Ramage's Trial (8 page)

“Now, to answer the question put by that gentleman at the back, who must have been in that particular convoy. He forgot to mention that the convoy reached England without loss, although we were attacked four times. Still, I should be misleading you if I did not warn you that anyone dropping astern at night because of unnecessarily reefing and furling, will get towed back into position by one of my frigates. That reef-and-furl nonsense can delay the convoy for half a day while you catch up at your leisure…”

“But that's outrageous!” bellowed one of the masters, a man whose complexion revealed his tippling. “I shall resist! To the utmost!”

“That is your privilege,” Ramage said dryly. “Just remember that my orders are to get this convoy to England safely and your anticipated tardiness could endanger every other ship in the convoy. Look around you, sir: your desire for quiet nights in bed under reduced canvas will put every one of these other gentlemen and their ships at risk. The French are at sea, you know.”

Ramage could hear the muttering now, like waves on a distant beach, and it seemed to be directed against the truculent master, who had to try to save face. “Well, if your fellows try to board me, they'll get a hot reception.”

“I'll tell them,” Ramage said coldly. “Less than a month ago the men in my frigate – ‘my fellows' – captured two frigates from the French and you saw them being brought in as prizes. Those two frigates will be part of your escort. Your threat will no doubt fill ‘my fellows' with alarm…”

Many of the masters began laughing and the original man contented himself with a gruff: “I know my rights.”

“Yes,” Ramage said pleasantly, “and you should know your obligations – they are set out in the booklets now being issued to you.”

And now, he thought, thanks to Yorke's well-timed remark, none of these mules are under any illusions about what will happen if they delay. Perhaps one or two will go over to the
Queen
and complain to Admiral Tewtin, but Tewtin was so delighted with the idea of getting rid of the convoy without losing one of his own frigates that he would send the grumblers packing – probably adding his own threats as well.

“Well, gentlemen,” Ramage continued, “let us get on with the serious business of the convoy. You will find tucked into the
SIGNALS and INSTRUCTIONS
a plan showing the position of every ship in the convoy. You'll see that the ships are spaced two cables apart. I want to warn you that I have chosen two cables, four hundred yards, not because it is my favourite number but because, first, that is a reasonable separation to avoid collisions and, secondly, it is a practical distance that gives the frigates room to manoeuvre among you should there be an attack by French privateers – or the French fleet.”

“Is there any intelligence that the French fleet is at sea?” one of the masters asked nervously.

“No – but there's always a chance.”

“Aren't we blockading Brest?”

“Yes, but French ships of war can sail from Toulon, Marseilles and a dozen other ports; they can also arrive from the East Indies, from Martinique…” Having got the idea across to the masters Ramage was reluctant to let it go, but for the moment he could not think of any other French ports. But the main threat was not from French ships of war.

“Gentlemen, we must all be on our guard against the main enemy – privateers. You've sailed in convoys before, most of you many times, but I must emphasize this. There's not much chance of a privateer being able to capture one of you if you stay in position in the convoy: your positions and the shape of the convoy have been selected to give the frigates in the escort the best opportunity of defending you.

“But if one of you straggles, drops astern during the night so that at dawn we just see your topmasts on the horizon, you are inviting a French privateer to snap you up.

“Any privateer with experience knows there's always a straggler – your reputation, gentlemen, is well known – so the privateer gets astern of the convoy during the night and chooses his straggler. Just before dawn he is ready, and then he swoops. In ten minutes you are his prize – and no doubt you will complain the escort is not doing its job. You'll forget you straggled five or six miles astern. I put it to you: why should each of the other seventy-one ships in the convoy be put at risk so that a frigate can stay with the straggler, who is only trying to save pennies on canvas, or make sure he has a quiet night without a squall making him furl or reef?

“Gentlemen,” Ramage said bluntly, “if you don't want to be roused out at night to furl or reef, or tack or wear, then you should not have come to sea: you should have opened a grocer's shop, or set up as a farrier or, if you feel bloodthirsty, set up a knacker's yard.”

The choices set most of the masters laughing: in fact, Ramage decided, that sorted them out: the men laughing were those who did not straggle; those with long faces, like mourners attending a debtor's funeral, were the stragglers…

He then ran through the
SIGNALS and INSTRUCTIONS
, emphasizing the seven instructions, going through the signals from the commander of the convoy which would be made without flags, and then the signals which would be made with one flag or with a pendant under a flag. Then very carefully he covered the signals to be made from ships in the convoy to the commander of the escort – they ranged from “An enemy is in sight” and “Being in distress and wanting immediate assistance” to “Sticking on a shoal” and that the commander's signal was not understood (a favourite way of being stubborn). Fog signals and the various combinations of lights used at night rounded off the working part; then Ramage emphasized the penalties printed on page thirteen.

“I want you to note, gentlemen, that at the bottom left-hand side of the page is written your name and that of your ship. To the right, where it says ‘Given under my hand on board of…' you will see my signature.

“Those of you who know me – and I recognize some faces – also know that I am a man of my word. I promise you I shall try to get this convoy to England safely. But in turn I rely on each of you to play your part. We shall sail tomorrow morning, as soon after dawn as possible. So thanking you, I bid you all good-day.”

“You got them,” Southwick muttered. “There wasn't one of them, except Mr Yorke, who couldn't see the
Calypso
towing 'em under in a high wind and a rough sea!”

As the masters filed out of the hall, Ramage said: “I hope they could also imagine it happening in a light breeze, if necessary!”

 

The day began with a typical tropical dawn: the first hint of daylight showed a low bank of cloud on the eastern horizon looking more like a mourning band worn round a hat, with none of the jagged lines associated with squalls or thunderstorms.

