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Aitken looked crestfallen. 'I forgot to ask, sir.'

 

He stepped back a few paces and put the speaking trumpet to his mouth, bellowing: 'Aloft, there I'

 

'Mainmast lookout, sir.'

 

That smoke - is it a new fire just started or have you only just seen it?'

 

' 'Snew, sir: increasing now, like houses catching fire. White and black smoke.'

 

Ramage looked across at the land. The arid flatness of the eastern end of the island was beginning to merge into rolling nils getting higher and higher as they approached the big peak of Suit Christoffelberg, ever - increasing waves suddenly turned 10 stone as they lapped the base of a pinnacle.

 

He saw a Seek of smoke a moment before Southwick and Aitken pointed and exclaimed. Smoke was common enough among the Caribbean islands: most of them spent more than half the year tinder - dry; the sun's rays concentrated by a broken bottle, a hunter's carelessness with a campfire, the sparks from a charcoal burner's crude furnace - all could, and frequently did, set a hillside ablaze in a fire that only died when the wind dropped at night, or mercifully backed or veered a few points to drive the flames back on themselves. But smoke and the sound of musket shots: that was a very different matter, and he was certain he could hear some distant popping, and Aitken now had the speaking trumpet to his ear, using it intently so that the young first lieutenant looked like a deaf seafarer straining to hear a mermaid singing a siren song from beneath a palm tree on the beach.

 

The brisk Trade wind was dispersing the smoke; instead of billowing clouds it was more of a haze by the time Ramage could see it from his low vantage point on the quarterdeck and Southwick lumbered over to crouch over the azimuth compass to take bearings. The entrance to Amsterdam, still in sight astern, the peak of Sint Christoffelberg, the next headland to the west, and the smoke. By plotting the first three he would be able to establish the ship's exact position; then drawing in the bearing of the smoke, he would be able to tell Ramage approximately where the fire was burning.

 

He hurried below with the slate on which he had noted the bearings and was back again within four or five minutes to tell Ramage: "The smoke is coming from somewhere about half - way between the villages of Soto and a place called Sint Willebrordus. About eleven miles west of Amsterdam. Can it be cane fields burning?'

 

There's no sugar cane on this island. And cane doesn't burn with a popping like muskets. It can only be houses.'

 

'Deck there! Foremasthead lookout!'

 

Startled, Ramage, Aitken and Southwick looked forward. The voice, almost disembodied, sounded excited, and Aitken answered: 'Deck here.'

 

'Sail on the larboard bow, sir, and I think I can see land beyond it. Might be a cloud but the bearing stays the same.'

 

'What type of ship?'

 

'Can't tell, sir; she's still hull down below the horizon, but I think she's steering towards us.'

 

Aitken looked round for Jackson, handed him the telescope and pointed aloft. Without a word the American made for the shrouds and began climbing the foremast Ramage said: 'It can't be land, but he may have seen a cloud hanging over Aruba.'

 

"What ship is it?' Southwick muttered to himself. 'Probably a cutter from Jamaica with fresh orders from the Admiral. Convoy work, more than likely . ..'

 

'Beat to quarters,' Ramage told Aitken.

 

Jackson hailed the deck the moment the drummer stopped beating the ruffles.

 

'Her hull is only just lifting above the horizon but from the cut of her sails she's a merchant ship. Could be American, sir.'

 

'Make a signal to Lacey,' Ramage said. 'His lookouts are By the time the signal flags had been hoisted, acknowledged by La Creole and lowered again, Jackson was reporting from the foremasthead that the ship had just tacked, and was obviously bound for Curacao. Aitken had just reported that the Calypso was at quarters when Jackson hailed once more to report that the strange sail was a merchant ship and almost certainly American.

 

American, and therefore wary of one of the King's ships, because a meeting at sea usually resulted in being boarded and having a Royal Navy officer checking through the ship's company for British subjects, who would be pressed immediately. Ramage pictured the American master groaning at the prospect of losing at least a couple of good seamen from a total of perhaps a dozen. On the other hand, masters of neutral ships were often good sources of information: they visited enemy ports, saw ships of war, and, because they were not taken as prizes, could talk about it afterwards. And the best way of making a master talk was to catch him in the moments of relief after he discovered that none of his men was going to be pressed ... '

 

The Calypso and the merchant ship were approaching each other fast; within minutes Ramage could see the American's hull above the horizon. Have the guns run out,' he said to Aitken, 'we want to look fierce. Then come below. I have more orders for you.'

 

Down in his cabin he explained his intentions. The master of that Jonathan is going to curse as soon as he sees the British flag - hell have identified us as a French - built frigate, and to him there'd be nothing out of the ordinary in a French frigate beading west after apparently sailing from Amsterdam. Then suddenly hell realize his mistake.

 

'So you'll board him and examine his papers. He could have sailed from a port on the Main, Aruba or direct from somewhere in North America. If he has just left an enemy port, I want to know what ships he saw there and what ships he's seen at sea, especially privateers. Dates, positions, courses being steered . . .'

 

Aitken looked worried. These Jonathans usually don't care to help us much, sir,' he said cautiously.

 

'No,' Ramage agreed, 'because they've usually just had some of their prize seamen claimed as British and sent down into the boat. But you will make it clear that, providing he co-operates, you will not even ask to see the muster book ...'

 

'And hell be so relieved . . .'

 

'Exactly,' Ramage said, 'but of course, if he is truculent, you know what to do.'

 

Aitken nodded. 'I hope I find a few Scotsmen; we're outnumbered in the Calypso, sir.'

 

'I want quality, not quantity, Mr Aitken,' Ramage said ambiguously, laughing dryly.

 

'Aye, sir. I've heard say that the Admiralty tell commanders - in - chief that when they ask for more frigates.'

 

'I'm sure they do,' Ramage said, 'that's why we make sure of having enough by going out and capturing our own.'

 

The young Scot gave one of his rare laughs. 'I've never thought of it like that, sir; I wonder how often a frigate and a schooner go out on patrol together manned by the people that captured them?'

 

'In a year or two we'll have our own fleet. Well charter it to Their Lordships on a share-of-the-prizes basis!'

 

An hour later Ramage and Southwick waited at the quarterdeck rail. The Calypso was hove - to half a mile to windward of the American ship, which was lying with her sails furled, broadside on to the swell waves and rolling violently. Clearly her master did not trust her spars, rigging and sails enough to risk heaving - to. Shipowners often insisted that once in the Tropics/ their master used old sails as an economy. It was not an economy, of course, because tropical squalls were more sudden and vicious than people living in temperate climates realized; but most shipowners were men who cheerfully spent a guinea to save four pennies and congratulated themselves on the bargain.

 

The Caroline of Charleston, South Carolina. The moment he had seen the port of registry he had ordered Jackson to join the boarding party, warning Aitken to tell the American seaman what they were trying to discover, and explaining to the puzzled first lieutenant that Jackson had been born in Charleston.

 

The Caroline from South Carolina: it sounded like the beginning of some lullaby. If she was bound for Amsterdam (there could be little doubt about that) could he use her in some way, a Trojan horse that would get him among those damned privateers?

 

He could seize the ship and, putting his own men on board, send her into Amsterdam under her American flag. With his officers dressed in old clothes, they could pass themselves off as Americans and deal with all the paperwork with the Dutch authorities. They would, of course, anchor near the privateers. And soon after dark they would board them, set them all on fire, and then sail the Caroline of South Carolina out again, trusting that the Dutch would not fire on her, assuming she was getting dear of the flaming ships and never suspecting or guessing she was the cause.

 

Ramage shook his head. These were crazy thoughts: the diplomatic rumpus would be enormous; any British officer who used an American ship in this fashion would be court - martialled by the Admiralty and probably jailed; relations between Britain and North America were bad enough already; an incident like that could set off a war. Apart from all that, he thought ruefully, it was an excellent plan.

 

'Aitken and Jackson are getting ready to go down the ladder, sir,' Southwick reported. 'Ah, that fellow with the wide - brimmed straw' hat, hell be the master. He's shaking hands with Aitken. And with Jackson, too.'

 

Ten minutes later the boat was alongside the Calypso, and the Caroline, letting fall her sails, was getting under way again to continue her tedious series of tacks to get up to Amsterdam. It was unusual to see a square - rigged ship of her size sailing under the American flag: most of the trade in the West Indies was done with schooners. She was at least painted in the traditional dark green, the colour favoured by slave ships because it matched the mangroves which lined the banks of the rivers in the Gulf of Guinea where the slavers hid.

 

Aitken hurried over to Ramage, obviously excited, and Jackson, the next man up the side, was grinning broadly. Ramage saw the first lieutenant glancing astern, towards Aruba, and then he was reporting, making an effort to speak clearly.

 

'It worked just as you expected, sir: I suspect half his men are British. He says a French frigate anchored off Aruba was due to leave for Curasao a few hours after the Caroline weighed. He half expected her to be in sight by now.'

 

'Has he seen any privateers?'

 

'No, sir: he commented on it. Normally he sees three or four between the Windward Passage and the Main: they always board him to check his papers. But he did say he has seen more British warships: he wasn't surprised when he. saw us - or so he says. And Jackson was able to have a chat with some of the seamen.'

 

Ramage looked at the American. 'Well, did you meet any old friends?'

 

Jackson grinned. 'Not old friends, sir, but I knew one of the men; he was sweet on my sister - when they were both about five years old.'

 

'What else did you discover?'

 

'Quite a bit, sir, but it only confirms what Mr Aitken just said. They - the men in the Caroline - met some of the seamen from the French frigate on shore in Aruba. Said they were an undisciplined crowd; they didn't pay much attention to their officers. Called each other "citizen". And they wouldn't pay the Dutch shopkeepers the prices they asked: they just took what they wanted, paid half what was asked, and drew their swords when a crowd gathered.'

 

Even as Jackson talked Ramage was thinking of the small book in the drawer of his desk: the French signal book. He looked at Aitken. 'You did very well with the Caroline.' He turned to Jackson. 'You, too. Now make a signal to La Creole: I want Mr Lacey to come on board at once.'

 

An hour later, long after the men had run in the guns and secured' them, put pikes, cutlasses, muskets and pistols back in the arms chests, and swabbed down the decks, Ramage looked round his cabin at the perspiring but eager faces of his officers. He had finished explaining his plan and said to Lacey: 'Have you any questions?' The captain of La Creole had none.

 

Aitken, however, was worried about darkness. 'Supposing she comes up from Aruba during the night, sir?'

 

Ramage shook his head. 'With no moon and the risk of cloud, would you choose to make a voyage of forty - eight miles at night, the current foul, when you could time it to make your landfall in daylight?'

 

'No, sir,' the first lieutenant said apologetically, 'it was a silly question. I'd hope to be about fifteen miles west of the island - west of Westpunt Baai - at dawn. Then if the wind was lighter than I expected I'd be that much later, and there'd be no risk of running ashore in the darkness.'

 

'And that's where we will be,' Ramage said. 'Well be close to Westpunt Baai, and with the coast trending south - east towards Amsterdam, Lacey will be able to show how La Creole can pull with the bit between her teeth.'

 

He looked round to see if anyone had more questions, and Wagstaffe said: The privateers in Amsterdam, sir: are we leaving them alone?'

 

'For the time being, yes, although they won't realize it. Watchers along the coast will be reporting us going westward, but at twilight well turn back towards Amsterdam so that the Dutch lookouts report that we are doubling back.and obviously intend to spend the night off the port - just the sort of trick one would expect. But of course once it's dark well turn back yet again . . .'

 

'And hope it is not so dark we run ashore,' Aitken said dryly.

 

'Sint Christoffelberg is twelve hundred feet high,' Ramage said. 'We should be able to see it from five miles off, and Lacey here has only to keep an eye on our poop lantern.'

 

He stood up and said slowly: 'Remember, gentlemen, that timing is vital. If we see the fish isn't taking the bait, we have to act immediately, otherwise dozens of our men will be killed or wounded unnecessarily.'

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

By dawn Southwick and a dozen men had about half of the smallest of the Calypso's anchor cables, a ten - inch - circumference rope the thickness of a man's forearm, ranged on the foredeck after being led out through a hawsehole and back on board again, with a light messenger rope made up to the end. All her guns were loaded and run out, the decks had been wetted and sanded, and cutlasses, tomahawks, pistols and muskets had been issued. The Calypso was once again ready to greet the first light of day, the only difference being the cable lying on the fo'c'sle like a sleeping serpent Ramage, walking round the ship, could sense the men's excitement and he stopped here and there in the darkness to warn that they might have to wait two or three days for the Frenchman to appear. The men were delighted that the captain should stop and pass the time of day but were obviously ignoring his warning: they had made up their minds that the French frigate would show up today, that she would be reported in sight to leeward as soon as the lookouts went to the masthead at daybreak and had a good look round. One of the men had given it enough thought to realize that the Frenchman approaching from the west might see the Calypso against the lighter eastern sky and bolt, and he was relieved when Ramage assured him that in fact they would be hidden against the blackness of Sint Christoffelberg and the hills at the western end of Curacao for that first critical fifteen minutes of the day.

 

The special lookout posted aft and staring into the Calypso's wake continued to report every ten minutes or so that La Creole was still astern. Although it was a dark night there was plenty of phosphorescence, and every now and again a pale greenish swirl astern showed where the schooner was faithfully following and revealing herself occasionally as her bow sliced into a swell wave.

 

From his own experience in the past, Ramage knew that Lacey would have had little sleep, worried that his lookouts forward would lose sight of the Calypso's poop lantern. The young lieutenant, knowing how important it was that he should be only a few hundred yards from the Calypso at first light, was unlikely to have left the quarterdeck: he had probably spent the night in a canvas chair, boat cloak over his shoulders, occasionally dozing and frequently nagging whoever had the watch and interfering as only anxious captains know how. Yes, Ramage thought to himself, I know just how you feel ...

 

La Creole had to be close at daybreak, just in case: Ramage had been most emphatic about that. He personally did not think they would see the Frenchman at dawn whichever day she arrived, but there was always a chance that she sailed at the proper time and made a fast passage, which would bring her off Curacao at first light. No gambler would ever bet on a Frenchman being punctual, but the whole success of the operation depended on La Creole: be had made sure that Lacey really understood.

 

Ramage looked through a gun port He could just distinguish the toppling waves; they had a grey tinge, and the stars low on the eastern horizon were dimming slightly, Orion's Belt had crossed overhead and dipped, the Southern Cross and the Plough had revolved, Polaris had remained fixed, and the sun would soon be dazzling them all. Yes, Sint Christoffelberg was over there on the starboard beam so high that it was distinguishable as a black wedge pointing upwards and obscuring the stars low on the north - eastern horizon.

 

Somewhere in the darkness on deck three men waited, one at each mast, for the order sending the lookouts aloft - it would come from Wagstaffe this morning - and then each would race up the ratlines like a monkey, hoping to be the first to hail the deck that the French frigate was in sight. The competition, mast against mast, was traditional.

 

Ramage finished his walk forward along the starboard side and crossed over to make his way back to the quarterdeck along the larboard side. There was very little sea; the Calypso was hardly rolling, giving a gentle pitch from time to time, almost a curtsy, as a swell wave came along the side of the island, part of the movement westward that began off the western comer of Africa, crossed the Atlantic and Caribbean, and finally ended up) thousands of miles away, in the muddy shallows of the Gulf of Mexico.

 

Groups of men squatted round their guns. Usually they were half asleep, but this morning they were wide awake, occasional whispers and stifled laughter showing they were cheerful enough. Ramage never understood how men could laugh and joke when, within the hour, they could be dead, shattered by grapeshot or torn apart by roundshot. It was enough that they were cheerful.

 

Yet, he realized, they were cheerful because they were confident; they were confident that death would not touch them. And they were confident because - well, because so far, under his command, they had been lucky. All the actions of the last few months, including the original capture of the Calypso and La Creole from the French, had been fought with very few casualties.

 

Would there be a great change of heart among them if they fought a bloody action? Would they then be less martial?

 

He doubted it: most of them seemed like Southwick: as keen for battle as schoolboys for a game of marbles or poachers for fat pheasants. And as his heels thumped the deck and he balanced himself against the ship's roll, he knew he was slowly becoming a better captain. It had taken long enough, but now he had finally absorbed the apparent contradiction that the captain who worried too much about his men being killed in action was likely to kill them by the dozen because he would be too timid. The boldest plan was usually the safest He realized he had never consciously taken a ship into action with that thought uppermost, but looking back on a series of actions, the fact was that he had often escaped with only a dozen killed and wounded when a prudent man with an apparently safer (more cautious) plan might have lost four dozen.

