by Pope, Dudley
Sir Gilbert gave a mock bow.
‘And Mr Ramage,’ Nelson added, ‘you’ll find that the Kathleen’s position in the order of sailing will be two cables to windward of the Captain. I’ll signal your position in the order of battle. Keep a sharp look-out, watch my manoeuvres, and repeat any signals I might make so the rest of my division have no excuse for not seeing them. You’ll be expected to read flags through smoke as thick as those clouds!’
Ramage had just returned to the Kathleen and the gig was being hoisted when Jackson, who had been put in charge of the signal book, reported excitedly, ‘Flagship to the Fleet – number fifty-three, “To prepare for battle”, sir!’
‘Acknowledge it, then! Mr Southwark – our position is two cables to windward of the Captain – the Commodore’s ship.’
‘Aye aye, sir – they hoisted his pendant some time ago.’
Ramage looked at his watch. Five minutes past four on the thirteenth day of February – the eve of St Valentine’s Day. It ought to have been St Crispin’s, considering the odds, and he’d sit on the bowsprit end and recite Henry Vs speech.
As the bosun’s mate’s call trilled, followed by his stentorian ‘D’you hear there! All hands, all hands, prepare for action! D’you hear there…’ the Kathleen got under way again and bore up to windward of the Captain.
As soon as the cutter was in position, and while the men were placing match tubs and water casks, wetting and sanding the deck, carrying up more shot, rigging preventer stays, and completing what had become a ritual for them, Ramage called Southwick aft to the taffrail.
‘We have to repeat all signals that the Commodore might make, so rig spare signal halyards in case any get shot away. We may have to take wounded men on board – get sails spread out below to put them on. A ship might need carpenters, so tell the carpenter’s mate and his crew to have bags of tools ready. Hoist out the gig again and tow it astern out of the way. And remind me if I’ve forgotten anything – oh yes, both head pumps on deck.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Southwick. ‘Can’t think of anything else for the moment.’
‘Oh dear,’ groaned Ramage as he saw the grindstone being brought up on deck. ‘Must we have that damned thing scraping away again? Soon there won’t be a cutlass, pike or tomahawk on board with any metal left…’
Southwick had managed to retrieve his sword when the Kathleen was recaptured and, remembering the flat he’d ground into it when preparing to board La Sabina and which he’d forgotten to grind out, said hurriedly, ‘We’d better just make sure sir – and it’ll give the cook’s mate a chance to put a sharp edge on his cleavers!’ With that he strode forward, the sheer delight at the thought of battle showing in his gait.
A mixture of tiredness and excitement had so far stopped Ramage pausing for a few minutes to have a good look at the Fleet, now lying-to in two columns. Even as he looked he saw three tiny bundles soaring up on the Victory’s signal halyards and turned to point them out to Jackson, but the American was already watching with his telescope for the flagship’s seamen to give the tug that would break out the flags. Suddenly all three streamed in the wind.
‘Preparative – sixty-six, sir.’
Ramage nodded. ‘To make sail after lying-to.’ The order would be obeyed the moment the ‘Preparative’ signal was hauled down, and each of the sail of the line would get under way.
‘To prepare for battle’, then ‘To make sail after lying-to’. What, speculated Ramage, would the next signal be? It was getting dark fast now; the Victory couldn’t make many more flag signals tonight.
How many men in those ships – and in the Kathleen, for that matter – wouldn’t live to see another sunset? What was Gianna doing – and, more important, thinking at this moment?
‘You look like an owl who’s just woken up… But why did you stay so long in Cartagena?… But, my love, all you’ve told me so far is that I’ve got to keep secret the fact you know a secret…’ Would she ever understand that even as she had a duty to Volterra, so he had a duty?
And the Commodore. Did he understand too much? Could he see too far into a man’s heart? ‘Were you frightened of being killed when the Spanish frigates came alongside that night?… What do you mean “The wrong thing”?… It takes brains to be a live hero…never worry about what people think. Do what you think is right and damn the consequences.’
That look in the Commodore’s eyes – it was just like Southwick’s in a killing mood. Was the Commodore a killer in that sense? Ramage wondered if he was himself. Walk up to a man and shoot him in cold blood… In the heat of battle, yes, but in cold blood?
