The Ramage Touch (26 page)

A ball of smoke appeared above the hulk as another mortar shell burst in mid-air; a second one landed close in the water and exploded a moment later, stirring up the wreckage. A third landed well beyond, over the quay, and then a fourth burst high in the air, the fuse obviously cut too short. Then Ramage spotted a movement: the northernmost frigate was making a desperate attempt to get out of the harbour: obviously all the lines holding her stern to the quay had been cut and she was being pulled forward by the weight of her own anchor cables; being pulled clear of her consort, which was likely to catch fire at any moment from the wreckage of the third ship.

At this moment the
Calypso
was in a perfect position, but every passing minute carried her southwards across the harbour entrance, so that she would have to tack back and then wear round again…

‘We’ll heave-to, Mr Aitken,’ Ramage said. ‘Trice up the port lids and run out the guns. Warn boarders to stand by and–’ he glanced round, looking for Renwick ‘–I want the Marines ready, first as sharpshooters and then perhaps as boarders.’

The
Calypso
began swinging again, to head into the wind as she hove-to, turning back towards the Feniglia and then lying stopped in the water like a resting gull as backed foretopsail pressed the bow to starboard and mizentopsail pushed it to larboard, so the two forces balanced.

Ramage continued watching the French frigate. His teles-cope revealed men now swarming up the rigging and out on to the yards. On the fo’c’sle men were struggling to load the two bow-chase guns. The drooping curve made by the anchor cables was shortening as the weight of the ropes sinking into the water pulled the ship forward and towards the harbour entrance. Ramage expected to see them vanish the moment the two cables were hanging down vertically from the hawsepipes, cut on board and freeing the ship.

So far the northerly breeze had not begun to push her over to the southern side of the entrance, to the rocks at the foot of the headland forming La Rocca. If her captain had remembered to put the wheel over to make use of the little way the ship had from the drag of the anchor cables, he might manage to keep her over to larboard long enough to get a sail set. Any squaresail would help; the foretopmen, for instance, should be streaming out on the yard slashing with knives at the gaskets which kept the sail furled.

Then he caught sight of frantic movement on the frigate’s starboard quarter: she appeared to be towing something – it was the raft which he had seen between her and the next frigate; the French had been using it as a ramp to load the horses and guns. Now they were trying to cut it free – and there was a gun carriage perched on it, like a cat adrift on a box.

The foretopsail dropped like a huge napkin being shaken, there was a pause as the yard was hoisted, and almost at once Ramage saw the movement as the yard was braced sharp up and the sail sheeted home. The main course was then let fall and sheeted home – and a splash at the bow showed that the anchor cables had been cut, snaking out of the hawseholes and splashing down into the water.

As the main course was trimmed, so the fore course was let fall, and by now the French frigate was getting clear of the harbour entrance. How far did those rocks run northward from La Rocca? Ramage watched tensely, conscious of a slight tremble as he held the glass. The frigate came on; there was no shudder, so she had not bumped a rock. She had plenty of way on now, and as he watched the masts he realized she was managing to turn slightly to larboard, away from the rocks and more into the centre of the channel out of the harbour.

With topsails and courses set she would move fast the moment she was clear of the harbour and able to bear away to the south. It was time for the
Calypso
to get under way again, wearing round and running down to meet her.

He gave a stream of orders to Aitken, who began bellowing through the speaking-trumpet. Southwick had produced his great sword from somewhere and was buckling it on: Silkin, his steward, was offering him pistols and a cutlass and belt. Ramage took the pistols as Silkin assured him they had been carefully loaded, and took off his hat for a moment as the steward slipped the cutlass belt over his head and settled it across one shoulder. He tucked the pistols into the band of his breeches, after assuring himself they were at half-cock, thanked Silkin and watched as the
Calypso
, foretopsail now drawing, wore round to head down towards the two anchored bomb ketches. That maintopsail was drawing again – Aitken did not have to be told that one did not chase after escaping French frigates with the maintopsail still clewed up.

