Ramage's Signal

Ramage told him, and Aitken commented: 'It's a temptation to hand him over, isn't it, sir. But it'd give ourselves away. Of course', he added slowly, 'we could keep the French seamen and hand him over to the villagers. They'd probably string him up from a tree.'

Ramage shook his head. 'There's always a government informer in every village. It'd end up with the people of Foix being massacred.'

'We'll just make his life a bluidy misery, then', Aitken said. 'We'll have him wakened every half an hour at night for a start, with someone asking him if he's hungry.'

Ramage told him the phrase to use, and the Scot repeated it to himself a few times. 'That's not too difficult; I'll have some men from each watch practise it. His water ration can be a bit smelly. And his wine issue vinegary. And if he finds more weevils in his bread than usual, well ...'

Ramage nodded. 'But this sort of requisitioning is going on all over France where there's a garrison: the French Army lives off the land - even in France.'

The sun was dropping so low now its rays were coming under the awning. Down on his desk were fifteen sheets of paper, each intended for the master of one of the ships in the convoy, and each neatly written in French by Paolo last night. Paolo's handwriting was typically that of a Latin: he wrote French easily, his pen flowing without the hesitation of someone pausing to check the spelling of a difficult word.

Had the convoy arrived, Paolo would have been rowed to each of the ships in his French Army uniform and delivered a letter to the captain - in fact a brief paragraph of new orders - and the convoy's departure and subsequent capture would have been assured without a shot being fired. But Paolo's time - and the candle consumed in the lantern at the signalmen's hut - had been wasted.

Aitken said tactfully: 'Should I take over the saws and axes to the camp and arrange what the men have to do tonight, sir?'

'Yes. Make sure they destroy completely the mechanism of the tower, once they've brought it down.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'And don't forget to make sure the cattle are freed.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'And make sure Orsini brings back the signal log and the copies of the semaphore code.'

'Aye aye, sir', Aitken said patiently, sensing how his captain's disappointment over the convoy was now mixed with anger over the despicable French lieutenant. It would be unfortunate if any of the Calypso's officers or seamen made a bad mistake today - at least, within sight of the captain.

Aitken was just climbing down into the red cutter when there was a bellow from aloft, and out of habit he paused to listen.

'Quarterdeck there - foremast here!'

'Deck here!' Ramage shouted back, not bothering to use the speaking trumpet.

'Sail ho, being sou'sou'west, sir.'

'How distant?'

'Just sighted her topsails. And there's another - there's two of 'em, sir.'

'Very well, keep a sharp lookout.'

Two ships. He could sail out, seize them and be back in Foix to take off the Marines at nightfall. Olive oil, grain and that sickly, sweet, red wine from Banyuls that's as bad as Marsala, Ramage thought crossly. Perhaps some hides, just to add their hideous stench to everything. Well, xebecs, tartanes, droghers, caiques, fishing boats - he did not give a damn; from now on they would be captured and sent in as prizes, or scuttled. He might keep a fast little xebec to act as a tender; young Martin could command it and he and Orsini would learn fast about the xebec's extraordinary rig. It could act as a scout and get into shallow places where the Calypso dare not venture.

'Deck there, foremast here. Three ships, sir, and maybe more: I need a bring-'em-near up here.'

Ramage realized he was becoming lethargic; a few days ago a lookout's hail of a single ship would have meant someone immediately going aloft with a telescope. And now Aitken was coming back on board again.

'Deck there!' the lookout bawled. 'There's dozens of the buggers, sir! Stretching from sou'sou'west to west by south.'

'It must be the convoy, sir', Aitken murmured, and as Ramage nodded doubtfully he said: 'I'll get aloft with the glass. Fifteen ships, wasn't it?'

'Fifteen. Any extra might mean the escorts found them.'

Aitken grabbed a telescope from the binnacle box drawer and ran to the ratlines while Ramage turned his own glass to the southwest. He could see nothing; from where he stood the ships were still hidden below the curvature of the earth.

He had been so sure he had missed the convoy that even now he suspected the sails belonged to a flock of coasters which, after sheltering in the same port from the recent mistral, were now sailing together out of habit; the old routine of 'Let us proceed together for mutual protection'.

Aitken was perched comfortably aloft and Ramage had to walk out from under the awning to watch him. Now he was pulling out the tubes of the telescope, checking that they were lined up with the marks giving the right focus for his eye, and then looking out to the southwest. He seemed to be taking an age and it was as much as Ramage could do to avoid calling up to him. Finally the telescope was lowered.

'Deck there, sir.'

'Deck here.'

'Fifteen ships, sir, and all apparently steering for this bay.'

'No escorts?'

'None in sight, sir; just merchantmen jogging along under easy sail. They've a soldier's wind out there; south from the look of it. We might be lying to a local breeze in here.'

'Very well, Mr Aitken, come down when you're satisfied. Lookout! Report any change of course or increase or reduction of sail.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

By now Southwick, roused from below by the shouting, was standing beside him, a happy grin on his face.

'So our signal did get through, sir!'

'Seems so', Ramage said, mildly irritated that Southwick had said from the start that it would, an example of the master's usual optimism swamping logic. 'We'd better change into trousers and shirts and join the ranks of the sans culottes because this is supposed to be a French frigate and we may get a visit from the senior master of the merchantmen.'

'Do you think we could fool him, sir?'

'No, which is why I want to spot him early and, if necessary, pay him a visit.'

'He'll probably be flying some sort of pendant and throwing his weight about', Southwick said.

Aitken walked up, rubbing his hands on a piece of cloth, trying to remove tar stains picked up from the rigging and balancing his telescope under his arm.

'Half a dozen of them are fair-sized ships, sir', he reported. 'The rest range from large coasting brigs to tartanes and a small xebec. They're in no sort of formation, although they're following what seems the largest ship. She probably wants to get into the bay first to find a good depth. There'll be a few foul berths and fouled anchors in here before the night's out!'

Aitken's words reminded Ramage that he had many decisions to make before the merchantmen arrived, and he went aft to the taffrail and began striding athwartships, still protected from the glare of the setting sun by the awning, and able - for what it was worth - to look at the semaphore tower.

Twenty short paces from the larboard side to the starboard let him form in his mind the question of the semaphore tower. Leave it or cut it down? In favour of leaving it was - well, nothing: the French Army would find out soon enough that its garrison at Foix had vanished, and perhaps Aspet would mention the French frigate that had been at anchor near by. Would the Army put the two together? It was unlikely; there were no signs of a struggle; the French would just find the barracks empty and the tower unmanned. And the cows missing, providing they knew about the cows. The villagers would be no help - they would be hiding (and regularly milking) the cows, and from what that despicable lieutenant had said, would be delighted that all those robbers had vanished. No doubt the older folk who did not agree with the Revolution would regard it as intervention of Divine Providence and say a few prayers of thanks - until the replacement garrison arrived.