Ramage's Signal (32 page)

The Marine, Albert Coke, was naturally berthed aft with the rest of the Marines in the
Calypso,
between the seamen and the officers, and his duties meant he did not mix so much with the seamen. This night's work with Stafford and ‘Arry was, Ramage could tell, quite an experience. Hearing first-hand accounts of burgling expeditions against “some o' the best ‘ouses in London”—a phrase Ramage had often heard Stafford use in the past when being teased by Jackson and Rossi—was obviously a new experience for Albert Coke.

Looking ahead, Ramage could see why they were now fast approaching the coast—or, rather, at night one always seemed to be going faster, although the speed remained the same. It was one of the tricks played by shadow, and with a moon this bright the shadow made the cliffs look like jagged pieces of coal held close to the face.

This time—indeed, for the first time ever that he could remember—he was approaching an enemy ship without sending the men to quarters. They were already as prepared for action as ever they could be, and their weapons were simply grapnels and lanterns, and some lengths of fuse … None of the
Merle
's six-pounders would be fired; no muskets were even loaded. There was far too much danger, with all that powder about, for there to be any guns discharged in the
Merle,
although a few men had pistols in case of trouble later.

He thought for a moment what would happen if the French were suspicious and opened fire. A French round shot through the side of the
Merle
and into those barrels of powder would—well, they would know nothing about it although people would see the flash for fifty miles or more. The rumble might well wake up the mayor of Cagliari, who would assume there had been yet another earthquake.

O
NCE again Ramage took out his watch—the hands were easy to see in the moonlight. He was not really interested in the time; he wanted to clear his mind of depressing thoughts, like approaching a French 74 in a brig laden with one hundred and fifty tons of powder. Time was of no consequence now; only distances mattered. The French ship—it was irritating not to know her name—was perhaps a mile away: the distance was difficult to judge because she was bow-on and against the black cliffs. A mile, say, and the
Merle
was making about four knots. In fifteen minutes it should be all over, one way or another.

He joined Jackson and bent over the compass, taking a rough bearing of the
Muscade
and then of the French 74. He could imagine Southwick doing the same on board the
Muscade.

The enemy a mile away to leeward: soon he would not be able to shout, except for the final orders in the last mad moments, in case the French heard the English words. So now was the time for his little speech; the one the men always seemed to expect, even though the words could only be banal.

“Calypsos,” he called, “we have slightly less than a quarter of an hour to go.” Surprising how being rather precise about the time gave the impression of carefully measured sextant angles of the Frenchman's mainmasthead and calculations using tables.

“I'm sure you can all see our target, and you can see the
Muscade
over on our starboard beam. The
Merle
and the
Muscade
are the two jaws of a pair of nutcrackers. You can see the nut dead ahead, almost in the shadow of the cliff. The only nut ever cracked with more than two hundred tons of powder!

“But our nutcrackers will probably only work if we get the nut squarely between us. We can rely on Mr Southwick and the
Muscade.
As far as the
Merle
is concerned, we have very little to do, but it has to be done correctly.

“First, I have to get this ship alongside that 74. If I go wrong, I expect Jackson will put me right.” That drew a laugh from all the men, who knew that the pair of them had been in action together several dozen times.

“As I'm doing that, topmen will be clewing up the maintop-sail and then the fore-topsail. Before that—in five minutes' time—you'll have furled the fore and main courses.

“You grapnel men will hook us on with at least six grapnels.” He had to pause as the other men jeered and the grapnel men protested their skill. “As soon as the topsails are clewed up and the grapnels hooked on, Stafford and ‘Arry will—when I give the order—light the fuses.

“By that time the boat-keeper, who at the moment is astern in the cutter, fast asleep, will with Jackson's help have the cutter ready alongside the larboard quarter. As soon as I hear from Stafford that the fuses are burning steadily, I shall order ‘Abandon ship,' and we get down into the cutter and row seaward very quickly. Seaward because the French will find it harder to fire at us with muskets from over their bow, and because it is darker to seaward.

