heaved swiftly to get the sails under control, the wind quick to belly the cloth.
'Lower booms!' The topmen dropped the stunsail booms back in position.
'Down from aloft!'
With that order the Calypso's finest seamen swarmed down the ratlines again while others on deck took the strain on the braces to swing the yards round. More men were standing by at the topsail halyards and, at Aitken's order, hauled the yards up several feet.
Ramage always found it satisfying when sails on different masts were set as though they were one, but the fore and maintopsails hardly had time to get the creases out of the material because of the press of wind before Ramage, looking astern over the taffrail, saw that the frigate was already well out of the bay, the semaphore tower of Foix sitting on its hill like a playing card stuck into a tiny pile of sand, while the big hill between Foix and Aspet now seemed little more than a hummock. Behind it, stretching it seemed right over Languedoc, were fast-moving grey clouds, racing towards them like lancers across a plain. The temperature was dropping now the sun had vanished, and the Calypso began pitching as she came clear of the headlands.
'Comes up as fast as it does in the Tropics, sir', Aitken :ommented.
Ramage nodded but warned: 'In the Mediterranean it lasts longer. Off Martinique we'd forget a squall like this in an hour. Here it can last three days.'
He waited five minutes and then said: 'Close reef the topsails, Mr Aitken, and make sure there are plenty of chafing mats in position. Have Kenton make sure that all the guns are properly secured.'
For as long as the mistral lasted, the Calypso's greatest enemy would probably be not wind and sea as such but chafe, caused by the continual movement of everything in the ship. Sails furled on yards were long sausages with lines, or gaskets, round them at intervals, and the bulges - the bunts - were easily chafed if they touched rigging, so chafing mats had to be positioned to protect them. Everything that could move unnecessarily had extra lashings put on it; the hawseholes on each side of the bow, through which the anchor cables ran, were sealed by bucklers, large wooden shields blocking the holes like tight blinkers over a horse's eyes.
'I'm going below for an hour or so', Ramage said to Aitken. 'Call me if there's any wind shift.'
Before he went down the companionway he looked aft again. Across the expanse of sea that an hour ago had been blue but was now a dirty grey and closely speckled with tumbling white caps, he looked at the headland of Foix. There were Martin and Orsini, and Rennick. And all but half a dozen of the Calypso's Marines. And Jackson and his crew. They would now be watching the frigate leaving. For a moment he wondered if his luck would turn against him and he would never see them again.
After the wind slowly increased to gale force by evening, Ramage knew for certain as darkness fell that they were in for a storm. For several hours the Calypso's men had been preparing for it: relieving tackles were put on the great tiller to ease the strain on the wheel ropes and the spare tiller was ready to be fitted in case the regular one broke under the strain; four hefty men were needed at the wheel, each with a rope round his waist secured to a deadeye on the deck to prevent him being washed overboard.
All the small sails had long ago been lowered from the tops and stowed below; the royal and topgallant yards had been sent down and securely lashed on deck, followed by the royal and topgallant masts, reducing both weight and windage aloft. Preventer braces were rove on the topsail yards; extra gripes had been passed over and round the boats, Southwick himself checking that their plugs had been removed so that flying spray and driving rain did not collect in them like water cisterns.
Once an hour the carpenter went below with his sounding rod to sound the well: to check, in fact, how much water was getting into the Calypso as her hull worked in the big seas. He had been told to report to Ramage the moment he found the ship was making a fifth more water than usual, and he had yet to make any report.
Ramage was thankful that Jackson had taken his long, tarpaulin coat and sou'wester hat and tarred them afresh as soon as they came through the Gut into the Mediterranean: the name of the sea always sounded so beautiful and inviting in Homer but it was far more treacherous than the Caribbean and North Sea put together. Storms could and often did spring up in an hour or so and last for days; the seas were short, high and more vicious than anywhere else - except perhaps off the northwest Dutch coast, the Texel, in the late autumn.
By the early afternoon of the second full day of the storm, the Calypso had been unable to do anything except wear every few hours so that she kept as close in with the coast as possible but not so close that a sudden wind shift would put her on a lee shore.
Ramage, bored with sitting in his cot - the only reasonably comfortable place in a cabin that otherwise seemed to have a lot in common with a runaway carriage careering down a rough track into a stone quarry - stood up and holding on to rails made his way outside to where the seaman sentry, under orders not to try and stand up, was squatting with his sword beside him, a curious-looking replacement for the usual Marine.
Ramage took the tarpaulin coat off its hook and struggled into it, helped by the sentry, both men grinning as sudden pitches and rolls sent them reeling helplessly, often holding on to each other instinctively for support. Finally, enveloped in the tarpaulin coat and with the sou'wester pulled down to shelter his eyes, Ramage struggled up the companionway, at times having to stop and hold on as the frigate rolled so that he was hanging away from the steps.
