Ramage's Devil (30 page)

His Lordship had been very apologetic, although there was no need for it. Apparently he had intended (this was when he expected to sail the
Murex
back to England) to keep them on the ship's books as “prisoners at large,” and recommend their release as refugees as soon as they reached Plymouth, so they would be free to do what they wanted.

Gilbert could see his Lordship's motives, but he was forgetting that three of them—Auguste, Louis and Albert—did not speak a word of English and would never have been able to make a living. Serving in the Royal Navy, at least they would be paid and fed while they learned English, and life at sea, judging from their experience so far, was less hard than life in a wartime Brest, and no secret police watched …

Anyway, his Lordship had explained this odd business of “prize-money.” Apparently it was a sort of reward the King paid to men of the Royal Navy for capturing an enemy ship, and as the
Murex
had been taken by the French after the mutiny, she became an enemy ship, so recapturing her meant she was then a prize.

Apparently, though, after they had recaptured the
Murex
and sailed her out of Brest, it seemed that only his Lordship would get any prize-money because he was the only one of them actually serving in the Royal Navy. That seemed unfair because her Ladyship had behaved so bravely. Certainly neither he nor Auguste, Albert nor Louis had expected any reward, but his Lordship had thought otherwise and he had talked to the admiral, who had agreed to his proposal. The result was that if the four of them volunteered for the Royal Navy, their names would be entered in the muster book of the
Calypso
and (by a certain free interpretation of dates) they would get their share.

So here they were, members of mess number eight, and Auguste and Albert were put down on the
Calypso
's muster book as ordinary seamen while he and Louis were still landmen, because they did not yet have the skill of the other two.

And this mess number eight: although no one said anything aloud, Gilbert had the impression that while Jackson, Rossi and Stafford were not the captain's favourites—he was not the sort of man to play the game of favourites—they had all served together so long that they had a particular place. It seemed that each had saved the other's life enough times for there to be special bonds, and Gilbert had been fascinated by things Jackson had explained. Gilbert had noticed his Lordship's many scars—and now Jackson put an action and a place to each of them. The two scars on the right brow, another on the left arm, a small patch of white hair growing on his head … It was extraordinary that the man was still alive.

However, one thing had disappointed Gilbert: no one, least of all Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, seemed to think they had much of a chance of finding
L'Espoir
. Apparently once she left Brest she could choose one of a hundred different routes. Oh dear, if only the Count had stayed in Kent. The estate he bought at Ruckinge was pleasant; even the Prince of Wales and his less pleasant friends had been frequent guests, and the Count never complained of boredom. But undoubtedly he had a
grande
nostalgie
for the château and, although expecting it, had been heartbroken when he returned to find everything had been stolen. He had—

The heart-stopping shrill of a bosun's call came down the forehatch followed by the bellow
“General quarters!
All hands to general quarters—come on there, look alive …” Again the call screamed—Jackson said the bosun's mates were called “Spithead Nightingales” because of the noise their calls made—and again the bellow.

Gilbert followed the others as he remembered “General quarters” was another name for a man's position when the ship went into battle. He felt a fear he had not experienced in the
Murex
affair. The
Calypso
was so big; all the men round him knew exactly what to do; they ran to their quarters as if they were hunters following well-worn tracks in a forest.

Ramage snatched up the speaking-trumpet while Aitken completed an entry and returned the slate to the drawer.

“Foremast, deck here.”

“Sail ho, two points on the larboard bow, sir: I see her just as we lift on the top of the swell waves.”

“Very well, keep a sharp lookout and watch the bearing closely.”

Ramage felt his heart thudding. Was she
L'Espoir?
Keep calm, he told himself: it could be any one of a dozen British, Dutch, Spanish, French or American ships bound for the West Indies and staying well south looking for the Trades. Or even a ship from India or the Cape or South America, bound north and, having found a wind, holding it until forced to bear away to pick up the westerlies.