“If there is any problem with the fuses, we'll leave Stafford behind to deal with it because he has such nimble fingers.”

Again that brought laughter and some teasing of Stafford, and when the men were quiet again Ramage said: “From now on, no more talking; sound carries on a night like this, and we want the sentries and lookouts in that 74 to remain merely curious why a couple of their brigs are coming up to them; we don't want ‘em too suspicious. Not until we're alongside, anyway, when we'll allow them to begin to wonder!”

He looked across at the
Muscade
and then ahead at the Frenchmen. It was time to take in the courses.

“Man the main and fore clew garnets, buntlines and leech-lines,” he called, and within minutes the
Merle
's two biggest sails were furled on the yards. It was as if a great door had been opened forward: now he had an uninterrupted view of the sea and sky and the land: the orange disc of the moon, the hard black, wavy shadow of hills and cliffs, and the hint of a white line where waves were breaking and swirling among the rocks, like a hinge between the sea and the sky.

The French ship of the line was getting large now: first her royal masts, thin and spidery, rose above the dark hills behind; then Ramage could make out her topmasts and yards. And as he watched he could see out of the corner of his eye the
Muscade
exactly in position in relation to the
Merle;
both brigs were approaching the apex of the triangle.

Were ten minutes enough for them to get clear in the boats? He began to wonder, and the more he thought about it the more he wished he had added another five minutes. Southwick, for example, was not as nimble as the young seamen, and he would insist on being the last down into the gig.

What kind of explosion would one hundred and fifty tons of powder make, plus seventy-five tons on the other side? And—he realized his mistake in forgetting it—all the powder in the French ship's magazine: that would go up too, and she was unlikely to be carrying less than fifty tons. There would be something approaching a tidal wave; they would have to watch out for it as they fled. To be pooped by the tidal wave you caused yourself would be the crowning, or drowning, irony.

He could make out almost every detail of the Frenchman now: the rigging was black lace, like fishing nets drying on stakes, the yards the bare boughs of a tree in winter. The ship was swinging slightly from odd wind currents bouncing off the hills, or eddies as the sea rebounded from the base of the cliffs. Just enough of a swing that neither he nor Southwick would be able to approach on a course parallel with the Frenchman's centreline; they would have to come in at a slight angle so that they could avoid her jib-boom and bowsprit if she swung, jinking by putting their helms over at the last moment so the brigs turned inwards, like two arms clasping a package.

The French ship was all black: she swung just enough for him to see that she had no strake of light colour or white to pick out the sheer. Her port-lids were closed so the guns were neither loaded nor run out. Her yards were not square—but then she was French, and if she stayed there at anchor for a week, they would still be almost a'cockbill. Southwick will already have noticed that!

She was lying to a single anchor; that was obvious from the slight swing, but Ramage thought he could make out the cable on the larboard bow. That too would make sense if she anticipated wind and swell from the south.

No shout and no challenge. Had the brigs been ships of war they would have had to be ready to answer the night challenge—lanterns arranged in a particular pattern—with an answer that differed only in the positions of the lanterns; but merchant ships were issued with neither challenge nor reply.

“Are you ready there at the fuses, Stafford?”

“Aye aye, sir; we have two lanterns.”

He looked up at the main-yard and, making a trumpet with his hands, called softly: “Man the fore and maintopsail clew-lines and buntlines … Hands stand by the sheets …”

The ship of the line was now fine on the starboard bow.

“That's as far as she swings to starboard?” he asked Jackson. “Yes, sir. I've been steering on that.”

“You may have to come up a point at the last moment—”

“Sir—look at the
Muscade!
”

Stafford was calling urgently from the hatch and Ramage looked over to find Southwick's brig drawing aft and heeling over to larboard. No, not just drawing aft but being left astern!

