Ramage At Trafalgar r-16

by Dudley Pope

  Again he looked astern: the 74 was a fine sight, even if a lethal one: guns run out on both sides, like stubby fingers, the open gunports spoiling the smoothness of the tumblehome. At each of the guns, he thought, excited Frenchmen are waiting, decks wetted and sanded, trigger lines secured to flintlocks, flintlocks firmly bolted to the breech of the guns, flints long since checked for the spark. Are the guns' crews singing patriotic songs like Ça Ira as they prepare to go into action against such incredible odds? Incredible, Ramage thought sourly, if you are French!

  A dull, grey sky; a dull grey sea. Even the spray thrown up by the Frenchman's bow seems washed with grey. And a plum-coloured hull! This light makes it look bruised; even at this distance the salt drying on it makes it seem diseased, fruit that will be thrown away.

  In line astern of the 74 is the San José church. The men at the wheel of the 74 are not doing a very good job: not just the surging of the seas, when one leaves the wheel alone, knowing that the ship will come back on course by herself. No, the Frenchmen are sawing the wheel from one side to the other so that she shoots off half a point one way, then swings back half the other. The 74's wake must look like a demented snake.

  But for all that she is overhauling the Calypso, which is what matters. The French captain must be well satisfied: he has the Englishman at his mercy. Whichever way he tries to escape (and he is cut off by the land from going east or north) the 74 has the advantage of speed: one needs patience, mes braves.

  Ramage walked to the binnacle, glanced down at the weather side compass, and then at the Cortadura fort. Yes, one and a half miles away. And the bearing was correct. But that damned 74 was making faster time than he anticipated. A lot faster time.

  He felt the skin on his face and arms covered with goose pimples; there was a hollowness in his stomach. Yes, the 74 was going much faster in this wind (which was strengthening all the time: the royals would have to come in very soon before they blew themselves out). Yes, he had made a mistake. He thought the Frenchman would have a foul bottom and be badly sailed. In fact she had a relatively clean bottom and apart from sloppy steering she was being sailed well: even though her wake was wavy, she was being kept close to the wind.

  They say a man is allowed one mistake. It was beginning to look, he thought grimly, as though his mistake was going to be his last.

  "Harden in topsail and topgallant sheets," he snapped to Aitken. "A foot or two on the courses, too."

  Southwick had his quadrant, taking vertical sextant angles on the 74's foremast.

  "She's gaining fast," the master said. "She has two or three knots more than us."

  Ramage nodded. "That's what I'd expect in this wind: she can stand up to her canvas - and look at that copper sheathing when she rolls."

  "She's fast to windward: perhaps she doesn't reach or run so well," Southwick said hopefully.

  "Going to windward is our fastest point of sailing," Ramage reminded him. "She's French-built, just like us ..."

  "True, true," Southwick admitted, lifting his quadrant again and balancing himself against the Calypso's roll.

  Ramage looked again at the compass and then at the Cortadura Fort. He caught Jackson's eye. "Steer small," he said sharply.

  Jackson nodded obediently but thought to himself: steer small? One more tack (at the most!) and that Frenchman will be so close alongside they'll be able to pelt us with cloves of garlic. When he had first come on deck and relieved Kinnock as coxswain, he had thought the captain had (as usual) some unusual plan to let them escape. But ten minutes had been enough to convince himself there could be no plan: they were trapped, and that was that. When a frigate is caught by a 74-gun ship with a clean bottom and a good captain, that is that. Not Mr Ramage's fault: just that a well-sailed 74 is a good deal faster to windward than a frigate: you didn't have to be a master of tactics to know that.

  Now Jackson saw Mr Ramage talking to Mr Southwick, who turned and stared at that fort on the edge of the town. Yes, he is staring at the fort as though any minute he expected a hoist of signal flags to go up its flagpole. Now he is looking at the French ship.

  Jackson glanced astern and immediately wished he had not: five hundred yards away? No more. Close enough that they would soon fire a round or two from their bowchasers, trying the range. And it would be just their luck that a round from a bowchaser would bring down the mizen - or skitter across the quarterdeck and smash the wheel.

