The Ramage Touch (14 page)

Aitken pointed to the jetty, which formed the western side of the small bay. ‘The frigates can’t get alongside because it’s too shallow. I think I’d get in as close as possible, securing stern to the jetty, and use fishing boats as ferries. Even use ’em as a bridge of boats, planks lashed across them, if I could get in far enough.’

‘Let the French worry about that,’ Ramage said, lifting the weights and letting the chart roll up. ‘I’m sure they’ll anchor inside. The bomb ketches can anchor wherever they want, and because they have the advantage in range they might as well choose a place beyond the reach of any guns there might be in the forts.’

‘The gunner’s tables give a maximum of 4,000 yards for a 10-inch mortar,’ Aitken said. ‘That’s with a 12-pound charge.’

Ramage shook his head doubtfully. ‘That might be all right for a properly designed and constructed bomb ketch, but a 12-pound charge sounds too much for converted galliots. I’d expect the recoil to drive the mortar through the bottom!’

‘Aye, I wasn’t suggesting we tried ’em at that, sir,’ Aitken said hastily, thumbing through the gunner’s textbook. ‘Here we are
–
this seems the most likely. It’s a table of ranges using a 92-pound shell and with the mortar set at an elevation of forty-five degrees. A three-pound charge gives a range of 1,945 yards, which is 900 more than the French frigates are likely to reach if they’re only armed
en
flûte
. And even if they’re not,’ he added with a grin, ‘they’ll hardly be expecting visitors. If they moor stern to the jetty their guns won’t bear round to cover the entrance anyway.’

Ramage unrolled the chart again and weighted it down. He took a pair of dividers from a rack and set them to a mile on the latitude scale. Then with one point stuck on the jetty of Porto Ercole he swung the other in an arc covering the outside of the port. ‘We’ll be able to get the exact range from the heights of the frigates’ masts, but as I shall wait two or three days before we go down to Porto Ercole, we’ll have the bomb ketches practising on targets along the beach at 2,000 yards. We might even experiment and increase the charge half a pound at a time and see what we consider a safe maximum range.’

‘That French captain,’ Aitken said. ‘He might have…’

‘Yes, I’m going to have a chat with him. Fortunately he’s expecting to be returned to the
Fructidor
, so he knows it’s in his interest to give us accurate information, otherwise he might find one of the mortars crashing down on his head.’

Ramage put the chart back in the rack. ‘We must keep a sharp lookout for any French cavalry riding along the beach and wanting to pay us a social call: their commanding officer might take it into his head to try to invite himself to dinner.’

‘Then what do we do, sir?’

‘Ignore shouts from the beach and call me. Always be ready to resume mortar practice at short notice: a mortar shell exploding on the beach will panic horses. You’d better work out some system of signals between us and the bomb ketches so that we don’t have to hail in English.’

‘Wooding, sir. Can I send some wooding parties on shore? There’s no fresh water around according to the chart. No streams or anything.’

Wooding and watering: tasks which were a recurring problem in the course of a cruise: the cook always needed wood to fuel the galley fire under the water in the coppers in which most of the ship’s food was cooked, and a sensible captain grabbed every opportunity to fill casks with fresh water because that was almost the only thing that limited the range of a cruise. But as Aitken had commented, the chart showed no streams running into the sea for several miles, apart from one which came out of the pine trees to reach the sea just ahead of the
Calypso
as a stony sunken track, laced with tree branches washed down in the winter and now stripped of bark and bleached by the scorching sun. There had been no rain for many days and summer had parched the area. Was it worth the risk of having a party of seamen cutting or picking up wood being surprised by a French patrol? A few cords of wood in return for risking the whole operation with the bomb ketches? Ramage shook his head. ‘We’re not desperately short of wood. And we can always stretch over to the Corsican or Sardinian coasts afterwards for both wood and water.’

Later that evening Ramage gave his orders to Wagstaffe and Kenton: they would each send a party on shore next morning to place casks at 2,000 yards and 3,000 yards. Each would fire a dozen shells at the 2,000-yard target, and then increase the range by increasing the powder charge, using the 3,000-yard cask to help estimate distances. But, he emphasized, they were to watch the mortar bed; they must not risk damaging their ships.

