'Ho detto "Buona serd'.'
He almost laughed at the thought of the expressions on the Frenchmen's faces as they heard themselves being told in Italian that they had just been wished 'Good evening'. There was an appreciable pause before the voice repeated:
'Comment?'
By now the Barras was not more than fifty yards away: the bow wave was sharply defined and he could pick out the delicate tracery of her rigging against the night sky, whereas a few moments ago it had been an indistinct blur.
This is the moment: once again he lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips. Now, he thought, let us commend ourselves unto the XVth Article of War and still take as long as we can about it, and he yelled in English:
'Mister Frenchman — the ship is sinking.'
The same voice answered: 'Vot say you?'
'I said, "The ship is sinking."'
He sensed Jackson anxiously shifting from one foot to another. There was a strange hush in the Sibella and he realized the wounded were not making a sound. The Sibella was a phantom ship, sailing along with no one at the helm, and manned by tense and silent men.
Then through the speaking trumpet he heard someone say in French, 'It's a trick.' It was the voice of a man who held authority and who'd reached a difficult decision. He guessed the next thing he'd hear would be that voice giving the order to open fire.
'You surrender?' came back the question, in English this time.
Hurriedly Ramage turned his head towards the Bosun and called softly:
'Bosun - start chopping.'
He had to avoid a direct reply: if he surrendered the ship and then escaped the Admiralty would be just as angry as the French at a breach of the accepted code.
Putting the speaking trumpet back to his lips he shouted:
'Surrender? Who? Our wheel is destroyed - we cannot steer - we have many wounded...'
He heard the thud of the axes and hoped the noise would not travel across to the Barras: he must drown it with his own voice, or at least distract the Frenchmen's attention.
'—We cannot steer and we have most of our men killed or wounded - we are sinking fast - we've lost our captain—'
Damn, he couldn't think of anything else to say. Jackson suddenly whispered, 'Livestock's killed, guns dismounted, burgoo's spoiled...'
'Yes, Mister,' Ramage yelled, 'all our pigs and the cow have been killed - all the guns are dismounted—'
'Comment?'
'Pigs - you've killed our pigs!'
'Je ne comprend pas! You surrender?'
'You've killed our pigs—'
The devil take it, would that foremast never go by the board?
'—The cow has been dismounted - the guns don't give any more milk - the pig's making water at the rate of a foot every fifteen minutes!'
He heard Jackson chuckling and at that moment there was a crackling from forward and a whiplash noise as several ropes parted under strain. Then there was a fearful groan, like a giant in pain, and against the night sky he could see the foremast beginning to topple. It went slowly at first; then crashed over the side, taking the yards with it.
'Wilson! the topsail and spanker!'
He saw the spanker being sheeted home to the boom end as the topsail was let fall from the yard. A few moments later, when he looked back at the Barras, she had vanished: He realized the Sibella was swinging round to larboard faster than he expected, and he glanced aft. The Barras had been caught unawares - she was still sailing on her original course and had gone too far for her guns to be able to rake the Sibella's completely unprotected stern.
He felt shaky with relief and his clothes were soaked with perspiration. He scrambled down from the bulwark, and as he jumped to the deck his knees gave way slightly and Jackson caught him. 'Pity about that cow, sir,' he said dryly, 'I just fancy a mug o' milk.'
Chapter 3
FOR MORE THAN half an hour Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage's little world had been limited to the boat, the sea and the great blue-back dome of the night sky, which was cloudless and glittering with so many stars and planets it seemed to hold every spark that had ever fallen from a black-smith's anvil.
The launch was heavy, but the men sitting on the thwarts facing him were rowing with a wilclass="underline" as they leaned back in unison, pulling with all their strength, the oars creaked against the wooden sides of the rowlocks. Who was it who said in ancient times, 'Give me a fulcrum and I'll move the Earth' ?
At the end of each stroke the men involuntarily gasped for breath, at the same time pushing downward on the looms of the oars to bring the blades clear of the water. Then, leaning forward like rows of seated tenants bowing to the landlord, they thrust the looms in front of them, and at the end of the movement dipped the blades into the water to haul back and begin the new stroke.
Lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward; lean back, creak, gasp, lean forward ... Ramage, his arm resting along the top of the tiller as he steered, could feel the boat spurting forward under the thrust of each stroke. Occasionally he glanced astern, where the Bosun's cutter and the other two boats followed, each linked by a line to the next ahead.
'Sir!' exclaimed Jackson, gesturing astern: there was a small red glow in the distance but, even while Ramage watched, tongues of flame spurted up, as if a blacksmith's bellows suddenly fanned new life into a forge fire.
Half an hour: the French would have taken off the wounded. God knows they must have suffered as they were carried across to the Barras. Still, the sea was calm enough for the two ships to lie alongside each other, which would save them being ferried in boats. Ramage could picture the French officers leading the boarding party having the well sounded and reporting back the depth of water in the ship and the damage.
Now, with the magazine flooded, they've set fire to the ship... He turned away and saw some of the men wiping their eyes. It was ridiculous how a ship's company became fond of a few hundred tons of wood, rope and canvas which had for months been their home, and for the last hour and all eternity a tomb for many of them.
The men were rowing unevenly as they watched the Sibella burn. A sudden tug on the line to the cutter, followed by a string of curses from the Bosun, told him that he might as well let the men watch the Sibella's funeral pyre and have a rest at the same time, and he shouted the order into the darkness.
At last he could read the orders to the Sibella's late captain: he had been burning with curiosity from the time the oarsmen had settled into a steady rhythm and given him time to think.
'The lantern, Jackson, and keep it shielded with the canvas, I want to read something.'
Pulling the linen envelope from his pocket, Ramage took out the sheet of paper and smoothed it. The letter had been written on board the Victory on September 1, a week earlier, and was an order from Admiral Sir John Jervis, K.B., telling the Sibella's late captain, in neat and flowing script, 'Whereas I have received information that following the French occupation of Leghorn and other towns inland, several leading members of influential families in Tuscany sympathetic to our cause have succeeded in escaping and made their way southward to the coast off Capalbio, from whence they have requested assistance, you are, therefore, hereby required and directed to proceed with all possible despatch in His Majesty's ship Sibella under your command, off Capalbio, taking care that your intentions should not become known to anyone on shore.'