Ramage (38 page)

‘Bosun’s Mate! Pass the word down to the Carpenter’s Mate that we’ll probably be under fire on the starboard side in less than five minutes’ time.’

That would make sure the Carpenter’s Mate’s crew would be ready with shot plugs, sheets of leather and of copper, and liberal quantities of tallow, ready to stop up any holes. Because she was pitching violently, the chance of a shot hitting the underwater section of her bow as it rose in the air was considerable; and with the wind coming off the land the
Kathleen
was also heeled to larboard, showing a lot of the copper sheathing along her vulnerable starboard bilge below the waterline.

Up and over: the
Kathleen
’s bow lifted to a wave, sliced off the top in spray, and sank into the trough. Suddenly an extra strong gust of wind heeled her right over so that the sharp wedge of the stem cut into the next crest at a much sharper angle, scooping solid water over the weather bow and sluicing it aft along the flush deck. Seamen grabbed handholds on guns and rope tackles as, a moment later, they were knee-high in water which cascaded along like a river, snatching up everything loose on deck – including thick rope rammers and sponges used for loading the guns, and some of the match tubs.

Southwick bellowed to the men at the aftermost guns on the lee side and they grabbed the flotsam before it swept out through the gunports.

Ramage just cursed to himself. Thank God he’d ordered the tompions to be put back in the carronades to seal the muzzles.

‘Mr Southwick – make sure the guns’ captains wipe the flints and the locks.’

Ramage could now see every detail of the
Belette
quite clearly without the telescope. He called Southwick over, quickly ran through the plan and told him again, emphasizing each word: ‘As soon as we’re in range I’ll begin to pay off to bring the guns to bear. The minute the last gun’s fired, we wear ship to get clear to seaward.’

‘Aye aye, sir: I understand.’

‘And overhaul all the sheets and runners.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Southwick said cheerfully. ‘We’ll do it just as if the Admiral was watching.’

‘Better than that,’ Ramage grinned. ‘It’s a lot worse being blown up by a Frenchman than rubbed down by an Admiral.’

At that moment Ramage thought of Gianna: what was she doing? He deliberately pushed the thought from his mind, otherwise he’d start wondering if he’d ever see her again. A reasonable enough question, though, looking at those 12-pounder guns whose snouts were already sticking out through the
Belette
’s ports.

Something over half a mile, with four or five minutes to go, and the cutter sailing too fast and rolling too much to give the gunners a real chance.

‘I’ll have the guns run out, Mr Southwick. Leave the tompions in.’

He watched the carronades being hauled out on their slides, ordered a slight alteration of course, and suddenly decided on a brief few words with the men. He put the speaking trumpet to his lips – what a beastly taste the copper mouthpiece had – and shouted: ‘D’you hear there! Mr Appleby’s explained what we are going to do. Remember – every shot through the captain’s cabin! And look lively at the sheets when we wear round or those Frenchmen will knock off your heads and the
Kathleen
’s stern!’

The men yelled and waved: they were soaking wet from spray but cheerful.

The cutter was finding calmer water in the lee of the cliffs: now he had to watch out for sudden unexpected gusts of wind. He wanted to reduce last-minute rushing about, and anyway she was still heeling too much.

‘Haul down the foresail, Mr Southwick, and check the mainsheet a fraction.’

The men at the mast let go the foresail halyard while others slackened away the sheet. After flapping for a moment or two it slid down the stay. At the same time other men eased away the mainsheet and, with the mainsail holding less wind, the cutter slowed down, her motion at once becoming less violent.

Damn…as usual he was leaving things too late; but still, the less time anyone – including himself – had to think about the
Belette
’s guns the better.

Jackson was standing near and Ramage said: ‘Hoist the first signal – number one hundred and thirty-two.’

The American hauled one end of the light halyard, keeping tension on the other by letting it run through his legs.

Ramage had been watching the men at the tiller: they were good helmsmen, and it’d be easier to tell them where to go than try to give a course.

‘Steer as if you were going to put us ashore three hundred yards this side of the frigate.’

By now the signal flags were streaming out in the wind and through his telescope Ramage saw the acknowledgement waved from the Tower.

Would the
Belette
’s captain understand when it was reported to him that the cutter had just signalled, ‘To exercise guns and small arms’? Ramage wanted him to make a diversion; but even if he missed the significance, it would not spoil the plan.

The
Belette
seemed to be deserted, but Ramage knew hidden telescopes were watching him and seeing the exchange of signals with the Tower.

‘Lot of shooting from the Tower, sir,’ reported Jackson.

Ramage looked up at the cliff, yes, the British had taken the hint and were doing their best: puffs of smoke were squirting from the top of the building and vanishing quickly in the wind.

Looking forward along the deck, Ramage saw the cutter was still smashing into an occasional larger-than-usual wave and throwing spray over the weather bow.

‘Ease her to the big ones,’ he snapped to the men at the tiller: he did not want more water over the guns.

The cliffs were getting very close now and the
Belette
was end on.

‘Stand by to ease sheets, Mr Southwick! Quartermaster – steer as though you were going to lay us alongside!’

The Master shouted an order.

Ramage was suddenly worried that he might have taken the cutter too close, so the carronades couldn’t be elevated high enough. Southwick saw his expression, misinterpreted it and, glancing up at the cliffs, said with his usual cheerfulness: ‘If we hit a rock, sir, it’ll be just a bit o’ bad luck: should be ten fathoms under our keel with cliffs like that.’

Ramage nodded: steep cliffs usually meant deep water close in, while a low coastline normally went with shallow water.

With the
Kathleen
racing down on the frigate Ramage was conscious of a stream of impressions: the sea was much calmer, though the cliffs weren’t blanketing the wind nearly as much as he’d expected, and he could see only the top of the Tower – the edge of the cliff hid the rest.

