by Dudley Pope
But what the devil was he thinking about, considering the islands, when he had two enemy frigates ahead of him and a seventy-four? At least he had the weather gauge. Being to windward of them all gave him a considerable tactical advantage because he could run down to attack them while they had to beat to windward to get up to him.
That went a part of the way to making up for the fact that he and the Heron were outnumbered by a frigate. And he was pleased to see that the captain of the Heron was a man with spirit, as shown by his attempt to rake his pursuer.
Now they were about to go into action for the first time. Jackson was the quartermaster - he always liked to have the American there when they were in a battle. Southwick and Aitken were with him on the quarterdeck, Aitken ready to take command if a random shot knocked his head off.
What would Sarah be doing now? Perhaps on her way down to Aldington. He was pleased that she so liked the estate he had inherited from his uncle. Given that he could not retire to the Tropics, Aldington was the next best place, sitting among the hills overlooking Romney Marsh, giving him a view extending to Dungeness.
'A point to starboard,' he called to Jackson, who relayed the order to the four men at the wheel. It did not take four men to handle the wheel in this weather, but at general quarters two extra men joined the normal two, just in case any of them were killed. The two on the windward side were the ones that did the work.
That alteration of course would put the Heron fine on his larboard bow and kept the Frenchman to starboard. It should be clear to the Heron what he intended to do.
The Dido had barely turned when Southwick gave another of his prodigious sniffs as they saw the French frigate suddenly turn out to starboard and tack, turning south towards the seventy-four.
'Shows he's got some sense,' Southwick commented. 'I was wondering how he'd stand up to our broadside!'
But Ramage now had a decision to make. The Dido was sailing along with her great courses furled: under reduced canvas she would never catch up with the frigate, and presumably the second one would turn away too. The question was, would the seventy-four stay and fight, or would she too make a bolt for it with the frigates?
There was no reason why she should bolt, since the French had the advantage; but, Ramage thought, there was also no reason why the French should stay and fight. There was a considerable difference between snapping up a single frigate and finding yourself unexpectedly in action with a British seventy-four as well.
He made up his mind and said to Aitken: 'Let fall the courses.'
The sails had hardly tumbled down and been sheeted home before the Dido had reached the Heron, and as she swept down past her the frigate turned out to starboard and tacked, so that she came round on to the same course as the Dido.
'He's understood what you meant by number twenty-nine,' Southwick commented.
It took two or three minutes for the courses to start drawing properly, then as they added their thrust to the other sails the 2,800 tons of the Dido began to surge in pursuit of the French frigates.
The nearest one was now less than half a mile away, and with his glass Ramage could just make out the name Sylphe painted on her transom. She was fine on the starboard bow and steering directly for the French seventy-four, like the chick running to the mother hen, but the Dido was overhauling her. Would she range up alongside before the frigate reached her consort?
And the second frigate: she was now swinging out and tacking before turning south, following the Sylphe's manoeuvre. She was perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of the Sylphe, busy trimming her sheets and braces after tacking.
Yes, the Dido was catching up on the Sylphe; he wanted to shout at the big seventy-four to pick up her skirts. That was the difference between a frigate and a ship of the line: a seventy-four was so much slower to answer - whether to the helm or random puffs of wind. Fortunately the wind was steady now so, with all her canvas drawing, the Dido surged ahead. She had all the advantage of a clean bottom, while the French ships were probably foul: at least he could hope so. That should knock a knot or two off their speed.
Now the Sylphe was close enough for him to be able to pick out details with the naked eye: she had a big patch on the larboard side of her main topsail, and her topmasts were painted black, which was unusual. Her name was picked out in red on a white background with blue scrollwork. There was a puff of smoke as she opened fire on the Dido with her two sternchase guns, but Ramage had decided not to use the Dido's two bowchasers: better to wait for the full broadside.
And that would not be long in coming: the Sylphe was barely a couple of ship's lengths ahead, now: Ramage could distinguish men standing on her poop and looking astern. And well they might: being chased by a lumbering seventy-four was, he knew from bitter experience, an intimidating spectacle, and they must be cursing that the Dido would overhaul them before they could reach their own seventy-four.
'I'll have the guns run out, Mr Aitken.'
Two of the midshipmen who had been standing aft on the quarterdeck were sent running down to the guns, and Aitken hailed up to Orsini on the poop. A moment later Ramage heard the heavy carronades being hauled out on their slides.
Ramage saw that the Dido would pass about fifty yards from the Sylphe's larboard side: just the right distance for the Dido's gunners to be able to see their target clearly and to be able to fire without haste. Passing too close meant that the target flashed past the gunports without giving the gun captains time to adjust their aim.
Ramage knew the value of the first broadside: fired without haste there was no smoke to obscure the target, and the men were not too excited. It should be calmly destructive.
Now the Dido's bowsprit was abreast the Sylphe's taffrail and Ramage could picture the second captains cocking the locks and springing back to clear the recoil. Then the bowsprit was abreast the mizen and suddenly there was a heavy drumroll as the forward 32-pounders and the 24-pounders began firing. Gradually the heavy booming moved aft as more guns came to bear, and as Ramage watched the side of the Sylphe he saw the red flashes of her 12-pounders firing back.