Southwick, coming on deck for some fresh air as night closed down, was just in time to glimpse the nearest of the big ships as dark thumb marks against an ever-deepening grey backcloth. He was satisfied his own log was up to date, he’d checked that Jackson was keeping a correct signal log, and he’d had an hour’s sleep. But he was irritated with the Commander-in-Chief’s signal ‘Prepare for battle’ because it was obviously made much too soon, and had meant dousing the galley fire.
Southwick, who enjoyed his supper, had intended ordering a hen from his coop on the fo’c’sle to be killed and cleaned in anticipation, although he admitted in fairness to Sir John that it was a scraggy hen: plump birds were not to be bought in Gibraltar these days. But with the bird alive and uncooked for the lack of a galley fire he still felt empty – cold cuts from yesterday’s roast were good enough for boys; but men needed hot food – it lined one’s stomach for a cold night, Southwick always proclaimed.
Seeing the captain leaning on the bulwark looking at the Fleet, Southwick knew they both faced a tiring night: keeping station was going to be difficult Even before turning in he’d felt fog in the air: his right wrist ached and that was a sure sign. A couple of years earlier a blow from his sword had gone clean through a Frenchman’s arm and the blade brought up so hard on the barrel of a gun that the shock had broken the bone. Although painful enough at the time, Southwick had since regarded it as a blessing in disguise – when forecasting the weather he put more stock in his wrist and an old piece of dried seaweed hanging in his cabin than all the mercury glasses he’d ever seen. Men laughed when he said he felt a night’s fog aching in his wrist and damp on the seaweed. But he always laughed last later when he found them huddled on deck, the fog so thick it dripped off their noses.
Ah well, he thought, a fleet action at last. He’d served at sea all these years and never been within five hundred miles of one. He no longer feared death – that was one of the pleasant sides of growing old. Going over the standing part of the foresheet was inevitable one day – he’d lost count of how many times he’d stood by as the body of a shipmate, an old and valued friend sewn up in his hammock, had been launched over the gangway just above where the standing part of the foresheet was secured to the ship’s side.
His thoughts were interrupted by Ramage, who walked over and said, ‘Well, Mr Southwick, the Dons will have fog to help them, I saw a few patches to the south-east just before it began to get dark, and now the wind’s falling light and it seems warm and damp…’
‘Aye, sir, and I can feel it in my wrist: it’ll be a thick night and plenty of bang bang – p’raps I ought to get some of the shot drawn from the forward guns?’
Ramage agreed: it was certain they’d have to be fired for fog signals during the night, and it would be better to have the shot removed now, in case it was forgotten later, and the fog signal ended up as a round shot through the Commodore’s sternlights.
Half an hour later it was too dark to distinguish the big ships and Ramage had settled down to the tiring task of keeping in position using the shaded lanterns on the poop of the Namur, the ship next ahead of the Captain, when he noticed that occasionally they vanished for a few minutes as thin patches of fog drifted past. Each time he called to the men at the helm ‘Watch your heading!’ and the quartermaster standing at the binnacle peered down at the dimly lit compass.
But th
e Namur’s lanterns had been out of sight for three or four minutes when suddenly he heard Commodore Nelson’s reedy voice shouting urgently from dead ahead, ‘Ramage, you dam’d dunderhead, wear ship or you’ll end up in Cowley’s tap-room!’
Surprise paralysed Ramage for a moment; then fearing a collision was imminent, he leapt to the larboard bulwark and peered ahead for some sign of the Captain, but he could see nothing. Cowley’s – that was the well-known inn at Plymouth Dock! He was about to hail the forward lookouts when the Commodore shouted again: ‘D’ye hear me Ramage? Are you dreaming or dragging your anchors for the next world? Put y’helm hard up for Poverty Bay – let fly the sheets an’ let’s square the yards of those dam’ Dons.’
Ramage jumped back with a curse as a bellow of rage from Southwick resounded through a speaking trumpet.
‘Come aft, you drunken scoundrel!’ the Master roared. ‘Poverty Bay indeed! You wait until I’ve finished with you!’