‘You are still on trial’ – whatever Probus meant, the next trial wouldn’t lack witnesses but if he made a mistake they’d lack someone to charge.

God, but they were approaching the frigate quickly! He saw Jackson looking at him and realized he was rubbing the scar on his forehead. Damn that American! Self-consciously he clasped his hands behind his back, telescope under his left arm. Once more unto the breach, dear friends…

Now he could see the panes of glass in the frigate’s stern lights – they’d need reglazing soon. And there was the jagged remains of the rudder post where the rudder had snapped off close under the tuck of the transom. Curious how the masts had fallen in just the right position against the cliff.

Three hundred yards to go; no, less, much less.

He put the speaking trumpet to his lips, then took it away and wiped the mouthpiece free of salt water – he was thirsty enough already.

‘Remember, you men: every shot must count! Don’t hurry – and remember I’ll be bearing away slightly as you fire, so don’t worry about training the carronades. Out with the tompions!’

Now he could see some details of the gilt scrollwork on the
Belette
’s transom and quarter galleries. A face appeared for a moment where a pane of glass was missing.

‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ Jackson said blithely.

Two hundred yards to go to the firing point: the cutter was creaming along like a yacht – one needed a few beautiful women on deck, laughing and joking… One hundred and fifty yards… Women like Gianna, asking questions, mispronouncing unfamiliar words, her voice like music, her body… One hundred yards: the quartermaster was balancing at the windward side of the tiller, easing it a fraction this way and that, the other man pushing or pulling in unison.

‘Stand by to ease sheets, Mr Southwick.’

An unnecessary order – he’d just said that. Ramage rubbed his forehead again, not giving a damn whether or not Jackson noticed, and glimpsed the face at the window again.

From where he was standing it was sixty feet to the
Kathleen
’s stemhead and her bowsprit stretched out another forty feet beyond: a little over thirty yards altogether.

Then a momentary spasm of terror gripped Ramage: he realized that it was impossible to rake the
Belette
and then wear the cutter round in time to avoid passing through the field of fire of the frigate’s aftermost guns. He’d misjudged both his course and the curve of the
Belette
’s quarter; but it was too late to do anything about it.

Fifty yards to the point where he could begin to bear away. Half these men now tensed by the guns would be dead in a couple of minutes’ time.

‘Quartermaster – bear away slowly now! Mr Southwick – sheets! Stand by at the guns!’

Slowly the cutter’s bow, which had been heading almost directly at the frigate’s stern, began to turn away to seaward. Ramage thought he’d never seen a ship turn so slowly and was just going to tell the quartermaster to put the helm hard up when he saw the captain of the first carronade drop down on one knee four or five feet behind the gun and peer along the barrel, the trigger line taut in his right hand.

Steady, he told himself… But God Almighty, a frigate was a damn big ship viewed from the deck of a cutter.

A sudden crash from forward as the first gun fired made him jump, but instinctively he glanced at the target; a complete section of the
Belette
’s stern lights where the man had been standing disappeared in a cloud of dust: strange how shot hitting light woodwork always sent up dust. Some rusty coloured pockmarks round the hole showed where a few scattered grapeshot had smashed through planking.

Another crash as the second carronade fired, and the grapeshot blasted into the starboard side of the transom. Most of them hit below the windows, sending up more dust, showers of splinters, and sparks where they ricocheted off metal.

The third gun fired, punching in the centre section. But the
Kathleen
was still swinging seaward and Ramage could now look along the side of the frigate. He saw the ugly short muzzles of her broadside guns poking out of the ports, trained round as far aft as possible. He could imagine the Frenchmen, their hands taking up the slack on the trigger lines, waiting for the cutter to sail into their sights…

The smoke from the
Kathleen
’s carronades drifted aft and although Ramage was not watching it, the smell was there, acrid and biting in the back of his throat. The noise and smell of battle: the combination drove many men temporarily crazy, transforming them from quiet, amiable sailors into bloodthirsty killers. This was the moment – particularly with boarding parties – when officers had to be alert to keep the men firmly in the grip of discipline. They rarely if ever did; but success needed no excuses, and in case of failure dead officers could not reproach themselves.

‘Mr Southwick– stand by to wear ship!’

The fourth carronade fired: one more round to go: he looked at the fifth gun, the last of his puny broadside. The Gunner’s Mate, Edwards, was kneeling down aiming it: even now he was calling for a slight adjustment in elevation.

The trigger line was tight in his hand. Would the damned man never fire? He looked along the barrel, glanced through the port to make sure no large waves were coming, paused a moment for the roll – and then jerked the line.

Ramage was hardly conscious of the crash of the gun: but saw the smoke spurting from the muzzle.

‘Wear ship!’

The Quartermaster and his mate swung the tiller; seamen hauled desperately at the mainsheet to ease over the main boom; others heaved at runners and jib sheet. The cutter’s bow began to swing seaward, but slowly, hell, how slowly. Ramage watched the big boom bang across, then glanced astern.

He was looking right into the muzzles of four 12-pounders on the frigate’s main deck, and four smaller guns on the deck above: staring straight at the proof of his error of judgement. Because the
Belette
’s fat hull curved round to her narrower quarters, the aftermost guns could train farther round: he’d misjudged the extent of that curve, and even now the French gunners must see the
Kathleen
filling their sights.

Jackson was muttering, ‘Jesus… Jesus!’

The muzzle of the aftermost gun on the
Belette
’s lower deck winked a red eye and spurted yellowish smoke. A split second later there was a crash overhead and Ramage glanced up to see the
Kathleen
’s topmast slowly toppling down. He could not stop himself looking back at the frigate.