worked at their tables and checked the figures. They found that the old master had not made a mistake. Ramage had not expected that he would, but he noticed from the hurried scribbling that Kenton and Orsini had made errors and then rapidly corrected them.
Two thousand yards... He considered the figure; spoke it to himself and then imagined it written down, first in his own handwriting and then in type as the figure appearing in a set of tables. The first gamble was with figures. The second gamble was that the three French frigates would be secured stern to the quay at such an angle that their broadside guns could not possibly fire through the entrance. He would win that round if they were able to fire only their bow-chase guns, one each side and no bigger than 12-pounders. Six altogether, with a range of 1,800 yards at six degrees of elevation with a 4-pound charge of powder. At that range a French gunner, or any other, for that matter, would be lucky to be able to bowl a shot through the harbour entrance if his ship was anchored 1,800 yards outside, so there was not much risk from the bow-chase guns. Or from the other guns at that range, really, unless one of the frigates managed to slew round and fire off a broadside. Then there would be eighteen roundshot ricocheting off the water, and some might hit, much as a sportsman (poacher, more likely) would fire a shot into the middle of a rising covey in the hope of bringing down a single bird.
No, he corrected himself, the biggest gamble, although still concerning the 2,000 yards, was on the forts. There were two of them, Monte Filippo on the north side and high up, and Santa Catarina low down at the entrance. A third one at the southern entrance was not really a fort; simply a series of gun positions at the end of a short headland known as La Rocca and protected by stonework.
There might be 32-pounders up there in Monte Filippo, and with a 10-pound charge they could fire a shot 2,900 yards. It would be plunging fire, and at extreme range. Ricochets were always wildly inaccurate with plunging fire, bouncing all over the place. When a gun was firing on an almost level plane - from one ship at another, for instance - ricochets were often quite accurate; the first graze, as it was called, could be at a third of the extreme range . . .
How often were the crews of any guns in Monte Filippo likely to be exercised? Were the gun platforms made of wood, which might have rotted? Was there wooden planking laid over stone? Or just smooth stone? Were the French gunners up in the forts conscientious men who looked after the guns, kept the powder dry, and tended the shot, keeping them well painted and making sure they did not bulge with rust flakes? Was the ropework sound, or had it gone grey, rotting in the rain and sun, so that train tackles and breechings would be useless, parting with the recoil of the first round and letting the gun career back out of control?
Questions but no answers. Was there even a garrison in either fort? Why would the French bother, because Porto Ercole was now a port of no significance whatsoever, just a haven for fishing boats, not a port used to supply any town except perhaps Orbetello, whose wants must be slight and which probably relied on Santo Stefano. Santo Stefano - when he and Jackson had sneaked in there several years ago to rescue Gianna they had checked up on its great fort and found out the size of the guns, 32-pounders, and the fact that the gunners never fired them in practice.
One thing is certain, he told himself brutally, it is far too late to worry now; the Brutus and the Fructidor have their orders. They know the whole objective is so important that even if the forts are crammed with France's most skilled artillerymen and bristling with excellent guns, the bomb ketches must carry out their orders, or sink in the attempt. You sent 'em; you get the credit if they succeed; you get the blame if they fail.
Aitken was shouting orders. Idly Ramage watched black figures swarming sure-footed up the ratlines of the mainmast in the darkness the moment Aitken bellowed: 'Away aloft!'
After that there was a stream of orders aimed at the men on the maintopsail yard, Aitken's mild Scottish accent amplified and distorted by the speaking trumpet: 'Trice up ... lay out!' The men triced up the studdingsail booms out of the way, and then scrambled out along the yard.
'Man the topsail sheets!' This was directed to the men down on deck, and then the speaking trumpet was aimed aloft again. 'Let fall!'
The topmen, who had already begun to loosen the knots of the gaskets in anticipation of the order, knowing that they could not be seen from the quarterdeck and anxious to save a few seconds, untied the strips of canvas and the sail unrolled, a great canvas sheet which hissed and scraped in the quiet night as it flopped like a curtain before the wind had a chance to fill it.
'Sheet home!' Aitken shouted across the deck, and then to the men aloft: 'Lower booms!' The studdingsail booms were lowered back into place, and Aitken followed that with the final order to the topmen: 'Down from aloft!'
There were still more orders for the men on deck. 'Man themaintopsail halyards - now then, haul taut!' That took up the slack ready for the next string of orders. 'Tend the braces there, and now, all together, hoist the maintopsail!'
As the yard was trimmed sharp up the Calypso began to forge ahead, slowly standing in towards Talamone, on the mainland, as the quartermaster brought the ship as close to the wind as she would sail with only one topsail. Then the mizentopsail was let fall and sheeted home and, as the jibs were hoisted, the foretopsail was let fall and the Calypso, gathering speed, sailed closer to the wind.
'We'll tack about a mile off Talamone,' Ramage said. 'Then if anyone in Santo Stefano saw us get under way, they'll assume we're heading up to the north, unless they have the patience to continue watching . . .'
'We'll give the fishermen a scare,' Aitken commented because the Calypso was now heading within a point or two of the light of the fishing boat which had been on the mainland side of the bay for the past few hours.
