Ramage's Signal by Dudley Pope

something that was just as likely to gallop up the track from the village, as appear on the Aspet or Le Chesne semaphore towers.
    Martin—the Fourth, now acting Third Lieutenant. He had made good use of Paolo in the affair of the bomb ketches. Whomever Ramage chose had to work well with Paolo because, in an emergency, it might well be Paolo’s fluent French and illfitting French uniform that kept up a deception that would pull them through. Well, that settled it; young “Blower” Martin would have the job.
    Aitken was walking back towards him with three seamen, one of whom was coming from the direction of the kitchen holding a pail in each hand. Although Ramage had never noticed it on board, all three had the walk of men used to uneven ground; they walked looking ahead while Aitken, for instance, kept his eyes down, knowing an anthill could twist his ankle.
    â€œWhat should they do with the milk, sir?”
    â€œShare it out among the men—use it for cooking if any of them has the skill. They could make a fine omelette if they found out where the hens are laying.”
    The three men grinned and one went over to the milking post, where there was a halter. “We’ll manage somehow, sir,” he said with a broad grin. “This is like home to me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    S OUTHWICK was apologetic when he met Ramage at the entry port. “I had the two cutters hoisted in, sir, because they’d finished taking over provisions and those bundles of French uniforms, and I don’t like the look of this sky.”
    â€œNeither do I,” Ramage said briskly. “Send Martin down to my cabin. I want ten minutes with him, and then the gig can run him on shore and come straight back. Then hoist it in and prepare to weigh.”
    â€œAye aye, sir,” Southwick said. And, Ramage thought, that brief conversation told a bystander more about Southwick than a full-length portrait in oils by Lemuel Abbott and two columns of biographical notes in the
Naval Chronicle—
or even three pages, which they had recently devoted to an utterly undeserving, time-serving but very senior admiral just returned home with a pocket full of prize-money after a couple of years as the commander-in-chief of a very lucrative station abroad. Southwick was a fine seaman, ready to act as he thought fit if his commanding officer was not on board and, for that matter, far from nervous about disagreeing (as discreetly as a shire horse attempting a quadrille) if he thought his captain wrong.
    Martin came into Ramage’s cabin like a guilty schoolboy expecting a birching from his headmaster.
    â€œWhat have you been up to?” Ramage asked.
    â€œWhy, nothing, sir,” a flustered Martin answered.
    â€œDon’t look so guilty, then. Now, yes or no, and be honest: with this
mistral
coming up, the
Calypso
has to sail and may be away three or four days. Can you go on shore and take command of the seamen manning the semaphore station and run it?”
    â€œAnd Marines, sir?”
    â€œRennick will carry out your orders, but he will handle his Marines in the normal way. Otherwise,” Ramage added coldly, not wanting to influence the youth’s judgement, “you’ll be responsible for every man, seaman or Marine.”
    â€œCan I have Orsini, sir?”
    â€œYes, of course, you’ll need his French. And Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, because they’re the only ones who know how to work the semaphore, though I suggest you train a spare crew.”
    â€œWhat happens if French troops arrive, sir?”
    â€œIf Orsini can’t tell them a good tale and they are not impressed by your French uniforms, I should think you’ll all be shot as spies.”
    â€œYes,” Martin said reflectively. “Well, thank you, sir.”
    â€œFor what?” Ramage asked cautiously.
    â€œGiving me the command, sir.”
    â€œVery well. Now listen carefully.”
    For the next five minutes,