'We'll play the highwayman, then, and make a quick escape. Starting now, sir?'
It was a good half an hour before the sailing time Ramage had put in the orders, a copy of which Paolo had delivered to each ship, but by that time the Calypso must be well clear of the bay, steering the correct course and the triangle of poop lanterns acting as a guiding star for the merchant ships.
Ramage, knowing that a collision tearing away shrouds and bringing down a mast would not only wreek this operation but bring the whole cruise to a stop and result in them being made prisoners, gave the order. Southwick went forward while Aitken passed the word for the bosun's mates to rouse out both watches without using their shrill calls and without hearty bellows in English. Their voices would carry a long way on a night like this.
The topmen had already been instructed that all they would hear from the deck would be a sequence of numbers hailed in French. In fact - although Ramage had not made the point - it did not matter if they forgot the actual words for the numbers as long as they remembered the sequence. The third order, or hail, for instance, could only mean 'Trice up booms'.
Ramage silently ran through the list of things to be done or checked before going to sea. He had done it hundreds of times in the past when, as a midshipman or lieutenant, some of the tasks had been his responsibility. Now he had three lieutenants and a master to make sure they were done; butif even one was accidentally omitted and the ship damaged or endangered, the court martial would find the captain guilty of negligence. That was what captains were there for...
All but the bower anchor stowed; boats hoisted in and secured; ensign staff down - the Tricolour had already been taken in - and the dog vanes put in the bulwarks, their feathers checked in the corks, the lines securing the corks inspected for wear and twists; sails ready for loosing - he had looked them over with the glass before darkness fell; tiller and relieving tackle inspected - he had done that immediately they had anchored after themistral. If they were leaving from one of His Majesty's dockyards, he or Southwick would check that they had all the charts needed for the voyage, which reminded him that young Orsini must make a start on the copies of the charts for the French ships, and Ramage decided his clerk could lose a night's sleep too, helping him. The clerk was an idler, the official word for a day worker. There were not many of them in a frigate and they included people like the cook and his mate, the carpenter's crew, men whose regular routine was interrupted only by general quarters or, as in the case of the clerk, an unusual situation...
He could hear the steady clunk, clunk, clunk as the pawls dropped into place with the turning of the capstan barrel. There was none of John Smith the Second's fiddle tonight; although he played it as another man might strangle a cat, the men liked to have him standing on the capstan head, sawing away. A seaman glided up to Aitken in the darkness with a message from Southwick - the anchor was at long stay, Ramage guessed. He looked around for any French merchantmen anchored in the way - this was just the sort of situation when you found a badly commanded ship lying between you and your anchor so that as you hove in your cable you came up to her. The result was usually unpleasant, the other ship complaining that they mistook your anchor buoy for a fishpot marker. How few people realized that it often took more skill to anchor a ship properly than sail her.
It was an old adage in the Royal Navy that 'A ship is known by her boats', because badly painted and badly handled boats always came from slackly commanded ships. Ramage had his own addition to that - a badly anchored ship was always incompetently commanded.
By now the Calypso's anchor was up and Aitken was calling aloft the unaccustomed: 'Un ... deux ... trois ...'
Southwick had been correct in his claim that some of the ships had not anchored, because as soon as they saw the Calypso's topsails let fall, they began setting sail.
Once the frigate was clear of the Baie de Foix, Ramage told Aitken: 'Have the poop lanterns lit', and a few minutes later was cursing the sooty smell that the gentle northwesterly breeze would keep drifting forward across the quarterdeck.
Southwick came bustling up, his work on the fo'c'sle completed. 'It's the same as being the first out of church, sir; you avoid meeting all the people you don't like.'
'I can't picture you in or out of a church.'
'True, but my sister always makes me go to both matins and evensong when I am on leave.'
'I should think so', Ramage said. 'She has a well-developed sense of duty.'
'She's more concerned with showing her brother off to the neighbours', Southwick grumbled. 'I don't get the impression she worries too much about my immortal soul.'
'Well, someone ought to, because I have the feeling' - Ramage waved astern towards the merchant ships now setting sail - 'that it's going to be strained for the next few days.'
'Escorting a convoy with one ship is like leading a flock of sheep without a dog', Southwick said crossly. 'No one to chase up the laggards.'
'Cheer up', Ramage teased him. 'It could be worse.'
'I doubt it. I've never escorted a convoy of British ships where at least half the masters weren't mules. But a mixture of French and Spanish - can you imagine it, sir?'
'I can, only too vividly', Ramage admitted. 'And the Dons don't trust the French anyway, and the French are alreadyangry that the escorts - they were expecting more than a frigate - did not arrive.'
'I know what I'd like to do', Southwick muttered.
'What's that?'
'Board the biggest two, send 'em to Gibraltar as prizes, and sink the rest.'
'So would I', Ramage said quietly, 'but the prizes would never get there. They'd be recaptured by the French or Spanish in a few hours, and we'd end up losing a couple of good prize crews.'
'I suppose so, sir', Southwick said grudgingly, puzzled because he knew the order sent to each of the ships was to make for a place in the opposite direction to Gibraltar, and that the Calypso was going to lead them there. And a discreet inquiry of Aitken showed that the captain had not given a hint to the first lieutenant either about what he intended to do with these mules. Look at them, he told himself, they've only just left the bay, and have the Calypso's three lights to make for, as clear as a lighthouse, and they're already spreading out across ten points of the horizon.
CHAPTER TEN
Will Stafford had worked it all out without any difficulty, he told Jackson and Rossi. The captain had very cunningly ordered the convoy to come to the bay; now he was going to lead it to Gibraltar, lowering the French colours as the Calypso hauled her wind to make up for Europa Point.
The three men, off watch, were sitting on the fo'c'sle gossiping and enjoying the mellow Mediterranean night, finding it too hot with the light following wind to go below.
Jackson, pointing at the Pole Star, said mildly: 'We're steering about southeast. That means Sardinia, Sicily, Egypt or the Morea. It doesn't mean Gibraltar, which happens to be in the opposite direction.'
'We're just getting a good offing before we turn into the Gut', Stafford said airily. 'We don't want to get caught in a Levanter with Spain to leeward. These mules couldn't claw off a carpet, let alone a dead lee shore.'
'They've been clawing off lee shores for years', Jackson commented. 'You don't live long in the Mediterranean otherwise.'
'Italy', Rossi said, as though announcing its discovery. 'The captain is sailing back to Italy.'
'On this course it could be - the southern part, anyway', Jackson agreed. 'But why Italy?'
'He has friends there - I know', Rossi said darkly.