by Dudley Pope
By mid-afternoon Much took the conn to allow Southwick an opportunity to give Ramage his written survey. As the Master sat down in the Captain’s cabin, groaning and complaining of aching muscles after crawling round down below and reaching into almost inaccessible places to test the hardness of the wood, he was shaking his head. He held out several sheets of paper. “My written report, sir.”
Ramage took it. “Just tell me the worst of it.”
Southwick sniffed. “If we were in England, the dockyard people wouldn’t have let us sail. The sternson knee, wing transom knee on the starboard side, several cant frames and the deck transom are all spongy. The sternpost—where I could get at it—was soft. Like cheese in some places. It’s all in the report, sir,” he said miserably. “Unsettles me to talk about it, specially since we can’t do anything about it.”
Ramage reached over and patted the old Master’s knee.
“Cheer up; if it was action damage you wouldn’t let it worry you!”
“That’s true,” he admitted cautiously. “But roundshot just breaks the wood up: you can see the extent of the damage. Rot—it’s insidious: you can’t measure how far it goes or how much the ship’s weakened.”
“As long as she’ll get us to Falmouth …”
“Aye—well, as long as the sternpost holds, the rudder will hang on. Just remember we can’t fire the stern-chasers—not that it’s at all likely we would forget something like that.”
“Forget about the rot, then,” Ramage said cheerfully. “I’ve just remembered I forgot to clear Customs in Lisbon. That damned Agent will think that’s far more serious!”
Immediately after the mid-day meal, Ramage told Gianna to stay in her cabin and had the whole ship’s company mustered aft. As he looked around at the men he could see that the resentment was there all right: the packetsmen’s sullen stance was emphasized by the cheerful bearing of the former Tritons.
“The decks look a little better,” he said harshly, “but in the time you’ve taken you could have sanded half an inch off the planks. Well, now you have a meal inside you, we’ll have some exercises at the guns—I trust you packetsmen can remember the drill. Just to refresh your memories, you’ll be shown how it should be done.”
He took the key of the magazine from his pocket, and his watch.
“I want the packetsmen over there, by the mainmast: the former Tritons stand fast.”
As soon as the ship’s company was divided into two groups, Ramage called for the two ship’s boys. “Do you two lads know what powder monkeys are?”
Crimson with shyness and embarrassment, the two boys said they did.
“Very well, you’re going to have to take those charges and run twice as fast as you ever thought possible. Mr Much!” The mate stepped forward and Ramage handed him the key to the magazine. “Will you stand by to take over below?”
Ramage turned to the former Tritons. “Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and Maxton. You will be the crew of number one gun on the starboard side. You’re captain, Jackson; Stafford you had better be second captain. Rossi, you are sponger and Maxton rammer. But leave the gun secure and you four men and the boys stand fast. The rest of you Tritons hoist up the tubs, fill them with water and get the decks wetted and sanded.”
Quickly two small, low tubs were brought up from below, put one each side of the gun, and filled with water. Half a dozen buckets of water were swilled across the deck round the gun and between it and the hatch from which the boys would emerge with the powder charges, so there would be no chance of stray grains of gunpowder igniting as the wide wooden wheels of the carriage spun back with the recoil. A man then hurried across sprinkling sand so that feet should not slip on the wet planking.
With the gun still secured to the ship’s side, the tackles were tight and seized so that it could not move no matter how much the ship rolled in heavy weather. The sponge—in effect a large mop fitted to a short wooden handle—and the rammer, a similar handle with a round wooden plug at one end only slightly smaller than the bore of the gun, were still lashed along the bulwark. Two handspikes—long wooden levers with wedge-shaped iron tips, used for levering the gun round to train it—were lashed near them.
Half a dozen roundshot nested like black oranges in semicircular depressions cut in a piece of timber bolted to the bulwark on each side of the gunport. Ramage had inspected the shot earlier. They had been painted within the past few months, but he had wondered idly when they had last been passed through a shot gauge to check whether several coats of paint over small bulges of rust meant they were no longer spherical, so they would jam in the bore of the gun or, when fired, would not fly true. There was no shot gauge on board, so he could do nothing about it.
