smile, and he realized that Renouf was smiling back rather uncertainly, wise enough to know that junior officers always smiled when their seniors smiled.
Renouf, however, was looking too comfortable. The narrow Gallic face with its olive skin, the hair black and wavy, the queue long and tightly bound, the eyes brown but bloodshot and trying to avoid the glare from the rising sun now beginning to come through the stern lights behind Ramage, needed shaking up. Renouf needed reminding that his head throbbed, that he felt shaky from the night’s wine bibbing. He had to be unwary and weak: unwary while he still thought that the Calypso was French; weak when he found that he was a prisoner.
Ramage coughed in the way that most superior officers did before finding fault or blaming juniors. Renouf glanced up nervously to find that the Calypso ’s captain had folded the page of orders and was using it to tap the table top.
‘Citizen Renouf –you seem to be taking your time over this voyage. When the Chef d’Administration at Brest gave you these orders, I’m sure…’
‘But the additional orders,’ Renouf protested. ‘From Toulon – they modify those.’
‘What additional orders?’ Ramage demanded heavily, deliberately sounding doubtful, as though accusing Renouf of lying.
Again the Frenchman ferreted around in his pocket and, with the clumsiness of a man not used to handling papers, came out with another folded sheet, which he handed to Ramage after opening and smoothing the page.
Obviously the bomb ketches had called in at Toulon to repair damage or get supplies, instead of making the passage to Italy direct from the Strait of Gibraltar, and, all navies being the same, the unexpected arrival of a couple of extra ships had to be turned to some advantage, however brief. Then Ramage read the extra orders again more carefully and discovered that his first glance had given him the wrong impression. Apparently the ketches were far more important to the French than he had thought, and they were to be escorted by two frigates. These frigates would meet them just down the coast on the other side of Argentario at Porto Ercole. He cursed the Revolutionary calendar but worked out that it meant in five days’ time. The two frigates were going there after landing some stores at Bastia, in Corsica. The ketches should by then have watered, taken on what provisions they needed (and which were available locally), and then be waiting at anchor outside the harbour because the frigates would then enter to water as soon as they arrived and embark cavalry, infantry and field artillery and transport them to Crete while escorting the bomb ketches.
Ramage considered the dates as he folded the letter. It was now the 8th, and the two bomb ketches had to be watered, provisioned and anchored outside Porto Ercole by the 13th, when the frigates were due. By then cavalry and field artillery would have arrived at Porto Ercole from somewhere nearby, ready to be embarked. Presumably they would bring forage for the horses. But why on earth were the French sending a couple of bomb ketches and a couple of frigates to Crete with cavalry and artillery?
‘You have the charts for Crete?’ Ramage asked casually.
Renouf grimaced expressively and shook his head, ‘The frigates are bringing one. I don’t even have a chart showing where it is; just a latitude and longitude written down.’
‘You sound as though you do not even know why you’re going to Crete!’
‘I don’t,’ Renouf said bitterly, thinking that Ramage’s little trap was an expression of sympathy. ‘All I know is that since we left Brest we’ve sailed as far as across the Atlantic by the southerly route, and we still have a long way to go. They must have some important fortresses to knock down in Crete, that’s all I can think.’ He scratched the back of his head and added viciously: ‘I hope so, anyway; we deserve to have something to blow up, after all this
Renouf, however, was looking too comfortable. The narrow Gallic face with its olive skin, the hair black and wavy, the queue long and tightly bound, the eyes brown but bloodshot and trying to avoid the glare from the rising sun now beginning to come through the stern lights behind Ramage, needed shaking up. Renouf needed reminding that his head throbbed, that he felt shaky from the night’s wine bibbing. He had to be unwary and weak: unwary while he still thought that the Calypso was French; weak when he found that he was a prisoner.
Ramage coughed in the way that most superior officers did before finding fault or blaming juniors. Renouf glanced up nervously to find that the Calypso ’s captain had folded the page of orders and was using it to tap the table top.
‘Citizen Renouf –you seem to be taking your time over this voyage. When the Chef d’Administration at Brest gave you these orders, I’m sure…’
‘But the additional orders,’ Renouf protested. ‘From Toulon – they modify those.’
‘What additional orders?’ Ramage demanded heavily, deliberately sounding doubtful, as though accusing Renouf of lying.
Again the Frenchman ferreted around in his pocket and, with the clumsiness of a man not used to handling papers, came out with another folded sheet, which he handed to Ramage after opening and smoothing the page.
Obviously the bomb ketches had called in at Toulon to repair damage or get supplies, instead of making the passage to Italy direct from the Strait of Gibraltar, and, all navies being the same, the unexpected arrival of a couple of extra ships had to be turned to some advantage, however brief. Then Ramage read the extra orders again more carefully and discovered that his first glance had given him the wrong impression. Apparently the ketches were far more important to the French than he had thought, and they were to be escorted by two frigates. These frigates would meet them just down the coast on the other side of Argentario at Porto Ercole. He cursed the Revolutionary calendar but worked out that it meant in five days’ time. The two frigates were going there after landing some stores at Bastia, in Corsica. The ketches should by then have watered, taken on what provisions they needed (and which were available locally), and then be waiting at anchor outside the harbour because the frigates would then enter to water as soon as they arrived and embark cavalry, infantry and field artillery and transport them to Crete while escorting the bomb ketches.
Ramage considered the dates as he folded the letter. It was now the 8th, and the two bomb ketches had to be watered, provisioned and anchored outside Porto Ercole by the 13th, when the frigates were due. By then cavalry and field artillery would have arrived at Porto Ercole from somewhere nearby, ready to be embarked. Presumably they would bring forage for the horses. But why on earth were the French sending a couple of bomb ketches and a couple of frigates to Crete with cavalry and artillery?
‘You have the charts for Crete?’ Ramage asked casually.
Renouf grimaced expressively and shook his head, ‘The frigates are bringing one. I don’t even have a chart showing where it is; just a latitude and longitude written down.’
‘You sound as though you do not even know why you’re going to Crete!’
‘I don’t,’ Renouf said bitterly, thinking that Ramage’s little trap was an expression of sympathy. ‘All I know is that since we left Brest we’ve sailed as far as across the Atlantic by the southerly route, and we still have a long way to go. They must have some important fortresses to knock down in Crete, that’s all I can think.’ He scratched the back of his head and added viciously: ‘I hope so, anyway; we deserve to have something to blow up, after all this
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