Ramage At Trafalgar r-16

by Dudley Pope

  "Yes, but she says it out of a blind faith in Lord Nelson," Ramage said. "You at least have worked it all out for yourself."

  "The devil take logic," Sarah said unexpectedly, "at a time like this, when Bonaparte - his fleet, anyway - could defeat this country in an afternoon, I trust to what I feel in my heart. The Board of Admiralty would laugh at that, and with their crystal-clear logic they almost invariably pick the wrong man. Sir Hyde Parker for command at Copenhagen, for example."

  Ramage leaned over and kissed her. "I agree with every word. Anyway, St Vincent, not the Board, chose Parker. And remember, I'm not a member of the Board!"

  "You will be one day, so remember what I've just said."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The sword from the Lloyd's Patriotic Fund, presented to him on its behalf by Sir Josiah Hobart, the Lord Mayor (hot and perspiring in his splendid but heavy robes of office), was a superb example of the sword cutler's art. Back in Palace Street after the presentation, when his father and Sarah examined it with him, they were amused to find that it was made by Mr Prater, of Charing Cross, who always made their swords.

  "The first sword I ever bought you - your midshipman's dirk, rather," the earl said, "cost twenty-five guineas, and the first real sword forty guineas. Soon after that I stopped buying you new swords because you made a habit of losing them on the decks of French ships!"

  "Yes, so now I use an ordinary cutlass if we have to board," Ramage said. "But I must admit my present dress sword looks shabby; the brasswork on the scabbard corrodes. This will look smarter when I call on admirals - you can't beat gold fittings!"

  Sarah lifted the heavy curved blade, decorated in blue and gold, holding the white ivory grip and gilt hilt. "What is this?" she asked, pointing out the stub sticking out at right-angles opposite the knuckle-guard.

  "That's called the guillon. You can see it's designed as a Roman fasces."

  "And this?" she indicated the hilt running upwards from the guillon.

  "That's the backpiece. It represents the skin and head of a lion, as you can see."

  "And this?"

  "The knuckle-guard - stops the other fellow's sword sliding down the blade and lopping off your hand. It's shaped like Hercules' club, with a snake twisted round it."

  She gave the sword back to Ramage. "It's magnificent," she commented and then sighed. "You know, I sat through that enormous dinner and was polite to Lord Barham on one side and Lord St Vincent on the other, but I still don't really know what Lloyd's Patriotic Fund is or who Lloyd's are. Neither the past nor the present First Lord seemed to know much about them, either."

  "Well, I do know," the earl said, "so I'll tell you. In James II's time a worthy fellow called Edward Lloyd opened a coffee house in Lombard Street, and there men of business connected with ships and the sea tended to congregate. They met in Lloyd's place to gossip and exchange information. Edward Lloyd always knew which ships had arrived, which ships were for sale, and so on. And if you own a ship or propose shipping a cargo somewhere, you need insurance, so it wasn't long before shipowners, shippers and insurance brokers were congregating there, arranging voyages.

  "The original Edward Lloyd died but the coffee house remained the centre for shipping folk, and of course one of the most important things they wanted - whether they were owners, shippers or underwriters - was news: news of whether their ships and cargoes had arrived safely in the West Indies, sailed from Gravesend, or been wrecked off Dungeness. A shipowner was also interested in how much a rival sold a ship for, while shippers needed to know the latest price for carrying a hundred tons of molasses from Jamaica or a hundred pipes of port from the Peninsula. And the underwriters, of course, were involved in providing insurance cover for all of it.

  "So in 1743 the coffee house started publishing a newspaper - little more than a broadsheet, really - which it called Lloyd's List, giving just the sort of news its customers wanted. Eventually - bearing in mind the need to guard against shipping fraud and the necessity of accurate news - a committee was formed to run the place, and a few years later the whole thing moved to the Royal Exchange, where it still is. The Committee chose the subscribers (whom it now called 'members', for reasons best known to itself) and when the war started it began cooperating with the Admiralty and shipowners in arranging convoys, and that sort of thing.