He looked at his watch and held up a hand. Much and Jackson watched him closely. Suddenly he snapped, “Load and run out number one gun, starboard side. Roundshot!”
It was not an order from the drill books—such as they were—but it was a good exercise. Much, after almost diving down the hatch, followed by the two boys, would now be unlocking the magazine and unrolling the fire-screens, the rolls of heavy material which hung down like curtains to ensure that neither flash nor flame could enter the magazine to ignite the powder stored inside.
Much would have kicked off his shoes by now and be fishing around in the darkness down there. He would be cursing the fact that he had forgotten (as Ramage guessed he would) a fighting lanthorn to put in the V-shaped double window which ensured a light shining into the magazine from the outside without an actual flame anywhere near the powder. And he would be trying to find a pair of felt slippers that anyone working in the magazine was supposed to wear—again as a precaution against accidents from grains of powder.
If he had any sense he would work in his bare feet. He’d grab some empty cartridge boxes and pass them out to the boys, who would slide up the lids on the cylindrical boxes. Then he would pass out a powder charge, a boy would grab it and put it in his box, slide the lid down on the rope handle and head for the ladder clutching the box.
Now the men working under Jackson had cast off the lashings, overhauled the train tackles, thrown the lashings off the sponge, rammer and handspikes and run the gun in. Maxton was just removing the tompion from the muzzle of the gun when a boy arrived breathless with the charge.
Ramage wondered how long it would be before Jackson realized his two—no, three—mistakes so far.
They snatched the charge from the boy and eased it into the muzzle. Maxton slid the rammer in to push it right home, then gave it two smart thumps. Suddenly one of the former Tritons was standing by Jackson and passing several things to him. And Ramage knew he had underestimated the American—Rossi had slipped below unnoticed and brought up wads, pricker and powder horn, all of which were kept in the magazine. Rossi grabbed a wad and that was rammed home; a shot followed a moment later.
In the meantime Jackson, who had earlier checked the spark from the flint in the lock, jammed the long, thin metal pricker into the touch hole and made sure it had penetrated the covering of the powder charge, then shook powder from the powder horn into the pan and made sure it filled the touch hole. The long trigger lanyard to the lock was already coiled up on the breech.
At a word from Jackson, the gun was run out and Maxton and Rossi leapt back, each grabbing a handspike, ready to train the gun. Jackson stepped back smartly, uncoiling the lanyard and Stafford stood with his hand over the lock, ready to cock it. Jackson gave the word and the Cockney cocked it and jumped sideways out of the way.
Jackson dropped to his right knee, his left leg outstretched to the side, and called “Number one gun ready, sir!”
Ramage glanced at his watch and said: “Fire!”
Jackson took the strain on the lanyard. Suddenly the gun gave a sharp, almost bronchitic cough, and leapt back in recoil, the trucks rumbling until brought to a stop by the thick rope breeching secured to the bulwark each side and passing through the big ring on the breech.
One and three-quarter minutes from t
he moment he had given them the word. Not bad, not particularly good.
“Secure the gun and return equipment to the magazine,” Ramage ordered.
Southwick walked across and muttered crossly. “They’ve got rusty … this soft life they’ve been leading for the last month or so. If you’ll give me half an hour with them, sir …”
“Just wait,” Ramage grinned. “If you think that’s slow, we’ll see what the packetsmen do.”
The sponge, rammer and handspikes had been lashed against the bulwark, and the little canvas bonnet protecting the lock mechanism and flint against spray had been tied in position when Ramage turned to the packetsmen. He had no wish to humiliate them; he just wanted them to demonstrate themselves.
“Bosun—pick your four best men for that gun’s crew. Pick a fifth man to collect wads, pricker and powder horn from the magazine.”
Four packetsmen shambled up to the gun. A fifth man stood by the hatch and the two boys joined him. Ramage glanced round and held up his hand.
“Is everyone ready?”