If the bearing stayed the same and the sail drew closer the
Calypso
must be overhauling the strange vessel, and it was unlikely that the
Calypso
was being outdistanced. If the sail passed to starboard, then whoever she was must be bound north; passing to larboard would show she was going south.

Southwick had heard the lookout's hail and came on deck, his round face grinning, his white hair flowing like a new mop.

“Think it's our friend, sir?”

“I doubt it; we couldn't be that lucky. She's probably a Post Office packet bound for Barbados with the mail.”

Southwick shook his head, reminding Ramage of a seaman twirling a dry mop before plunging it into a bucket of water. “We'd never catch up with a packet. Those Post Office brigs are slippery.”

“Could be one of our own frigates sent out by the Admiralty with despatches for the governors of the British islands, telling them war has been declared.” Ramage thought a moment and then said: “Yes, she could be. She'd have sailed from Portsmouth before the Channel Fleet, of course, and run into head winds or been becalmed.”

He looked round and realized that it had been a long time since he had given this particular order: “Send the men to quarters, Mr Aitken. I want Jackson aloft with the bring-'em-near—he's still the man with the sharpest eyes. I must go below and look up the private signals.”

He went down to his cabin, sat at the desk and unlocked a drawer, removing the large canvas wallet which was heavy from the bar of lead sewn along the bottom and patterned with brass grommets protecting holes that would allow water to pour in and sink it quickly the moment it was thrown over the side.

He unlaced the wallet and removed five sheets of paper. They were held together by stitching down the left-hand side, so that they made a small booklet, a thin strip of lead wrapped round the edge hammered flat and forming a narrow binding.

The first page was headed “Private Signals” with the note “Channel Fleet” and the date. The first two paragraphs, signed by Admiral Clinton, showed their importance: they were, with the Signal Book, the most closely guarded papers on board any ship of war.

Ramage noted that the wording of the warning was similar if not identical to that in the document he had studied with Lieutenant Swan on board the
Murex
.

Any ship of war passing through the area cruised by the Channel Fleet would have a copy of this set of flag tables for challenging and distinguishing friend from enemy. The system was simple: depending on the day of the month (the actual month itself did not matter), there was a special challenge with its own answer.

There were four main vertical columns divided into ten horizontal sections. The first section of the first column contained the numbers 1, 11, 21, 31, and referred to those dates. The section immediately below had 2, 12, 22, with 3, 13, 23 below and then 4, 14, 24, until the tenth section ended up with 10, 20, 30, so that every day in a month was covered.

The next column had the same two phrases in each of its ten sections:
“The first signal made is—,”
and
“Answered by a—,”
and referred to the next two columns. The third was headed by “Main-topmasthead,” and gave the appropriate signals to be hoisted there, while the fourth and last column headed “Fore-topmasthead” gave the signals to go up there.

Ramage noted that today was the eleventh of the month, and the date “11” was the second in the first column. The “first signal” made would be a white flag with a blue cross (the figure two in the numeral code of flags) hoisted at the main-topmast-head and a blue flag with a yellow cross (numeral seven) at the fore-topmasthead. One ship or the other (it did not matter which) would challenge first with those two, and be answered by a blue, white and red flag (numeral nine) at the main-topmasthead and a pendant over blue pierced with white (numeral zero) at the fore-topmasthead. Numeral flags hoisted singly by a senior officer had a different meaning, but these were given in the Signal Book and there could be no confusion.

The last page of the booklet gave the private signals to be used at night—combinations of lights hoisted in different positions, and hails. Ramage noted that whoever thought up the hails must have an interest in geography: the month was divided into thirds, with the various challenges and replies being “Russia—Sweden,” “Bengal—China,” and “Denmark—Switzerland.”

To complicate the whole system, the day began at midnight for the flag signals (corresponding to the civil day), while it began at noon for the night signals, and thus corresponded with the noon-to-noon nautical day used in the logs and journals.

Ramage repeated the numbers to himself—two and seven are the challenge, nine and zero the reply. He put the signals back in the wallet, knotted the drawstrings, and returned it to the drawer, which he locked.