  Jackson looked back at the binnacle and turned to the two men at the wheel. "Steer small, blast you!" he snarled, and felt better for it. The lubber line was precisely on the "SW x W" mark on the compass card, but Jackson thought, for the first time for many years, that he wanted to live. The point had not arisen with such urgency for a long time . . . Always Mr Ramage had a plan and it was easy to see what it was: easy to see, in other words, that one would live to fight another day. Not this time, though: there was no arguing that 74s were faster than frigates.

  He glanced astern again. Three hundred yards, and already the blasted Frenchman was hauling out to starboard so that he could range alongside instead of poking his jibboom through the Calypso's sternlights.

  Ramage looked at Aitken. The Scot was pale under his tan, but holding the speaking trumpet as casually as though he was going to give a routine order: a tweak on a sheet, maybe. And Southwick? The master was gripping his quadrant as though it was a charm that would protect him from the 74's roundshot.

  Once again Ramage looked down at the compass, and then back at the Cortadura Fort. One and a half or two miles. Split the difference and that made it one and three quarters. And on course. Now he turned and looked astern. Feet apart to balance against the roll; hands clasped behind his back; a confident look on his face. So that the ship's company thought he was going to wave at the 74 as it came up alongside, each gun captain sighting, trigger line taut in his right hand, kneeling on the right knee, with the left leg flung out to one side to maintain balance ... At least Ramage could not hear the bellow of Ça Ira against the moan of the wind!

  A hundred yards? Less, perhaps. No, he had timed this wrong; there was no confused flurry of sea now, no rolling of the water, no darker patches, just that damned 74 slicing along. She did look rather splendid: he was prepared to admit that. And deadly and menacing, too; there was no denying that.

  "If we tacked ... ?" Aitken said, as though talking to himself.

  Ramage shook his head: he had started them off on this dance and they had to complete all the steps: tacking now would mean the 74 would tack as well - and, if she was quick enough, get in a raking broadside, and just one raking broadside might be enough for the Calypso.

  He watched as a spurt of smoke was quickly carried away by the wind from one of the enemy's bowchase guns. There was no thud of the shot hitting the Calypso. The 74 caught a strong puff of wind that missed the frigate and surged ahead, sails straining.

  Fifty yards. Another lucky puff like that and she will be alongside and the Calypso's decks will be swept by roundshot and grape; masts will collapse over the side as rigging parts; the wheel and binnacle will be smashed; there will not be a man left alive on deck. All because I underestimated a French 74, Ramage thought bitterly. He found he was not afraid. Deathly cold, but not actually afraid. Sarah would never know how it happened, and suddenly he wanted her to understand, understand that he had made a genuine mistake. Just one mistake that would leave Sarah a widow in - well, about a minute, and Aldington without a master. Still, Sarah would live there and she would -

  He blinked: the 74 had suddenly stopped and slowly, as though they were tired, one mast after another toppled forward across the bow with yards and sails. She began to slew round as the heavy canvas fell over the side, acting as an anchor. Two guns went off, smoke spurting through the ports, as gun captains were sent sprawling by the shock. An anchor came adrift and fell into the sea with a splash, and the ship settled in the water like a broody hen on her nest.

  "What happened?" Southwick gasped. "What caused
all that?"

  Ramage fought off a desire to giggle with relief. "The Bajos de León," he said. "Three scattered shoals. At this state of the tide they have just enough water for a frigate to get across, but not enough for a 74."

  Jackson, the only man to spot a slight darkening of the water indicating one of the three shoals, heaved a sigh of relief. So the "steer small, blast you," had been important after all.

  "Congratulations, sir," Aitken said lamely, his Scots accent broad. "No wonder you were so interested in the Cortadura Fort. South-west by west, one and three quarter miles! Do we go back and try to pick up any of those Frenchmen?"

  Ramage looked astern at the wreck. She was perched on the shoal. More than perched: she was on there for good. Her gunports were out of the water - she was now just a hulk with her masts over the fo'c'sle; they had gone by the board as they always did when a fast-moving ship hit a shoal. And the sea was not too bad and the shore was - yes, one and three quarter miles away.