At last Ramage realized what was happening – a drunken seaman sitting out on the end of the Kathleen’s bowsprit was giving a passable imitation of the Commodore’s voice… Ordering Southwick to stay aft and keep a watch for the Namur’s lights, Ramage walked forward, still feeling shaky and foolish, only too aware of stifled chuckles from the other seamen on deck. Just as he reached the windlass a dark figure said, ‘Captain, sir?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Beg to report the lookout at the starboard cathead’s drunk, sir.’
Ramage recognized Stafford’s voice.
‘Who’s the lookout at the starboard cathead?’
‘I am, sir,’ Stafford said, giving a prodigious belch.
‘Get yourself aft,’ snapped Ramage, ‘I’ll give you Cowley’s!’
He said it quickly in case he began laughing. Where the devil had Stafford heard the Commodore speaking? He hadn’t realized the Cockney was such a good mimic and followed his unsteady walk aft until the man stood swaying slightly in the faint glow of the binnacle light.
‘Why are you drunk?’ Ramage demanded harshly.
‘Dunno, sir – I only ’ad one nor’wester, and that don’t do no ’arm normalally – I mean normally.’
He paused and, still swaying, made a tremendous effort to correct himself. ‘I mean usuallilly, like I said, sir.’
‘One nor’wester be damned,’ snapped Ramage. ‘More likely four due north. Mr Southwick, man the head pump – Stafford can refresh himself by drinking a couple of mugs of Cowley’s special Cadiz Bay seawater and then stand under the pump for fifteen minutes until he knows whether he’s a lilly or a lally!’
‘Fetch me a mug!’ growled Southwick, seizing Stafford by the shoulder and giving him a push forward. ‘Man the starboard head pump,’ he bellowed, in a sudden burst of anger, ‘our Mr Stafford’s going to dance more than one jig at Cowley’s tonight!’
Ramage heard the pump gurgling as it began to draw, then its regular splashing. A few minutes later Stafford was violently sick, and Southwick came back to the binnacle still holding the mug. ‘Can’t understand him, sir. Been hoarding his tot, but I don’t think it’s because he’s scared. One nor’wester, though!’
Ramage remembered the cool way Stafford had burgled Admiral Cordoba’s house. ‘No – he’s not scared. Send another man forward as a lookout.’
Southwick’s reaction was amusing: clearly he was more disgusted that Stafford should be drunk after only one nor’wester than of his actually getting drunk. But Stafford was being modest: in sailor’s jargon, ‘north’ meant raw spirit and ‘west’ meant water, while a ‘nor’wester’ was a mug of half-water and half-spirit, which was clearly insufficient to provide the Cockney with enough inspiration for tonight’s antics.
Just after nine o’clock – by which time a sobered Stafford, shivering with cold and thoroughly ashamed of himself, had come aft and apologized, and been sent below to change his clothes – they heard the boom of one signal gun and then another: the signal from the Victory for the Fleet to tack in succession, and the other flag officers repeating it.
‘Belike the Captain’ll run into a patch of fog now,’ growled Southwick
‘If she does,’ said Ramage, ‘it’ll be the real Commodore, not Stafford shouting at us!’
The follow-my-leader turn after the order to tack in succession meant the Fleet was steering south-east. Unless they met the enemy or there was a sudden change of wind, it would stay on this course for the rest of the night. Somewhere ahead another fleet of nearly twice as many sail of the line was also under way, trying to make its way to Cadiz and being humbugged by variable winds and fog. The Spaniards would probably be uncertain of their position, desperately anxious to make a good landfall at daylight and, if they knew there was a British fleet near by, scared of their own shadows.
In three hours or so it would be St Valentine’s Day. Ramage thought of his parents. They’d be in Cornwall, at St Kew, and by now would have dined and probably enjoying a game of cards. But for that damnable trial, he realized with bitterness, his father’s flag might have been hoisted in the Victory, instead of Sir John’s. The devil take such thoughts. It was now Southwick’s watch and he decided to get some sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘From soon after midnight,’ Ramage wrote in a hurried letter to his father, ‘we heard the signal guns of the Spanish Fleet down to the south-west – so many that Cordoba was obviously having great difficulty in trying to keep his fleet together in this fog. Without doubt they were making up for Cadiz, and with the wind at south-west they have the weather gage, tho’ I doubt ’twill do them much good since there’s little more than a breeze which hardly shifts the fog patches lying between us.