  "When a ship's captain misbehaves in a convoy -" the earl looked at his son and smiled, "- not an unknown occurrence, as you know, my dear Sarah, the Board complains to the Committee of Lloyd's who, in theory, chide the owner of the ship, who disciplines his captain. The Board suspects, though, that the Committee tears up the letters."

  "Swords," Sarah reminded him. "Who pays for the swords?"

  "Ah yes. A couple of years ago Lloyd's set up a Patriotic Fund intended to help the Navy's wounded and reward the brave. It was an immediate success, I remember: the East India Company and the Bank of England each gave £5,000, while the City of London came up with £2,500. Several of the theatres gave gala performances, with the night's takings going to the Fund."

  "I wonder where the hundred guineas came from that paid for Nicholas's sword?" Sarah said.

  "The profits from shipping spices from the Indies or a spicy play at a theatre, eh?" Ramage said mischievously. "Lieutenants and masters get the fifty guinea swords, and mates and midshipmen rate thirty guineas."

  The earl said: "I saw you had a word with Southwick and your first lieutenant, Aitken. Your news made their day, I shouldn't wonder!"

  "Yes, both of them were all for posting straight back to Chatham to get young Martin to chase his father!"

  The earl looked puzzled and Ramage reminded him. "You've forgotten that Martin's father is the Master Shipwright in the dockyard. A private word with him can be worth ten urgent letters from the Navy Board!"

  "Hmm, you'd better check up and see whether the master shipwrights at Portsmouth and Plymouth have sons who want to ship as midshipmen, then you'll be set up round the South Coast."

  "You'll never believe me, but when young Martin joined the Calypso I had no idea who his father was."

  "More fool you. It'll be thanks to him if you get down to Cadiz in time. By the way," he said heavily, "don't forget that frigates are just an admiral's scouts and means of signalling: they don't stand in line of battle. That's why," he added sarcastically, "64-gun ships and larger are called 'line-of-battle' ships. And no admiral today likes to put even a 64 in the line; he wants 74s and larger."

  "Yes, father," Ramage said dutifully and, bearing in mind that he had lost the Kathleen in a successful attempt to prevent a Spanish three-decker from escaping at Cape St Vincent, added with a grin: "I'll remember: frigates stand at the back of the crowd and cheer."

  "You were lucky with the Kathleen,"the earl said, reading his thoughts, "and Lord Nelson is now repaying that debt. But anyone who relies too much on luck is a fool and -" he said jocularly, but intending Ramage should take notice, "Sarah is too young to be a widow."

  He sighed and then grumbled, "I might just as well talk to myself." He turned towards Sarah. "Tell me about Lady Hamilton's daughter, my dear. Is she Lord Nelson's child?"

  "Oh, there's no doubt about that, when you see them together, and for all the polite talk of 'godfather' he is just a normal doting father. And why not?" she said unexpectedly. "This war goes on year after year, and Nelson has nearly been killed so many times. Why shouldn't he seize what happiness he can? Anyway, if he goes on as he has in the past, he'll be lucky to be alive for Horatia's fifth birthday ..."

  "Now, now," the earl chided, "you fly to His Lordship's defence at the mere mention of his name!"

  "I should think so!" Sarah said crossly. "You didn't have to listen to those wives at the Royal Exchange today! Why, they even made comments to me, thinking I would agree with them."

  "But you didn't, so what answer did you make?" the earl asked, curious.

  "I said that Lady Hamilton was a particular friend of mine," Sarah said defiantly, "and because I'
m my father's daughter and my husband's wife, the hypocritical wretches had the grace to blush."

  "Good for you," murmured the earl. "I'll follow your example with the husbands!"

  Next morning Hanson, flustered at being interrupted while polishing the silver, bustled into the drawing room where Ramage was reading the Morning Post and reported that there was an Admiralty messenger at the door with a letter for Captain Lord Ramage which, Hanson added heavily, he would not hand over to anyone else.

  "He's got a receipt book that needs signing, too," Hanson commented gloomily, as if this was proof that the man was not a messenger but a lurking thief after the silver.

  Ramage went to the door, signed for the letter and carried it back to the drawing room, picking up a paperknife on his way.