  "No, they won't have lost all their boats and anyway they can make rafts. And the Cortadura Fort will be sending a horseman into town to tell them the glad news, so there'll soon be help. Wish we knew the name. Go about, Mr Aitken and cross her stern: we'll look silly reporting to His Lordship that we've polished off a ship of the line but don't know her name!"

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The ship was Le Brave and Ramage was still looking at the hulk perched on the shoal (he reckoned it was the easternmost of the three) when Aitken reported that the Euryalus was closing from the south-west. A minute later, Orsini called that she was flying the Calypso's pendant numbers.

  Ramage realized that Blackwood had been too far away to see what had happened: even now he would see through his bring-'em-near only the Calypso circling what would look at that distance like a large, flat rock roughly in the position of the shoals.

  What, Blackwood asked using Popham's Code, had happened?

  It was the time for a witty signal, but Ramage could think of nothing. Southwick had a chart spread over the top of the binnacle box, obviously checking up the Bajos de León and trying to recover from his embarrassment at firstly forgetting them and second not guessing that Ramage intended to lure the Frenchman on to them, and that was why he had wanted the Frenchman to chase as closely as possible . . .

  Bajos de León ... the Lion Shoals . . . something witty like "Lured enemy into lion's den . . ." Yes, but the nearest Popham's Code had to "lure" was "lurks-ed-ing", and the nearest to "lion" was "Lizard", the headland rather than the animal. To be witty a signal had to be crisp. He took the slate and the old Signal Book, and after he had finished writing he gave the slate to Orsini and told him to make the signal to the Euryalus.

  The foremast lookout hailed and after listening with the speaking trumpet Aitken pointed northwards to the headland on which the Castillo de San Sebastián stood, four-square and menacing in the grey day. Coming round the headland and heading out to sea was a 74, followed almost immediately by a second and then a third. Ramage took up a telescope. A fourth . . . now a three-decker . . . now a frigate . . . another 74 ... Villeneuve was (at last) taking the Combined Fleet to sea instead of letting them crowd in Cadiz Bay.

  Orsini had finished making the signal to the Euryalus reporting Le Brave's situation. "Is Captain Blackwood making any signal to the Sirius?" Ramage asked.

  "A moment, sir." Orsini braced himself with his telescope. "Yes, sir, there go the Sirius's pendants." The young Italian read off the signal flags: yes, Blackwood was making a signal to Captain Prowse to repeat to the next frigate in sight: within twenty minutes, Lord Nelson would know that the Combined Fleet was actually sailing from Cadiz . . .

  "Steer west," Ramage told Aitken. "We need to be seaward and to the north of the Combined Fleet before the French admiral gets it formed up."

  As soon as he had spoken Ramage began to wonder. He had told Aitken to get the Calypso to the north of the Combined Fleet but, if the French admiral was making his way to the English Channel, then the Calypso would stand in his way - with more than a couple of dozen French and Spanish 74s to chase him, and no Bajos de León . . .

  He had, without thinking, assumed that Admiral Villeneuve would steer south for the Strait of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean, going after General Craig's convoy. Which meant that he accepted Perez's rumour. But supposing Blackwood (who was commanding this little inshore squadron of frigates, a schooner and cutter) gave him orders to stay to the south?

  Blackwood, he suddenly realized, knew nothing of Perez's rumour; he knew nothing of the chance that Villeneuve might be making for the Gut. There was no mention of it in the "memorandum" from Nelson delivered by the Pickle. That dealt only with His Lordship's intention of cutting the enemy's line in two places . . .

  Blackwood had controlled his Inshore Squadron with a loose rein. The best thing for the Calypso to do, to avoid being run down by a swarm of 74s, was to get up to the northward without waiting for orders and hope that Villeneuve would steer southwest immediately he was clear of San Sebastián headland, so that Blackwood (while he might not guess that the French were heading for the Gut and the Mediterranean) would at least keep the frigates to the northwards.

  Already the Calypso was turning north-westwards, sheets eased and yards trimmed to a wind on the larboard quarter. Le Brave was quickly being left on the starboard quarter, and through his glass Ramage could see French seamen (looking in the distance like a swarm of ants) cutting away the rigging and sails, obviously to get at the boats stowed on the booms. Well, Le Brave was sitting firmly on the shoal and there was no urgency because the ship could not sink.