The men muttered and Ramage said loudly, “Load and run out number one gun, starboard side. Roundshot!”
As the fifth man and the boys ran below, the four packetsmen began casting off the gun, but Ramage noticed they did not overhaul the tackles. That meant the ropes would almost certainly kink and curl and jam in the blocks. They undid the lashings holding the rammer and sponge and tossed both down on the same side of the gun—that would waste time because the rammer worked on one side and the sponger on the other. The two handspikes followed, and were kicked out of the way as a man grabbed a roundshot and in his haste dropped it.
Southwick raised an eyebrow—there was no need for anyone to touch a shot at that point since the first boy had not yet arrived with powder. The fifth man appeared with wads, pricker and powder horn, but as the gun captain snatched the powder horn the fifth man in his excitement dropped the wads, which rolled aft. He was so flustered that he scampered round picking them all up, instead of grabbing the nearest and passing it to one of the two men at the muzzle of the gun.
By then a boy had arrived with the cartridge, which a seaman snatched and thrust into the muzzle. Then he looked round hurriedly for the rammer—and realized that it was on the other side of the gun.
Ramage looked at his watch. Two and a quarter minutes.
They all had to wait while the man with the wads came back in response to the gun captain’s shouts. In went the wad and was rammed home. The sponger had a shot ready in his hands and tried to cram it in the muzzle. He was so clumsy that it dropped and rolled aft along the deck. Finally a shot was in and rammed home, priming powder was in the pan, and the gun ready to run out for firing. The men were hauling on the tackles to run it out before Ramage realized that the gun captain was holding the trigger lanyard taut and, even as he watched, the second captain cocked the lock without waiting for an order. If the gun moved a few more inches its own travel would tighten the lanyard and fire it—and probably kill the gun captain as it recoiled.
“Belay!” bellowed Ramage at the top of his voice, and fortunately the men froze.
Even as he strode across to the gun he saw the gun captain had not realized what he was doing. Ramage stopped right beside him and took the lanyard from his hand.
“You fool!” he said coldly. “The lock is cocked—if they’d run out another couple of inches the gun would have fired and you’d have been killed by the recoil—and some of the others too. And you”—he turned to the second captain—”don’t you ever touch a lock until the gun captain gives the order. Now, carry on!”
He walked back aft, seething, and looked at his watch. Nearly four and a half minutes. Finally the gun captain called, “Number one gun ready, sir.”
“Fire!”
And he looked at his watch yet again.
As the smoke drifted away he looked at the packetsmen. “Bosun!” he snapped. “The first crew took one and three-quarter minutes. Guess how long yours took.”
“Three minutes, sir?” the man asked nervously.
“I wish they had. Six and a quarter minutes. They are your best men, but you saw how they nearly killed themselves. Right, secure the gun. You and your men,” he told the bosun harshly, “are going to exercise at the guns until you wish gunpowder had never been invented.”
He turned to the Master, who commented gloomily, “And that was the leeward side …”
The fact the packet was heeled to leeward meant that when running the gun out ready to fire, its own weight helped the men at the tackles. If they had been using a gun on the other side they would have had to haul it up the inclined deck.
“Exercises start now,” Ramage told Southwick angrily, “and continue for two hours. No live firing, but the men will ram and sponge as though there was.”
He knew he was in a fury, although that was not going to make the men any faster.
“Jackson!” he called. When the American coxswain came running aft, Ramage said, “As soon as the bosun divides his men into fours, I want you, Stafford, Rossi and Maxton to go through the drill with each crew one by one. Make sure they know what they’re trying to do. When you’re satisfied they all know the drill, report to me.”
An hour had passed before Jackson made his report, and Ramage ordered the three crews to three of the four-pounder guns. For the remaining hour he had the crews competing against each other, loading, running out, pretending to fire, sponging, ramming and running out again until sweat was pouring from their bodies. At each gun stood Rossi, Stafford or Maxton, bellowing encouragement, instructions and occasionally abuse while Jackson strode from one gun to another, like the conductor of a wayward orchestra.
