Ramage's Signal

'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.

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.