  As he weighed the bulky packet in one hand, looking at the fouled anchor Admiralty seal, he savoured the moment. Yes - when he was a small boy up an apple tree and finally managed to reach the largest and ripest fruit . . . that moment with Raven when a rabbit shot out of its hole and landed with a thump in the net, to be followed by the beady-eyed ferret looking left and right as though the daylight dazzled him after the darkness of the warren . . . the moment when the masthead lookout hailed that he had sighted a sail which could only be French. And opening fresh Admiralty orders. All were preceded by excitement and anticipation - and a tincture of apprehension too, just enough to add spice.

  He slid the paperknife under the seal and unfolded the single page of thick paper. There was the usual address and introduction, and then William Marsden, who had recently succeeded Evan Nepean as Secretary to the Board, had written:

  Whereas my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty are given to understand that His Majesty's frigate Calypso now at Chatham will soon be ready for sea, you are hereby directed and required to put to sea in His Majesty's frigate under your command as soon as maybe and use your best endeavours to join the fleet under the command of Vice Admiral the Lord Nelson, agreeable to the enclosed rendezvous, placing yourself under His Lordship's command for your further proceedings.

  And that was that: a few lines of copperplate, neatly written by the Chief Clerk or one of the "Senior Clerks on the Establishment", and then signed by Marsden before being sent round to Palace Street by (if Ramage's memory served him) the Admiralty's only messenger, John Fetter, who for £40 a year delivered Their Lordships' letters and orders within five miles of Whitehall.

  "As soon as maybe", according to Aitken and Southwick yesterday, would be about five days: most of the sheets of new sheathing had been nailed like fish scales round the Calypso's bow, and the tarred paper was already in place ready for the last of it, so rain would not cause delays. The new guns were already swayed on board and all the ropework spliced and, where necessary, rove through blocks.

  Then the drydock in which the frigate was sitting would be flooded at high water and the Calypso floated out. After the usual dockyard receipts and vouchers had been signed and Ramage formally resumed responsibility for the ship, taking over from the master attendant of the dockyard, the Calypso would run down the mud-lined Medway (unless the wind decided to be capricious and blow from the east). Then into the Thames (almost certainly in a foul wind and tide) for the beat up to Black Stakes, to lie alongside the powder hoys and load the Calypso's magazine and powder room. It was a dangerous nuisance having to unload powder into the hoys before going into the dockyard and take it on board again afterwards, the risk of stray grains keeping the pumps sluicing the decks, but nothing compared with the danger of a ship in the dockyard catching fire with her magazine full and exploding to destroy half of Chatham.

  Ramage often wondered about the men on the hoys who lived their lives on top of enough powder to blow them all to eternity and with only the mud flats along the Thames to look at. Low water, high water and the stink of mud governed their days. Did they sneak a smoke knowing that they lived within inches of a few hundred tons of gunpowder? Who commanded them? Probably some benighted lieutenant, leg shot off in distant action or disgraced by something that did not quite merit a court-martial?

  Sarah came into the room and saw the letter he was holding. "Your orders?"

  He nodded. "I'll have to leave for Chatham in a day or two."

  "I was hoping we'd have another couple of weeks together at Aldington," she said, obviously making an effort to keep her voice even.

  "Will you go down there when I've left?"

  "Yes. Once I knew you -" she paused, managing to swallow to be sure her voice would not falter, "- once I knew you would be sailing soon, I asked mother and father to come down for a few weeks. They'd like to see the house and father will enjoy the riding. Oh Nicholas!"

  He stood up and held her tightly as she burst into tears. This was the first time he had seen her break down and he felt particularly helpless. Somehow she seemed to grow remote in her grief. But he knew it was because he felt guilty at leaving her.

  "I shan't be away long," he murmured. "Just off Cadiz. It's not as if I'm going to the West Indies, or the East Indies. Or to the Isla Trinidade," he added, hoping to make her smile.

  She stopped weeping and tried to laugh. "Look what happened to you when you went there!"

  "Just a pleasant cruise, or so I thought. Little did I know that a scheming woman was waiting for me in an East India Company ship . . ."

  "But now you've married her, you're deserting her!"

