Dudley Pope: Ramage

'Right, carry on, then.'

He gestured to Wilson: 'Collect some topmen and stand by to set the mizentopsail and spanker. Do nothing until I give the word: then haul as if you were heaving for Heaven. Then get the boats round to the ports at the half-deck, starboard side.'

The Barras was less than three hundred yards away now: hard to judge in this light. Perhaps five minutes to go. Providing, he thought with a sick feeling of apprehension, the Frenchman does what he's supposed to...

'Bosun, Carpenter's Mate, Wilson—'

He jumped down from the bulwark as the three men gathered round. 'As soon as we've turned and the way's off the ; ship, go below and get the men into the boats. Cast off as soon as you've enough on board. Try to keep in touch - we'll pass a line from boat to boat as soon as we can. Otherwise we'll rendezvous five hundred strokes due north: that's roughly five minutes' rowing towards the Pole Star. Any questions?'

There was none. The Bosun was calm enough: now someonewas giving him orders he was reacting smartly and; efficiently. The Carpenter's Mate was a phlegmatic soul and Wilson was a devil-may-care sort of man.

'Carry on, then.'

The Bosun hesitated a moment as the other two turned away and from his stance seemed embarrassed.

'I wish your Pa was 'ere, sir.'

'Don't you trust me, then?'

'No, no!' the Bosun said hastily. 'I mean - well, I was with 'im that last time, sir. It was all wrong what they did. But 'e'd be proud, sir!'

With that he disappeared forward. Strange, thought Ram­age, that he's never previously mentioned sailing with Father. Hardly encouraging to remind the son of 'what they did' at this particular moment - although it is, in a way; as if the Bosun intended to reaffirm his loyalty.

Two more things remained and yet another glance at the Barras warned him he had very little time. He looked round to make sure Jackson was near by, and the American said wryly, 'You'd just about reach her with that knife of yours, sir!'

Ramage laughed: his prowess at knife throwing - he had learnt the art as a child in Italy from his father's Sicilian coachman - was well known.

He walked across to where the wounded were lying, careful not to trip over the dead men sprawled in grotesque attitudes.

'You men - I'll be seeing you soon at Greenwich!'

One or two of them raised a wry cheer as he mentioned the home for disabled seamen.

'We have to leave you, but we're not abandoning you!' (Would they understand the difference? He doubted it.)

'With half a dozen guns left we can't fight and they' - he pointed towards the Barras - 'can board us whenever they like. They've a surgeon and medical supplies while we haven't. Your best chance is to be taken prisoner. One of you will be given the ensign halyard: let it go as soon as we leave the ship, so that the French just walk on board: that will make sure none of you gets more wounds. We who haven't been wounded - well, I suppose we're running away - but to fight another day. People will always talk of the Sibella's last fight. So -well... thank you... and good hick.'

It sounded lame enough and he was embarrassed because emotion tightened his throat so he had to force out the last platitudes. Yet it brought a cheer from the men.

'Bosun - all ready forward?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'By the way,' he told Jackson, 'if the French open fire and anything happens to me, tell the Bosun at once, and destroy the letter you saw me put in my pocket: that's absolutely vital. Now give the ensign halyard to one of the wounded and make sure he understands what he is to do.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Curious how reassuring that American was, Ramage thought.

Ramage climbed up to the hammocks on the bulwark. God, the Barras was close now - a hundred yards perhaps, and just about abeam. He could see her bow wave, a littlesmother of white at the stern. He put the mouthpiece of the speaking trumpet to his ear and pointed the open end towards the Barras, but could hear nothing.

For the moment it seemed the French captain intended to bring his ship alongside without undue haste. Anyway, that wasthe seamanlike thing to do - no point in crashing alongside andrisk the yards of the two ships locking together.

Unless - Ramage shivered momentarily, shocked by an awful fear: unless I'm completely wrong. I must be wrong, because the Frenchman must know just how badly damaged the Sibella is: she's low in the water and rolling sluggishly: he knows she'll never be towed back to Toulon. And he's slowly closing to administer the coup de grace: it'll come any moment now: a sheet of flame rippling along the Barras's rows of gun ports like summer lightning on the horizon, and I and the rest of the Sibellas will be dead.

I've been so clever, convincing myself the Frenchman's vanity will make him want to tow the Sibella home as a prize; but I persuaded myself because I want to live: I didn't consider any other possibilities. Now - well, I've as good as murdered the wounded on the quarter-deck: men who gave me a cheer a few moments ago.

While these thoughts milled round his head he was listening intently; but he took the speaking trumpet from his ear. What's the use, he thought bitterly: I'll never hear the French captain's order to open fire at this distance; and what difference does it make, anyway?

Suddenly anger with himself drove away his fears: there was still a way out. It involved a gamble, certainly: he had to gamble that Barras would come within hailing distance before firing her final broadside. At the moment she was too far away from him to be certain they would hear if he shouted.

Ramage found himself thinking about the XVth Article of War, which laid down with harsh brevity that 'Every person in or belonging to the Fleet—' (God what a time to be reciting this) who yielded his ship 'cowardly or treacherously to the enemy... being convicted... shall suffer death.'

Well, if he was a coward or traitor, at least he would have to be alive for them to sentence him to death, and the way he'd been muddling along so far that possibility was fast becoming remote.

How far was she now? It was damned difficult to judge in the near darkness. Seventy yards? He put the speaking trumpet to his ear. Yes, he could hear French voices calling to each other now: just the normal order and acknowledgement. They must be pretty sure of themselves (and why not?) otherwise there'd be a lot of chattering. Would they open fire too soon? If only something would happen in the Barras to create a little confusion and uncertainty: that would gain him the time. Ramage put the speaking trumpet to his lips: he'd confuse them, he thought grimly.

He stopped himself from shouting just in time, and called forward: 'Bosun! Belay what I said about cutting when you hear me speaking French: don't start until I give the order.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

He put the speaking trumpet to his lips again and bellowed across the water at the French ship:

'Bon soir, messieurs!'

With the mouthpiece to his ear he heard, after what seemed an age, a puzzled 'Comment?' being shouted back from the Barras's quarter-deck. He could imagine their astonishment at being wished good evening. Well, keep the initiative.

'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.