 

Was he being arrogant? Perhaps, and if arrogance on his part led to confidence among his men and success to an operation, then perhaps arrogance was no great fault. And of course it was the men's arrogance (that any one of them was worth three Frenchmen) that gave them the boldness which led them to succeed. The casualty lists usually bore them out, and certainly the Admiralty seemed to assume that one of the King's ships with a hundred men should be able to board and capture a French national ship with three hundred.

 

'Lookouts there - away aloft!'

 

Wagstaffe's shouted order broke into Ramage's thoughts and he realized he had not noticed how much lighter it had become in the last few minutes, minutes when he had just stood at the gun port staring at the wavetops gliding past The men were getting up from the deck where they had been squatting or sitting, groaning as stretched muscles gave them a twinge, teasing each other, some shivering with the dawn chill and swinging their arms, others spitting tobacco juice over the side through the port Ramage climbed the quarterdeck ladder to find Wagstaffe waiting anxiously at the rail, speaking trumpet in one hand and night glass in the other, obviously awaiting the first hail from aloft, while Southwick stood at the binnacle talking to Aitken, who would take over from Wagstaffe if any enemy ships were in sight, leaving the second lieutenant free to go to his division of guns. The Marines were forming up with much stamping and thumping.

 

Not one of the Calypso's officers approved of his plan. Ramage bad sensed that when he had explained it to them. Only Lacey was full of enthusiasm, and that was because his role was exciting. But the rest of them, from Southwick (who had been in battle dozens of times) to Kenton (who was relatively untried) had misgivings. None had said a word; to most captains they would have seemed full of enthusiasm.

 

Looking round at them in his cabin the previous day, when he had asked if there were any questions, he could guess how each man's mind was working. Each was reacting differently because he had a different personality. Southwick regarded it as wasting time: to him there was little wrong in getting alongside the other ship as quickly as possible and resolving the battle with his broadsides and boarding pikes. The master's strength was in his right arm, wielding a meat cleaver of a sword. Aitken, the quiet Scot, was intelligent enough to see the purpose behind Ramage's plan but he did not believe it would work, and nor did he think it necessary. Wagstaffe did not think the French would fall into the trap - that much was clear from the questions he asked - but if they did he could see the trap would then work. Young Kenton had never heard of such a plan and, because he was young, he was conservative: why fence with a foil when you could slash with a cutlass? Kenton had been at sea long enough to see that wars could not be fought without men being killed, but not long enough to try to reduce the odds. To him - and, to be fair, to the other officers, including the Marine lieutenant - one British frigate and a schooner were a match for any French frigate, and given that historic truth, proved in hundreds of actions, why monkey about ...

 

Aitken was a deep - thinking officer and Ramage could guess that the young Scot, wise beyond his years and almost certain to have his own command soon, was beginning to see things through the eyes of a captain, weighing risk against reward, risk against responsibility, risk against culpability. He knew that a senior officer, a commander-in-chief, Their Lordships at the Admiralty, were always reading the orders and looking at the results, rarely giving praise for success but quick to select and accuse a scapegoat if they saw failure ( even though, often enough, the original orders were too absurd to allow success).

 

Yet there were times when a captain trying to make the weights balance on those scales, putting the risk on one pan. the responsibility and culpability on the other, saw the responsibility and culpability pan drop with a decisive clang. So he did not take the risk because it would hazard his future. Rejecting the risky plan, he drew up a safe one. The risky plan might have saved many lives if it was successful; the safe plan was, all too often, safe only because the certainty of its success was bought with many men's lives.

 

As Ramage watched the lighter eastern sky push the darkness westward he felt his anger growing with the whole of the present system of command in the Royal Navy. It meant that no captain depending on his regular pay to support a wife and family dare take a risk where failure could blast his career. There were a few exceptions - very few indeed, and Rear - Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson was the only one who came to mind at the moment.

 

The officers who could and did take risks with their careers in order to save lives tended to be men who had private incomes. Alexander Cochrane, for instance, who was heir to the Earl of Dundonald, and although there wasn't much money in the family, it was just enough to make sure that Cocky would not starve if the Admiralty court - martialled him over one of his wilder exploits. Not that so far they had any reason to bring him to trial; he took quite fantastic chances - but he succeeded and his men worshipped him.

 

There were of course stupid officers, rich and poor, who took risks simply because they lacked brains; the kind of men who gambled every penny they had on the turn of a dice without realizing that, even if they won, the low winnings compared with the high stake they could lose made the risk absurd - . No, he was thinking of intelligent men; men like Aitken, who had travelled a long way from a widowed mother and that grey stone cottage in Perthshire; who had managed by sheer ability and bravery to get well up to windward in his career, but who in a very few years would be unable to risk losing it.

 

Which, Ramage thought bitterly, boiled down to the fact that all too often the commander-in-chief and the Admiralty judged success by the size of the butcher's bill. An action in which a French frigate was captured by a British one which lost fifty men killed and a hundred wounded was regarded as a great victory, without anyone questioning whether the casualties were necessary. After all, the French frigate was captured . . . capture the enemy and no one questions the casualties. But capture the same frigate with only half a dozen casualties and the captain was given little credit, authority shrugged its collective shoulders and commented that the French were poltroons.

 

Perhaps it was the right attitude: Their Lordships could not be expected to weep because a hundred men died in a battle. If they did, the Admiralty would cease to function; no one would dare give orders. No admiral could order a ship into action if he stayed awake at night thinking of all the women who would be widowed, all the children made fatherless, as a result of his order. Admirals had to have hard hearts, and in his experience most of them did anyway, as well as an appreciation of captains responsible for payments into their prize accounts.

 

The trouble arose when a captain knew his ship's company too well; when he knew each man's quirks and habits, recognized his accent out of a dozen others, knew of his hopes and fears, perhaps had been asked for advice concerning some wayward wife or errant son. Then the question of taking a risk and hazarding his future did not apply. The captain was involved: he was the father of a large family.

 

Take Jackson, for instance. The muster book merely listed him as Jackson, Thomas, American, born in Charleston, Carolina, volunteer. Then there was Stafford, William, born in London, prest, and Rossi, Alberto, born in Genoa, volunteer ... There were up to fifty other men now in the Calypso who had served with him for two or three years and sometimes more; who had been with him, for example, when the Kathleen cutter was rammed by the Spanish three - decker and reduced to kindling; had been in the Triton brig in various actions and saw her end up dismasted and wrecked on a coral reef . . . Yet men like Jackson, Thomas, had been with him when he rescued Gianna from the beach in Tuscany, with Bonaparte's cavalry galloping at them and Jackson making weird noises in the darkness which scared off the horses.

 

There was so much to remember; so many shared experiences with these people, men like Southwick, for instance, and more recently Aitken, Wagstaffe, Baker and young Lacey astern there in La Creole. If any one of these men was killed in battle he would mourn them like - like what, a brother, a nephew, an uncle? No, like one of his men; a curious relationship that encompassed all the others. With Southwick, for example, there was the combination of an eccentric uncle and an erratic nephew. Jackson, tall and sinewy, his sandy hair thinning, was like the most valued of family retainers. Officially he was the captain's coxswain, but over the years he had become the equivalent of bodyguard and head gamekeeper. Jackson had saved his life several times; he had saved Jackson's. There were no debits or credits, only mutual respect.

 

And Stafford. Not to put too fine a point on it, Will Stafford was a bright - eyed young Cockney picklock at the time the pressgang took him up, but even if his boyhood had been spent burgling, the result as a young man was a fine seaman, fearless and loyal in a way that reminded Ramage of old stories of knightly chivalry. Stafford could just about write his name with much effort and tongue protruding, but he would give his life for his friends, men like Jackson and Rossi. He had an engaging way of mispronouncing words, and Jackson patiently corrected him.

 

Rossi was the third man about whom Gianna always enquired in her letters. Plump, black - haired, olive - skinned and jolly, he was a Genovesi; had left Genoa in a hurry, hated the French with a deep bitterness, was proud - and completely loyal to his adopted country. He was a volunteer and, as far as Ramage could make out, had joined the Navy because it gave him the best opportunity of killing Frenchmen. He had left Genoa before the conquering French arrived there to set up a new republic, and no doubt the city records would show that the authorities did not believe the story that Ramage had heard - that Rossi had killed the other man in self - defence - but Ramage took the attitude of most captains: that a man's life before his name went on the ship's muster list was his own affair.

 

Rossi was inordinately proud of Gianna: proud that the woman his captain loved (that was no secret in the ship) was Italian. He might have a slight and secret reservation because she was not a Genovesa, but Volterra was in Tuscany and near enough to be acceptable. He would not have accepted a Neapolitan, a Sicilian or a Roman, and might have been doubtful about a Venetian, but a Tuscan was a neighbour, almost a paisana. Almost, but not quite; Tuscany was a different state; simply close to the Republic of Genoa.

 

Both Stafford (to whom she was invariably 'the Marcheezer', with Rossi trying to correct him, although the Cockney's tongue was incapable of uttering 'Mar-kay-zer') and the Genovesi regarded her as the most beautiful woman they had ever seen, and Ramage wondered if they speculated whether she would marry the captain. Ramage sensed that Jackson had no doubt, but Jackson's relationship with Gianna was slightly different: he had been with Ramage when they had searched an Italian town for a doctor to save the life of (as they thought) a dying Gianna.

 

A bellowing beside him made Ramage go rigid with surprise, but it was Wagstaffe answering a hail from the main - masthead, whose lookout then reported: Horizon clear to the south and west, sir, only thing in sight is land to starboard.'

 

It was almost as if the ship shrugged and sighed with disappointment. Southwick sniffed, Wagstaffe rapped his knee cap with the speaking trumpet, a frustrated Aitken muttered some Scottish oath, and in the half - light it seemed that the men slumped at the guns.

 

No French frigate. She was still at Aruba. He looked astern - La Creole was so close it seemed her bowsprit and jib - boom would soon ride up over the Calypso's taffrail. Lacey's lookout - Ramage could just make him out, a fly clinging to the mainmast - would also be reporting an empty horizon, and the schooner's men would be equally disappointed.

 

Ramage said nothing for several minutes, then commented to Wagstaffe: 'I can see a grey goose at a mile.'

 

That was the standard distance always used for visibility: from that moment each morning the life of the ship could go on. Small arms would be stowed in the chests, and guns run in, canvas aprons, or covers, lashed over the flintlock on each gun to shield the flint and mechanism from spray, and the cook would soon have the galley fire alight (it was always doused when the ship went to quarters). And then the cooking would start. Cooking ... everyone could have their meat however they wanted it, as long as it was boiled; and the same went for vegetables. The Navy had a sense of humour when they called the man a cook: he had only to light the galley fire and boil the water in the coppers.

 

Today, Ramage remembered, was sauerkraut day. The pickled cabbage was good for the men's health, but he could well understand their lade of enthusiasm for it because when a cask was first opened it smelled like a privy. Worse, in fact. The stench lasted only fifteen minutes, but it quickly filled the ship. And, the dutiful captain, he always made a point of sampling it even though the thought, let alone the taste, made him want to retch.

 

In the meantime the damned French frigate was not in sight and the south and west coasts of Curacao had little to offer by way of scenery. He would spend the day off the entrance to Amsterdam: it would help keep the Dutch quiet, and there was always a chance of capturing a fishing boat, so they could discover what was happening on the island.

 

He beckoned to Wagstaffe and took the speaking trumpet, hailing the lookout at the mainmasthead. 'Can you see any smoke over the land?'

 

'No, sir; nor smell it'

 

The lookout was wide awake: they were dead to leeward of the island now, and a lookout high aloft would be much more likely to smell smoke than someone on deck, where the odour of bilgewater, tarred rope, the breath of the men chewing tobacco and the damp smell of clothing provided strong competition. There was, of course, the usual smell of hot and dry land. Not the rich herbs - and - spices of Spain or Italy, but a dried - hay - and - manure smell of an arid tropical island just before the sun gets high enough to scorch off the night dew.

 

The fires causing yesterday's smoke near the village with the impossible name had not been spread to the western end of the island by the night breeze, nor had he seen any glow. The lighter eastern sky now put this western side of Sint Christoffelberg into dark shadow and the hills rolling down towards the flat eastern end of the island looked more than ever like giant waves tumbling flat to their death on a beach. There was no sound of gunfire, cannon or musket. The island's troubles were obviously over. Ramage pictured cattle sheds accidentally burning, and men shooting fear - crazed animals. He shrugged his shoulders: fire in these parched islands was as dangerous as in a ship.

 

It was tune to beat back to Sint Anna Baai and look once again at those privateers: a beat of twenty - five or thirty miles against a westgoing current of one or two knots, perhaps more, probably increasing as the wind came up. He looked round for Southwick and, relaxing, suddenly felt hungry. In ten minutes or so his steward Silkin would come on deck to report that his breakfast was ready. The sky was clear - an hour or so after sunrise the little white puffballs of cloud would begin to form up to the eastward and start their daily trek to the west; the sky would become a bright blue, the sea its dark reflection, hinting at great depths, the unmarked graveyard of the centuries and of secrets. And the sun would climb steadily to sear and scorch, withering plants and men, directly overhead at noon at this time of year and making everyone thankful for the cool of night.

 

For forty years or more the buccaneers had tacked along this coast That was a century and a half ago, when it was always called the Spanish Main. Had his great - grandfather passed this way, heading for one of the towns on the Main? He had a sudden longing to know, to be able to sail up to a Spanish port and know that great - grandfather Charles and his men had once captured it from the Spanish. Even to take bearings of the peak of Sint Christoffelberg and Westpunt, and draw them in on a chart to fix the ship's position, and to know that Charles Ramage had done just that, using a crude chart for the lack of anything better and an even cruder compass. Old Charles had won a fortune from the Spanish along the Main; enough to rebuild and furnish a home shattered by Cromwell's troops, men who thought beauty was a sin and were offended by one of the loveliest houses in the west country.

 

'Old Charles': why old! He may well have been in his twenties at the time, the same age as his great - grandson was now. Curious how one rarely thought of a forebear as having once been young. Why, he wondered, these recent thoughts about Charles, who had succeeded a brother as the eighth Earl of Blazey?

 

Ramage had served in the Caribbean for several years without giving Charles more than an occasional moment's thought; now it was almost as though he was sailing with him. He then realized it dated from finding the Tranquil with her passengers and crew just massacred by the privateer with a Spanish name. That had jolted his memory, thrusting him into the past He suddenly noticed that Southwick was waiting patiently; the old master was used to finding the captain daydreaming, and he knew when to interrupt and when to wait, without appearing to be waiting. 'Disappointing, sir - not seeing the Frenchman, I mean.'

 

'I've never met a punctual Frenchman.'

 

True, sir, true,' Southwick said soothingly, 'you did warn us we might have to wait a day or two. Still, we may pick up a Spanish prize by this evening - they must trade between Amsterdam and the Main. I seem to remember all the fruit and vegetables for the islands come from the Main in small schooners; they have a market in Amsterdam, selling direct from the schooners.'

 

Ramage nodded, already regretting his sourness. They have so little rain that they must get fresh food from somewhere. But a prize schooner laden with bananas and cabbages . . .'

 

The men would be glad of fresh cabbage instead of that sauerkraut, sir. We have to open a cask today.'

 

Neither Ramage nor Southwick mentioned the prize regulations: there were times when a sensible captain ignored them. The regulations said that any ship taken in prize had to have its hatches sealed and be sent into a British port, where it would be inventoried, valued and sold at auction. There was no provision in the regulations for capturing a small Spanish schooner or sloop laden with perishable fruit and vegetables. A prize would have to be sent to Jamaica, some 700 miles to the north - west. The chances of such a vessel staying afloat for a long voyage (local schooners and sloops were roughly and cheaply built) were slight, and a fruit and vegetable cargo would be rotting within hours and almost explosive in a couple of days. A schooner full of exploding bananas ... v A wise captain, ever on the watch for scurvy and the fresh fruit and vegetables that could prevent it, would in such a case take off the cargo, sink the prize, land the two or three men on board, or let them off in their boat, and make a note in the ship's log implying the capture was only the size of a rowing boat, and therefore scuttled. It would be different if a schooner was laden with tobacco, grown on the Main and shipped to Curacao - that would be worth a lot of money.

 

'We'll return to Amsterdam, patrolling about five miles off,' Ramage said, 'and Lacey can take La Creole in closer every four or five hours to look at the privateers and generally rattle the bars."

