Free Ramage & the Saracens by Dudley Pope Page B

first.”
    And that, he thought, covers the tactics: stay up to windward of the enemy, so that the smoke of the guns blows clear, and then it would be a straightforward battle of broadsides, hoping that the enemy would make a mistake.
    Through the telescope he could see that the approaching frigate was painted black and her sails had enough patches to indicate that she had probably been at sea some time. Was she part of a squadron which had included the two ships of the line? Was it a coincidence that she was coming along the coast of Capraia when
Le Tigre
was at anchor doing repairs? Ramage shrugged: the answers to the questions hardly mattered: she was approaching from ahead, and that was the only thing that concerned him for the moment.
    The Sea Service pistols stuck in his belt were bruising his ribs; they grated every time he took a breath. He pushed them further round after deciding not to put them down: there was always a chance that the
Calypso
would end up boarding the frigate, and he did not want to waste time looking round for a brace of pistols.
    He found he was becoming pleasantly excited: the prospect of an evenly matched fight against another frigate was sufficiently unusual to be welcome.
    He gave an order to the quartermaster and told Aitken to harden in the sheets: he wanted to get to windward just another point, so there would be no question about the
Calypso
keeping up to windward of the enemy. Of course, the French frigate could always tack to the north-east—she could even turn on her heels and make a bolt for it. But Ramage was sure that she would come down to help
Le Tigre.
The French captain would not want to face a double charge—of cowardice, and deserting a comrade.
    The frigate was a mile away now, sailing fast along the coast. Ramage glanced at the chart: there were no outlying rocks: they could manoeuvre without risk, except that if either of them was dismasted they would be blown on to the rocks, since this was a lee shore.
    Could the Frenchman try any tricks? Ramage thought carefully and decided there was nothing he could not counter in time.
    Three quarters of a mile, and her bow wave was curling away like a white moustache, with her sails bellying with the wind. All her guns were run out; they jutted from her side like stubby black fingers. As usual, the first broadside would be the most important because it would be fired carefully by men not coughing from gunsmoke, stunned by the noise of the guns firing, or wildly excited by the ritual of loading and firing.
    Half a mile. “Orsini,” he called, “run round the larboard side guns and warn them they’ll be firing in a matter of minutes.”
    The Italian youth ran off down the quarterdeck ladder and Ramage was thankful he could trust the youngster: he not only understood the orders but what was more important he understood the significance of them. He had been in action dozens of times now and one of his proudest moments, Ramage knew, was that he had taken part in the Battle of Trafalgar. It was becoming clear now that that battle was going to be the new yardstick by which actions were measured. Previously a man could say, “I was at Copenhagen,” or “I was at the Nile,” or Camperdown, the Saintes, the Glorious First of June, and other men could measure him. But Trafalgar had changed all that: it had been a victory the like of which had never before been seen. It was a new Agincourt, Ramage thought, and it would be sufficient for a man to say quietly: “Yes, I was at Trafalgar.”
    But what mattered for the moment was that the
Calypso
was off the east coast of Capraia steering north for a French frigate. Compared with Trafalgar there was little honour in that; but an unlucky shot or splinter could make you just as dead. That was the ironic thing about death; you were still dead whether you died in a great victory like Trafalgar or from falling down a hatchway on a dark night and breaking