Ramage & the Saracens by Dudley Pope Read Free Book Online

Ramage could make out the largest peaks on the island: there were four, one at the northern end of the island and another at the southern, as if to balance it, with two in between. It was so mountainous—on the western side anyway—that the inhabitants must live a hard life. Southwick had said that it sloped down on the eastern side, but it would give little land suitable for crops since the whole island could not be five miles long.
    He considered a nagging thought. Those two French 74s. Should he have made more of an effort to destroy them? He took off his hat, wiped the inside of the band and jammed it back on his head, perplexed. The only thing he could have done was sail back and forth across their sterns, raking them. They would have brought up a couple of stern-chase guns each, so four would have been firing at him as the
Calypso
raked them with sixteen 12-pounders. It would have done as much good as a mouse gnawing at a thick oak door. He knew that; but would Their Lordships take the same view, or the admiral at Naples when he reported to him?
    He shrugged his shoulders: it was all over now; there was no question of going back. Now he had to concentrate his attention on this frigate anchored off Capraia. The frigate presented the same problem—how to achieve surprise. He had done it against the two 74s by unexpectedly steering straight for the
Artois
’s bow, obviously intending to carry away her jib-boom and bowsprit, and as a result the captain of the
Artois
had panicked and collided with the other 74. Now to surprise the frigate. At least the Frenchman could not see him coming: even at this moment he would be lying at anchor off the little harbour, unaware that the
Calypso
was approaching from the other side of the island—unless he had posted lookouts at the top of one of the mountains, which would be very unlikely.
    He looked at his watch and then told Hill: “Send the men to dinner; we may not get another opportunity for several hours.”
    Men fought better with full stomachs, even though for some it might be their last meal. A sobering thought, he reflected; but it was a foolish optimist that thought an enemy frigate could be captured or destroyed without casualties.
    Seven men sat round the table at mess number eight, eating salt beef from wooden plates.
    â€œGive the bread barge a fair wind,” Stafford said to Rossi, who was sitting at the inboard end of the table. The Italian pushed across the wooden box, known as a “barge” and which contained hard biscuit, which went by the name of “bread.” This bread had reached the stage where it was beginning to soften; no matter what anyone did, weevils would start to inhabit it and the wise seaman would give the biscuit a brisk tap on the table before starting to chew. The tap was intended to stun the weevils; it stopped them wriggling in the mouth, reminding a hungry man of their presence.
    â€œWhat did that fellow really tell the captain, Jacko?” Rossi asked as he helped himself to biscuit, one of the few things that were not rationed.
    â€œI didn’t hear; I was in the boat,” the American said. “All I heard was them talking to each other, the Italian skipper and his mate.”
    â€œWell, what were they saying?”
    â€œThey had such thick accents it was hard to understand them,” said Jackson, who had learned his Italian in Tuscany, where the accent was comparatively pure. Although Capraia was one of the islands which made up the Tuscan Archipelago, each island had its own accent which bore little relation to what was generally known as “the Tuscan accent.” “But they were talking about a French frigate, and I think that’s what they wanted to talk to us about.”
    â€œWhere were they from?”
    â€œThis island ahead of us, I think.”
    â€œAha,” Stafford said delightedly. “Stands to reason, they were warning us that there’s a French