 

'Can we stay close in with the coast, sir? I'd like to have another look at where we saw those fires.'

 

So Southwick was intrigued as well. 'As close as you want: there's deep water right up to the shore, isn't there?'

 

'My chart says "No bottom at 100 fathoms" to within a hundred yards or so, sir, and the water's crystal clear. I reckon once the sun's up you'll see the bottom at ten fathoms or more. Coral reefs just off the beaches and sometimes up to five hundred yards off.'

 

Ramage looked astern, and La Creole was still as close as if she were on a short tow. 'Mr Wagstaffe, well wear ship in a few minutes and make our way back to Amsterdam. Make a signal to La Creole - 1 don't want his bowsprit poking through our stern lights while I'm eating my breakfast.'

 

The foremast lookout gave an excited hail: 'Deck there!' Southwick, Wagstaffe and Ramage all stared at each other, then looked upwards. Wagstaffe ran to the binnacle drawer for the speaking trumpet, but Southwick cupped his hands and roared: 'Foremast lookout - deck here! What do you see?'

 

'Sail on the larboard bow, an' I think she's steering towards us. Reckon she's a ship o' war; could be a frigate, sir!'

 

'Wear ship at once and make a signal to La Creole,' Ramage snapped. 'Send Jackson aloft with a telescope. Muster a party on the fo'c'sle and make sure they have heaving lines handy.'

 

He waited until Wagstaffe and Southwick had given those orders and watched as the Calypso swung round, away from the distant ship and heading towards Amsterdam. Men hauled on sheets and braces, trimming the yards and sails so that the frigate was now sailing eastwards, parallel with the coast, the sun giving a hint that it was about to rise on the larboard bow.

 

'What the devil's happened to Jackson?' he snapped. He did not expect an answer and turned to watch La Creole. She was still in the Calypso's wake and Lacey was handling the schooner well, but the next ten minutes would finally show whether he was a natural leader or just another lucky young man commanding by virtue of a piece of parchment signed by a commander-in-chief.

 

And then Jackson was hailing from the masthead: 'She's three - masted, sir, everything set to the royals. Hull below the horizon, but she's a frigate and from the cut of her sails looks French to me.'

 

Southwick caught Ramage's eye and winked cheerfully. That's her, sir; Jackson's never mistaken.'

 

Ramage nodded. 'Make the special signal to La Creole,' be told Wagstaffe, 'and as soon as she hauls dear of our wake, back the foretopsail and heave - to on the larboard tack.'

 

'Beat to quarters, sir?' Southwick asked.

 

'No, not yet; we've plenty of time and a lot to do.'

 

He glanced round and saw Gianna's nephew scurrying up the quarterdeck ladder. He was off watch, but obviously had heard the hailing.

 

'Orsini!' Ramage barked, holding out a small key. Top right - hand drawer of my desk - fetch me the French signal book. And lock the drawer again.' Then, just as the boy turned away, Ramage remembered, 'It's in the weighted canvas bag, along with the other papers. Make sure you secure the neck of the bag again before you lock the drawer.'

 

That small canvas bag, containing the secret daily challenge and reply for the next three months, along with the extra copy of the British signal book and his orders, and weighted with a six - pound bar of lead, was the most valuable object in the Calypso: if she was about to be captured by the enemy, that bag had to be thrown in the sea. If it fell into enemy hands and Ramage survived, he would be court - martialled as soon as the Admiralty could get their hands on him, and ruined. No excuses were ever accepted for that, and every captain knew it.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Captains, Paolo thought to himself as he scurried down the companionway; they always treat everyone else as a fool. All Uncle Nicholas need have said was: 'Get the French signal book from the top drawer - - .' If it was not on lop, he'd have guessed it was in the canvas bag, and he'd have unlaced it, taken the book out, and laced the bag again. All without having to be told.

 

Nod to the Marine sentry and a quick explanation: 'On the captain's business.' The sudden darkness of the cabin, the key in the lock, and there's the bag. The canvas coarse, the brass eyelets for the roping going green with corrosion caused by the salty sea air. And that's it, the signal book - funny how he thought in English now, and saw the French language on the cover quite differently than when he lived in Italy and French was always the second language.

 

A wonderfully precise language, English: you could be so exact But, he thought ruefully, remembering Mr Southwick's stern questioning during navigation and mathematics lessons, that was one of the language's drawbacks: Italian and French allowed you to give a more evasive, even imaginative, answer, there was more scope for disguising the fact you didn't know something; for dissembling. But Mr Southwick taught mathematics and navigation in English; good down - to - earth and unambiguous English.

 

Lock the drawer again, don't lose the key. What is Uncle Nicholas planning? All that amount of anchor cable ranged on the foredeck. 'Ranged' - a good word, that. Surely he's not intending to anchor close inshore? It is the lightest of all the cables, and there's no anchor bent on. Nor, for that matter, would the cable be ranged on the fo'c'sle if he was going to anchor.

 

If only he'd been on deck sooner he would probably have been sent to the masthead with Jackson. Paolo loved it aloft, the ship small and narrow - beamed below him, the men tiny, like lizards scurrying on a marble floor. Ah well, he was too late to go with Jacko, so belay the grumbling.

 

An odd man, Jackson. The men said that he and Uncle Nicholas had saved Aunt Gianna's life; had literally snatched her from under the hooves of the French cavalry. And, only a few weeks ago, Jackson had saved his own life. Aunt and nephew. But the American had said nothing about it at the time, nor had Uncle Nicholas: Rossi had finally told him, and then only to say that Uncle Nicholas had been angry with him for joining the boarding party when they cut the Jocasta out of Santa Cruz.

 

Such a glare on deck, and with a French frigate coming over the horizon they won't be stretching the awning, so the sun will be scorching, and where is Uncle Nicholas?

 

Paolo saw him standing at the taffrail watching La Creole working her way round to windward of the Calypso, which seemed curiously dead in the water. Dead in the water! Accidents, the foretopsail is backed and she's hove-to! What are they doing?

 

The French signal book, sir.'

 

Thank you, Orsini. Stand by me in case there are more errands.'

 

This was how Aunt Gianna said it would be. An hour at sea with Uncle Nicholas comprised forty minutes of waiting, nineteen minutes of wondering, and one minute of sheer excitement Well, now he was fourteen years old he could make allowances for the way a woman saw things, but he could understand what she meant Uncle Nicholas (the captain, he corrected himself, because be wasn't really an uncle, yet anyway, and good discipline meant that the relationship wait never referred to) was rather like a cat. He sat patiently for hours outside the mouse hole, but once the mouse came out it was all over in a moment The trouble was, of course, that the prey was rarely a mouse; usually it was something like a leopard, not that he'd ever seen a leopard, except in those paintings on the walls of Etruscan tombs. All spotted. And, accidente, what breasts those Etruscan women had, too, and lately he seemed to be thinking more and more about women's breasts. Men did, he knew.

 

Anyway, Aunt Gianna had said the captain would show him no favour; that this was the English system, and he'd probably be harder on Paolo than on anyone else, but it was all part of the training. Well, if that was the case then Midshipman Orsini would be the best trained in the Navy and would pass for lieutenant the first time he took the examination, and the examiners at the Navy Board would be amazed . . . except, if Mr Southwick was to be believed, for his mathematics and navigation. This spherical trigonometry - Mama mia! Galileo, Archimedes, Pythagoras, Copernicus, Leonardo - they were all Italians (or were some of them Greek > Leonardo was Italian, anyway, because he had visited the village of Vinci, where he had been born), and if they could do it, well, Paolo Orsini should be able to. But could Leonardo?

 

'Orsini!'

 

'Sir!'

 

'That signal from La Creole!' "Yes, sir, I . . . er . . .' Where the devil was the ordinary signal book? And the telescope? Accidente, that stronzo Leonardo, and Vinci was not in Tuscany anyway; it was though, just north of Empoli, but it wasn't in the Kingdom of Volterra, so he didn't really count 'It's all right, Orsini; it's a special signal. But you'd gone to sleep.'

 

'No, sir, I - '

 

He saw Aunt Gianna's face and heard her words: 'And, Paolo, you'll be blamed for things you didn't do and it'll seem unjust, but never make excuses.'

 

She really did understand the Navy - of course, she had made two or three passages in the King's ships. Or, he suddenly realized, perhaps she understood Uncle Nicholas - the captain, rather. She knew his moods, because he could be very moody, and his sense of humour, which was dry. Very dry, at times; like this island. Did she know how thoughtful he was, though? How he was always concerned for his men, doing something for them, and no one - except perhaps Mr Southwick or Mr Aitken, or perhaps Jackson - ever knew? Several times in places like English Harbour and Port Royal, bumboats had come alongside and put many sacks of fresh fruit and vegetables on board for the men, and most people thought it was Navy Board issue, but Jackson had told him the captain paid for it out of his own pocket, and it was to prevent the men getting scurvy.

 

What is going on? The Calypso hove - to and now a dozen or more seamen on the foredeck under Mr Aitken and Mr Southwick. Two men passing a line outside of everything to the jibboom end. And a seaman balancing out there - is that a heaving line he's holding, half the coil in each hand? Yes, and one end of the heaving line is being made fast to the line leading back to the foredeck. If only he could ask the captain, but Uncle Nicholas looked preoccupato: he was rubbing the upper of those two scars over his right eyebrow, and Paolo remembered one of the first lessons he had ever learned from Jacko, or perhaps it was Rossi: when you see the captain rubbing that scar, keep clear Accidente! Just look at La Creole now! They've eased the sheets and are just - what is the word, just 'jilling' - across our bowl They'll collide, rip out our jibboom, spring the bowsprit, tear away the forestay and bring the foremast down - why doesn't someone do - but the captain is just standing there watching. Rubbing the scar, but not bellowing orders. In fact, Paolo realized, no one was speaking a word: whatever was happening was planned.

 

With La Creole sailing slowly at an angle across the Calypso's bow, the man holding the heaving line on the jib - boom end was balancing himself as the whole bow gently rose and fell on the swell waves. Now he's twirling the coil in his right hand and the men who had passed the heavier line from the foredeck to the jibboom end are holding it out clear, as though to prevent it snagging on anything. But why should it snag?

 

That schooner! There's Mr Lacey standing beside the men at the wheel. He's just standing there like a statue. One of the men heaves down a spoke or two. The hiss of the schooner's bow wave - he could see every plank in the hull, every seam where the heat of the sun had shrunk the wood. He wanted to shut his eyes as the schooner hit the jibboom but was even too frightened for that Suddenly the man on the jibboom jerks as though shot - now the thin snake of the heaving line is darting towards the schooner's mainchains. Men seize it as the schooner crosses ahead and the men along the Calypso's jibboom jump back after letting go of the line, as though it was suddenly hot. The line is racing over the bow - it's secured to the cable and now that too is going over the side after the line, and they're hauling in like madmen in La Creole!

 

Now the - first words in the Calypso came from Mr Wagstaffe, clear across the open water - to brace up the foretopsail - yard, so that it draws. Now he leans over for a quick word to the quartermaster and the men at the wheel heave at the spokes. And Uncle Nicholas is just standing there, quite still except his eyes move - from La Creole to the Calypso's jib - boom, to the foretopsail, to the windvane on top of the bulwark nettings, to the foredeck and that heavy cable which is smoking where it chafes on the bulwark as it goes over the side. He hasn't said a word nor made a movement.

 

It had all happened, Paolo realized, exactly as the captain had intended. It had taken - well, perhaps three minutes. Three, Aunt Gianna, not one. But to what purpose? The cable was paying out slower than he expected - La Creole was deliberately spilling wind from her sails to move slowly; the Calypso, with her foretopsail now drawing, was gathering way and Mr Wagstaffe was getting her into La Creole's wake. Now he could see the heaving line and the heavier line had been taken on board La Creole and men were hauling vigorously to get the end of the Calypso's heavy cable on board.

 

Now Mr Wagstaffe was bellowing orders to furl the topsails. And courses. Furl, not clew up. But the topmen are making a poor job of passing the gaskets: the sails look like so much old laundry. And Uncle Nicholas is just watching and nodding to Mr Wagstaffe, obviously approving. And the courses - bundling up the canvas, that's what the men are doing, not furling. The jibs are being dropped and just left at the bottom of the stays, as though milady was stepping out of her clothes.

 

What are those men doing with the ensign? No, it isn't the ensign, there's too much white. A broad expanse of white cloth. And of blue. And red, too, wide strips of plain colours with no design. Ah, now they have the blue ensign of old Foxey - Foote, and they are bending it on below this other flag. Mr Wagstaffe is pointing upwards, and they're heaving down on the halyard, and hoisting the flags.

 

Accidente! The fools! They've hoisted a big French Tricolour above the British ensign! And Uncle Nicholas is looking at them as they go up, the cloth blowing out straight in the wind, and he is making some joke to Mr Wagstaffe.

 

A shout from Mr Aitken on the fo'c'sle and Mr Wagstaffe yells at the men at the wheel. They spin the spokes - ah, yes, the strain is about to come on the cable; all of it is off the fo'c'sle now; it leads direct from the Calypso's bow to La Creole's stern. And 'La Creole has hoisted a large French Tricolour. There's no British flag under it, though.

 

To anyone sailing past now, Paolo suddenly saw with almost bewildering clarity, it looked as if the French schooner La Creole was towing in a British prize ...

 

Ramage flicked over the pages of the French signal book. Poor quality paper, bad printing, and very few signals, perhaps a third of the number contained in the British book, so pity French admirals trying to make their wishes known to their captains. Still, there were enough for his purposes and the sailmaker and his mates had made up enough flags, even if some of the cloth was stiff because it had been coloured with thinned paint It would never work. The captain of the French frigate would never fall into the trap. Instead of saving his men's lives, Ramage knew now he'd end up with half of them killed and the other half taken prisoner. He looked at the French frigate, a mile away and beating up to them fast. It was not too late to call it ail off; to cut the cable, warn Lacey, let fall the Calypso's topsails and fight.

 

A few words to Aitken, who was now officer of the deck, would be enough: 'Belay all this nonsense, Mr Aitken; cut the cable, let fall the topsails and we'll fight 'em ship to ship!' That was all it needed, and the only thing that prevented him from saying it was his pride, which was working like a gag.

 

Yet a few days ago - yesterday, in fact - he had been sure it would work. He'd thought of the idea, spent a couple of hours trying to find faults in his plan, and had spent many hours since looking for loopholes. So why did he now think it would not work? The explanation was quite simple, of course: he was a coward, and before any action he always had these moments of quiet desperation, quiet panic, quiet fear. The quiet coward. Some men were secret gamblers, others secret drinkers. Some were wife - beaters, and others had nameless secret vices. And you, Your Lordship? Oh, I'm a secret coward . . .

 

Now it was too late to change his mind; the French frigate was slicing her way up to them, spray flying from her bow, port lids triced up, guns run out, Tricolour streaming out in the freshening breeze. Her sails were patched and the wetness of her hull could not hide the lack of paint. She was being sailed well but her captain was letting her sag off, so she'd have to tack to stay up to windward . . . Now she was furling her courses. Very sensible and the standard move before going into action. She should dew up her topgallants, too - ah, yes, she was doing that now, and the men were going out on the yards to furl them.

 

The Calypso must be a puzzle to that French captain: sails bundled untidily on the yards, ports closed, a dozen or so men lounging on top of the hammock nettings, idly watching the approaching frigate just as they might look incuriously at passing bumboats in port. The large French Tricolour hoisted over the British ensign showed she had been captured. She was obviously French - built, so presumably had been a British prize. But there could be no doubt about the little schooner bravely towing her towards Amsterdam: French - built, Tricolour flying, her decks lined with men.

 

More important, Ramage had reckoned, the French captain of La Creole would have shifted to his new capture, the Calypso. Apart from having considerably more comfortable quarters, it would be the obvious place for him. Now it all depended on the captain of the approaching French frigate. Was he a flashing - eyed revolutionary or a rough sea - lawyer the Revolution had dragged up from the lowerdeck and put in command? Or a former royalist who had hurriedly turned his coat in exchange for keeping his neck intact and getting promotion? By now France was getting over the shortage of trained captains caused by the Revolution's habit, in the first few months, of executing anyone that looked like an aristocrat, a bout of republican enthusiasm which had killed off France's best captains and admirals and often put in their place men who made up in political glibness what they lacked in seamanship or leadership.

 

Whatever the type of man in command of that frigate, Ramage knew the whole success or failure of his operation depended on him seizing (and keeping) the initiative. The enemy ship was now close enough that telescopes could distinguish flags.