How long before Jackson would be reporting?

The cabin was hot: he longed for the loose and comfortable fisherman's trousers, but they had been taken away with the smock by a disapproving Silkin, whose face was less lugubrious now he had the captain regularly and properly dressed in stockings, breeches, coat, shirt, stock and cocked hat. That the breeches were tight at the knees and the stock became soaked with perspiration and chafed the skin of the neck (and rasped as soon as the whiskers began sprouting again three or four hours after shaving) was no concern to Silkin: to him those discomforts were the sartorial price a gentleman had to pay, and Silkin regarded any article of clothing as “soiled” if it was only creased.

Ramage knew that by now the men would be at general quarters: indeed, the Marine sentry had already reported that the men who would be serving the two 12-pounders in the great cabin and the single ones in the coach and bed place were waiting to be allowed in to cast off the lashings and prepare the guns, hinge up the bulkheads and strike the few sticks of furniture below the gundeck. Ramage picked up his hat and left the cabin, nodding to the guns' crews as he went up on deck and pulling the front of his hat down to shield his eyes from the sun, which glared down from the sky and reflected up from the waves.

He told Aitken the flag numbers for the challenge and reply, said he did not want the guns run out for the time being, and then joined Southwick standing at the quarterdeck rail, looking forward the length of the ship. Men were hurrying about but none ran: each had that sense of purposefulness that came from constant training and which led to them using the minimum of effort needed to do a task. The decks had already been wetted and sand sprinkled, so that if the ship did go into action the damp planks would stop any spilt powder being ignited by friction and the sand would prevent it blowing about as well as stop feet slipping.

The flintlocks had been fitted to the guns. Powder boys holding cartridge boxes sat along the centreline, one behind each pair of guns, while each gun captain had fitted the firing lanyard to the lock, the lanyard being long enough for him to kneel behind the gun and fire it well clear of the recoil. A small tub of water stood between each pair of guns with lengths of slow match fitted into notches round the top edge and burning so that any glowing piece fell into the water. They would be used only if a flintlock misfired. The cook had just doused the galley fire at the order for general quarters, and the slow match were the only things burning in the ship.

Below, “fearnought” screens, thick material like heavy blankets, would have been unrolled and now hung down to make the entrance to the magazine almost a maze. Where men had now to jink about to get in, it was sure no flash from an accidental explosion would penetrate. The gunner was down inside the magazine, wearing felt shoes so that there could be no sparks inside the tiny cabin which was lined first with lathes and then plaster thickened with horsehair, and that covered with copper sheeting. The only tools allowed inside were bronze measurers, like drinking mugs on wooden handles, and bronze mallets for knocking the copper hoops from barrels of powder.

Close to each gun, stuck in spaces in the ship's side where they could be quickly snatched up, were cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks—each man knew which he was to have, because against his name in the General Quarter, Watch and Station Bill would be a single letter, C, P or T.

In less than a minute, Ramage knew, just the time it would take to load and run out the guns, cock the locks and fire, nearly two hundred pounds of roundshot could be hurling themselves invisibly at an enemy, each shot the size of a large orange and able to penetrate two feet of solid oak. Yet to a casual onlooker the
Calypso
was at this very moment simply a frigate ploughing her way majestically across the Western Ocean, stunsails set and all canvas to the royals rap full with a brisk Trade wind, the only men visible a couple of men at the wheel, three officers at the quarterdeck rail, and a couple of lookouts aloft.

Yet all this was routine: in the Chops of the Channel a frigate might be sending her ship's company to quarters every hour or so, as an unidentified and possibly hostile vessel came in sight. In wartime every strange sail could be an enemy. Admittedly, one saw a great many more ships in the approaches to the Channel and few would prove to be enemy, although so-called neutral ships trying to run the blockade were numerous. For a surprising number of people, Ramage noted, profit knew no loyalty—or perhaps it would be truer to say that whichever nation provided the profit had the trader's loyalty as a bonus.