The
Calypso
was alive with excitement and bustle, as though the frigate herself was excited at the prospect of sailing. Southwick strode the decks with the bounce of a suffragan bishop about to hold an unexpectedly large confirmation; Aitken had the firm walk of a landowner in the Highlands setting off on the ten-mile walk that would bring a prime stag in front of his musket. Young Paolo, with a telescope tucked under his arm, was watching the flagship for signals (not that any were expected, but one should never trust flagships) but more important watching every one of the anchored merchant ships: now was the time for them to start signalling all their defects, all the reasons why they could not weigh anchor (too few seamen), hoist sails (same excuse), sheet them home or brace them up (they needed new cordage or had sprung a yard), and why they had run short of water (having been too lazy or too cunning to send their men on shore to fill casks, they now hoped the Navy would send men and boats, in order to get the convoy moving). Or, as Southwick had commented bitterly, the kind of cunning excuses invented by sly men to get something for nothing.

Just as Paolo (the slight accent in his voice suddenly reminding Ramage of Gianna) reported that a merchant ship called the
Beatrice
had hoisted a wheft from the foretopmast, showing that she wanted to communicate with the commander, Ramage said briskly: “Loose the foretopsail and fire one gun…”

Aitken gave a bellow that sent a dozen men up the foremast and out along the yard: Southwick shouted an order to the gunner while having the men on the fo'c'sle heave a few more turns on the capstan and haul up more of the anchor cable, which had already been taken in to “short stay”, the last position before Southwick would report “Anchor aweigh…up and down.”

“The
Beatrice
, sir?” Paolo asked.

“Take a turn round the foredeck and then report it to me,” Ramage said and Paolo grinned and walked forward.

Ramage sighed: none of the mules seemed to be making a move towards weighing, and from the look of the bedraggled ship with the wheft, the
Beatrice
, she probably needed everything, including men to man the pump…Well, this damned convoy was going to be sailed to England “by the book”. Ramage had his orders from Tewtin to take the convoy to England: the
SIGNALS
and INSTRUCTIONS
gave the mules their orders; his own conduct was governed by the large volume of the
King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions
, and the very slim volume comprising the Articles of War; and that was that. Any mule wanting anything was going to be charged at the rate set down; those that did not keep up with the convoy without a good reason would get a tow to frighten them; after that they would be left to disappear astern, prey for French privateers.

Captain Ramage in the
Calypso
and the Count of Rennes in a large merchantman each had their own reasons for getting to England in a hurry, and Ramage had decided that the urgency of him getting news of Sarah more than justified sticking to the rules: there was no regulation saying that the King's ships were responsible for getting merchant ships under way or keeping them afloat: this had become a habit because most convoy commanders were (quite reasonably) frightened of the effect it could have on their career if some wretched master of a merchant ship complained to his owners, telling a self-serving story, and they in turn complained to Their Lordships, naming the captain and listing his alleged misdeeds.

As too many frigate captains had found to their cost, it was harder to answer allegations than to make them, and Lloyd's wielded influence far greater than most officers expected. And, of course, masters trying to justify their own conduct or shortcomings or that of their owners, did not always pay strict attention to the truth. However, frigate commanders understood one thing – Their Lordships appeared to fawn over Lloyd's, and a frigate captain found he was never employed again after a collision with them. There was a desperate shortage of frigates; there was a glut of post-captains to command them.

Ramage looked round the great bay. It was a good many years (a couple of centuries in fact) since it was named after Lord Carlisle, who had been made, as though by a whim, “Lord Proprietor of the English Caribbee Islands” by Charles I. Since then a good many thousand merchant ships had anchored in the Bay at the beginning or end of the long voyage to or from Europe. Once again another convoy was preparing to sail – though, he admitted sourly, at the moment there was little sign of it. The
Calypso
's foretopsail hung down like a curtain, slatting in the breeze; she had fired a gun, and the very first of the
Signals from the Commander of the Convoy
gave the explanation:
Foretopsail loose
…
One gun, To prepare for sailing
.

Both the other frigates were under way, and Ramage was pleasantly surprised at the men Tewtin had put in command.

But it was now time for the second signal from the convoy commander listed in the
SIGNALS and
INSTRUCTIONS
:
Maintopsail loose
…
One gun, To unmoor
.

Ramage waved at Aitken, who was standing at the other side of the quarterdeck rail, and the first lieutenant lifted the speaking trumpet to his mouth, shouting an order which sent men racing up the ratlines and then out along the maintopsail yard. The sail billowed down as another spurt of smoke tried to race the echoing crash of the signal gun.

Pulling out the tube of his telescope, Ramage began inspecting the merchant ships and was reminded of a herd of cattle spread across a meadow. Left alone they would slowly chew the cud, clumsily rising every few hours, and if the wind got up or it began to rain, turning to face away from it. But the
Calypso
was now the barking dog coming into the meadow (not rushing, but slowly, like a well-trained animal) to disturb not just a few but every one of them.

The circular image in the glass revealed desultory movement on the fo'c'sle of two-thirds of the ships. But the only thing moving on board the
Beatrice
was the wheft, the knotted flag flapping at the foretopmasthead. Sidney Yorke's
Emerald
, by far the smartest in the anchorage, with hull and spars newly painted, the cordage showing the golden colour of new hemp, already had her anchor apeak and, with a foretopsail set, the ship was about to thread her way to leeward, away from the rest of the anchored ships and to the area well clear of the anchorage and off the town where the convoy was to form up. Form up, Ramage thought bitterly…easier to teach cows the quadrille than get these mules into their proper positions without broken bowsprits, ripped out jibbooms or, the more usual, having at least one ship locked in tight embrace with another, its jibboom and bowsprit stuck through the other's rigging, its bow locked amidships by torn planking…

Now Paolo was back. “Are you ready for my report, sir?” he asked with a grin.