 

'Hoist the French challenge,' he told Aitken, and warned Orsini: 'Watch for the reply.'

 

Two seamen hurriedly hauled at the halyard on which the three flags of the French code making up the day's challenge were already bent. Ramage was thankful that the French system of challenge and reply was less complex than the British - and the page on which it was printed in tabular form and which had been slipped into the signal book was for a whole year.

 

He aimed his telescope at the French ship. Over there the French captain would be puzzled all right. The Frenchman would be assuming that the schooner's captain would be only a lieutenant and therefore his junior. He had every reason to think that he would now take command of the whole situation; that he would escort La Creole and her prize into Amsterdam (and no doubt find a way of claiming a hefty share of the prize money).

 

Three flags were jerking their way aloft and almost immediately, before they were properly hoisted, Orsini reported, his voice squeaking with excitement: 'She's made the correct reply, sir. And there go her pendant numbers. I'll have her name in a moment, sir.'

 

The boy glanced down at the book. 'Pendant number one three seven, sir' He turned to the back of the book where ships of the French Navy were listed by their numbers. 'One three seven is La Perle, sir.'

 

Moments were counting now: La Perle, approaching from the Calypso's quarter, would have read her name on the transom and wasted time looking her up in the list: she was not there because her name had been changed when she became part of the Royal Navy. So La Perle's captain, already no doubt puzzled by the fact the challenge had been made by the Calypso and not the obvious victor, La Creole, would have no way of being sure of the seniority of the officer in the Calypso who had made the challenge.

 

'Quickly now,' Ramage snapped. 'Hoist one three seven and the signal for the captain to come on board - forty - six.'

 

So far so good: forty - six ordered 'the captain of the ship designated' to come on board the ship making the signal, and anyone seeing it hoisted would assume (Ramage hoped) that the officer making it knew he was the senior. The captain of La Perle would guess that whoever was on board the Calypso knew his seniority, but he knew nothing of the Calypso. More important, he knew no lieutenant commanding La Creole would have the impertinence to order him on board. La Perle's captain should be very puzzled but, if Ramage's guess was correct, he would obey. Any officer in that Frenchman's position would (if he had any sense) obey because if he came on board and found that a junior officer had given the order, he could spend the next day or two making the fellow's life a misery.

 

The violent flapping of cloth, sounding like a squall hitting a line laden with wet laundry, made him glance up. The flags were being run up smartly, with Paolo almost dancing with impatience as he spurred on the two seamen hauling at the halyards.

 

Ramage resumed his watch on La Perle. As she danced about in the circle made by the telescope he could see just how scruffy she was; her guns were run out, of course: seventeen a side, so she was pierced for thirty - four. But as she heeled in the gusts there was a dirty mark all the way along her waterline, the mark of a ship that spent much time in harbour without her captain making sure a boatload of men with scrubbing brushes kept her clean. And the yards - rust streaks marked the wood and the canvas, showing no one bothered to have the irons of the stunsail booms chipped and scraped and painted. Rust marks weakened canvas, quite apart from looking untidy. The headsails sagged even though the wind was little more than a stiff breeze, showing that the forestays were slack and no one had bothered to take up the slack in the halyards as the ropes stretched. The sight of La Perle would give any British admiral 'She's acknowledged, sir,' Orsini called.

 

Aitken did not even look round; Southwick was still taking a bearing of her. The only person to catch Ramage's eyes as he glanced across the deck was Jackson. Was the American the only one who realized that everything had depended on that signal? Not everything, Ramage corrected himself, but at least the success of the first part of his plan.

 

How odd to see the Calypso's decks so bare! A French frigate within three cables (he could distinguish men on board her now, so she was less than 700 yards away) and getting ready to heave - to to send over a boat - and the only sign of life on the British ship's decks was the men lounging on the hammock nettings, two or three watching from the fo'c'sle, and a few men on the quarterdeck.

 

He was wearing a seaman's white duck trousers and an open - necked blue shirt with a cutlass belt over his shoulder; Aitken and Southwick had also borrowed clothes from some of the men and also wore cutlass belts, without cutlasses. No breeches in sight - hurrah for France; this was the age of the sons - culottes. Breeches meant oppression; trousers stood for democracy. The Calypso's decks were a picture of egalitarian slackness - viewed from La Perle anyway. The Frenchmen could not see the men waiting below, more than one hundred and fifty of them, ready to race up, trice up the port lids and run out the guns, which were already loaded, with handspikes, rammers and sponges lying beside them, and trigger lines neatly coiled, not in their usual place on the breech of each gun where they might be spotted by a sharp - eyed Frenchman aloft with a telescope, but on the deck.

 

The captain of La Perle was going to have to scramble on board as best he could: the Calypso was making only a couple of knots or, rather, La Creole was, and could not be expected to stop for him. Scrambling (and the prospect of it as his boat approached) would help keep the French captain's mind occupied, Ramage thought; he must be wondering why the Calypso had no canvas set to help La Creole. The frigate could of course be under tow for several reasons, not the least was damage to her steering, but some canvas set would make the schooner's task much easier.

 

Now La Perle was heaving - to; her foretopsail was being hauled aback and a boat was being hoisted out with the stay tackle.

 

Orsini and his seamen had hauled down the flags and were bundling them up again. The boy was bright enough, the way he had learned the French signal code in a few hours. It was a pity he had such difficulty with mathematics, but Ramage always felt hypocritical at punishing the lad when an exasperated Southwick insisted. Ramage's own mathematics were poor; they had been sufficient to let him pass the examination for lieutenant and be thankful that no one would ever test him again for the rest of his naval career, once past lieutenant promotion did not depend on the mysteries of mathematical figures.

 

The boat was being held alongside La Perle; now the men were settled in it. And the last man going on board must be the captain. A squat, powerful - looking man with a fighting sword slung over his shoulder: no dress sword for him. They let the sternfast go, then the painter, and then the men at the oars were pulling briskly and clumsily for the Calypso. 'Look at them, sir,' Jackson muttered disgustedly. As the captain's coxswain he always commanded the boat carrying Ramage, and he was offended by the way the French boat was being rowed. 'Ill bet they'll lose an oar before they get alongside.'

 

Ramage laughed - louder than he intended, but it was a relief to/have La Perle's captain on his way, even if his boat's crew rowed like drunken smugglers dodging a Revenue cutter.

 

'Mr Aitken, I want four men ready to take that boat's stern - fast and painter, but warn them not to speak a word while they're doing it; I don't want those Frenchmen to get any warning.'

 

Five minutes later Ramage was waiting a few feet back from the entry port Jackson, Stafford and Rossi were standing nearby, looking like undisciplined seamen, but each had a pistol tucked into the top of his trousers and wore a cutlass. To La Perle's captain they were obviously some of the guards who were having a breath of fresh air, relaxing from the task of guarding the English prisoners held below.

 

Aitken stood beside Ramage, a telescope under his arm and clearly the second in command. As Ramage waited, finding himself rubbing the scar over his eyebrow and cursing the sun's glare - he could not wear his hat - he knew the deception need last only two or three minutes, perhaps less; just the time it took to get the captain on board and the French boat astern, where it would tow with its crew still on board, a perfectly normal procedure.

 

Suddenly a plump, wine - mottled face topped by a narrow - brimmed straw hat appeared at the entry port, rising as its owner climbed up the last of the battens. The man was the same height as Ramage with broader shoulders and a stomach long ago run to fat. His arms were long and he walked two or three paces without swinging them. Creased, unbleached canvas trousers, a dark - red shirt, blue eyes, a face unshaven for a couple of days, greasy skin that had not been washed for the same length of time . . . But, Ramage realized, La Perle's captain had the look of a reliable man and was probably a good seaman. A boatswain promoted by the Revolution?

 

'Citoyen Duroc,' the man said, holding out his hand to Ramage, a huge hand whose fingers seemed as large as bananas. 'Pierre Duroc.' His eyes nickered over the Calypso's decks and seemed satisfied with what they saw.

 

Ramage did not move and Duroc, his hand still proffered, looked surprised, and then Ramage said: 'Do you speak English, Captain Duroc?'

 

The Frenchman stepped back a pace and instinctively looked towards La Creole and then over at La Perle, obviously intending to run back to the entry port.

 

Three metallic clicks stopped him in his trades: he recognized the noise and looked round slowly, careful now not to make any sudden movement. Jackson, Rossi and Stafford had cocked pistols aimed at him, and Ramage and Aitken had each taken a pace sideways, out of the line of fire.

 

Duroc was still puzzled and obviously not frightened. 'I have no English,' he said in French, his heavy accent showing he came from the Bordeaux area. He pointed up at the Tricolour. "What is happening? Were you prisoners? Have you escaped?'

 

Ramage shook his head and said in French, gesturing at the Tricolour and blue ensign, 'A ruse de guerre. Captain Duroc, to secure your capture!'

 

Duroc's face, already purple from years of heavy drinking, looked swollen: his eyes narrowed, his hands clenched: he was about to step towards Ramage, remembered the three pistols, and contented himself with sneering: 'You fight under false colours, eh?'

 

Tight?' Ramage enquired innocently. There's been no fighting, and you know the rules as well as I: one hoists one's proper colours before opening fire.'

 

That schooner, then!' Duroc burst out "She's French. I recognize her. From Fort de France.'

 

'She was French and you probably did see her in Fort Royal - ' Ramage deliberately used the old name - 'but we captured her, along with this ship.'

 

Duroc shook his head, like a trapped bull. 'What are you going to do now?' he demanded.

 

Take possession of La Perle.' The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and waved at the Calypso's decks. 'I have three hundred men on board - you have a couple of dozen.'

 

Ramage bowed. Thank you; I was expecting you to have fewer.'

 

Duroc, unaware what he had revealed, held out both hands, palm upwards. 'You'll never take her. Let me go back on board my boat and let us continue our respective voyages.'

 

Ramage watched the man's eyes. It was a curious offer, curious and not in keeping with the man's character. Duroc was a fighter; it would have been more in character if he had sworn at Ramage and told him to do his damnedest to capture La Perle. Duroc had a reason for avoiding a fight, and the reason, Ramage guessed, was because he had a particular purpose in wanting to get to Amsterdam. An important passenger? Special supplies? Reinforcements? No, not reinforcements because he had boasted of his three hundred men, which was the number of men the French like to have in a frigate of that size. Whatever it was, Duroc had a reason for wanting to get to Amsterdam. And while the ship was lying hove - to over there, Ramage knew Duroc would never reveal it. Afterwards, he might.

 

Ramage looked again at the eyes - they were bloodshot now, from rage - and the hands, which were clenched, looked like shoulders of mutton. He turned to Aitken. 'Pass the word for Mr Rennick - we'll keep this fellow in irons for the time being.'

 

La Perle was soon a mile astern and still hove - to as La Creole continued to tow the Calypso eastward. Orsini, whose French was fluent, had been sent aft to order the French boat crew to climb on board up a rope ladder slung from the taffrail. The nine men had climbed over the taffrail to find themselves staring into the muzzles of pistols and were only too glad to be led below as prisoners.

 

Ramage wished the Royal Navy would abandon breeches for its officers - in the Tropics, anyway: cotton duck trousers were loose and so much cooler and more comfortable than breeches and stockings. And there was much to be said for a loose - fitting shirt. The French egalite had sartorial advantages.

 

Very well, he told himself, the first part of the plan has worked: La Perle now has no captain, but whether or not she is also a snake with her head chopped off depends on the French first lieutenant. If he's like Aitken, there is hard and bloody fighting ahead. If he's a fool - well . . .

 

'Mr Orsini - let me have the French signal book, please.'

 

He knew the wording of the signals almost by heart, but he dare not risk a mistake in the numbers. It was such a thin volume, it contained so few signals, especially - especially, he made himself say under his breath, when you are going to try to use it to capture a ship. The only ally he had at the moment was the fact that the officers in La Perle would assume that any orders signalled to her from the Calypso would have the approval of Duroc, and would promptly obey them.

 

La Creole and the Calypso were now a couple of miles from the coast of Curacao and steering diagonally away from it to the south - east. That was no good; he was going to have to crowd La Perle; crowd her just at the time her first lieutenant was getting into a panic.

 

'Mr Aitken, make a signal to La Creole to tack. But don't hoist it: I want the flags hung over the bow where La Perle can't see them and have Lacey's attention drawn to them by a musket shot. If the Frenchmen see flags being hoisted that they don't recognize . . .'

 

'Aye aye, sir,' the first lieutenant said briskly.

 

'And I hope he has plenty of way on that schooner when he puts the helm over.'

 

'I warned him about that,' Aitken said dryly. 'I didn't want our dead weight pulling his stern bade again and putting him in irons.'

 

Ramage nodded and looked over towards the island. Once they were on the other tack they would be steering almost directly for the shore. It would take them half an hour to reach the beach, and although half an hour sounded a long time it would seem a matter of moments if anything went wrong. Particularly, Ramage thought grimly, if the person involved was a French lieutenant upon whose shoulders the fate of two frigates and a schooner was suddenly and unexpectedly thrust.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Aitken stood by the binnacle watching the schooner. Lacey had acknowledged the signal to tack and had then turned away a good point to starboard and eased sheets to increase La Creole's speed. The cable running from the schooner's stern to the Calypso's bow now had less of a curve in it, straightened by the extra pull, and when the strain suddenly brought several feet of rope jerking up out of the sea, water spurted from between the strands, like a burly washerwoman wringing out sheets.

 

Then, with the Calypso now moving faster, the schooner began to turn slowly and deliberately to larboard. Aitken snapped out the order to the quartermaster, who relayed it to the two men at the wheel, and they hauled at the spokes. Almost at once the Calypso began to turn inshore and Ramage watched. The frigate should be round and on her new course by the time La Creole had completed her tack, and during that time the cable would have slackened just enough, dipping deeper under its own weight so that it would act as a spring to dampen the jerk as the frigate's weight came back on it.

 

'Mr Orsini,' Ramage said quietly, 'you have La Perle's numbers ready to hoist?'

 

'Aye aye, sir."

 

'And number fifty - six?'

 

'Yes, sir - "Ship indicated shall take disabled vessel in taw, the course to be steered to be made known in the next signal".' The signal for the course is bent on ready?'

 

'Yes, sir.'

 

'And what course is that?'

 

'North - east, sir.'

 

'Very good. Don't get them mixed up.'

 

Paolo Orsini was angry. His olive skin was flushed; his brown eyes glared. For a start he was wearing a seaman's shirt and white duck trousers, instead of his uniform, and he had no hat, except this straw thing woven out of palm fronds and painted. He was more proud of his uniform than anything except perhaps his name, although fortunately no one had so far strained his loyalties to find out, and he resented his present garb, even though all the officers were similarly dressed.

 

Not only had Uncle Nicholas - the captain, he corrected himself sarcastically - made him wear these wretched clothes, so that he looked like some damnable sans-culotte, but he kept asking silly questions about the signals. They were the right ones, they were bent on different halyards, they had been checked half a dozen times. Five times by himself, and once furtively by Jackson and Rossi who, with Stafford and the sailmaker, had sewn'up the French flags in the first place and had written what each one was in small figures at the bottom of the hoist. Orsini had been angry when he first saw the figures and had rounded on Jackson, who had just listened and then winked.

 

Winked! Not offered any explanation to the officer whom the captain bad made responsible for signals, which was himself, but winked. Admittedly no one else could see the wink, but a wink was no way to behave towards a midshipman. Why, he could have taken Jackson to the captain and reported his insolence. Not that that would have done any good, he admitted, his anger melting as quickly as it had arisen, because the captain would have pointed out that Jackson was helping him. And so he was; it was the kind of thing that Jackson did, quietly and without anyone else seeing, and Paolo sheepishly admitted to himself that he was grateful. It was so hot down here in this latitude; too hot to think and certainly too hot to remain good - tempered.

 

Anyway, the signals made no sense. Was the captain going pazzo? What was the point in this French frigate La Perle taking the Calypso in tow instead of La Creole! Did he have some other task for the schooner? And why tow the Calypso anyway? Why didn't the Calypso cast off the tow and get alongside La Perle, then pour in a few broadsides and board her in the smoke? That's what he would do if he was the captain. Captain Orsini. Dunque, three broadsides and allora, it would be all over.

