Ramage's Signal by Dudley Pope Page A

William Martin, 23 years old, who had been serving as a lieutenant in one of the King’s ships for a matter of weeks, could hardly believe his ears.
    By the time the gig had been hoisted on board and secured, clouds looking like strips of sheep’s wool caught on a thorny bramble were beginning to race across the sky from the northwest and the wind was fluking round the big hill towards the end of the Baie de Foix. First a gust would come round the east side and hit the
Calypso
’s starboard side, making her heel with its violence; then as she began to right herself another circled the western slope to hit the frigate’s larboard side.
    Ramage nodded to Aitken. “When you have the awning stowed below, you’d better get down the awning ridge ropes.”
    â€œAye aye, sir,” Aitken said patiently, knowing that the Captain would notice in a few moments that two seamen were already undoing them.
    The wind was beginning to sweep across the bay itself, whipping up lines of white caps as though it was a giant flail. Ramage, knowing it could be blowing half a gale in half an hour, again nodded to the First Lieutenant: “Get under way, please, Mr Aitken.”
    The First Lieutenant reached out for the speaking-trumpet. The men were already alert and waiting for the first in the long sequence of orders that would have the
Calypso
sailing.
    â€œMan the capstan!” he shouted.
    The bars were already shipped, sticking out chest-high from slots in the barrel of the capstan like the spokes of a wheel, and within moments two men were standing at each of the nine spokes while another hurriedly secured the outer end of each bar to the next one with a line, a routine known as “passing a swifter” and ensuring that the strain of the eighteen men pushing was equal on all the bars and none could slip out.
    â€œBring to … heave taut … unbit … heave round …”
    Aitken’s orders had the capstan turning and the thick anchor cable began to come home, water streaming out as the strain squeezed the strands of the rope, and ready to be “nipped” to the messenger. This endless rope went round the capstan, through a block forward and back to the capstan and brought the cable farther aft, where it was dropped down into the smelly depths of the cable tier and stowed by the day’s delinquents.
    It was a busy time for the ship’s boys: seamen used short lines to take a quick turn at intervals seizing, or nipping, the anchor cable to the moving messenger, and then each boy took a line and ran along keeping a strain so that it did not come undone. When they reached the hatchway to the cable tier they quickly undid the nipper, the line which gave them their nickname, letting the anchor cable down into the tier, and ran forward again to repeat the process, each boy handing his nipper to a waiting seaman to be used again as the capstan rumbled and the cable came in.
    Ramage’s manoeuvre for sailing the
Calypso
out of the Baie de Foix was simple but, like so many examples of seamanship, the simplicity was the result of having a well-trained crew. The frigate was lying head to wind, pointing by coincidence directly at the land at the centre of the crescent made by the bay.
    He intended, when the anchor was off the bottom, to let the wind blow the
Calypso
stern first out to sea. Once he had plenty of room the helm would be put over. Going astern—having stern-way in other words—meant that the effect on the rudder was the opposite of going ahead; the blade of the rudder had to point in the direction the stern was to go.
    The
Calypso,
sails still furled on the yards, moving only because of the windage on her hull, masts and spars, would come round in a luff circle until her bow was heading out to sea. Then sails would be let fall in the regular sequence and reefed at once, and the helm put over again. Ramage wanted to stay as close to Foix and Aspet as possible,