The Ramage Touch (3 page)

‘I think I can make out two ships anchored in the lee of that headland, sir.’

‘Very well – someone’ll be up with a bring-’em-near.’

Ramage realized that he was mellowing; a couple of years ago he would have reprimanded a man for the ‘I think’, telling him either he could or he could not.

The master looked round and an American seaman, Thomas Jackson, seemed to materialize from the darkness. Ramage held out the nightglass. ‘Aloft, m’lad; you know what to look for.’

He then murmured to Aitken: ‘Send the men to quarters – but do it quietly.’

The usual beat of drum would carry for miles on a quiet night like this and the regular ‘Heart of Oak’ could hardly be mistaken for a French Revolutionary song.

‘Guns run out, sir?’

‘No, loaded but don’t trice up the port lids.’

Ramage was not quite sure why he wanted the port lids left down. A vague idea was lurking in the back of his mind, like a half-remembered dream, so vague that he knew there was no point in trying to hurry it out.

‘Quarterdeck – masthead!’

It was Jackson’s voice and Southwick answered.

‘Two ships, sir: both anchored close inshore, just a few hundred yards from the beach.’

‘North or south side of the headland?’ Ramage asked. The little castle of La Rocchette stood on another small headland to the south and the French might have a garrison there and a few guns. If the ships were lying on the north side of Punta Ala then the headland itself hid them from La Rocchette.

‘North side, sir, but I can’t make out the type of ships. Two masts, but they’re not brigs. The foremast is set so far aft. It may be the way they’re lying to the wind,’ he added doubtfully.

‘Very well,’ Ramage shouted back, ‘stay up there and report anything else…’

Round him men were gliding to their places for battle: water was being sluiced over the deck and men sprinkled sand on it in the ritual that would soak any stray grains of gunpowder and prevent men slipping on the deck planking. Gun captains were tightening the two wing nuts securing each flintlock and attaching the trigger lanyards, careful then to coil up the long lines and place them on the breeches of the guns.

Aitken, the Scots first-lieutenant, hurried up to ask: ‘Roundshot, grape or case, sir?’

‘Grape in the carronades, roundshot in the rest,’ Ramage said briefly. It was going to be interesting trying out the carronades; they had only just been fitted in Gibraltar, six 12-pounders with the new slides that (so the master armourer in the dockyard assured him) made them easier to run in and out and doubled the rate of fire. They certainly looked effective, each sitting on a sliding wooden bed, instead of being fitted on a carriage with wide tracks like small cartwheels. Everyone on board was familiar with the effectiveness of carronades – they were devastating at short range but useless at anything over five hundred yards.

Young boys were hurrying past, clutching the wooden cylinders with close-fitting lids in which were carried the powder cartridges for the guns. They had collected them from the magazine and now each boy would squat along the centreline out of the way behind his gun, waiting for the gun captain to call him.

Meanwhile the quartermaster kept an eye on the two men at the wheel, frequently glancing down at the binnacle window, where a shaded candle lit the compass, and then up at the luffs of the sails. East by south was the course given to Ramage by Southwick, and east by south the man steered, neither knowing nor caring that the
Calypso
’s jib boom now pointed towards places whose names sounded like music or were famous from Roman days and earlier – Vetulonia and Montepescali, Roselle and Vallerona, the mountain named Elmo with Acquapendente beyond it, and the hill town of Orvieto, perhaps the loveliest of them all.

For Ramage the names along the coast had a magic ring, even though he knew them by heart: just beyond La Rocchette was Castiglione della Pescaia, the Portus Traianus of the Romans, and overlooked by a medieval castle with square towers. Then Talamone, then Argentario, almost an island but connected to the mainland by narrow causeways. Beyond the causeways was the old Etruscan town of Ansedonia, now ruined, and close to the Lago di Burano, the lake with the tower beside it, the Torre di Buranaccio.

Neatly spaced all along this coast were the fortified lookout towers watching seaward, built by the Spaniards two centuries ago (mostly by Philip II, who sent the Armada against England); and even now perhaps keeping a lookout for Barbary pirates, Arabs from the northern coast of Africa and still known to the Italians generally as
Saraceni
. A coast of memories! His own would not be really strong until he was down towards the Torre di Buranaccio, where there was the memory of an enemy musket shot for almost every foot of beach.

