The Ramage Touch by Dudley Pope

memory, so he looked through the signals again. There was only one that could be applied, ‘ All captains to report immediately to the flagship .’ The Calypso , even while pretending to be French, was certainly no flagship; but obviously her captain was by far the senior officer present – at most the galliots would be commanded by lieutenants and if the one that had emerged briefly during the night was anything to go by, they were former mates or even bosuns of coasting craft pressed into the Navy to serve the new Republic.
    Ramage held up the book and pointed out the flags to Southwick. ‘You’re right; I suppose we might as well hoist them now. The captains will be wakened eventually and they’ll get nervous because they won’t know how long the signal’s been up.’
    Southwick sniffed, a quiet but contemptuous sniff which in one brief indrawn breath revealed his opinion of the French Ministry of Marine, French naval officers in general, and commanders of galliots in particular. ‘When do we let them know we’re British, sir? I mean, do you want all the officers to wear trousers and shirts, not uniforms?’
    ‘Yes, then they need not stay out of sight of the ships. Marines had better dress as seamen. I could send Renwick over now with his men, but we might just as well make it a bloodless capture. Renwick won’t thank us, but we’re more likely to find out what we want from the French officers this way, because the alternative is being put back on board their ships and having one of our broadsides follow them.’
    Leaving instructions that he was to be called the moment there was any sign of movement on board either ship, Ramage went below to shave, change into a shirt and nankin trousers, and have his breakfast. One thing that could be said in the Mediterranean’s favour was that, as in the West Indies, it was easy to get fruit and vegetables – in the summer, anyway.
    Ramage had just finished shaving, in cold water because the galley fire was out, and was tying his stock when Southwick called down the skylight: ‘Couple of fellows moving about on deck in the galliot to starboard, sir. They haven’t noticed the signal.’
    His steward was handing Ramage his shoes (the fourth best pair with silver buckles) when Southwick reported a man relieving himself over the side of the other ship to larboard without, apparently, even noticing the Calypso . Ramage had just finished his breakfast and was dawdling over a cup of green tea when Southwick called down that there were now half a dozen men on board the vessel to starboard and they had just noticed the signal.
    ‘I hope you’re not in uniform,’ Ramage said, irritated that he had not finished his tea.
    ‘Pusser’s shirt and trousers, sir,’ Southwick answered. ‘I look as though I’ve just been elected by a Revolutionary committee. Ah, that looks like the master, or captain. Yes, he’s gesturing to have the boat lowered. Seems to be in a fine fury. The boat in the transom davits seems to be the only one they have. Yes, he’s run down to his cabin – back he comes with his hat. And rubbing his face with a wet cloth. Hah! Sword in one hand, wet cloth in the other, and his headache thudding, too, I’ll be bound. Phew, they let the boat drop with a run – marvel it hasn’t stove in some planks. The captain heard it and he’s fairly dancing round with rage. In fact he’s just hit a man with the flat of his sword. Now the rope ladder’s been let fall…he’ll be on his way, in a few minutes.’
    Some ten minutes later Southwick whispered a hoarse warning through the skylight and then the sentry gave a double knock and pushed the door open. A slim man with a wrinkled, tanned face and wearing a faded blue shirt and well-patched white trousers, a broad leather cutlass belt diagonally across his shoulders, walked nervously into the cabin, looking left and right like a bird fearing a trap.
    The Frenchman had reached this far without anyone speaking a