‘At first light the Culloden (one of our leading ships) made the signal for “Strange sail” and shortly after six o’clock reported them to be Spanish frigates, but the fog drifts about so much I don’t know if they sighted us and warned Admiral Cordoba.
‘Shortly after seven, two of our frigates made the signal for discovering a strange fleet, south by west, and the Victory ordered the nearest frigate to investigate. Soon after that, through gaps in the fog, we had our first glimpses of several Spanish sail of the line on both larboard and starboard bow, but unless we get a decent breeze it will be noon before we are up with them, as we are only making a knot or so.
‘At a quarter past eight, Sir John signalled the Fleet “To keep in close order”, although despite a foggy night it was already in almost perfect order of sailing in two divisions, and at twenty past eight he made my second favourite signal, number fifty-three, “To prepare for battle”. This really repeated the same signal of yesterday and I think the Fleet was already prepared! Now we await my favourite, number five, “To engage the enemy”.
‘My Kathleens have long since breakfasted and are in great spirits; in fact I truly believe that if I told them I proposed boarding the Santísima Trinidad they’d give a cheer!
‘At twenty past nine Sir John made only his third general signal of the day (I wonder how many Admiral Cordoba had made by then!), which was “To chase”. A few minutes before then the wind had veered slightly and Sir John came round two points to starboard so we were steering due south.
‘The fog began clearing very slowly (the sun was getting some warmth in it) and soon we could count twenty sail of the line in two widely separated groups rather than in two divisions, straggling and in no sort of order, steering right across our bow for Cadiz. This shows they must have been caught in the Strait by “our gale” and blown well out into the Atlantic.
‘At ten o’clock one of our frigates made the signal for twenty-five sail of the line (we are fifteen, remember). Just then the wind veered again and Sir John came round to a course of south-south-west. It is now just before eleven o’clock, Cape St Vincent is eleven leagues to the north-east, and Southwick has just been down to tell me the fog has cleared, leaving banks of haze.
‘I had always thought the prospect of a fleet action would be frightening;
but I’m glad to say I am too busy (at the moment, anyway!) for fears or premonitions. I have only one regret – that I am not commanding a seventy-four manned by 500 of my Kathleens. Before long we’ll be at the Dons’ throats, and I must put my pen away, but later I hope to add a few more pages describing a victorious outcome of our St Valentine Day’s endeavours.’
On deck he found Southwick pacing up and down, cursing the haze. The Kathleen might be small – the smallest ship in the Fleet, in fact – but Ramage was proud of her appearance: although little more than a terrier among a pack of wolf-hounds, the ship and ship’s company were ready for battle, yet somehow they looked – well, relaxed; there was no feeling of tension.
Besides each gun was a rammer, sponge, match tub and a stack of grape shot (each round looking like a rigid net bag packed with small onions) while the round shot were lying in fitted racks along the bulwarks, black oranges neatly spaced out on shelves. The boat was towing astern, head pumps were rigged and sprinkled sand made the dampened deck gritty underfoot.
The wind was still light and fitful, and each time the fog-soaked mainsail gave a desultory flap overhead it showered the men beneath with tiny water droplets. The fog condensing on the rigging had run down the shrouds, leaving dark puddles on the deck.
The crews were sitting or standing round their guns, chatting and looking as though they were waiting for a prize fight to begin. Stafford was at his gun: eyes bloodshot and face pale from the antics of last night but every movement showing he was brimming with his usual Cockney jauntiness. Near him Maxton’s brown face was split with its perpetually cheerful grin. Jackson, acting as a quartermaster, stood by the helm ready to pass on orders to the men at the tiller. Rossi was gesticulating as he described something to the man beside him – an amorous adventure, judging from the way he moved his hands. The men listed in the general quarters bill as boarders already had their cutlass belts slung over their shoulders, although the cutlasses were hooked on to the bulwark, ready to be snatched up.