In the meantime the downdraught from the mainsail was now chilly on his neck, telling him that the breeze was increasing, and the ship, whose deck had been almost deserted a few minutes ago, was teeming with men, soft-footed and certain in their movements despite the darkness. Watching the topsails and topgallants as black squares stark against the star-spattered sky, Ramage tried to recognize some of the constellations which were now partly obliterated. Orion’s Belt was very low in these latitudes; in the West Indies it passed almost overhead.

Aitken came up to report: ‘The ship’s at general quarters, sir; all guns loaded but none run out.’

Ramage led him to the binnacle, took the chart from the binnacle drawer, and unrolled enough in front of the candle-lit window to show the first-lieutenant the stretch of coast ahead of them.

‘Jackson reports two ships here – just beyond Punta Ala and behind this second little headland, Punta Hidalgo. You see how the bay then makes a great sweep inland – sandy beach, good bottom? Just the place to anchor and wait for a fair wind.’

‘Aye, sir,’ the young Scot agreed. ‘And it tells us yon ships are even less weatherly than we thought: there’s enough breeze come up now for us to make a couple of knots…’

‘I expect these Frenchmen like a good night’s sleep at anchor,’ Ramage said, ‘and you can’t blame ’em for not wanting to tack down this stretch of coast at night. Here–’ he pointed with a finger, ‘you can see this reef between Castiglione and the island of Giglio, the Formiche di Grosseto. They wouldn’t want to run into that.
Formiche
means ants, so you can guess how many rocks there are. And if they reached that far south before the moon rose they’d find it difficult to round Argentario – the mountain is big enough to throw a large wind shadow, and they’d get becalmed in the lee of it…’

‘So you don’t think they’ve anchored inshore because they’re suspicious of us, sir?’

Ramage shook his head. ‘I don’t think they even saw us: don’t forget, only our masthead lookouts first sighted them – we never saw a thing from the deck. I doubt if the French keep lookouts aloft at night in whatever vessels they are. If we
had
frightened them, they’d have anchored here, under the guns of La Rocchette – the castle covers the anchorage on either side of the headland – not off Punta Hidalgo.’

There were faint shadows across the deck now and Ramage glanced up from the chart to see the top edge of the moon just peeping up to the east, the hills and mountains of Tuscany making a horizon jagged like torn paper. With the anchored ships and Punta Hidalgo over to the east, they would soon show up well against the moonlight while the
Calypso
, approaching from the dark west, would not be seen until the last moment. When it was brighter in fifteen minutes or so the golden disc of the moon would make enough light to pick up the
Calypso
’s sails, but what sort of lookout would the French be keeping?

As if reading his thoughts, Aitken said in his soft Highland voice: ‘We can hope they all had a good tipple of wine before they turned in for the night. With a bit o’ luck any lookouts will be stretched out on the hatches, fast asleep.’

‘If they have lookouts…We’re probably the only British ship within a thousand miles. They can treat every ship they see as a friend. Of course, that makes it much easier for us – every ship
we
see is an enemy.’

‘Deck there!’ Jackson hailed, and when Ramage answered he reported: ‘Now the moon’s up I can see both ships anchored abreast of each other, sir, a cable or so between ’em, and a cable from the beach. Can’t make out what they are, though; just that the foremast is set well aft. Maybe it gives a bigger forehatch for cargo.’

Ramage could just make out the vessels now, so there was no need for Jackson to stay aloft with the nightglass. At general quarters he was usually the quartermaster, watching the men at the wheel, the wind direction and the set of the sails. Ramage called the American down on deck again.

Two enemy ships anchored off the beach and a couple of hundred yards apart…Even if they were keeping a lookout, the men would see only a French frigate approaching out of the darkness. The moon would show enough for them to recognize the cut of the sails and the sweep of the sheer. They would have no suspicions.