He was not absolutely sure of his feelings: the Sylphe was the enemy, and with her consort might well have pounded the Heron to matchwood if the Dido had not hove in sight, but she was a frigate with puny 12-pounders while the Dido was a ship of the line with 32-pounders: it seemed desperately unfair. Then he shook his head: it was only a few weeks ago in the Mediterranean that the Calypso had found herself caught between two French seventy-fours, and he was sure that neither captain had much sympathy with him.
The Dido's guns were firing quite slowly because she was not overtaking the Sylphe very quickly, and he was able to watch their effect. They were slowly dismantling the ship. Already the bulwarks aft had been smashed in and the starboard side of the taffrail had been battered down, as though the frigate's quarter had hit a dock. The boats stowed on the booms were smashed in and the wreckage hurled across the deck. Half a dozen gun portlids hung down, ripped off their hinges by shot which had ploughed on to kill men serving the guns.
Now Ramage saw dust rising from amidships as more roundshot hammered into the frigate's side, and Ramage could imagine the lethal showers of splinters cutting down the men at the guns. There was no doubt that the Dido's men were obeying instructions and firing into the hull: there was very little damage to masts and yards - that he could see, anyway.
'Keep alongside her!' he snapped at Aitken and the first lieutenant shouted the orders that clewed up the courses, reducing their area, and under just topsails and topgallants the Dido slowed down, staying abreast of the Sylphe.
Now the guns were being reloaded and, while the smoke from the first broadside drifted across the quarterdeck, starting everyone coughing, the first of them fired again. Between the thunder of the guns Ramage thought he could hear screams from the French ship, but he was not sure: as well as the booming of the guns there was the rumble of the trucks on the deck as the guns hurled back in recoil, and some of
the trucks squeaked. Squeaks and screams, it was all part of a devil's chorus.
'She won't be able to take much of this,' Southwick said, and swore as a 12-pounder shot from the Sylphe ricocheted across the quarterdeck and struck down one of the men at the wheel.
'She's hauling down her colours!' Aitken shouted.
Ramage swung his telescope and looked in case a stray shot had cut the halyard, but no, there were two men - one of them looked like an officer - busy hauling on the rope.
'Cease fire!' Ramage shouted to Aitken. 'Quick, send word round the guns.'
He knew how difficult it was to pass orders to excited men deafened by the guns and half blinded by the smoke. Usually it was a question of sending men round to each gun, pounding the captain on the back and gesticulating. Now what? Leave the second frigate to the Heron and go for the seventy-four, or attack the frigate and risk being interrupted (and put at a disadvantage) by the seventy-four?
There was nothing more to be done with the Sylphe: she had surrendered, and apart from that she was almost destroyed. She could sail because her masts and yards were still standing, but her hull was little more than a shell, her vitals ripped out by the Dido's punishing broadsides.
The most important target was the seventy-four; he must not forget that. And that meant not wasting any time on the second frigate: she was the Heron's affair. The seventy-four was beating up towards them fast, obviously hoping she would arrive in time to save the two frigates. Her captain must have been watching the smoke of the Dido's broadsides and known as soon as her guns stopped spurting smoke that the Sylphe had been forced to surrender.
'That other frigate is Le Requin, I've just been able to read her name,' Aitken said. 'Are you going to tackle her next, sir?'
Ramage shook his head. 'No, we'd better attack the seventy-four: she'll be up with us before we can deal with the frigate.'
But how to deal with the seventy-four? Both ships were approaching each other bow to bow. Ultimately it would be reduced to a pounding match, broadside against broadside, with a big butcher's bill on both sides.
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. That was war, and now he commanded a bigger ship, the butcher's bill was likely to be larger. He tried not to think how many dead there must be in the Sylphe: he could not help comparing her with the Calypso, and imagining what might have happened if she had been caught in a similar position.
By now the Sylphe was being left behind on the Dido's starboard quarter and he could see that the remains of her crew were hurriedly furling sails. And was she slightly down by the bow? Ramage thought so, and guessed that several of the Dido's shot had hit her 'twixt wind and water, and the leaks were flooding in water faster than her pump could clear it. Yes, with the glass he could see where the water was pouring over the side amidships as the pump started working. The poor devils - now they knew that only their own exertions could save them from sinking: they could expect no help from the other frigate or the seventy-four.
Now to concentrate on the seventy-four. He looked at her with the glass. Patched sails, dull paintwork. How was her rigging? Had she had a season under the Tropical sun? She was pitching slightly as she butted her way to windward and occasionally, as her hull lifted, Ramage could see the green of weed growing on her bottom. She had not been docked for some time and the weed would be slowing her down and making her unhandy. Her hull was painted black, unrelieved by any colour. She seemed slightly menacing as she worked her way to windward, the occasional sheets of spray flying up from her bow as she caught an extra large wave.