 

And this tacking. Just look now: La Creole is towing them straight towards the shore! Mama mia, if she gets into stays on the next tack offshore well all end up on the beach. And you can be sure the Calypso will bilge herself on the only rocks along a mile of sand and spring some planks, so all we'll hear for the next couple of days will be the clanking of the chain pump and the creak of our own muscles. Every man will have to take his turn - in this heat too, when it is too hot to think, let alone pump. And the Dutch cavalry will come galloping along and start sniping at us. Then they'll bring up artillery and the Calypso will not be able to fire back because shell be heeled to seaward and all her guns on the landward side will be pointing up in the air. Accidente, what a mess, and all because Uncle Nicholas didn't - then, to his surprise, he saw they were still a mile from the beach, the Creole towing steadily, and the French frigate still hove - to. The way his imagination ran away with him ... if Uncle Nicholas had the slightest idea, he'd send him back to Aunt Gianna!

 

Ramage looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. There were nearly two hundred men waiting on the Calypso's lower - deck, which must be like an oven.

 

'Carry on, Mr Aitken!' he said, 'I'm just going below for a few minutes.'

 

He clattered down the companionway, noting yet again the comfort of the trousers: going up or down steps in breeches always caused an uncomfortable tightness across the knees. He made his way forward to the messdecks, where the men waited. Not only was it appallingly hot but it was smelly. There was the sickly stench of bilgewater, the last gallons that no pumps could ever clear, and the smell of which was usually cleared away by the downdraught of the sails. At anchor the water settled, but now, with the ship rolling under tow and no sails set, the effect was like stirring up a stagnant pond on a hot, windless day.

 

The men were grouped round the ladders with their officers. Wagstaffe, the cheery Londoner, was obviously keeping his men amused; he had a good fund of stories and could mimic Stafford's Cockney accent. Baker, the burly young third lieutenant from Bungay, in Suffolk, was quiet; the chance of him telling a funny story to amuse his men was remote, but they all seemed to like him. And finally, of the sea officers, the fourth lieutenant, young Peter Kenton. His shortness and red hair made him conspicuous, and because his heavily freckled face was usually peeling from sunburn, he seemed younger than his twenty - one years. His men looked contented, while Rennick and his Marines were a compact mass of pipeclay.

 

All of them fell silent as soon as they saw Ramage, a silence not caused by awe but because they were obviously expecting him to say something. He had not intended to do more than show himself, but rows of expectant faces made him climb a couple of rungs of a ladder up to the main hatch so that he could be seen by all the men.

 

'While you fellows are resting down here,' he said, and they all gave murmurs of mock protest, 'we have been busy on deck. We have the captain of the French frigate on board as a guest - of the Marines, who I hope have him in irons in the gunroom - and the Calypso is being towed by La Creole, as you know, to save you all the effort of sail handling on a hot day.'

 

The laughter showed that the men liked this teasing, simple as it was, but time was passing and he was anxious to get back on deck. 'At the moment the French frigate is hove - to astern. Within an hour I hope we shall have captured her. You'll get your orders. Speed is what will matter. Speed will mean success. It'll also be your best protection. In the meantime La Perle - that's the name of the French frigate - is quite convinced we are La Creole's prize. Well, well see. We know how much Their Lordships reckon French frigates are worth in prize money and we know the deductions for damage, so we'll be gentle with La Perle.' With that the men cheered him and he swung up the ladder into the bright sunlight. In the past few months each of the men had earned a considerable amount of prize money - from ships including the Calypso and La Creole - and they obviously liked the idea. Each of them was now entitled to more prize money than he could earn in wages in twenty years at sea. Curiously enough it did not seem to affect their attitude to life - or death, rather. A man with several score guineas due to him, enough to go home and set up a little business which would keep him comfortably into a prosperous old age, might well be more anxious than usual to stay alive; he might show some reluctance when going into action. Wasn't it Frederick the Great who berated his tardy Prussian guards with: 'Dogs, would you live for ever?' A sensible man's answer, Ramage reflected, would be an uncompromising yes, but fortunately the Navy (and the Army too!) comprised men born without an excessively strong sense of self - preservation.

 

On deck once again the sun's glare was harsh and it took him a moment or two to adjust his eyes. Curacao seemed startlingly near but automatically he checked: he could see the beach clearly so it was less than three miles; he could see a shrub the height of a man growing at the back of the beach but not quite distinguish the colours of the flowers growing on it - so it was between two miles (colours indistinguishable) and one (colours distinguishable). Call it a mile and a half. On this course, making an angle to the coast, La Creole had two miles to sail before she ran up on the beach, followed by the Calypso nearly one hundred fathoms, or two hundred yards, astern. La Perle was still hove - to and he could make out her main rigging, so she was a mile away: the Calypso and La Creole by tacking, were in effect sailing along the tangent of a circle of which La Perle was the centre.

 

As he walked to the quarterdeck Ramage began rubbing the scar over his eyebrow. He knew he had gone below to see the men because the tension of remaining on deck was getting too much: he hated the split - second timing on which the next part of his plan depended, the split - second timing which depended not on the hands of a watch but on his own judgement And through making that speech - the mouthings of bravado - he bad probably wrecked everything by starting the second part of the plan two or three minutes late. But stay calm, he told himself: if you try to rush people they just make silly mistakes.

 

'Orsini - hoist La Perle's pendant number!'

 

His voice was so calm that he surprised himself, but he could afford it because earlier he had made the boy check the flags. Now the midshipman and his two seamen hoisted them smartly.

 

number fifty - six of the French code."

 

'Aye aye, sir.' As the boy and the seamen hoisted Paolo repeated: '"Ship indicated shall take disabled vessel in tow, the course to be steered to be made known in the next signal."' 'Very well,' Ramage said. 'Let me know when she acknowledges.'

 

But even before he finished speaking three telescopes were trained on La Perle: Aitken was standing with his back to the quarterdeck rail, balancing himself on the balls of his feet against the Calypso's gentle roll, Southwick was watching with the complacency of a prosperous farmer inspecting a ripe field of corn, half of which had already fallen before the reapers' scythes and with the weather set fair, and Paolo had snatched up a telescope with the speed of a conjurer producing an out - of - season apple from the rector's hat.

 

Even Ramage could see without a telescope as La Perle answered. They had the flag already bent,' Southwick commented.

 

'Now, Orsini, hoist the signal for north - east, and make sure it is acknowledged.'

 

Aitken and Southwick walked over to join Ramage, who had remained by the binnacle, which for the moment was shaded by the furled mizentopsail.

 

'I'm glad I'm not that French first lieutenant,' Aitken said to no one in particular.

 

'Why not?' Ramage was surprised at the Scotsman's gloomy tone.

 

'Well, sir, he's been ordered to take us in tow, but how is he to get the cable from La Creole! By the time he gets up here the schooner will be nearly on this coral reef running parallel with the beach. There'll be hardly any room for him to manoeuvre. If he stays too far off he could hit the reef; if he gets too close to the Calypso he runs the risk of hitting La Creole. But somehow he has to get that cable secured on board!'

 

'You've forgotten two other things.'

 

'What, sir?' Now Aitken was surprised.

 

'First, he thinks his own captain is watching every move from this quarterdeck, with another senior officer beside him. Second, he's sure his whole future depends on what he does.'

 

'Aye,' Southwick said with a prodigious sniff, 'and he knows how easily he could get all three ships caught up in such a mass of tangled yards that we all end up on that reef like three battered tankards in an alehouse brawl.'

 

Two and a half pints,' Ramage said dryly. 'Yes, I'm glad I'm not that Frenchman. In fact I can't see how he can do it.'

 

Aitken and Southwick both swung round to stare at him. The skin of Aitken's face had suddenly gone taut, and South - wick ran a hand through his flowing white hair, and licked his lips uneasily. 'But you - you've just given him the order, sir,' Southwick said nervously.

 

'Yes, though I'd sooner give it than receive it.'

 

'I ... well, sir, should I get an anchor cleared away for letting go, sir?'

 

'Won't help much, Mr Southwick. It's deep right up to the reef, so by the time the anchor's beginning to get a bite we'd be on the coral. Staghorn, isn't it? Dreadful stuff. . .'

 

'Could we hoist out the boats ready to tow if necessary, sir?' Aitken ventured, still watching Ramage closely.

 

'No,' Ramage said lugubriously, 'we shouldn't envy that poor French first lieutenant.' He turned to Jackson, who was holding up a cutlass: 'Ah yes, slide it in.' He settled the leather belt more comfortably across his shoulder. 'And the pistols, thank you.' He took the pair from the American and clipped them on to the waistbelt of his trousers.

 

Orsini called excitedly: 'La Perle's acknowledged the signal giving the course, sir. She took long enough.'

 

'Hoping we'd made a mistake, no doubt, and would annul it,' Aitken commented as he turned to look at the frigate. 'But she's slipping along now. But that fellow hasn't made up his mind whether to approach us on the windward or leeward side.' He looked at Ramage, who nodded as though the subject of La Perle no longer interested him.

 

'I wonder what the devil all that smoke and musketry was yesterday,' Ramage said. 'And the captain of La Perle was so anxious to get to Amsterdam.'

 

'Was he, sir?' Aitken said in surprise.

 

'Oh yes, no bridegroom was more anxious to get to the church on time than Captain Duroc.'

 

Ramage felt hot and he felt a fraud. Standing under this scorching sun, which was now directly overhead so that you had to lean forward slightly to see your own shadow, the deck was so hot that the wood could be a stove top curling the leather of the soles of your shoes. Nor was the wind doing very much to cool anything: the Calypso was making only two knots and the wind barely had the energy to lift itself over the rolls of hammocks piled in the bulwark nettings to blow across the deck. The glare from the sea, from the sails, and from the near - white sand of the beach, gave the impression of heat, even though its only real effect was to make you screw up your eyes so that you peered out on this tropical oven through slits, like a short - sighted Oriental.

 

And the fraud: that was a different thing altogether. Aitken and Southwick had suddenly looked at each other and then they had laughed: the captain, they thought, was playing a neat joke on them, pretending he did not know what would happen when La Perle arrived to carry out her orders. They were sure the captain had a trick hidden away, a trick which would solve everything and leave them with La Perle as a prize.

 

The fraud arose because he had no trick ready, and if Aitken and Southwick gave the matter any thought, they would know it was impossible to have one waiting. He had explained yesterday the only plan he had was the one which would get La Perle's captain on board, leaving the ship - he hoped - in the hands of less experienced officers. Well, that plan had been executed; Captain Duroc, no doubt sadder and wiser, was now sitting below in irons, with Marines guarding him.

 

What happened next depended entirely on what La Perle's first lieutenant did. Given that he tried to carry out the order to take over the tow of the Calypso, how would he approach? How would he get that heavy cable from La Creole and secure it on board and take up the tow? Would be come up to starboard, on the windward side, or on the larboard side, which had the advantage of being to leeward but the disadvantage of being the land side, reducing the available room to the stretch between the long reef and the Calypso! Ironically the anonymous French lieutenant now had the advantage; that much Ramage admitted. The Frenchman knew what he was going to do, but Ramage knew nothing. It was a game of chess - mat's what neither Southwick nor Aitken realized. At this stage of this particular game, your move depended on your opponent's move; it was a response. You hoped that your opponent moved a piece which allowed you to checkmate in one move, but there was always the danger that you would be the one who was checkmated.

 

La Perle was beating up fast in the Calypso's wake and Ramage stared at her. The three masts were in line. She could pass one side or the other at the very last moment. Suddenly he realized why she looked a little strange: all her guns had just been run in and the gun ports closed. The French lieutenant had - wisely from his point of view and fortunately from Ramage's - done it presumably because he wanted his men ready to handle sails and secure that cable; as far as he was concerned there was no fighting to be done; simply a problem of salvage.

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

Lieutenant de vaisseau Jean - Pierre Bazin bitterly regretted the day he had ever gone to sea. As a boy growing up in Lyon, where the placid River Saone joined the turbulent Rhone after its race through the mountains, he had watched the Saone passing within a hundred yards of his home in one of the narrow streets in the shadow of the cathedral. He had also walked the other way, to the Fort de Lovasse. He had walked up to the Fort scores of times, hundreds in fact, to watch the soldiers drilling, the bands playing, men marching and countermarching to the beat of a drum. But soldiering had never excited him; the pressed uniforms, the polished buttons, the pipeclayed belts (for this was before the Revolution) had seemed a lot of unnecessary work every day, especially to a boy who was for ever accounting to his mother for the latest holes in breeches and boots.

 

In contrast the rivers had captured his imagination. Along the Saone men sat on the banks or stood among the rushes, fishing from dawn to dusk, with a sleep in the middle of the day when the sun was high (as it was now, but never reaching such an altitude or heat, of course). Horses had plodded along the banks of the Saone, towing barges and disturbing the pecheurs. The barges were usually painted in gay colours and carried cargoes from places which seemed as distant to a young boy as China: from Tournus and Chalon, and towns on the Saone's tributaries, like Dijon and Dole.

 

Then, as a change from the placid Saone, he would walk across the bridge and past the arsenal and watch the Rhone which, in spring, as the ice and snow melted up in the Swiss mountains, was a torrent. The water sluicing past, noisy over the rocks along the banks and cold, gave the impression of movement and travel; starting from way beyond Lac Leman it passed Geneve and twisted and turned to Lyon; then, always rushing onwards, it began its great surge to the Mediterranean. The Mediterranean - the cradle of civilization, the route to ancient Greece and Tyre and Nineveh, or even to Corsica, where Columbus was born at Calvi, no matter what those blackguards in Genoa claimed. Born within the walls of the Citadel, he was, and a credit to the island - to the whole of France, indeed.

 

Anyway, the quiet Saone and the racing Rhone (except occasionally in simmer when it almost dried up, usually after a winter of only very light snow in Switzerland, and barge traffic was stopped for weeks on end) had given him the idea that they represented the two extremes of the sea, the smooth and the rough. So at the age of fifteen he had packed a bag, said goodbye to his widowed mother, travelled by barge down the Rhone to Avignon, and then ridden by cart (for the price of helping the carter with his train of four horses) to Toulon, where he had joined the French Navy. It was slavery, even in port it meant fourteen hours' work a day while the officers spent their time on shore . . .

 

By the time the Revolution came he was an able seaman, a nimble topman and, thanks to his mother's patient teaching, one of the few seamen who could read and write. Read well enough, fortunately, to understand the revolutionary pamphlets and help persuade the other seamen of the necessity of disposing of several royalist officers for whom the men had an absurd loyalty. For all this work the Revolutionary Council had made him a lieutenant, and he had long since learned that the Rhone at its wildest had as much similarity to the sea as - well, the grande rade of Toulon to a puddle.

 

More recently, he remembered the excitement when La Perle had been at anchor in Martinique, at Fort de France, as Fort Royal was now called, and Captain Duroc had finally noticed the royalist sympathies of the frigate's first lieutenant, that braggart from Gascony. Denunciation, trial and execution had taken only a few days, and Citoyen Jean - Pierre Bazin, the second lieutenant, had suddenly found himself promoted: at thirty he was second in command of this great frigate.

 

The journey from the house in the shadow of the cathedral in Lyon to walking the quarterdeck of La Perle, frigate, as the man next only to the captain had taken but fifteen years. That showed the opportunity which the Revolution gave to men of character and leadership. Captain Duroc, for example, had been the boatswain of an old xebec trading from Sete to Marseille when the Revolution began.

 

Now, though, Captain Duroc was on board that damnable prize frigate being towed quite competently towards Amsterdam. And he, Jean - Pierre Bazin, had been left in command of La Perle for the first time. At the beginning, that had been far from daunting; with the foretopsail backed the ship had stayed hove - to, like a gull resting on the water. The captain's boat had been rowed briskly to the prize frigate, Duroc had gone on board, the boat had been hauled round to tow astern: all what one would expect, because whoever was on board the prize was obviously senior to Captain Duroc. One would have expected the captain to return in, say, fifteen minutes, half an hour at the most, and La Perle would then continue on her way to Amsterdam: the captain had made enough fuss about the rush to get there.

 

But had Captain Duroc come back on board? Oh no, he had stayed on board the prize, no doubt clinking glasses and reminiscing. And then suddenly the signalling had started. Without any warning or explanation he had been ordered to take that thrice - damned frigate in tow. Not only that; he had to take over the tow from that damned schooner. Somehow he had to transfer the actual cable from the schooner, not pass one. How? And the fools, the criminals in the schooner, had tacked. From heading offshore, leaving plenty of room for La Perle to manoeuvre, the cretins had quite unnecessarily tacked, heading inshore, and by the time La Perle reached her there would be no room on their larboard side, which was the lee side, which meant (unless he risked running La Perle ashore) that be could only approach from the windward side.