A shout from Aitken and there was a heavy rumble across the decks as the starboard-side guns were run out; then, after a pause as the guns’ crews ran across to the other side of the ship and took up the side tackles, another rumble as the larboard guns were hauled out so that their muzzles stuck out through the ports, stubby black fingers.

Closer to him there was a grating noise and a series of thuds as the carronades were run out on their slides. Thirty-six 12-pounder guns, eighteen a side, and six carronades, three a side…all loaded and ready.

A pillar of water spurted up vertically just astern of the French frigate, and smoke was mixed in the shower of water droplets: one of the mortar shells had just missed and burst in her wake: extraordinary that the fuse should continue burning under water. The Board of Ordnance always claimed that they would, but he was never quite sure what sort of tests the soldiers were likely to make to prove the point. What an explosion it had made…

An orange flash turned into oily brown smoke just ahead of the French frigate, and Ramage realized that his lads in the bomb ketches were shooting with quite fantastic skill; they needed just a little more practice at firing at a moving target…A little more, he thought ruefully; they had never fired a mortar at a moving target in their lives, and he doubted if there were any officers serving in the Navy who had.

Now the
Calypso
was beginning to move fast through the water with the wind on her starboard quarter; the French frigate was quite clear of the harbour and for the moment appeared to be heading straight for the two bomb ketches, as though determined to sink them in revenge. On the other hand she might be trying to make sure she had enough offing to run clear without getting close to Isolotto. French charts might not be very accurate.

An isosceles triangle, he thought: that’s what we make. The Frenchman is one corner, the bomb ketches another, and the
Calypso
at the top, on a course which should cut the triangle in half. Bisect it, he corrected himself, and found he wanted to giggle.

A puff of smoke from the French frigate’s bow showed that one of her guns had been fired; then another puff warned that a second had gone off.

Southwick looked across at Ramage and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Nowhere near us or the bomb ketches,’ he said. ‘They must be excited over there. They’re going to bear away – they might try a broadside.’

Ramage could see the stubby black muzzles of the frigate’s broadside guns: whoever commanded her was doing a remarkably good job of recovering from the surprise attack: he had his ship under way and in a few minutes – it might even be seconds – he would be ready to exchange broadsides. Had there been time to load those guns? Ramage thought of the rush to get the key to the magazine, the line of powder boys waiting to collect the powder charges…But of course the French might have left the guns loaded…No ship of the Royal Navy would lie alongside a consort with loaded guns, but perhaps the explosion on the other frigate showed that the French considered the risk worth taking.

The French frigate now had headsails drawing and was beginning to bear away to the south. She would pass very close to the
Fructidor
and, Ramage guessed, would give her a raking broadside which would probably blow her out of the water. The British colours flying from the two bomb ketches looked defiant but the frigate was moving fast now and the bomb ketches had nothing to defend themselves with; they had no cannons, not even muskets. Kenton and Orsini probably had pistols – which meant only that they were free to shoot themselves if they wanted to deprive the French of the honour.

Ramage glanced down at the compass, across at the dogvanes and then ahead again to the frigate and the two bomb ketches. There was no time to use men needed at the guns to let fall the topgallants: the
Calypso
’s topsails were rapfull of wind and that was that. He gave a quick order to the quartermaster, who had the men at the wheel bring the
Calypso
half a point to starboard.

‘Will we make it, sir?’ Aitken muttered, doubt obvious in his tone.

‘We might,’ Ramage said shortly. He was heading the
Calypso
for the invisible point where the French frigate would probably turn away to starboard to begin her run clear of the whole harbour and the point where she would fire her larboard broadside into the
Fructidor
.

