Ramage's Diamond (30 page)

Now was a good example of the boredom: Aitken was working hard on board the
Surcouf
getting the sails hoisted up and bent on; Baker was on his way to Barbados in
La Mutine
with all the excitement of his first command; Wagstaffe was tacking north again with
La Créole
for another look at Fort Royal. Southwick was busy on the foredeck, preparing everything for hoisting the jackstay tomorrow. Captain Ramage had nothing whatever to do and could only pace up and down, occasionally looking at the work in progress. Even the cook's mate was busy—skimming the slush, from the smell of it; boiling the salt beef in the coppers and taking off the fat that floated to the surface and carefully storing it. When it was cool he would sell it to the men, earning himself some illicit pennies or tots and giving the men something to help the hard biscuit slide down their gullets.

He could go down to his cabin and continue his letter to Gianna: he tried to add a few paragraphs every day so that she had a sort of diary to read when it eventually arrived many weeks later. Or he could start a letter to his father, who would be interested to read about the problems he was facing over the Diamond

… But he felt too fidgety to sit at his desk and anyway the moment he saw the Captain sitting there, the clerk would come trotting in with papers and reports for him to sign. Being a conscientious man, he would also have a list of trivial reports that Ramage should have made, or chased his officers into making.

He had only just come back from the
Surcouf
and if he returned there now Aitken would start worrying. If he went up to the foredeck, Southwick, his white hair matted with perspiration and his temper getting short, would think that Ramage considered his men were not working fast enough.

His next look over the taffrail showed that the two cutters were now secured together and he realized thankfully that he had a job to do. It was not a job for the Captain, but one that had to be done, and mercifully Lacey was over at the Diamond with the carriage in tow.

“Haul round to the starboard side,” he called to Jackson, who was acting as coxswain of the two boats. “Secure your painter and sternfasts so you are directly under the main-yard.”

Two luff tackles were already hooked into the yard tackle pendant and secured to the slings round the gun lying on the deck. They had been used earlier to lift the gun off the carriage which was now being towed to the cove.

A hail to Southwick brought twenty men hurrying aft to man the luff tackles while more ran to the braces. Ramage went to the entry port at the gangway and watched until the two boats were secured alongside. As soon as they were ready he turned to the men at the luff tackles.

“Hoist away, now. You four, tail on those steadying lines, we don't want the gun swinging.”

The men heaved steadily, and slowly the gun lifted off the deck, hanging horizontally from the carefully placed slings. Finally it was higher than the hammock nettings and Ramage signalled them to stop hoisting.

Another signal to the men at the braces and a hurried warning to the men holding the steadying lines brought the main-yard swinging round a few degrees, back to its normal position. This swung the gun out over the bulwarks until it was suspended above the boats.

The men with the steadying lines climbed up into the hammock nettings so they could see down into the boats, and Ramage gave the order for the men at the luff tackles to begin lowering. The gun came down foot by foot at first, and then inch by inch. As it neared the boat, Ramage gave the signal for them to stop lowering. Now he had to make sure that the men at the steadying lines kept the gun parallel with the boats while he gave the final order which would swing the yard round a fraction more, so that the gun was precisely over the gap between them.

Jackson gave Ramage a signal that all was well and slowly the gun was lowered again. The men in each boat held up their hands in case it began twisting, obviously not trusting the men at the steadying lines. Then the gun was in the water between the two boats, its muzzle and breech clear of the spars and a moment later disappearing below it.

Ramage shouted to the men at the luff tackles to stop lowering and saw that Jackson was fully prepared. Four men at the bow of the two boats leaned over to the forward sling and then signalled to Ramage, who told the men at the forward tackle to lower gently. Now the top of the forward sling was almost level with the spar joining the two boats and swiftly the four men put on a rolling hitch, using a short piece of heavy rope. Then they secured the other end to the centre of the spar.

While they had been doing that, four men had been securing the after sling to the after spar while Jackson cast off the steadying lines. Now the gun, six feet long, was slung between the two spars and hanging three or four feet below the water, but the weight was still being taken by the luff tackles.