 

Merde! Approach from to windward with a ship like La Perle that handled like a haystack and was manned with crippled imbeciles who jumped to obey orders with all the alacrity of royalist mules 1 And if he made a mistake (because he was not given proper orders) and La Perle found herself alongside the other frigate, yards and rigging locked, or her jibboom caught in the other frigate's shrouds, with masts toppling like sugar cane before a machete, who would get the blame, eh? Why, he would be hauled before a tribunal and put in jail (if not worse) for damaging the property of the State. Not Duroc, will you please note, but Citoyen Bazin, who had been abandoned by his captain.

 

Just his luck, too, that most of the ship's company were also Gascons, followers of that traitorous first lieutenant Little wonder that 'gasconnade' had become part of the language: just listen to them now, bragging, boasting, arguing. At least they had managed to get La Perle under way without having a committee meeting about it - that was where Duroc had an advantage: he was big enough to knock down any man that argued. Lieutenant de vaisseau Bazin, on the other hand, would have to draw his sword and threaten (and risk having a man laugh in his face, as had happened once already).

 

Now, anyway. La Perle was steering for the prize frigate. The fourth lieutenant had reported that she had the name 'Calypso' painted on her transom, but there was no such name in the list of the French Navy, so the English must have renamed her. What 'did it mean, anyway? The name of a town, or of a battle? Perhaps one of these barbaric Roman or Greek gods.

 

It is so hot. This sun, it scorches, dazzles, and soaks you in perspiration. This island, too; what a wretched place. It looks more like a collection of rocks and sand which has been used for a camp by a passing army. Just cactus and shrub and, if Aruba was anything to go by, pudding - faced Dutch women with breasts like sacks and red - faced Dutchmen with bellies like casks who prefer their gin to the best wine.

 

All this thinking is wasting time. What is he going to do? If only the schooner tacks again to head the Calypso out to sea, and then drops the cable with a buoy on it. That would be the easiest; then La Perle could heave - to, use a boat to retrieve the buoy and get a line on it, and haul it in, all without risking a collision or drifting on to the coral reef. That damned coral reef along the shore just went on and on, like the border round a flower garden, a deceptive band of brown and gold with light - blue water beyond, showing how shallow it was.

 

No, he simply would not take the responsibility. Duroc was the captain; he should be on board now. He would - ah! Suddenly, with a spasm of irritation that he had not thought of it before, Bazin saw what Duroc obviously expected him to do: pass within hail of the Calypso. Then Duroc would shout across instructions. After all, Duroc would not want to risk damage to his own ship.

 

In the meantime he didn't want those damned guns run out with all those port lids triced up so that even the slightest touch of ship against ship would tear off lids and wrench guns from their carriages. The Calypso, he noted, did not have her guns run out He shouted orders to the second lieutenant, who was leaning on the quarterdeck rail as though expecting the ladies of the town to parade across the deck in front of him. Soon he could hear the rumble of the guns being run in, then the crash as port lid after port lid was allowed to slam shut, leaving the side as smooth as the walls of a house with the windows shut. Ah, he felt better now, he knew that Duroc would not have let him down like that. He looked round for the speaking trumpet: he might need to reverse it and use it as an ear trumpet. Duroc did not speak very clearly, even when sober, and he had been on board the Calypso for a good half an hour by now, so ...

 

Ramage looked astern at the approaching frigate. Masts still in line, her jibboom and bowsprit sticking up at an angle directly towards him like a hussar's lance. If you didn't know, you'd think she was going to ram the Calypso I Was she? The thought suddenly struck him that perhaps she had discovered that the Calypso was a British frigate and, not trusting to her guns, was trying to disable her. Had he made some silly mistake in the signals (in the challenge, perhaps) that had given him away?

 

Then Southwick ambled up and stood beside him, patting his ample stomach as though he'd just finished a good dinner. 'So he's unsure of himself, eh?' the master commented. 'That Frog is going to range alongside and ask for instructions on how to pick up the tow.'

 

Ramage nodded, hard put to stop himself slapping South wick on the back from sheer relief. That must be it He's just run his guns in and closed the ports - must be worried in case he comes too dose and rips them off.'

 

Southwick glanced at him, uncertain whether the remark about ripping off gun ports was serious or not 'We've enough way on to be able to give ourselves a bit of a sheer one way or the other to dodge him.'

 

'A bit of a sheer.' Ramage repeated Southwick's phrase to himself and looked across the narrow stretch of sea between the Calypso and the reef. Half a mile? Already the dark blue had gone from the water; now it was much lighter, lacking the near - purple which showed extreme depth. Then, quite abruptly, the water became light green and then brown as it reached the reef. Or, rather, the brown tops of the staghorn coral showed near the surface. And then, beyond the reef, a band of very light green showed the shallow water (a fathom or two) running up to the beach, with an occasional splash of white where a wave had enough strength to break.

 

Take a bit of sheer, a bit of panic, and a bit of a chance, too! He called Orsini and snatched the signal book from him. Feverishly he nicked through the pages. And there it was, a single flag. 'Hoist number eight!' Ramage snapped. It might be too late, but its very lateness might be a help.

 

'Number eight sir - To turn to larboard".' Ramage caught Southwick's eye and smiled: he knew exactly what was passing through the master's mind: young Paolo seems to have memorized the whole French signal book, but he can never remember for more than a day the simplest mathematical formula.

 

An intermittent mouse - like squeaking high overhead showed a halyard was spinning the sheave of a block, and Ramage deliberately continued looking astern, defying himself to glance up at the flag. The squeaking stopped; the flag must be hoisted now. And La Perle was perhaps three lengths astern, a little over a hundred yards. If it worked it was going to be a close - run affair.

 

He said to Southwick: 'Give her a sheer to larboard of one point.'

 

The master turned and shouted to the quartermaster.

 

To Aitken, waiting by the binnacle, Ramage called: Warn the men below to stand by!'

 

He could see a Frenchman perched out on the end of La Perle's jibboom gesticulating aft and pointing at the Calypso, as though drawing his quarterdeck's attention to the signal.

 

Now La Perle Appealed to be sliding to Ramage's left as. below him, he could hear the rudder grinding a little as pintles rubbed against gudgeons. The Calypso's 'bit of a sheer' to larboard was beginning, swinging the ship's bow to larboard a few degrees and moving her bodily towards the reef, narrowing the gap, like a drunken man walking along a road and curving - slightly towards a wall.

 

Ramage turned forward towards Aitken. 'Are those men with axes standing by on the foredeck?'

 

'Yes, sir.'

 

It would take them at least two minutes to chop through the towing cable. Looking over the Calypso's bow he could see the sheer had taken her well out on La Creole's larboard quarter. Let's hope Lacey has the wit to bear away, otherwise the Calypso's weight will haul his stern round (like someone hanging on to a dog's tail) and get the schooner in stays.

 

By the time Ramage looked aft again La Perle's topsails were fluttering slightly - the Calypso's sudden movement had, not surprisingly, caught the French first lieutenant unawares, and now he was trying to luff up to obey the order to turn to larboard.

 

Lieutenant Bazin had been watching the transom of the Calypso grow larger as they approached. Her sternlights seemed occasionally to wink as the rippling surface of the sea reflected the sun from the glass. With the telescope he could see that the old nameboard had been replaced with a new one: the paint and gilt making up the name Calypso was much fresher than the rest of the design on the scroll.

 

There were very few people on board the Calypso - two or three officers on the quarterdeck (Duroc presumably among them), and a dozen or so men along the gangways. Ah, and a few seamen waiting on the fo'c'sle. So he could reckon on some help from the Calypso with that damned cable.

 

By approaching in the Calypso's wake, Bazin wanted to be absolutely sure that Captain Duroc realized what he was doing. He was sure it was what the captain would want - Duroc was always interfering, never considering anyone could do anything properly without detailed instructions and constant overseeing. So by steering straight for the Calypso's stern and then bearing away to starboard at the last moment, ranging to windward close along her starboard side, he could listen to Duroc's shouts. Probably Duroc's drunken ravings in fact, because he couldn't imagine Duroc still sober and letting pass such an opportunity to show a senior officer how clever he was and how stupid everyone else. He had to admit be hated Duroc.

 

The Calypso is a handsome ship: one can tell by that graceful sheer that she is designed by a Frenchman because the British can never achieve that elegance. But what is wrong with her that she has to be towed? It can only be damage to the rudder because her masts, yards, bowsprit and jibboom are all right. She is not leaking - there are no spurts of water streaming over the side, showing her pumps at work. And, oddly enough, no battle damage. At least, none that can be seen from astern. No shotholes in the hull, no fished yards. Not even a pane missing from the sternlights. Can that schooner towing her have actually captured her? It seems unlikely, there is some other explanation. Most likely another ship captured her and ordered the schooner to tow her to port. Yes, that is what happened!

 

He swore at the two men at the wheel as La Perle yawed in a momentary wind shift. They were nicely lined up now; he could even see the smooth trail, a path across the sea, which was the Calypso's wake. Another half a dozen ships' lengths or so, and he'd begin the turn to starboard which would let him pass alongside. Already the Calypso was being hidden by La Perle's bow, he'd have to perch on the breech of a gun and peer over the bulwark, or rely on seeing her masts.

 

Actually it isn't as difficult as one might think, commanding a frigate. Duroc makes a great performance of it, cursing everyone, clutching his brow, stamping a foot, shaking his fist, spitting to show his contempt, but it is only necessary to keep calm. Keep calm and make sure orders are obeyed promptly. One needs a dozen eyes, of course, but Duroc makes hard work of it by all the drama.

 

What is that fluttering in line with the Calypso's mizen? He lifted his telescope. Merde! Another signal, and at this stage! Number eight. Hurriedly he mentally skimmed the first page of the signal book.

 

'Deck there!'

 

Now a blasted lookout aloft is hailing.

 

'Deck here!"

 

'Foremast here - she's hoisted a signal I'

 

'I know. Keep a sharp lookout.' He looked round and spotted the second lieutenant. "Where's the signal book, cretin?' When the lieutenant handed it to him he snatched it and began nicking through the pages.

 

'It's number eight,' the second lieutenant said.

 

'I know that!' Bazin snarled.

 

'It means to turn to larboard."

 

'Why the devil didn't you say so, then, instead of giving me the book?'

 

'You asked me for it. The book.'

 

Now there was shouting from the bow.

 

'What goes on there?' Bazin shouted back.

 

The frigate's hoisted a signal!'

 

'I know. Just keep a sharp lookout.'

 

"Well ram her in a minute,' the second lieutenant said lugubriously. 'Captain Duroc will have you court - martialled.'

 

'And I'll tell him how you fooled around with the signal book,' Bazin said hotly, and then looked ahead again.

 

The Calypso was no longer ahead: suddenly she was way over to larboard.

 

'Cretins!' Bazin screamed at the men at the wheel. What are you doing? Who told you to turn to starboard?'

 

'We didn't. The Calypso suddenly turned to larboard.'

 

And Bazin saw she had: the schooner was still some way to starboard, but the Calypso was so far over to larboard it was now doubtful if he could get La Perle to point high enough to pass her to larboard.

 

Snatching up the speaking trumpet that he had been expecting to use as an ear trumpet, he began bellowing orders to get the yards braced sharp - up, and a moment later gave more orders to the men at the wheel.

 

The Calypso seemed glued on La Perle's larboard bow, then slowly, almost reluctantly, she began to move slightly to starboard. Or, Bazin corrected himself, she appears to, although of course it is La Perle turning to larboard at last. But now the wind is increasing - that helps her up to windward but it is also increasing her speed, and she is approaching the Calypso's larboard quarter crabwise.

 

Then Bazin glanced up and saw the luffs of the sails flutter ing, beginning to be starved of wind.

 

'Bear away, you fools!' he bawled at the men at the wheel, but even before they could haul down on the spokes he realized that bearing away, turning to starboard, would inevitably bring La Perle's starboard bow crashing into the Calypso's larboard quarter.

 

'No, no! Luff up, luff up!'

 

'Merde!' screamed one of the men, stepping back from the wheel, 'make up your mind - sir!'

 

Bazin saw that the name Calypso was painted in blue on a gilt background, and edged with red. The colours were bright The studding - sail boom irons on the outer ends of the Calypso's yards were newly painted in black, in contrast to La Perle's, which were stained with rust.

 

This is a funny time for the Calypso to be hauling down the Tricolour. They have the Tricolour on one halyard and the British flag ' on another, so they can haul down one independently of the other. Perhaps the halyard has chafed through. Anyway, there is only a British flag now. And it is going to be a dreadful collision.

 

Southwick gave yet another of his prodigious sniffs, a sniff that contained a lifetime's contempt as well as a lungful of air. That Frog lieutenant couldn't be trusted with a bumboat full of whores,' he said crossly. 'Just look at those luffs fluttering. Ah - now he's having the yards braced up, but that isn't going to help him. And - the fool, he's paying off so much he's making more leeway than headway!'

 

La Perle was now coming crabwise down on to the Calypso's quarter. Two ships' lengths, Ramage reckoned.

 

'General quarters,' he snapped at Aitken. 'Guns run out, boarding party to stand by.'

 

The flapping of flags overhead reminded him. 'Orsini! Get that Tricolour down! Leave our own colours flying.'

 

'Shell stave in our larboard quarter, spring a dozen planks and carry away the mizen,' Southwick said matter of factly, drawing the great sword he had been wearing slung round his waist 'But if she damages us too much we can all shift on board her . . .'

 

Seamen were streaming up from below. Some were tricing up the gun ports while others ran out the guns. Men grabbed boarding pikes from the racks round the masts, others took up pistols from wherever they had stowed them. Marines scrambled on to the hammocks stowed in nettings round the quarterdeck, muskets loaded and waiting for orders from Lieutenant Rennick who suddenly appeared on the quarterdeck and posted himself near Ramage, ready for instructions.

 

Aitken, having passed all his orders, was now steadily and fluently cursing La Perle's first lieutenant, his Scots accent becoming more pronounced is he pictured the damage that would soon have to be repaired along the Calypso's quarter. None of them thought to look at Ramage; none except the quartermaster, who was Thomas Jackson. The American watched him from habit. He was not sure quite what the captain intended, but there must not be the slightest delay in passing a helm order. Jackson knew the men at the wheel were reliable, quite competent to watch the windvanes and the luffs of the topsails, and for the moment had to admit he could not see how the captain was going to get out of this situation. He heard the grumbles of the first lieutenant and the contemptuous snort's of Mr Southwick, and he noted that oddly enough the only person who was not worrying about any damage to the ship was the one man who would be held entirely responsible for it, the captain, and from long experience Jackson knew that if the captain was not worrying, then the odds were that there was nothing to worry about Personally, he had to admit that if he was the captain he would be - well, worried: that French frigate was not only sagging down on them but moving faster than the Calypso. Now she looked as if her bow would bit amidships: she'd shove her jibboom and bowsprit through the mainshrouds and the wrench would probably carry away the mainmast Ramage, rubbing the scar over his eyebrow and then snatching his hand away as he realized what he was doing, took one last look at La Perle and then briskly said to Aitken: 'Cut the cable!'

 

He walked over to an open gun port and looked over the side. The Calypso was still making more than a couple of knots; she had steerage way. The Frenchman was making a good four but slowing fast. And she would not hit the Calypso's quarter for two reasons - first, that foolish French lieutenant was still trying to luff her up, but was losing speed and control instead, and second, the sheer which turned the Calypso towards her could, with the wheel turned back, swing her away; swing her just enough that instead of La Perle's bow ramming the Calypso amidships she would crash her whole starboard side against the Calypso, as though she was intending to board. And the moment that happened ... He gestured to Jackson and gave the order which began the Calypso's sheer to starboard, swinging her stern away from La Perle, but agonizingly slowly.

 

He glanced back at La Perle: already her towering jibboom was abreast the Calypso's quarterdeck but passing it. Now the bow, and he could see the black paint peeling, rust weeps from iron fittings, stains where garbage was thrown carelessly over the side. Now the foremast . . . French seamen just standing there or peering over hammock nettings, astonishment or fear showing on their faces, but none wielding a cutlass or aiming a musket.

 

Now La Perle's sails flogging overhead, not drawing, and the sloshing of water as waves rebounded between the two hulls. But, Ramage realized, no orders being shouted across the French ship's deck.