  The only urgency, Ramage thought grimly, concerns the Calypso herself: she has to pass ahead of the Combined Fleet which is at last getting out to sea: she has to pass ahead and get a safe distance to the north of them.

  Orsini reported: "The Euryalus is making a signal to the Phoebe to move westwards to repeat signals to the Defence." A couple of minutes later he was reporting another of Blackwood's signals, this time to Captain Peter Parker in the Weazle cutter, telling him to sail south immediately to warn Rear-Admiral Louis that the Combined Fleet had sailed.

  Southwick shook his head sadly. "Poor Admiral Louis. He's a fine man. He must have been upset when Admiral Nelson sent him off with those other ships to water at Gibraltar and get bullocks from Tetuan. There's no chance that the Weazle can warn him in time to get here for the battle."

  "When is the battle?" Aitken inquired sarcastically. "Do you have the programme? If you have, you might give me a sight of it!"

  "Tomorrow or the next day," Southwick said flatly. "Admiral Nelson will give 'em time enough to get well clear of Cadiz (he won't want to risk frightening them back in again or give them a bolt-hole once the fighting starts), so you can work it out yourself. "

  He took off his hat and scratched his head in a familiar gesture. "They don't get up very early, these French and Spaniards. So they'll spend most of the rest of the day manoeuvring. With a mixed fleet he's never taken to sea before, this Admiral Villeneuve will (if he's got any sense) spend a few hours making 'em back and fill and get into position. I can't see 'em doing much else than jogging along like sheep during the night - plenty of flares and a few collisions, I expect. Tomorrow - well, by then he'll be clear of here with them steering in the right direction, and I can't see Lord Nelson being far away."

  Aitken slapped Southwick on the back. "Like to put a guinea on it being one day or the other, the 21st or the 22nd? I'll take whichever day you don't."

  "No," Southwick said stubbornly. "Why should I bet against myself? I've already told you it'll be tomorrow or the next day, and that's all there is to it."

  "That's the trouble with prize money," Aitken said, knowing that Southwick, like most of the men on board the Calypso, had grown rich from the money won under Captain Ramage's command, "it takes away the gambling instinct."

  "Bet on the number of French and Spanish ships of the line captured or destroyed and y
ou have a wager," Southwick growled.

  "Very well. Twenty-one, and the 21st - tomorrow - will be the day of the battle."

  "We're betting on the number of ships, not the date," Southwick said. "All right, my guinea says it'll be twenty-five. At least two more than twenty-one, anyway. How does that suit you?"

  Aitken nodded, but added soberly: "Try and stay alive so you can pay up."

  By now the Calypso was sailing fast to the north-west, passing three miles ahead of the leading enemy ships. More to the point, Ramage thought to himself, the Euryalus had not hoisted the Calypso's pendant numbers and ordered him to patrol to the south. The Euryalus herself, he noticed, was working her way out to the westward, along with the Sirius, the Pickle schooner and Entreprenante cutter.

  The British frigates and the two smaller vessels would be like a small swarm of flies round the slow-moving ox of the Combined Fleet: always out of range of a lashing tail, but always watching - and signalling to Lord Nelson over the horizon.

  It would be an interesting challenge to be commanding some thirty-four ships of the line - thirty-three now Le Brave has gone - Ramage decided, but he did not envy Admiral Villeneuve. If Señor Perez was to be believed, then most of the Spanish captains wanted nothing to do with the Combined Fleet: they preferred to stay at anchor, not go to sea to fight someone else's battle and ensure Bonaparte's schemes succeeded. Yet they were the captains in whom Villeneuve had put his trust. However, "better one volunteer than three pressed men": the old adage crossed Ramage's mind.

  Yet, ship for ship (and in several cases size for size and gun for gun), Villeneuve had thirty-three ships against Lord Nelson's twenty-seven. French and Spanish ships were very well designed and always well built - the best ships in the Royal Navy, Ramage was ashamed to admit, were those captured from the enemy (the Calypso herself being a fine example). So it was going to be a question of men: of the skill and bravery of individual captains and their ships' companies. The British spirit was going to have to make up for Nelson's fleet being six ships weaker than the Combined Fleet . . .