He looked at the chart to get some idea of the depth in which the ships were anchored and then put it back in the drawer, motioned Aitken to stay and called to Renwick, the Marine lieutenant, who was just inspecting his file of Marines now drawn up at the after end of the quarterdeck. Even in the darkness the difference between the two men was striking: Renwick was stocky, round-faced and bustling. His every movement seemed military, like the jerkiness of a wooden puppet on strings. Aitken was slim and moved quietly – Ramage had no trouble imagining him stalking a deer in the hills of his native Perthshire, moving silently to avoid breaking a twig and always making sure he kept the animal to windward. Or even hanging silently over the bank of the Tay, reaching down into the chilly water to tickle a trout and knowing the water bailiff was close by.

Both Renwick and Aitken were brave men, one a fine soldier and the other a fine seaman. Both had sailed with Ramage for long enough to know that he hated gambling with his men’s lives: he would take a chance when necessary but only after reducing the odds as much as possible. Many captains of frigates reckoned promotion depended on the size of the butcher’s bill after a successful action – losing a third of their men killed could mean getting a larger and newer frigate, or even a pat on the back from the commander-in-chief.

One good thing about Mr Ramage, Renwick thought to himself, his last year in the West Indies had been quite fantastic – frigates and schooners captured, a whole French convoy seized, the surrender of the Dutch island of Curaçao taken and a Dutch frigate blown up – and all without losing more than about a dozen men killed. Mr Ramage himself had nearly been killed in the Dutch business, though; and the scars of the two other wounds still showed. Apart from those lucky captains capturing an enemy ship carrying bullion, few had made so much prize money as Mr Ramage in so short a time. All the
Calypso
’s officers now had enough money put by in the Funds so that when the war ended (
if
it ever ended and
if
they survived it) they could retire and live comfortably. Every seaman, marine, petty officer, warrant and commission officer had more money than he had ever dreamed of. Mr Ramage always made sure that the prize agents he chose were honest. All too often one heard of a capture earning a lot of prize money, but when the division was made the prize agent had managed so many ‘deductions’ that he was the only one left satisfied.

The irony was that Mr Ramage was not really interested in prize money for himself. Too many captains (particularly of frigates) thought only of capturing the kind of enemy ships that yielded a good haul in prize money. Renwick had heard of several cases where they had avoided action with French men o’ war, preferring to go after the rich merchantmen they were escorting. They were often tacitly encouraged by their commanders-in-chief. The ‘commander-in-chief upon the station’ and his second-in-command took an eighth of the total prize money, so that it was only human nature for an admiral to send his favourite young frigate captains cruising where they were most likely to take the prizes that would increase the wealth of both admiral and captains at no cost to the government. Indeed, both could always claim to be fighting the King’s enemies.

At first Mr Ramage had been far from popular with the two commanders-in-chief under whom he had been serving in the Caribbean, at Jamaica and the Leeward Islands. They gave him the unpleasant jobs while sending their favourites after the prizes. But time and time again Mr Ramage had returned to port with rich prizes. It had been luck half the time, good planning the other. The commanders-in-chief had had to put a good face on it because although Mr Ramage was not a favourite, they had their share of the money…

Renwick listened carefully as the Captain gave him his orders for the Marines. They were straightforward enough, and thank goodness it was going to be almost entirely a Marine action. There was nothing wrong with the
Calypso
’s seamen, of course, but he found it very satisfying for the Marines to be left alone to do a job. With a sergeant, two corporals and thirty-two men, he had a reasonable force; more than enough for the job in hand. The sergeant, a corporal and sixteen men would go in the green cutter; himself, the other corporal and sixteen men in the red. No muskets, Mr Ramage was most emphatic about that, and Renwick had to admit he was probably right: muskets were clumsy weapons and for close-range work a pistol was easier to handle, quite as lethal, and just as accurate in a mêlée.

Aitken was thankful that Renwick had grasped Mr Ramage’s plan so quickly, even though the Captain seemed to be placing overmuch reliance on the Marines. They were good enough fellows, but he had never met one that was not possessed of three left feet the moment he climbed down into an open boat; and whose uniform was not covered with loops and beckets which caught the triggers or cocks of muskets or pistols and made them fire prematurely, or sent a cutlass clattering on a dark night, so that the enemy was alarmed and all surprise was lost. Brave enough fellows, but for an operation like this one he could not help thinking it was like sending a young bullock along a burn to stalk a wary deer.