“All secure?” Ramage shouted, and when Jackson answered that it was, he signalled to the men at the tackles to slack away. Slowly, as the weight of the gun was transferred through the slings to the boats, they sank deeper in the water. But it was an even settling; neither was down by bow or stern. The whole twelve hundredweight of gun—which now weighed less in water—was slung under the two boats, and two seamen with boat-hooks jabbed at the hooks of the tackles to release them from the slings.

The heavy blocks soared up in the air, the yard was braced round again, and Ramage called to Jackson: “Carry on then, and make for the cove: Mr Lacey will be waiting for you. And make sure the gun tackle is hooked into the cascabel ring and moused before you let go!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Jackson grinned, “otherwise we'll have to dive for it!”

The painter and sternfast were cast off and the two boats edged away from the
Juno,
the men rowing from the outboard side of each one. Progress was painfully slow but Jackson was careful to use the wind so that it helped them in their crabwise course towards the Diamond.

Ramage found Southwick beside him, watching the boats. “You looked as though you were enjoying yourself, sir,” he said cheerfully, first making sure they were out of earshot of the men.

“I was,” Ramage admitted. “It's deucedly tedious just marching up and down the quarterdeck like a sentry at the Horse Guards.”

Southwick nodded sympathetically. “The convoy will soon be here. We'll be busy enough then.”

Two hours later Ramage found an excuse for going over to the Diamond: the men with the jolly-boat and two cutters had not returned and it would soon be dinner time, so he ordered the cook to prepare food for the men and had himself rowed over in one of the
Surcouf
's boats. As an afterthought he had ordered the gunner to fetch up a lock and spare flint, carefully wrapped against the spray, a pricker, trigger line, wads, two roundshot and two cartridges, the cylindrical wooden boxes being stowed in a canvas bag as a precaution against both spray and powder accidentally spilling. It was unlikely that the gun would be ready, but he warned Southwick not to be alarmed if he heard a shot.

As the boat rounded the Rock and the cove came into view he was pleasantly surprised to see that the carriage was up on the ledge and close to it what looked like a great letter A without the cross bar. The men had made sheers from the spars that had previously lashed the cutters together, and an oar provided the support. A heavy tackle slung from the sheers had hoisted the gun and several men were now manoeuvring the carriage directly under it.

By the time Ramage leapt on shore the gun had been lowered and he heard an excited yell from Lacey: “Throw over the cap-squares! Now, in with the bolts!”

The lieutenant pulled off the band of cloth he had been wearing round his brow to keep the perspiration from his eyes, snatched up his hat and jammed it on his head before saluting. “You beat us by a quarter of an hour, sir,” he said ruefully, gesturing at the men hurriedly unlashing the sheers.

“I've brought you all some food, anyway,” Ramage said with a grin. “And powder and shot for the first round!”

Within fifteen minutes the men had hurried through their meal and were overhauling the train tackles which had kinked and tangled themselves, carrying the heavy breeching from the cove and clearing small rocks away on the ledge to make the gun platform comparatively smooth. Lacey had chosen a site which was in fact a slight depression with a piece of rock protruding like a stump of a tree on each side, ideally placed to secure each end of the breeching which, passing through the cascabel ring at the breech end of the gun, would bring the gun to a stop after it had recoiled a few feet.

Ramage went over to explore the big cave again while Lacey and his men finished preparing the gun and he was several yards inside the cave, examining it as possible accommodation for the men and a store for provisions, when he was startled to hear Lacey calling him from the entrance, obviously uncertain about entering.

Ramage joined him to find the lieutenant looking embarrassed. “The men—er, well sir, the men have asked me to, er …”

“Take a deep breath and spit it out, man,” Ramage said impatiently. “I assume they aren't telling me they're planning a mutiny.”

“The gun's ready for firing, sir,” Lacey said hurriedly, “and the men want you to name the battery.”

“Name it? What on earth for?”

“Well, sir, I believe there are going to be three batteries, and I think they had in mind that it would be easier to distinguish them if each had a name. They seem particularly concerned about this first one.”