 

La Perle's mainmast passing now. She is slowing down appreciably, her sails not drawing, and she is very close: you could lob a grapeshot on to her deck. The sheer to starboard is working well: the two ships are now on almost identical courses but just slightly converging, and both are slowing down: La Perle because a desperate first lieutenant has braced up the yards too much and starved the sails of wind, the Calypso because the cable has been cut and La Creole has let the rest go and is already wearing round, determined not to miss the next few minutes.

 

Then the crash. For a moment Ramage, nearly flung off his feet, thought they had hit a rock, but the rending of wood as La Perle's hull scraped along the Calypso's told the story.

 

Crisp shouts along the Calypso's decks showed the junior lieutenants had their men in control. Grapnels Sew through the air to hook into La Perle's rigging and hold the two ships together, and then there was no more movement of the ships: La Perle was stopped alongside, her transom level with the Calypso's quarterdeck rail so that Ramage could see her three officers, one of them no doubt the first lieutenant, standing rigid on the quarterdeck, looking more like statues. They were all watching the Calypso's quarterdeck, as though expecting the devil to appear.

 

Ramage held the speaking trumpet to his mouth and shouted forward: 'Away boarders 1'

 

'Sir!' Southwick said pleadingly, and Ramage nodded, and the master ran down the quarterdeck ladder to join the boarding parties streaming over the bulwarks.

 

In the meantime the two ships began swinging to starboard: La Perle had more way on when she bit and she was slowly turning the Calypso to starboard, away from the beach. And that, Ramage realized, was what he wanted: the Calypso would end up to leeward of the French ship and, by letting fall her sails and cutting the lines to the grapnels, could get clear.

 

The shouting on board La Perle was unbelievable but, Ramage noted thankfully, there had been no pistol shots so far. The metallic clang of cutlass against cutlass was dying out - he'd heard only a few, less than a dozen. And all along the larboard side of the Calypso the guns' crews waited in their respective positions trying to see what was going on, and no doubt frustrated at not being allowed to fire even one broadside before the boarders were ordered away.

 

Ramage now aimed the speaking trumpet at La Perle's quarterdeck and shouted in French: 'Do you surrender?'

 

The French first lieutenant must be the tall, thin man, and he looked dazed. He had heard Ramage and turned to stare at him, jaw slack and puzzled. But he was giving no orders. In fact, Ramage suddenly realized, the poor fellow probably had not noticed the Calypso's Tricolour coming down at the run several minutes earlier, and at the very moment the Calypso's boarding party streamed over the bulwarks he had been expecting to hear a stream of abuse from Captain Duroc . . .

 

Jackson called to him, pointing almost overhead. Ramage looked up to see La Perle's Tricolour coming down, and hauling at one end of the halyard was one of the officers. The man he thought was the first lieutenant was watching; not with interest but with the same fascinated stare of a rabbit facing a ferret 'What,' Southwick grumbled, 'are we going to do with three hundred French prisoners?'

 

The two frigates, still alongside each other, were slowly drifting westward off the coast of Curacao with La Creole circling them like an anxious mother hen worrying over her chicks that were now fully grown.

 

Tint we attend to the ceremonial,' Ramage said, nodding to where Lieutenant Rennick, a sergeant and six Marines were climbing back on board the Calypso with three French officers in their midst. The officers were wearing their swords and once they were on the Calypso's deck, with Rennick leading and shouting brisk orders and the Marines stamping their feet as they marched in time, they walked along nervously in the centre, trying to get into step.

 

Rennick and his Marines were enjoying themselves, and Ramage waited until the three French officers were standing to attention in front of him on the quarterdeck, covered by the Marines, and Rennick was reporting in a stentorian voice the presence of French officers who wished formally to surrender. At least, he added in an outburst of honesty, he did not speak French but he thought that was what they meant.

 

But for the fact that the Marines rarely had a chance to show off their drill, Ramage would have cut short the ceremony: La Perle had been taken without a shot being fired from a pistol or one of the great guns, and she had been handled like a bumboat coming alongside with vegetables to sell. The French officers deserved to be bundled below without so much as a nod.

 

'Please introduce yourselves,' Ramage said in French. 'I am Nicholas Ramage, capitaine de vaisseau, and commanding His Britannic Majesty's ship the Calypso,' At the mention of his name two of the lieutenants glanced nervously at the third, the tall and thin man Ramage had seen earlier on La Perle's quarterdeck and who still seemed to have a fixed stare.

 

'Jean - Pierre Bazin, lieutenant de vaisseau, formerly second in command of the French national ship La Perle' He drew his sword, making his movements very deliberate, obviously worried in case the gesture might be misunderstood by the Marines. He held the sword hilt - first towards Ramage. 'I surrender my sword.'

 

'And the ship,' Ramage reminded him.

 

'Yes, and the ship, milord,' Bazin said hurriedly.

 

Ramage was puzzled by the 'milord' but turned to the next Frenchman as he handed Bazin's sword to Aitken. The second lieutenant gave his name, surrendered his sword and was followed by the third Lieutenant. The fourth lieutenant, Bazin hastily explained, had died of yellow fever two weeks earlier.

 

'Do you speak English?' Ramage asked Bazin casually, and when the Frenchman shook his head signalled to Rennick to take them below.

 

As soon as they were marched off, Ramage turned to Aitken and realized he was still holding the three swords.

 

'Share them out,' he said, have one yourself. How about you, Southwick?"

 

The master shook his head. 'I don't need a memento,' he said. 'But just think of it - a French frigate captured without a shot fired and not one man killed or wounded. On our side, I mean. You'll get a Gazette for that, sir. Only ten lines, perhaps, but what a dispatch! Three hundred men and a 34 - gun frigate captured with a 100 - fathom cable)'

 

'Aye, just look at her.' Aitken gestured at the great bulk of La Perle with his free hand. 'Not a sail to mend nor a bit o' rigging to knot or splice. Not a shothole for the carpenter to plug. Aye, and not a man to be buried either . . . Just one or two Frenchmen for Bowen to stitch up.'

 

He put the swords down on the deck beside him. He looked embarrassed as he turned back to Ramage; his usually pale face was slightly flushed and now he was not holding the swords he did not seem to know what to do with his hands.

 

'I think - we, I am sure, sir, the ship's company would want me to say on their behalf - and mine, too, sir - that . . .'

 

By now Aitken's accent had deepened and he came to an embarrassed halt. Ramage was puzzled and gave the first lieutenant a minute or two to recover, then said: 'Well, Mr Aitken, take a deep breath and finish what you were going to say!'

 

That-they-appreciate-how-you-managed-to-save-lives, sir.' It came out as one long word, and Southwick nodded as Ramage heard Jackson, the men at the wheel and the crews of the nearest guns murmuring in agreement.

 

'You took the devil of a chance, if you don't mind me saying so, sir,' Southwick said in his usual blunt way. 'If we'd failed, no court would have believed what you were trying to do.'

 

Ramage nodded in acknowledgement to Aitken and said dryly to Southwick: 'If I'd failed we wouldn't have been alive to face a trial.'

 

'Don't you believe it, sir. Their Lordships have a deputy judge advocate stationed permanently in Hell: he has a quire of paper, a gallon of ink, a bundle of quills, and a copy of the Articles of War.'

 

'And if I go to Heaven?'

 

Southwick shook his head. 'Doesn't matter, sin they have another one sitting beside St Peter . . .'

 

'But!' Ramage said, grinning broadly.

 

'But what, sir?' The master screwed his eyes up in concentration, knowing Ramage was teasing him and trying not to fall into any trap.

 

'But we succeeded, so Their Lordships won't worry.'

 

Southwick gave one of his more - in - sorrow - than - in - anger sniffs, and Ramage said: 'I'm just going down to have a word with that French first lieutenant. Pass the word, please, Mr Aitken, I want him brought to my cabin. And don't be too hard on the French. I wonder if we could have resisted poking our noses in, if we'd seen a small schooner towing a frigate . . .'

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

Bazin could hardly 'believe his eyes when, a few moments before La Perle's bow crashed into the Calypso's quarter, the prize frigate suddenly began to move over to starboard, as if deliberately moving over so that La Perle could come alongside without a collision.

 

At the same moment a seaman by the mainmast began shouting at the quarterdeck something about the Calypso's gun ports, and Bazin saw that they were opening, and her guns were being run out. It is all very strange, he thought; first they drop the Tricolour and now they run out the guns. And here is Roget, the second lieutenant, his face as white as a sheet and shaking him by the shoulder and screaming at him, his teeth bared like a mad dog. But the words are slurred - by fear, though there's no need to be scared now, there will be no collision. 'Control yourself, Roget; speak slowly.'

 

Roget swallowed hard, took a deep breath - and Bazin gave him credit for the way he controlled himself - and then said, very distinctly: 'It's a trap. She's English.'

 

'Don't be stupid I She made the correct challenge. And all the signals!'

 

'She's English, I tell you - she's dropped the Tricolour, there's just the English flag now. Look, you fool! It was a ruse de guerre.' At that moment the two ships touched, hull against hull, like a fat couple walking down a narrow alley, and the second lieutenant turned and ran to the quarterdeck rail, shouting at the seamen to stand by to repel boarders, but even as Roget shouted Bazin saw grapnels flying through the air on the end of ropes, and as the crunching and banging ended with La Perle stopped alongside the Calypso, he also saw the bulwarks of both ships suddenly become alive with men: seamen from the Calypso, waving cutlasses and pistols, and wielding long boarding pikes, and shouting weird cries.

 

It is indeed a trap, Bazin realized, his brain in a fog, and someone is hailing in French from the Calypso's quarterdeck. Surrender? Of course he surrendered; how could he fight? He turned to tin cleat on which the halyard of the Tricolour was made up, but Roget was already undoing the figure of eights made by the rope and a moment later the flag came down. What will Captain Duroc say, he wondered. Where is he? Why didn't he shout a warning?

 

And men Bazin found himself staring at the point of an enormous sword held by a red - faced Englishman with a big paunch and flowing white hair. Not an officer, because he wore only a shirt and trousers. Then he remembered everyone on the Calypso's quarterdeck was wearing shirts and trousers, which was another reason why he had fallen into the trap.

 

The Englishman was shouting something in English - aw rendre?. That made no sense, but the man was sheathing his sword as if in disgust, and waving to men in blue uniforms. These must be the famous English Marines.

 

Bazin felt it was all a dream as he was taken across to the Calypso and lined up with his two officers on the quarterdeck. There was that fat man with white hair, looking very pleased with himself. And a pale - faced officer, who would never tan. And this other man, obviously the captain.

 

An aristo, too, that was certain; one had only to look at him, the slightly hooked nose, the high cheekbones, the tanned face, the dark hair bleached by the sun, the arrogant way he stood there, just looking at his prisoners. He too wore a shirt and trousers, but it was all part of the trap. Then Bazin looked carefully at the man's face and found himself staring at deep - set brown eyes that seemed to bore into him. He had to glance away because he knew those eyes would set him trembling. For the first time, Bazin realized, he was facing an aristo who could kill him. For years he had lived in an atmosphere where aristos - or men simply accused of being royalists - were hunted down like sheep and killed. Now a live one was looking at him - and, he realized, speaking in French and giving his name, Ramage. That word meant the song of the birds. The music of birds, rather. A pleasant word. Then he pronounced the name the English way, with a hard 'g', Ram - aidge, and he suddenly felt dizzy: this was the man, the famous English milord, Lord Ramage, although he had just given his first name, not the title. The Lord Ramage, the mad English aristo whose most recent escapade had been to capture two frigates off Diamond Rock only a few weeks ago, and sink two more, and seize the entire convoy on which Martinique was depending.

 

And Bazin suddenly knew why the Calypso had seemed familiar, a French ship. She was one of the frigates this milord Ramage had captured at Martinique. And that schooner towing her - Bazin remembered that two French schooners from Fort de France had been captured by this assassin a few days before the convoy arrived.

 

This milord was looking at him curiously. Oh yes, he had to surrender his sword. He was careful to hand it hilt - first, just in case one of those Marines thought he was threatening the captain.

 

'Et le vaisseau,' this milord was saying.

 

Had he the authority to surrender the ship? Yes, of course; there was no one else to do it, now Captain Duroc was not here.

 

'Oui, et le vaisseau, milord.'

 

Now Lord Ramage was turning to Roget, and Bazin realized that several times he had said 'milord', using the English word. It was the first time he had ever called any man 'lord', and here he was, only too anxious to say it to a foreigner. He knew he wanted to do anything to please this man, but he was not quite sure why, except that it was not only a desire to please. In France they guillotined the aristos, but here, under this blazing tropical sun, with English seamen aloft in La Perle, furling the topsails, it was not France; here the aristos could guillotine him - or order it with a snap of finger and thumb.

 

They were marched down to the lowerdeck, and made to stand by the mainmast, and all that fool Roget could say was: 'I told you so.'

 

Told me what, cretin?'

 

That it was a trap!'

 

'Ah yes, the moment before we crash alongside you scream at me like a girl defending her virginity. It would have helped if you had made that discovery five minutes earlier.'

 

'You were in command,' Roget retorted.

 

"I can't be watching everything!' Bazin snarled.

 

'You have to, if you're the captain.'

 

'You know who that man was?'

 

The one with the eyes?'

 

'Yes, the captain,' Bazin said.

 

'Why should I know who he is?'

 

'You've heard of milord Ramage?'

 

Roget went pale. That's him? I didn't recognize the name when he said it.'

 

That's him! He pronounces it differently.'

 

'He'll have us shot. . .'

 

'Probably,' Bazin said. 'Duroc's already dead.'

 

'How do you know?'

 

'I just know. These aristos - as soon as they get their hands on a true republican it is like that!' He made a chopping motion with his hand.

 

Roget, the colour coming back to his face, shrugged his shoulders. 'I suppose it's only fair.'

 

'What's fair?' Bazin asked suspiciously.

 

The aristos killing republicans. After all, every aristo I've ever seen was hauled off to the guillotine, or shot.'

 

That's different.' Roget irritated him; Bazin was the first to admit that. Only a fool like Roget could make that sort of argument.

 

'Sometimes I think you are a royalist at heart, Citoyen Roget.'

 

'Just because I point out that if we kill every aristo we find we can't blame the aristos if they kill any republicans they find?'

 

'Yes. Aristos are criminals. Like murderers. You have to see justice done. We republicans have the duty of administering it.'

 

'Well, that milord doesn't look like a murderer to me. I'm glad my wife can't see him; she'd fall in love with him at once.'

 

There you are,' Bazin said triumphantly, 'they run off with our women, and when they've had enough they cast them off. Like Moorish pashas. This one probably has a harem, too.'

 

'I envy him, then,' Roget said unexpectedly. 'If I was a milord I would have a dozen women. One of them would be Chinese. I saw a Chinese woman once. What eyes! No bosoms to speak of, I admit, but the eyes ... A Chinese, an Italian, perhaps a Creole, and - now, let me see . . .'

 

Bazin listened, wide - eyed. Roget was a royalist; he had just given himself away with all that talk about a harem. But what did he mean about the Chinese woman? Did none of them have bosoms, or just the one that Roget saw? The Italian women (some of them, anyway, when they were young) were nearly as beautiful as French women. But black women, certainly not - though there are many in Martinique, tall and slim, their skins like ebony. Yet there are only a few white women out here that one can bear to look at - most have skins dried, voices shrill, always nagging at their husbands. Still, Roget was a royalist, although no one had previously suspected it. '

 

And now that Marine lieutenant had come down the ladder and was looking at them. And he was pointing and beckoning. One of the sentries pulled him by the arm. Now Bazin knew they were going to shoot him. He turned to Roget. 'I forgive you,' he said, 'but for my sake stop this royalist talk.' He looked at the third lieutenant. 'Courage,' he said, like a benediction. With that he braced his shoulders and began to climb the steps. After the second step his knees had an unfortunate tendency to fold, like shutting a pocket knife, but he managed to continue climbing. This was how the aristos felt when they climbed up to the platform of the guillotine . . .

 

On deck the sun was dazzling, and he followed the Marine lieutenant. He glanced astern, but no sentry followed. nor could he see the firing squad. Up the quarterdeck ladder La Perle's topsails were now neatly furled and the two ships were still drifting alongside each other - and now down the companionway. This, Bazin knew, led to the captain's quarters.