She was listing, not heeling; the end of her main-yard must be almost in the water. Had she sprung a sudden leak? Was she capsizing? But even as he watched, almost rigid with apprehension, Ramage saw she was up by the bow and was not listing more: she seemed immovable. Obviously she had just sailed into a rock or on to a reef with enough force to lift up her bow; then she must have rolled over enough to heel the ship.

Suddenly the yards swung fore and aft and Ramage saw her topsails fluttering like shaken towels as sheets were cut and braces let fly to ease the pressure on the canvas and the masts.

Ahead the French 74 was anchored not more than five hundred yards from the
Merle,
and as he recovered from the shock of the
Muscade
and decided it was too late to worry whether there were reefs between the
Merle
and the enemy, Ramage realized that his nutcracker plan was ruined; the nutcrackers had lost one arm; there was now no way of squeezing from both sides.

Five hundred yards to go … Should he bear up and beat out of the gulf, picking up Southwick and his men as he went? If so he had to give the order to Jackson at this very moment—and he had to get both topsails and courses drawing again.

No, the fact that Southwick's brig had hit a rock was no reason why a French 74 should escape destruction, and the nutcracker plan was not the only way of doing it.

In fact, it was a dam' silly way: from her very shape and the thickness of futtocks and planking, the sides of a ship of the line were enormously strong; not only were all her guns arranged along her sides, firing out through the gun ports, but that was where she was designed to receive all the punishment in the usual battle of broadsides.

Any ship-of-war's weakest point was her bow: there the stays came down from the masts to the bowsprit and jib-boom; wrench away those two spars and there was a good chance of bringing down the foremast. And the ship, because of the batten-and-canvas bulkheads, was open from bow to stern. The bow itself was strong enough to withstand a heavy sea, but everyone feared being raked—having a broadside (or even a single gun) fired through the bow or into the stern so that the shot swept the unprotected length of the ship.

Very well, that 74's bow was like a bull's nose, the most tender spot.

“Calypsos!” Ramage yelled, “change of plan! We're not going alongside, we'll just—” But he broke off; there was no time to finish the sentence without creating confusion.

It was essential at times like this to remember that the ship's bow turned the opposite way to the wheel order.

“Hard a' port!” he snapped at Jackson, and as the American spun the wheel the brig's bow began to swing to starboard towards the French 74's jib-boom, which stuck out like a fishing rod from a river bank, moving gently across the horizon.

As soon as he was sure the brig was really swinging he said calmly: “Now up with the helm, Jackson, and jam us athwart his hawse!”

The American gave a bloodcurdling laugh as he spun the wheel the opposite way and the brig's bow started to swing back to larboard, so that the little ship began skidding sideways through the water, pivoting with rudder acting against sail, ensuring that she would smash at right angles across the Frenchman's bow, with that great jib-boom holding the
Merle
far more securely than a hundred grapnels.

“Hold tight, Calypsos!” Ramage yelled. “Secure those lanterns, Stafford!”

Then the crash came: like an enormous lance the 74's jib-boom rammed into the shrouds of the foremast and as the
Merle
slewed slightly, tore out the brig's whole mast with a crackling and rending that made Ramage think of a forest of dead trees toppling.

Then the
Merle
came to a stop. Towering above her starboard side was the French ship's bow, stark against the moonlight and now alive with shouts and hysterical challenges in French.

“Stafford—light the fuses!”

Then to Jackson: “Get the boat alongside!”

To the men forward: “Topmen, grapnel men, sheetmen—come aft!”

There was a light forward, then another. Stafford and ‘Arry and the Marine Albert Coke were busy with the lanterns.

Jackson was cursing somewhere aft, cursing fluently at the boat-keeper. They had forgotten to waken him up, and now Jackson was having to waste precious seconds as the sleepy man kept the painter clear while Jackson hauled.

Now the French were screaming down at the
Merle.
They still did not realize they were being attacked; they thought that a clumsy French merchant ship had accidentally misjudged wind or current and become stuck athwart their hawse.