Ramage was hot, tired, and in no mood for thinking of names. “Tell them I'll think of a name tomorrow.”

Lacey's face fell. “They—well, sir,” he said with a rush—“they've already chosen a name, and they want you to approve it, sir.”

Ramage frowned. With Jackson, Rossi and Stafford out there, he suspected they had thought of some ludicrous name that would be impossible for him to use in official reports: something like the Nipcheese Battery, as a dig at the purser, or the Check-mate, to tease the Surgeon.

“They want to call it the Marchesa Battery, sir,” Lacey said nervously. “I—er, I understand there's an Italian Marchesa for whom some of them had a very high regard; the aunt of young Orsini, I think.”

Ramage tried to keep a straight face. Obviously Lacey was picturing some ancient Italian dowager. “Yes, that is correct; Orsini's aunt is the Marchesa di Volterra.” He began walking towards the battery so that Lacey should not see the delighted grin on his face. “A most appropriate name in the circumstances; yes, most appropriate,” he said with all the seriousness he could muster. Most of the former Tritons were grouped round the gun: Jackson, Stafford, Rossi, Maxton … All could see from Ramage's expression that he had agreed to the name. The gun was ready: the trigger line was neatly coiled on top of the breech, the lock was in position, the rammer, sponge and handspikes were ready. Well clear of the gun were the cartridge boxes with two round-shot beside them. Jackson had the long metal primer tucked in his belt and a powder horn on a lanyard round his neck.

They seemed to be taking the naming ceremony seriously, and Ramage decided he should, too. “I think we might fire a round in celebration, Mr Lacey,” he said briskly.

“Aye, aye, sir!” Lacey said happily and barked out an order. Immediately the eight men sprang forward and the rest stood back. Obviously the gun crew had been chosen while he was in the cave, and all of them were former Tritons.

Jackson, as gun captain, had the long pricker—officially known as the priming wire—and the powder flask ready. Stafford as the second captain was checking the lock, snapping it to make sure the flint made a good spark. One man had picked up the rammer while a fourth ran up with the thin flannel cylinder of gunpowder that was the cartridge, lifted it to the muzzle and pressed it in. He then helped the man with the rammer push it home, took the wad that was handed and helped ram that home. A fifth man came up with shot and that was pushed down the bore and rammed home. Both men jumped back clear of the muzzle as the men at the tackles ran the gun forward. If it had been mounted on board the
Juno,
the muzzle and much of the barrel would be poking out through the port, clear of the ship's side. Now it was run out to leave the heavy rope breeching slack, ready to take the strain when the gun recoiled.

The drill was excellent. Lacey, in contrast to the unnecessary orders he had been giving as the men lashed the cutter together, was now standing silent at the rear of the gun, waiting for Jackson to give the signal.

The American held up his hand and Lacey shouted, “Prime!” Jackson went to the vent, rammed the priming wire down the hole and made sure it had penetrated the flannel of the cartridge inside the breech, making a small hole and exposing the powder inside. Then he poured a small amount of powder into the pan, checking that it covered the vent.

“Point!” shouted Lacey.

Jackson took the trigger line coiled on top of the breech and walked back until he was standing at its full extent. He bent down on his right knee with his left leg flung out sideways. As he did that men picked up the handspikes and stood ready.

Jackson sighted along the barrel and called “Muzzle left!” to the handspikemen, gesturing with his left hand. They levered the rear of the carriage to the right, so that the muzzle of the gun came round to the left, and stopped when Jackson called, “Well!”

Lacey then gave the third order in the sequence of single word commands normally used. “Elevate!” he shouted.

The men thrust their handspikes under the breech of the gun, levering it up by using the steps cut into the after end of the carriage as a pivot, and lifted. Stafford pulled out the wedge-shaped quoin and the handspikemen slowly lowered the breech again, watching Jackson as he sighted along the barrel.

The moment he called, “Well!”, Stafford rammed in the wooden wedge and as soon as he felt the weight of the breech firmly resting on it he called, “Down!” The handspikemen jumped clear but Stafford stood by the breech, awaiting the next order.