  Sarah was getting control of herself but he was deserting her, in a way, and the dreadful thing was that he was excited at the prospect of getting to sea again in the Calypso. That pleasure was all mixed up with his feeling of guilt at leaving her, and now he knew what many married officers went through. Now Lord St Vincent's stern comment that "an officer who marries is lost to the Service" seemed more reasonable, though harsh.

  There was no reason why serving in the Navy should condemn a man to a monkish existence, yet how else could the Navy be run? More generous leave, perhaps - but every ship that could swim was needed at sea, which meant she spent as little time in port as possible, just long enough for provisioning and any necessary repairs. The regulations, strictly kept, said that a captain must always sleep in his ship in port unless he had Admiralty permission to remain on shore . . .

  "You'll go riding with your father?" he asked, realizing as soon as he spoke what a damned silly question it was, but it served its purpose: Sarah stood back, wiped her eyes, gave a faint hiccup and said:

  "Thank goodness we have some decent horses. And Raven will be pleased to see us use the harness he polishes with so much love."

  "I'll soon be back," Ramage said, and could have bitten off his tongue the moment later: it was a particularly stupid remark to make to Sarah, of all people.

  "If only I could be sure you'd remember what your father said about frigates not being line-of-battle ships, and if I didn't know that Lord Nelson's fleet is about half the size of the French and Spanish, I'd smile and say 'Of course you will, darling' like any other dutiful wife, but one of the disadvantages of marrying a Ramage and being the Marquis of Rockley's daughter is that I know far too much to take comfort from such platitudes. It's going to be a desperate business, darling; it always is where you or Lord Nelson are concerned."

  He held her tightly and kissed her. Words simply brought more trouble.

  Ramage was again sitting in the drawing room reading the Morning Post and noting the obvious relief that the newspaper expressed that Nelson was back in England and, presumably, consulting with the ministers on the question of defeating the Combined Fleets of France and Spain and Bonaparte's plans for invading England. As if defeating the enemy was only a matter of consulting with ministers . . .

  If anything, he thought, battles were won in spite of ministers - Mr Pitt seemed to listen to some strange companions, particularly that drunken scoundrel Henry Dundas, the recently created Viscount Melville, reckoned to be as corrupt as he was impetuous. Certainly Dundas's advice when Secretary of State at the War Departme
nt had led to thousands of soldiers and sailors dying of vile diseases while garrisoning or guarding the wretchedly useless spice islands of the West Indies. Dundas must be getting some hefty bribes from the West India Committee - unless he himself owned some big plantations out there.

  Still, Ramage was content. Upstairs were his orders for the Calypso: in another couple of days he would leave for Chatham ... He gave a start as Hanson tapped on the door and interrupted his musings: at that moment he realized he had heard a carriage draw up outside. Who was expected? Probably one of mother's friends, calling to discuss something of no consequence and therefore, to her, of enormous importance.

  "My lord, there's a Captain Backlog wanting to see you urgently ..."

  Backlog? Sailor or soldier? Ramage folded his newspaper. "Show him in."

  Ramage stood up and reached the door just in time to meet a burly figure with curly hair and the ruddy complexion of a farmer, but an incongruous aquiline nose and suntanned features fitted well with the gold-trimmed uniform of a post-captain whose two epaulets showed he had more than three years' seniority.

  Ramage did not know him but guessed who he was just as the man, hat tucked under his arm, said apologetically with the trace of a soft Irish accent: "Henry Blackwood. I'm sorry to intrude like this, but I've a message from His Lordship - from Lord Nelson, I mean."

  Ramage noticed the badly creased uniform, grubby stock and red-rimmed eyes: Blackwood had been travelling in a postchaise for hours and he had come from a sunny climate. And the thin white lines of salt in the creases of his high boots showed he had not had time to change since he was at sea.

  Blackwood, Ramage then remembered (wasn't he said to be the son of an Irish peeress and an English baronet?), had served for a long time with Lord Nelson in the Mediterranean, and was commanding the Penelope frigate when he met a French ship of the line, the 86-gun Guillaume Tell, and set about her with his puny thirty-six guns with such spirit that he disabled her long enough for two of Nelson's ships of the line to come up and engage her. After fighting for several hours she surrendered - and it was discovered that she was bearing the flag of Rear-Admiral Decrès, now Bonaparte's Minister of Marine.