Her guns were run out, naturally enough, and they stuck out down her side like stubby black fingers. She would have the same size guns as the Dido: a ground tier of 32-pounders, then 24-pounders on the next deck, 12-pounders on the quarterdeck and probably 12-pounder carronades on the poop. The French had been quick to copy the carronades: at close range they were devastating and Ramage guessed that much of the damage to the Sylphe had been done by Orsini and his carronades up on the poop deck. He must remember to tell Orsini that would be his regular station at general quarters in future.
'Steer to pass that seventy-four about fifty yards to windward,' Ramage told Jackson, noting that the wounded man at the wheel had been replaced by a big red-headed seaman whose peeling skin warned what trouble he was going to have from the sun as soon as they were in the Tropics.
'We'll be engaging to starboard,' Ramage told Aitken. 'See that the gun crews are warned.'
Aitken beckoned to the two midshipmen and gave them orders.
Well, Ramage thought to himself, soon another first: just now he had taken the Dido into action, though admittedly only against a frigate; now he was going to match her against another seventy-four for the first time. It was certainly not going to be like engaging the Sylphe: the roundshot being fired at them would be 32-pounders, not 12-pounders, and if the French followed their usual practice they would be firing high to dismantle the rigging, sails and yards, so there would be casualties on deck. The quarterdeck would be the target of French sharpshooters - just as the Frenchman's quarterdeck would be the target of Rennick's Marines who were scattered round the upperdeck, muskets at the ready.
The range was closing fast: the seventy-four was only half a mile away now and Jackson was giving last-minute instructions to the men at the wheel while at the same time keeping an eye on the luffs of the sails.
Suddenly Ramage changed his mind. 'Quick!' he told Aitken, 'send a couple of seamen after those midshipmen: we'll be engaging to larboard.'
Take the enemy by surprise: that was the important thing. Surprise could often be the same as doubling the number of your guns. And one thing the Frenchman would not expect him to do would be to give up the weather gauge.
Yet there were advantages in crossing his bow and, after raking him, engaging from to leeward: the smoke of the guns blew back on board and set you coughing, but at least it did not obscure the target. And that was important if this fight was going to develop into a battle of broadsides.
The French seventy-four was still fine on the starboard bow and approaching fast. Ramage called Jackson over and quickly gave him his instructions. Much rested on his skill, although Ramage knew everything depended on his own timing.
He could make out every detail of the Frenchman now with the naked eye: the bowsprit and jibboom jutted out at a sharp angle like a fishing rod from a river bank, the yards were braced sharp up as she fought her way to windward, and he could distinguish the grey of the dried salt on the black paint of her bow. And right aft he could make out the flapping of the red, white and blue Tricolour.
Black and menacing: that was his main impression of the Frenchman: the ship seemed larger than a two-decker but that was probably because she was close hauled and pitching into a short head sea as she fought her way up to the east-north-east. Ramage was not sure whether she was struggling to get up to the other frigate and protect her, or was intent on engaging the Dido. Not that it mattered either way. He glanced over the larboard quarter and saw that the Heron was now bearing down on the second frigate: her captain had understood signal number twenty-nine.
The Dido swept on with the easy ridge and furrow movement of a ship that had the wind on the quarter. Sheets and braces were properly trimmed, and the sails bellied out in great curves.
He could see Rennick and his first and second lieutenants standing by their sharpshooters, and he sensed rather than saw that Orsini was ready with his carronades. Suddenly he realized the young Italian would be expecting to engage to starboard, and turned and shouted up to him. At once Orsini called to his crews and they hurried across the deck to the other side.
The Frenchman was a hundred yards away on the starboard bow and Ramage could picture all the guns' crews on her starboard side crouched down, ready to fire as the Dido swept past. Seventy-five yards, and then fifty. 'Now!' he bellowed at Jackson and the men spun the wheel. The Dido's bow gradually began to swing to starboard: slowly, agonizingly slowly. Ramage watched the F
renchman's bow and began to think he had made a mistake in the timing: instead of suddenly turning across the enemy's bow and raking him and then running down his larboard side, he imagined the two ships colliding in a dreadful tangle of jibbooms and bowsprits, each bringing down the other's foremast.
But no: the Dido was just going to scrape past, and even as he sighed with relief he heard the crash as the forward guns fired, flame and smoke spurting out from the Dido in the first of a raking broadside.
Now there was the steady thunder of the 32-pounders, slamming their shot, more than six inches in diameter, into the Frenchman's bow, and the lighter boom of the 24-pounders, with their shot of more than five and a half inches in diameter. Finally, as he was coughing from the smoke, the 12-pounders joined in and as the Dido turned slightly to larboard to pass down the Frenchman's side there was the bronchitic cough of Orsini's carronades up on the poop, sweeping the Frenchman's decks with hundreds of musket balls. And there was the comparatively faint popping of the Marines' muskets.
He began to see the Frenchman as though he was watching one of the new magic lanterns: there was her poop, with men scurrying about trying to get to the carronades after having to race across the deck when the Dido suddenly cut across her bow to attack on the other side. And there was the quarterdeck with a group of officers crouched down near the wheel. And a bewildering mass of ropes: shrouds, sheets and braces. And her boats stowed on the booms, two of which disintegrated into matchwood as he watched.