Ramage did not tell them that Renouf, who was genuinely fascinated by bomb ketches and very proud of his mortars, regarded 4,000 yards as an acceptable range: the master armourer at Brest had tried out all four mortars at the sea range off Camaret, firing five rounds from each, with the master shipwright in attendance, and going down and inspecting the underdeck stanchions and the stringers after each round was fired.

Almost more important as far as the two lieutenants were concerned was Ramage’s agreement that they could take a barrel of powder with them. With powder made by the British Powder Factory, they said, they would guarantee better shooting. The French powder should be fed to pigs; it would produce streaky bacon of a high quality.

‘Haystacks,’ Southwick growled, giving one of his sniffs that expressed contempt without wasting words or breath. ‘A soldier’s wind
–
and it’d have to be a gale
–
is the only thing that’ll get them going.’

‘At least they can lay the course,’ Ramage said mildly, ‘and it’s a nice sunny day.’

‘Aye, but it’ll be winter and blowing a maestrale before we get to Porto Ercole,’ Southwick said. ‘Or a sirocco
–
we just need a few days of strong south winds; then these dam’ bombs would end up aground at Genoa.’

The
Calypso
was gliding along in an almost flat sea under only a maintopsail; the foretopsail had been furled half an hour ago, ‘Otherwise we’ll dishearten those two lads,’ Ramage had told Aitken, gesturing at the
Brutus
and the
Fructidor
. They were once again abeam, with every square foot of working canvas set and, in the case of the
Fructidor
, an awning or a large tarpaulin hoisted out on a boom as a rudimentary stunsail in the hope of coaxing a little more speed from a hull designed to carry cargo.

Southwick had given yet another sniff, this time one which Ramage recognized as indicating either disapproval or disagreement. He raised an eyebrow and looked round at the master, who said: ‘I doubt if those dam’ bomb ketches have ever before been sailed so fast in a wind like this: but for all that, if Wagstaffe and Kenton think they’ll get a broadside from you if they’re left behind, I guarantee they’d find another half a knot from somewhere.’

It was then that Ramage noticed both ships were trimmed down by the bow. He had seen their waterlines when they were at anchor
–
the bow high because one of the anchors was on the sea bottom. He had forgotten to look again when they weighed anchor, adding the weight of the anchor, and perhaps the cable too, if it was stowed well forward which it probably was, to leave as much space as possible for the original task of carrying cargo.

‘Let’s pass within hail,’ Ramage said sourly, irritated with himself. ‘I’ll give them an extra half a knot with only one shout.’

While a puzzled Southwick gave the orders to the quartermaster, Ramage looked round. Along the whole larboard side, from north to south, stretched the mainland of Italy, with Punta Ala now on the
Calypso
’s quarter. Argentario was jutting out like a mountain which, complete with its surrounding foothills, had been pushed out into the sea. It was fine on the larboard bow, seven or eight miles away, just too far for the long and sandy causeways joining it to the mainland to be visible to the naked eye. Because the nearest one was still below the curve of the horizon only the tips of the pine trees could be seen; the sand in which they grew was out of sight.

The small island topped by a fortress and now on the starboard bow was Giglio. He remembered once trying to teach Stafford how to pronounce the name. He had been the junior lieutenant of a frigate at the time, so it seemed like a century ago. It was impossible to teach the Cockney to say the soft liquid ‘g’ which was spoken with the teeth almost together. He had finally compromised with the first ‘g’ sounding like the ‘j’ in ‘jelly’ so that Stafford had produced ‘jeel-yoh!’, which was certainly an improvement on Giggly-oh. Now Giglio was on the starboard bow, the even tinier island of Giannutri beyond, fine on the starboard bow.

On Argentario was the little town and port at the northern end, Santo Stefano, which would be hidden from sight until the last moment and protected from attackers by the great fortress built on a hill overlooking it.

The first time he had seen it he had been the fifth-lieutenant of a frigate which had just been sunk by a French ship of the line. Now he had more experience and certainly he was a post captain, but somehow, apart from the different uniform he now wore (with the single epaulet showing he was a post captain with less than three years’ seniority) and the fact that he commanded this frigate, did he really feel any different?