'They'll know we can see them,' Ramage said. 'Anyway, they're probably asleep, with their lines hitched round their big toes so that they feel the twitch the minute a fish bites.'
He bent down over the binnacle and looked at the weather side compass. The Calypso was comfortably laying a course of north-east, so the wind must be about north-west by north. They would clear Punta Lividonia on the next tack and then slowly bear away as they sailed down the west side of Argentario with a soldier's wind. The stars were bright enough to make the land clear; there was nothing to do now but wait - for almost twelve hours. The Calypso under topsails alone was, in this breeze, almost as much trouble to handle as a rowing boat. . .
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
'We'll lose the wind here,' Southwick grumbled, shielding his eyes with his hand as he looked up in the bright sunshine at the jagged cliffs of the headland on the larboard side and then inspected the tower perched on the top, having to raise his telescope to an unusually high angle. 'Another one of those towers . . . that's the ninth or tenth since we passed Punta Lividonia. All the same design.'
'Spanish,' Ramage commented absent-mindedly. 'This one here on Punta Avoltore is the last before we reach Porto Ercole, isn't it? They should be able to see it. In the old days it would pass the word when a ship was sighted . . .'
Southwick snapped his telescope shut and walked over to the binnacle drawer, pulling out the chart and inspecting it. 'Yes, it's the last one marked on this chart, sir. We should - ah!' Once more he shaded his eyes against the bright sun as he looked over the larboard bow. 'There -' he pointed at a tiny island just beginning to show as the Calypso worked round the Point' - that's Isolotto. We have plenty of water to within a few yards of the cliffs over here,' he added, pointing to a long, shallow bay opening up between Punta Avoltore and Isolotto. 'There's a narrow channel between Isolotto and the shore, but it has an isolated rock at the far end and it isn't worth the risk of using it because we can just as easily go outside the island.'
Ramage nodded. He had already spent an hour going over the chart, reminding himself of a coast he had once known very well. Southwick took a bearing of the tower and looked at his watch before scribbling a note on the slate. 'We're just fifteen minutes early, sir.'
'Very good,' Ramage said. 'I assume you're keeping your fingers crossed that we don't lose the wind.'
Southwick grinned as he took off his hat and shook his head, his flowing white hair streaming out. 'We're just getting out of the wind shadow of the big mountains; it should freshen a little once we round this point. I was just afraid that we were in too close but 1 think the wind is also funnelling round both sides of the island and meeting here: we'll catch the other - ah, there!' The luffs of the topsails began to flap and the quartermaster gave a hurried order to the men at the wheel to bear away.
'See, it's veered a whole point. Still, we can lay Isolotto nicely.'
Ramage picked up his telescope and examined the coast as it came into sight, the view taking him back to a land of memories. Cala dei Santi - that was the next inlet just beyond Punta Avoltore as the land began to trend round to Porto Ercole. Steep cliffs, vertically slashed grey rock, patches of soil here and there where bushes and a scattering of grass could grow, and higher up rounded hills with jagged cones of grey stone poking through. Brown, black and white specks moved slowly just above the cliffs - goats, some grazing, others jumping with surprisingly nimble grace from rock to rock and several walking sedately in line like parishioners going to Sunday matins. The water was a deep blue, white-fringed where it lapped at the cliffs. There were no beaches; it would be impossible to land from a boat even on a calm day. Apart from the towers, it seemed no one had disturbed this part of Argentario for a thousand years . . . Looked at from seaward, but never walked on.
The bay swept on until, above low cliffs, he could make out the angular shape of Fortino Stella, old now, looking as though it had been let go to ruin and not to be confused with the one at the harbour entrance. In the old days, he guessed, the Spaniards had built it there well outside the harbour to prevent any hostile ships anchoring in the lee of Isolotto to land men and attack Porto Ercole from the rear. Or perhaps the Spaniards used the channel between Isolotto and the shore as an anchorage, and the small fort protected it. He shrugged, because it was not often one came across a fortification whose purpose was not obvious, even putting the clock back two centuries and seeing the conditions and problems existing then.
Finally he reached the end of the land, as far as he could see and fine on the frigate's larboard bow. That distant point must be the little headland forming the south side of Porto Ercole, with the harbour beyond and out of sight. He could just make out a straight line of stonework - that was La Rocca, the village at the southern side, while there was another village, Grotte, in the north-western corner. At this distance there was no chance of seeing if there were gun barrels poking through embrasures in that wall - the Calypso would have to get a good deal closer.
Suddenly a fleck of white caught his eye, beyond and to the right of Isolotto, and a few moments later, as the Calypso's course opened up the view behind Isolotto, he saw another. Even as he watched they disappeared - for they were sails, now being furled, brailed up or lowered on board the bomb ketches, which were both now visible coming head to wind and at this distance seeming smaller than water beetles on the far side of a village pond.
Southwick had seen them and slapped his knee. 'They're on time, too! Those two lads probably used this stretch here to waste a little time so they weren't too early.'
Aitken came up to Ramage, squinting in the bright sunlight. 'I can't get used to those colours, sir,' he said, gesturing up at the Tricolour. Then, when he saw that Southwick and Ramage were watching the two bomb ketches anchoring, he grinned and took out his watch. 'Two minutes early. Who knows, the four of them might become admirals yet!'