He slid back the hatch and stepped out on deck. Kenton was officer of the deck but Southwick, a shiny black tent in his tarpaulin coat and trousers, was standing with him. Both men looked tired, and from their deliberately limited movements Ramage guessed their tarpaulins had leaked so that their clothing beneath was sodden, cold and probably chafing, with the reek of wet wool, which Ramage hated, overpowering the smell of tar from the tarpaulins.
'Sky's a bit lighter, sir', Southwick said cheerily, 'and the wind has definitely eased.'
'The glass?'
'Steady now, sir. Last drop was a couple of hours ago. I doubt it'll go down any more.'
'What's the course and distance back to the bay?'
'About nor'nor'east, fifteen miles, sir', Southwick replied. 'Two tacks and four hours.'
Ramage nodded, a movement completely obscured by the sou'wester. 'We'll be able to shake out a reef in a couple of hours: we could just get in by daylight.'
'Once we get in the lee of the coast the sea won't be so wild', Kenton commented, to be reproved by Southwick: 'That'd be true anywhere but the Mediterranean. But as soon as it shallows up ...'
'You're sure about the course?' Ramage asked Southwick who, as master, was responsible for the navigation of the Calypso.
'Not to within a quarter point', Southwick said, 'but by the time we've worn round I'll have checked it.'
Ramage turned to Kenton. 'See how she'll take nor'nor'east. Don't rouse out everyone: just use the watch on deck. And try and get the sails trimmed while the rain has stopped: there's no need to soak the men again.'
Half an hour later, with a reef shaken out of both fore and maintopsails and staysails cautiously set, the Calypso was plunging up to the Baie de Foix, the wind slowly backing so that sheets could be eased and now, not hard on the wind, the frigate was slipping easily across the wavetops instead of pounding or, as Southwick grumbled, 'digging the same hole twice like a forgetful sexton'.
Ramage reckoned there was an hour of daylight remaining as the Calypso stretched up to the coast with the Baie de Foix on her starboard bow. He held on until she was close to the western side, giving himself a look at the other semaphore tower at Aspet. Then he gave the order for the Calypso to tack into the bay itself. Her sails started flapping and, for anyone not used to a ship going about, there was sudden confusion for a few minutes and then almost complete silence after sheets and braces were hauled home and tacks settled.
Through the glass the semaphore tower at Foix seemed undamaged by the wind, which was dropping quickly, and Ramage was startled to see the yellow flag run up on the platform at the top and stream out like a board. They had a signal to pass to Aspet - and yes, Aspet hoisted the red flag: they were ready to receive it.
Southwick offered to get the semaphore signal book so that they could read the signal as Orsini, Jackson, Stafford and Rossi worked the shutters, but Ramage, at last free of his tarpaulin coat and sou'wester, shook his head. Very soon he would be reading the Foix tower's signal log, and seeing the latest news of the convoy assembling at Barcelona ...
There seemed to be a deputation to meet him on the beach when Ramage jumped down from the bow of his gig in the late evening to find Martin, Rennick and Orsini standing to attention on the sand a few feet back from the line of breaking waves.
'Welcome back, sir', Martin said. 'That was quite a gale.'
'Yes, I half expected to hear your flute', Ramage said teasingly.
'It wouldn't have been my flute, sir', Martin said, almost crossly, 'it'd have been that damned tower: the wind goes through it like an abandoned windmill: all creaks and groans and whistles. Hard to sleep.'
By now Ramage was leading them towards the signalmen's hut.
'Much signal traffic?'
'Our hands are raw, sir: needed three men at each halyard to raise a shutter in that wind, and Toulon and Barcelona have been signalling like neighbours chatting over the fence.'
'They probably have fine weather: ours was just a local Gulf of Lions gale.'
Ramage turned to Rennick. 'Well, what have the Marines to report?'
'All well, sir - except for the sand: this dam' wind drives it in under doors and gets it into the men's muskets - until the rain came and settled it down. At least we haven't had to water the gardens.'
'Had any trouble with discipline?' Ramage asked Martin casually.
'None, sir: even though the weather was bad the men seem to enjoy their run on shore. They scrubbed the floors and tables in their barracks before I could stop them; now they're having the devil of a job drying them out.'
By now they had reached the signalmen's hut and Martin led the way in. A lantern on the table showed the signal log and beside it, under a brick used as a paperweight, were the original signals copied down by the men on the platform.
Ramage motioned the three men to sit and said to Paolo: 'Did you have any trouble understanding the signals?'
'No, sir. I've written translations under each signal for the benefit of Mr Martin.'
'And very useful it's been, sir', Martin said emphatically, obviously anxious that Paolo should not miss any credit.
Ramage nodded and opened the signal book. The signals were written in neat copperplate, giving the time that Aspet or Le Chesne began sending, the time the last word of the signal was received in Foix, and the similar times when it was passed on. Beneath each signal was the translation, each one signed with a flourish,