 

At the foot of the companionway there was a Marine sentry who stood smartly to attention and saluted as the Marine officer passed, and he called some word into the cabin. Then Bazin was in the cabin, his head bent sideways to avoid hitting the beams overhead, and facing him, sitting at a desk, was this milord Ramage, who waved towards a settee and told him to sit down. The door shut and Bazin glanced up to see that the Marine lieutenant had left the cabin. He was alone with the milord. And his uniform was sticking to him and the perspiration was turning cold, and fresh beads of perspiration sprouting from his upper lip and forehead were cold, too, like rain on a glass window, and his breathing was shallow and he felt as though he was going to faint 'Lieutenant Bazin, I must apologize for the ruse.'

 

His accent was perfect He must have lived in France before the war - no foreigner could speak French like a Frenchman without living in France. The accent of Paris. In Lyon he would pass for a Parisian, Bazin was sure of that. But ruse?

 

'What ruse, milord?' There was the damned 'milord' again: it seemed so natural when talking to him, but he must guard his tongue against it.

 

The flags, M. Bazin. But I am sure you know perfectly well that it is a legitimate ruse de guerre to fly another flag as long as it is lowered and one's own flag hoisted before opening fire.'

 

Bazin was puzzled. 'Yes, of course. We always do it when we sight an English merchant ship, or a privateer.'

 

'You do? So you have no ill - feelings about me doing it?'

 

Ill - feelings? What is he talking about? Bazin knew it was his own fault that he had not grasped the significance of the Calypso's Tricolour coming down at the run. He shrugged his shoulders. And this milord was smiling, as though pleased. Bazin felt less chilly, but wondered if all this polite talk was not the prelude to another trap, another pat at the mouse by the cat's paw before the end came in a flurry of pain and blood.

 

'La Perle was a few hours late in leaving Aruba, M. Bazin?'

 

What a curious question. 'Several hours. In fact we nearly didn't leave at all.'

 

'Oh. Why was that?'

 

The leak, of course. Touching that reef made it a lot worse.

 

The captain waited for some time before we left to make sure the pumps could hold it'

 

'And they could, of course.'

 

'Only just, but there was no point in waiting in Aruba because we couldn't careen there to make repairs. Curacao is the nearest safe place - and of course it would have to be to windward. That's why Captain Duroc was not going to stop for you - but he was curious when you made the signal.'

 

The milord was looking at him strangely now. He was leaning forward slightly in the chair that he had twisted round to face the settee. 'You had all your pumps going?'

 

'Oh yes - chain pump, deck wash pumps and men with buckets. Every available man took his turn.'

 

'And you were just holding the leak.'

 

'Yes, just. It was getting no worse, thank goodness. If only we could have reached Curacao we'd have saved her.' '

 

The milord stood up slowly and walked out through the door, and the Marine sentry came into the cabin to guard him. He heard the milord's shoes clattering up the companionway. He had gone to arrange for the firing squad. He will not bother to question Roget or the third lieutenant. He would bother to question only the man who had been commanding La Perle (admittedly very briefly).

 

Bazin was proud that, with the firing squad only minutes away, he had kept control of himself and told this milord nothing. Nothing except that they were going to Curacao, and that was obvious enough to anyone who saw which way the ship was heading.

 

A few minutes later the milord came back again and the sentry left the cabin. The milord still had this pleasant smile on his face; the smile the cat has as it plays with the mouse. However, no aristo was going to fool Jean - Pierre Bazin with a smile.

 

The privateers are waiting for you in Curacao, M. Bazin.'

 

This is an obvious trap. 'Are they, milord?'

 

'I saw ten of them a few days ago. Perhaps more have arrived by now.'

 

'Very interesting, milord. There might be fifty, then.' That would worry him, Bazin knew. 'But they can get on quite well without La Perle, because we did not intend to call there. Not until we sprang this leak, rather.'

 

'Forgive my ignorance about all this, M. Bazin: I did not have time to talk to Captain Duroc.'

 

Look at those eyes: Bazin now knew what an assassin looked like. He had large brown eyes, the son that would fool a woman like Roget's wife, and they were sunk deep below bushy brows, and he smiled such a friendly but false smile. No, milord had not bothered to talk to Duroc before murdering him, so he did not know that Duroc was making a desperate rush to get to Curacao to careen the ship in the hope of finding the leak. No one was very optimistic, though; the whole garboard seam on the starboard side was leaking, and it seemed the entire transom was working loose because all the butt ends of the planks were weeping, although the caulking was still in the seams. The carpenter was puzzled and Duroc was frightened and he - ah, a chain pump had just started working somewhere this very moment because he could hear the distant clank - and - thump. And running water, like a distant stream. Now the clank of a head pump, and a second one has just started up. And a third and fourth, which was strange because La Perle had only two.

 

The milord was speaking again; something about La Perle working with the privateers. It was hard to concentrate, worrying about that leak, and he repeated the question.

 

'Does La Perle really not work with the privateers at Curacao?'

 

Did this milord, this rosbif cretin, really think that lieutenant de vaisseau Bazin was going to give away secrets? 'No, she does not.' Nor did she, but there was no point in giving the enemy information.

 

This patrol of La Perle's, M. Bazin - might one ask if you were co-operating with the Spanish or the Dutch?'

 

'With neither.' That would puzzle him. This evil man could not imagine that La Perle was on an ordinary patrol, having arrived in Martinique from France with dispatches and being sent on a patrol of the eastern end of la mer des Antilles on her way back to France. But La Perle had first begun to leak a few days after leaving Brest; they had pumped her across the Atlantique to Fort de France; they had careened her there and the caulkers had hammered away at their cotton and the pitch had been heated and poured. And the leaks were stopped, but Duroc, always anxious to please and always impatient, had left for the patrol and for France without trials, and the leaks had started again the minute the frigate had sailed beyond the lee of the islands and reached the full strength of the Trades. Why Duroc called at Aruba no one knew, and the reef they hit was not shown on the chart - or, rather, it was shown with more water over it, but more coral must have grown. Anyway, the leak was now twice as bad, and the nearest careenage was Curacao. However, you know nothing about all that, milord aristo.

 

Ramage found that after five minutes' conversation with Bazin he felt grubby. The man had a face which was startlingly like a weasel's; his manner, way of talking, and probably his way of thinking was the same. No doubt he was quick to pounce and bully or kill a weaker animal; but he was ingratiating when in the company of a stronger. And a fool, too; he had seen the Tricolour being hauled down, leaving only a British ensign flying, and he had thought nothing of it.

 

Out of curiosity it might be worth talking to the other two French lieutenants, just to find out their view of Citizen Bazin, but Ramage felt he could guess. And now Bazin was below again, under Marine guard, and no doubt quite certain that he had told the rosbif captain nothing . . .

 

Ramage went up on deck again and found both Aitken and Southwick waiting for him, shamefaced and looking like naughty schoolboys caught red - handed.

 

'I'm sorry, sir,' Aitken said. 'Southwick and the carpenter were just going on board her when you came up and told us about the leak, but - '

 

'But they should have finished their examination by then...'

 

'Yes, sir.'

 

'And you've no explanation for this lapse.'

 

'No, sir," Aitken said contritely. 'None at all.'

 

'Ill give you one,' Ramage said, 'and it's a lesson we've all just learned. Just because no shots have been fired, don't assume a prize isn't damaged and sinking.'

 

'Aye,' Southwick said, 'and it's worse than that, sir: they could have scuttled her - they should have done, in fact - and I just leaned on the quarterdeck rail and looked at her. I even noticed she rolled more than we did and had less freeboard, but I never thought the reason was that she had several feet of water in her.'

 

"Well, how's the pumping going?'

 

Southwick grinned cheerfully. 'With three hundred prisoners and our own pumps on board as well, it's no problem. No man has more than a quarter of an hour at a pump, but he has to work like a madman. It's the only way we'll get the level down.'

 

'She's making seven feet an hour,' Ramage said.

 

'Yes, but if we can empty her while she's alongside us, then the French can hold her with their own pumps without much trouble. We've got all the Frenchmen pumping - purser, bosun, sailmaker, captain's steward, everyone is taking a turn.'

 

Aitken was still rather chastened, and he said to Ramage: 'After we've pumped her dry and left the French prisoners to hold their seven feet an hour, what are we going to do with her, sir?"

 

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. 'After capturing her for the price of some cloth to make flags, it seems a pity to let her sink; but our orders are to deal with those privateers. I can't spare fifty men to take La Perle to Jamaica. More than fifty, because the prizemaster would need enough men to sail her and enough to guard three hundred Frenchmen and keep them busy pumping.'

 

'But losing a prize like this, sir!' Southwick protested.

 

The chances of her reaching Jamaica with these leaks even if I put a hundred of our men on board are remote.'

 

'How so, sir?'

 

The leaks are getting worse. I don't think she's just spewing her caulking; I'm sure she's rotten and the fastenings are going. The planks are loosening as the hull works in anything of a sea and popping 'em out The next thing will be the butt ends of planks suddenly springing, and then shell sink in ten minutes.'

 

Southwick scratched his head. 'Well, we can't take three hundred prisoners on board, that's certain. Still, we could put 'em on shore right here, in Curacao. Land 'em on that beach there.'

 

'And give the privateers in Amsterdam another thirty men each?'

 

'I hadn't thought of that,' Southwick admitted. 'But if we don't bring 'em on board and don't put 'em on shore . . . ?'

 

Ramage began walking up and down the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back. If all revolutions replaced uncomfortable breeches and white stockings which showed every dirty mark with loose - fitting trousers, he thought wryly, then officers would be well advised to change their politics. With La Perle captured he had no excuse for not going down to his cabin and putting on his uniform. The same applied to the rest of the Calypso's officers. Perhaps they were waiting for the captain to give a lead, afraid of offending him by appearing in uniform when he still wore trousers. Perhaps (and much more likely) they were as comfortable as he was and in no hurry to return to the uncomfortable and hot smartness of breeches.

 

All this thinking about trousers and breeches was wasting time; he had to make up his mind as soon as possible about La Perle and her three hundred men. Very well, state the problem. Well, three problems, sir. I can't spare a prize crew to sail (and pump) her to Jamaica, and anyway she'd probably sink in the first gale she met But, problem two, I can't leave her drifting. She has to be sunk - or set on fire. That leaves me with problem three, the three hundred prisoners whom I daren't land in Aruba or Curacao, because they'll immediately become privateersmen.

 

Given that La Perle was eventually bound back to France and would have sunk on the way, her meeting with the Calypso is hardly a stroke of good fortune for the British, least of all the Calypso, which loses prize money and head money, and whose captain will have to face the wrath of Admiral Foxe-Foote, who is not going to like losing his share of the prize money.

 

Very well, milord, as that wretched Bazin insisted on addressing you, with true republican regard to ingratiating himself, reduce the problems to their simplest terms. God it's hot; the deck throws up waves of heat. No sails set to cause a cooling downdraught, no awning stretched to make some shade. And here is Jackson with a straw hat for me to wear. A thoughtful act: he felt as though his brains were already frying, and his eyes seemed scorched from the glare.

 

The problem, he reminded himself, tipping the hat farther forward so that it shaded his eyes more completely, the problem is really quite simple: how to dispose of a French frigate without drowning her ship's company or handing them over to the French privateersmen in Curasao.

 

Quite simple, milord: turn both ships and men over to the Dons.

 

He stopped in mid - stride. That was the answer 1 Where it came from he was far from sure; probably lurking inside this straw hat. The French could land from La Perle on the Spanish Main, but they must not be able to repair the ship. His head buzzed with ideas, but none was any use until he looked at a chart He glanced over at La Perle and saw clear streams of water pouring out of her scuppers and from the hoses of head pumps rigged on the sides. La Creole was tacking back and forth to windward; the two frigates were drifting slowly to leeward, westward along the coast of Curacao. The weather seemed set fair. The only really miserable men on board the Calypso should be Duroc, Bazin and the two junior lieutenants.

 

Down in his cabin he pitched the straw hat on to the settee and pulled a chart out of the rack, unrolling it on his desk and holding it down flat with weights. The nearest part of the Main was in fact a long semicircle stretching from the tip of the Peninsula de Paraguana, the hatchet - shaped piece of land forming one side of the Gulf of Venezuela and leading down to Maracaibo, round to (for practical purposes) San Juan de los Cayos, a hundred and fifty miles to the eastward. Notes on his chart showed that there was not a port along that stretch where La Perle could be careened and repaired, nothing on the Peninsula apart from a mountain range topped by Pan de Santa Ana, a peak nearly 3000 feet high and visible for sixty miles on a clear day - which meant that any ship sailing south - west from Curacao would sight it within a few hours. Just where the hatchet - handle joined the mainland was La Vela de Coro, a large village on the bay. A soft mud bottom, frequent breakers, a sea whipped up by almost any breeze . . . Yes, hardly the place to careen a fishing smack, let alone a frigate/ Then came Cumarebo, which although the Spanish gave it the name 'Puerto' was simply an open roadstead in front of the town. After that was another small village, and then nothing for a dozen miles to Punta Zamuro, a coastline formed by sandy beaches, clay bluffs, shallow water . . . Punta Aguida had a red clay bluff and shallows of less than three fathoms more than a mile offshore . . . And, after a long stretch, the Bay of San Juan. The point sheltered it from the Trade winds coming from the east and north - east, but there was only twenty feet of water a mile offshore. As long as La Perle was not half full of water, she could get fairly dose in, but she would not careen . . . Now for the distances. He opened the dividers. Fifty miles would bring La Perle to anywhere on the Peninsula; a hundred miles would take her down to San Juan de los Cayos. The wind would be on the beam so she would make a fast passage, but give her the benefit of the doubt and say she averaged only three knots and went to San Juan de los Cayos. Thirty - three hours, a day and a half at the outside.

 

He called to the Marine sentry to pass the word for the first lieutenant, lieutenant of Marines, master and purser. The purser was the last to arrive, looking alarmed at suddenly being summoned to the captain's cabin.

 

Ramage decided to deal with him first, to put him out of his misery. Tell Mr Southwick the quantity of water needed for two days by three hundred men working extremely hard in this climate.'

 

'Water, sir? You don't mean beer?'

 

'No, nor cheese nor butter. Just water.'

 

Rowlands's lips moved as he did some mental arithmetic. Finally he gave a figure. Ramage thanked him and the man left the cabin.

 

'Remember that figure, Mr Southwick. Now, gentlemen, at midnight La Perle leaves us, escorted by La Creole, bound for the Main - anywhere between the entrance to the Gulf of Venezuela and San Juan de los Cayos. Come and look at this chart and refresh your memories.'

 

The three men inspected it, and Rennick said: 'All the Marines on board her as guards, sir?'

 

His face fell when Ramage shook his head and said: There'll be no guards. The Frenchmen will be alone on board: just La Creole to keep them company.'

 

Aitken was the first to grasp what Ramage had said. 'But, sir, what's to stop them making for Martinique?'

 

'Or attacking us?' added Southwick. 'No good putting them on parole; they'd never keep their word.'

 

'Sit down,' Ramage said. 'You all have jobs to do, so pay attention. La Perle sails at midnight under the command of Duroc, and he has the choice of the destinations I've just shown you, and - '

 

'But what's to stop him going somewhere else?' Southwick interrupted.

 

'Because all his charts will have been removed,' Ramage said patiently. 'Removed by you. And your mates will comb the officers' cabins for anything resembling a chart And just before he boards La Perle you will present him with an accurate but not overly - detailed copy of this section of the chart - ' Ramage tapped the chart on his desk. This section only. That means he has little choice of destinations. He could go to Aruba, but he left there because there was nowhere to careen La Perle. It is unlikely he knows the coast of the Main - this section, anyway - so he won't know there's nowhere there for him to careen, either.'

 

'He doesn't need a chart to get up to Martinique,' South - wick pointed out. 'He knows the latitude of Fort Royal . . .'

 

That won't help him. Hell have only two days' water on board because you, Southwick, will empty the rest of the casks and that fresh water will be pumped over the side with the salt. With three hundred men and water for only two days, he needs to get somewhere in two days, which rules out Martinique by several days. You will also dispose of all the wine and spirits - over the side, of course.'

 

'Sir,' Rennick said anxiously, 'the guns . . .'

 

'Aitken will supply you with a working party and you will flood the hanging magazine. I don't want an ounce of usable powder in the ship. All the great guns are to be spiked and you'll cut the breechings. All the locks for the guns are to be brought on board the Calypso, along with all flints, muskets, pistols, cutlasses, tomahawks and pikes.

 

'Leave the shot in the locker - we don't have time to get them out, and anyway we are not concerned in reducing her draught - but all those on deck can be hove over the side.'

 

Southwick combined a doubtful sniff with a vigorous scratching of his head, and Ramage smiled as he looked at the master. 'What's worrying you, Mr Southwick?'