The
Calypso
had two choices: Ramage could either bear away or round up short of the Frenchman, firing a broadside at her and hoping to scare her captain into turning away prematurely, or he could stay on his present course and try to ram or to get alongside the Frenchman. In any case the penalty for being a few moments late would be seeing the
Fructidor
destroyed. He tried to think of it as just the destruction of a bomb ketch, deliberately trying to keep the picture of young Paolo, Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and young Kenton from his mind…why in God’s name had he ever let them all serve in the same ship? They were part of his own life. Now the
Calypso
and the French frigate were in a dreadful race, one to save and one to destroy them.

‘We stand a chance,’ Southwick said, giving a sniff that betrayed his own doubt. ‘We could try a ranging shot with the bow-chase guns…’

Ramage shook his head. ‘A waste of time, and we don’t want smoke obstructing our view.’

The
Calypso
’s bow wave was hissing and the men at the guns, coloured strips of cloth bound round their heads to stop the perspiration running into their eyes, were beginning to cheer as they scrambled up on to the guns for a better view of the desperate rush to rescue the little bomb ketch.

They began to cheer and shout defiance and dreadful threats at the French frigate, and Ramage guessed that at least the
Fructidor
would hear the voices carried across the water by the wind. That might be a tiny grain of comfort for the little group of men watching the French frigate bearing down on them and waiting for the turn away which would bring all her guns to bear.

‘She has a hundred-yard lead on us,’ Southwick said bitterly. ‘She’ll just get across our bow, turn and fire and then bolt before we get there…’

‘Why’s he risking it?’ Aitken asked, obviously puzzled. ‘Just to sink a bomb ketch!’

‘Revenge,’ Southwick said promptly.

Ramage pointed towards Isolotto. ‘He has to come out this far before he can turn away – he daren’t try to pass between Isolotto and the shore, and the
Fructidor
’s unlucky enough to be anchored just where he turns…’

Ramage bent over the compass again and once more called out a slight alteration of course. The Frenchman was not increasing speed; it was just…

‘He has a hundred yards’ lead,’ Southwick said again, this time his voice angry. ‘That’s all.’

‘Less,’ Ramage said quietly. ‘I estimate less than two ship’s lengths. He’ll be able to fire as he bears away, and by the time he’s on his new course we’ll be about seventy-five yards astern of him, just sitting in his wake, and only the bow-chasers will bear…’

It would all be over in two or three minutes. By now it seemed that every man in the
Calypso
was screaming threats and defiance at the French, completely ignoring training and discipline. Ramage’s only regret was that he could not join in. The French frigate’s hull was becoming shiny as spray made wet patches on the dull hull to reflect sunlight from the waves. She was slightly grey at the bow, like the muzzle of an old black dog, but it was just dried salt crystals. Her sails had been patched time and time again, but they were all cut well, and properly trimmed: the man commanding her knew his job.

All the guns were loaded: Ramage was sure of that because he could see a face or two at each gunport; men watching and waiting for the target to come into view. He swung his telescope across to the
Fructidor
. The men were grouped round the mainmast. There was nothing they could do except wait for that dreadful broadside.

The shell that crashed down on to the southernmost of the three frigates, bursting a few moments after missing the main yard and rigging and hitting the ladder leading down to the mainhatch, exploded in a confined space, so that the blast and flame swept through the canvas-and-lathe bulkheads and reached the hanging magazine, breaking the windows that allowed light to shine in from the outside, and flashing across an opened cask of powder from which the gunner and his mate were filling cartridge cases in readiness for the resumed voyage to Crete.

Both men, thankful to be away from the neighing and cursing on deck, wore the regulation felt slippers instead of boots or shoes, so that they would not make any sparks with their feet; both men used copper ladles and the cask was bound and lined with copper, because copper against copper made no sparks.

They knew nothing of the impending attack; the two bomb ketches had been expected, and their arrival had been reported to the frigate’s captain, who, after checking that the senior captain’s frigate had already sighted them, did nothing more. The only unusual noise that penetrated the magazine had been the occasional terrified neighing of a horse which found itself suddenly swung high into the air from the raft, and occasionally there was the sharp drumming of a horse’s hooves on the deck as it kicked out wildly before it could be calmed down after being lowered.