He thought about it and decided that the difference was slight. Perhaps there was a sameness (despite the passing of the years) because still serving with him were some of the men who had shared those few desperate hours spent rescuing Gianna. A young lieutenant, a few seamen and an open boat to do the job for which the admiral had originally sent a frigate…And most of those seamen were at this very moment over in the
Fructidor
serving with her nephew. ‘Yes, Mr Orsini,’ they all said respectfully, as the law and custom of the Navy required, but there must be many times when they thought not of the fourteen-year-old boy but of his twenty-four-year-old aunt. None of them had ever seen her kingdom of Volterra, but they knew it was not far to the north-east, just over a few hills and now ruled by the French. But they all knew its heir at present was Paolo, and it must cross their minds that many young men heir to such a kingdom would take good care to stay alive, living comfortably, luxuriously, in some place like London, certainly not serving in a British frigate and always finding his way into any boarding party that seemed likely to cross swords with the French.

‘Speaking-trumpet, sir,’ Southwick said, and Ramage saw that the master had brought the
Calypso
close along the lee side of the
Fructidor
and, like starlings on the bough of a tree, Kenton, Paolo and several others were lining the bulwark and looking up at him as he stood at the quarterdeck rail. Ramage remembered his days as a young lieutenant. No doubt they were very worried: usually when a senior officer brought his frigate close alongside in circumstances like these it meant trouble.

He lifted the speaking-trumpet to his lips, hating the smell of the brass, polished that morning with brick dust but already corroding again from the salt air. Why the makers did not japan the whole trumpet, mouthpiece as well as the bell, he would never know.

‘Kenton
–
ahoy there, Kenton!’

‘Sir?’

‘You’re trimmed down by the bow
–
at least a foot. Shift some weight right aft. Have some men carry shells from the forward locker and stow ’em aft.’ An empty shell weighed about eighty-five pounds. ‘Try a dozen and see if you increase speed. If you don’t, try half a dozen more. Is she griping?’

‘Yes, sir. We’ve been trying to trim the sails to check it.’

‘Well, it’s probably because you’re down by the head. Check the helm now and then again later to see if it improves.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Ramage nodded towards Southwick. ‘Let’s give the glad news to the
Brutus
, although Wagstaffe should have worked it out for himself. It’s obvious he didn’t check the draught forward and after before he weighed this morning and enter it in the log.’

‘I should have thought of it myself,’ Southwick said ruefully.

‘Me, too,’ Aitken added as the master called a new course to the quartermaster.

Fifteen minutes later Wagstaffe listened as his captain’s voice came across the water, distorted by the speaking-trumpet, but hitting him like ricocheting musket shot. He waved shamefacedly and shouted back, ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Cursing under his breath, he turned to Martin. ‘She’s griping, she sails like a haystack, we can’t get the sails settling to balance her properly…And we never thought we might be trimmed down by the bow! It’s so obvious now. You take the helm so that we can be sure whether or not shifting those shells aft helps us. We’ll start off with a cast of the log to see our present speed.’

Over in the
Fructidor
pairs of seamen with carrying-bars resting across their shoulders staggered aft with shells knee-high, hooked on to the ropes. Weighing less than a hundredweight, an empty shell was not heavy for two men to carry with a bar, but it was awkward: as they walked it swung like a pendulum because the ketch was rolling slightly with the following wind, and while one man was looking at the shell, trying to avoid it swinging into the back of his knees, he would stub his toe on a ringbolt or walk into a cask or a hencoop lashed down on the deck, stumbling and causing the shell to hit his mate.

Jackson and Stafford stood by the taffrail with a long rope, one end of which they had already secured to an eyebolt on one side of the ship. As the carriers, perspiring and cursing, arrived with a shell, Stafford lifted it while Jackson unhitched the two hooks from the carrying handles on each side of the fuse hole and together they swung it over to the pile they were building. As Stafford steadied it, Jackson threaded the line through both handles and they waited for the next shell to arrive.

Rossi and Gutteridge staggered over. ‘You look like a couple of drunken milkmaids carrying a pail of curdled milk,’ Stafford jeered.