Every ten minutes Ramage timed a different crew, and to begin with there was a gradual improvement, measured in seconds rather than minutes. But after that the improvement stopped as the men wearied. Very well, he thought to himself, from now on it’s punishment, not training.
At five o’clock he ordered the guns secured and the magazine locked. He glanced up at the sails, impatient for the next day, so that he could start exercising the packetsmen aloft.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BY early evening the Lady Arabella was making seven knots with a brisk quartering wind. The Os Farilhões islands, their sharp outline caught by the last of the sun’s rays and giving the impression of several sails on the eastern horizon, were eight miles away on the starboard beam.
Southwick, responsible for navigation, was already grumbling about the French charts. “These packets,” he muttered to Ramage. “They carry just enough charts to get them through to their usual destination. Fancy Stevens not carrying a chart for anywhere south of Brest! Supposing he ran into a week of bad weather on the way home and found himself driven on to the Spanish peninsula, or into the Bay of Biscay? Not that these damned French charts are much better than having nothing. Don’t trust ‘em.”
“Kerguelen was going to—in fact he took us down to Lisbon with them without running ashore!” Ramage said mildly. “He probably brought the French charts on board with him because he didn’t trust British ones!”
“Or he guessed that packets don’t carry a proper folio of charts. And this business of measuring the prime meridian from Paris,” Southwick snorted. “Why not Greenwich, like other civilized people!”
Ramage had forgotten that. “When do we come on to the British charts?”
“Just south of the latitude of Brest. Stevens has a copy made from some other chart. He’s left the south-eastern section blank—probably too damned idle to finish the job.”
Ramage began pacing up and down the starboard side of the deck: the strange lassitude that had threatened to overcome him in Lisbon, and which had been given a sharp nudge by Gianna’s arrival, had now vanished completely. The Lady Arabella was a strange command for him—strange in every sense, from the ship’s company to her actual ownership—but at least a command. Sir Pilcher Skinner was the other side of the Western Ocean; the
Admiralty and Lombard Street were still a few hundred miles to the north. It was going to be a problem convincing Their Lordships about the fate of the packets, but that was all sufficiently far over the horizon to be left for a day or two so he could enjoy Gianna’s company. The devil take it, she’d gone below ten minutes ago to change before the evening meal, and he was already missing her …
He had to write a full report for Their Lordships before they reached Plymouth, and it would be worth having Much write one as well. In fact, Ramage thought, I’m damned if I won’t take Much to London with me; Lord Spencer can hear the mate’s story from the man’s own lips if he wishes to. Yorke will probably travel to London at the same time, so he will be available too.
He looked slowly round the horizon as he walked. The wind was little more than fifteen knots, and there was the usual evening cloud to the westward, looking dark and menacing with the sun setting behind it.
As he watched several men washing down the deck to clear away the sand, he saw how easy it would be for the most unobservant landlubber to pick out the former Tritons. They were working with a will, not a sloppy eagerness as though trying to please. They had a brisk precision; their complete economy of movement made the least effort do the most work. He had noticed it before, when Stevens was in command, because that had been his first chance of comparing man-o’-war’s men working side by side with packetsmen.
There had been scores of occasions when he had seen a crowd of lubberly volunteers or newly pressed men being shown how to do various tasks on board a man-o’-war, and it had taken weeks for them to get into the swing of it all. But here were packetsmen—trained seamen who had spent their life in merchant ships—who made a very poor showing when working alongside men who had spent only a few years in ships of war.
Of course, he had to make allowances for the fact that these packetsmen were sullen; there was no disguising that. They hated exercising at the guns; they would resent being roused out to go to quarters to meet the dawn; they already resented having to scrub the decks daily. Nor did they like the idea of four lookouts, one on each bow and each quarter: Stevens had been content with one at the bow. Well, Ramage thought grimly, they are going to dislike the drill I have planned for them tomorrow even more. They would probably hate him long before they sighted the English coast, but he was going to work the packetsmen until they were ready to drop. And if they did drop, he was going to be sure it was on to scrubbed decks.
