So cutting down the tower would raise the alarm with the French Army authorities; leaving the tower and the rest of the camp intact would puzzle them as well. And, Ramage realized, he knew enough now about semaphore camps to attack a dozen of them once he had disposed of the convoy.
Five turns back and forth across the quarterdeck was a hundred paces, and had been enough to make up his mind about the tower. The cutters could go over at sunset - which would be before the merchantmen were close enough to see what was going on, but the time when sending semaphore signals stopped for the day - and bring back the Marines, leaving them enough time to tidy up the camp and remove any sign of their visit. The idea of the French Army (through the men at Aspet and Le Chesne) slowly discovering that their Foix camp was deserted appealed to him; he knew it would have a ghostly effect on many French soldiers who, though atheism was the official creed, had been born and bred as Catholics, and no matter what Revolutionary talk had subsequently been dinned into them, still retained enough of their childhood training to cross themselves in moments of extreme danger and have a healthy fear when nearly forty men suddenly vanished without trace.
He turned once again - the sun was lower now and peeping under the forward side of the awning - and considered the convoy now approaching under orders (his orders!) to anchor in the Baie de Foix to await an escort.
One 36-gun frigate should be enough of an escort, though a few cautious masters would no doubt complain. The longer theships stayed at anchor the more chance there was that people from the merchantmen could discover that the Calypso was British: men might row to the camp at Foix, planning a night's carousing with the garrison, and raise the alarm.
It would take a day or two for Aspet or Le Chesne to react to having no answer to their flags - Ramage realized that Foix had no horse, so it was reasonable to suppose the other two were without horses too, so they would have either to march to Foix or commandeer a horse from a village (more likely adonkey or mule) to find out why the answering flag was not hoisted. He could just imagine a soldier sitting astride a donkey, feet nearly touching the ground, and jolting his way to Foix. The poor fellow would probably prefer to walk; in fact from Ramage's own experience walking was always preferable to riding bareback on a donkey.
That made eleven more double crossings of the quarterdeck; 220 paces to decide about the merchantmen. He realized he had examined the problem in detail and from every angle, but had made no decision. His feet ached, his eyes ached, his head ached. And the Calypso had swung close enough to the shore to have mosquitoes arriving any moment, each demanding their pint (it seemed) of blood. Very well, the merchantmen would have to come into the Baie and anchor while Orsini was rowed to each of them to hand over the written orders.
So that was decided, and it had taken another forty paces, a total of 260.
What was he to do with the convoy once he had control of it? He could not expect them to sail to Gibraltar and deliver themselves up to the prize marshal, but he could not spare fifteen prize crews - and guards for all the prisoners.
Would they sail to the place he really wanted to have them anchored, where he could deal with them at his leisure? For three turns across the quarterdeck he repeated the place's name, as an infatuated lover might say the name of his mistress. It might work, and he had nothing to lose (except for fifteen merchant ships) if it did not. He went down to his cabin for one more look at the chart before the light went.
CHAPTER NINE
Paolo climbed back on board the Calypso in the darkness, and while the cutter was being hoisted in under Jackson's directions he decided that the last hour and a half had been the strangest in his life - so far, anyway. Serving with the man he hoped would one day become his uncle by marriage produced more surprises than did a Three Kings' party every January when he was a little boy in Volterra.
He patted his coat pocket to make sure his notes were dry - there was always a slop thrown up when a boat went alongside a ship, and the cutter had just done that fifteen times: sixteen counting her return.
'The captain is waiting for you in his cabin', Aitken said, his figure shadowy in the lantern light.
'Aye aye, sir.' First lieutenants do not waste time, Paolo grumbled to himself: three hours ago, he and Martin were shifting their gear out of the signalmen's hut and making sure they had left nothing behind that could reveal the British had been there. Since then he had boarded fifteen enemy ships...
Paolo could not get used to trousers and a white shirt, open at the throat, even if it did have lace at the cuffs. The Frenchman for whom it had been made - that miserable lieutenant - was too thin; Paolo was afraid that any exertion expanding his chest would rip it in half.
'Orsini! The captain!'
'Aye aye, sir.' Mr Aitken was such an impatient man. One could not report to the captain wearing sodden boots.
A bellow from the captain coming up the skylights from the cabin proved him wrong, and he scuttled and squelched down the companionway, ignoring the sentry's salute in his agitation, and burst into the cabin without knocking.
Ramage looked up from his desk, his face seeming daemonic in the shadows of the flickering lantern.
'Go outside again and knock.'
An embarrassed midshipman went outside, shut the door, said 'Evening' to the sentry - the nearest he could get to an apology - and knocked on the door just as the sentry, not to be outdone, announced loudly: 'Mr Orsini, sir!'
'Send him in.'
Once again Paolo ducked his head and entered the cabin. Seeing the captain in an open-necked seaman's shirt was a shock; the hairiness of his chest was also a surprise. Because the captain's stock was usually tied high under his chin, Paolo realized, one did not think of there being a body - not in the hairy sense, anyway - 'twixt stock and sole. Ah, there was a fine phrase; he had recently come across ''twixt' but had spent the last few days in the company of 'Blower' Martin and Jackson, both splendid men but unappreciative of such a word.
'Why is that dam' silly grin on your face?'
'I was - er, well sir ...' Paolo fumbled for a reason, unwilling to take a chance with "twixt sock and sole', and finally dragged his notes from his pocket. They were wetter than he had realized. His hands had been wet when he added paragraphs to them and even wetter when, a few minutes ago, he had checked to see if they were dry.
'What on earth have you got there - a wet rag?'
'The list of ships and their cargoes, sir', Paolo said miserably. 'I think I can still read it.'
Ramage took out his pen, ink and sheet of paper. 'Start reading, then.'
'I went to the largest ship first, sir, as you told me. She's the Sarazine of Toulon, 560 tons, pierced for eight guns but carrying only four, all 9-pounders from the look of it. Seven men and the master - he complains of several desertions before sailing.
'He says he has been the commodore of the convoy from Barcelona to here and is very angry about the lack of escort. He complains of the responsibility. I told him I was only anaspirant and knew nothing about it all and my orders were to deliver the orders. He calmed down after a while and accepted the new destination but says he has no charts for that coast.'
Ramage nodded. 'You reassured him?'