of
position.
In the dark a human almost immediately loses his knowledge of where he is in relation to objects round him, but most animals remain surefooted. Cats in a darkened room rarely (if ever) bump into chairs or knock over priceless china (although often blamed by careless maids).

There was no rush to shorten the gap, though. For the time being, the Frenchman can follow astern at the present distance, Ramage decided. The longer he follows, the more confident he will become. He knows that on this course we are heading for the Tuscan shore; but he also knows the frigate ahead would hit the beach first, giving him plenty of time to bear away into deep water.

The
Calypso
had been at general quarters a long time, but it was unavoidable. Hill, Kenton, Martin, and Orsini were still standing by their divisions of guns—and they would be very puzzled. Steering for the Tuscan shore with a French frigate in pursuit? To them it must seem like running away up a blind alley.