Ramage At Trafalgar r-16

by Dudley Pope

  Ramage noted to himself that Le Brave had stranded herself in the last of the good weather and the last of the south wind - which by noon had veered to the south-west. Rain squalls were whipping across to close down visibility for half an hour at a time and the seas were becoming heavy.

  A south-west wind still meant it was foul for Villeneuve to get down to the Gut. And Ramage saw through his glass that Villeneuve had plenty of trouble. He had, according to Ramage's count, thirty-three ships of the line, five frigates and a couple of brigs. In the distance the ships of the line seemed great grey barns and their masts and yards looked like bare trees in winter because the wet sails blended with the low clouds hanging down to the horizon.

  Many of the ships, it was obvious even at this distance, were being handled in a lubberly fashion. The most weatherly of them, Ramage estimated, were steering no closer to the wind than west-north-west and several (they looked like Spaniards) were sagging off to leeward as though in despair. All the ships had reefed at the same time, obviously on orders from Admiral Villeneuve. Some had tied in the reefs and hoisted the yards again while the rest were still struggling - Ramage pictured untrained and frightened, raw sailors up the yards, fighting stiff and flogging canvas, hands being torn, fingers getting caught in reef points, many of the men seasick and probably clutching yards and rigging, rigid with fear, misery and illness.

  By noon it was obvious that Villeneuve was trying to form his fleet into three columns. It was an absurd formation, Ramage reckoned, given that the French admiral must know that Lord Nelson was waiting over the horizon, because only one column (the outermost on the engaged side) could fire on the enemy.

  "They're like a lot o' wet hens with their legs tied together," Southwick commented, after studying them with his glass.

  "Sheep," Aitken corrected him. "Like frightened sheep being chased by different dogs. Why they're not colliding I don't know. I think Villeneuve's got three French ships out ahead so the rest can form up on 'em, but just look - at least half a dozen are just sagging off to leeward as tho' they're embarrassed at the rest of them!"

  Aitken had been right: thirty-three great sheep were milling round, all trying to head out to the west, as though yapping dogs to the east were nipping their ankles.

  An hour later the confusion was even worse as the ships still tried to get into position, hidden from time to time in rain squalls and buffeted by gusts of near gale-force winds. After two hours, when the beginning of three columns was discernible, Aitken suddenly pointed to the windvane and the luffs of the Calypso's reefed topsails (the topgallants had long ago been handed), which were beginning to flutter.

  The wind was going further round to the west: if Villeneuve stayed on this tack he would be forced up to the north and, from the look of it, some of the ships would be lucky to weather Rota; more likely they would end up on the Bajo de las Cabezuellas, looking like their unfortunate former shipmate, Le Brave.

  Ramage felt almost sorry for Villeneuve - until he remembered that every French and Spanish ship disabled by collision or driven ashore by the gale would be one less to fight Nelson's ships: every casualty would lessen the odds.

  "What are they going to do now?" Southwick asked incredulously.

  "Getting a wind shift like that with the fleet not formed up - that's just bad luck," Aitken said.

  "Bad for them, good for us," Southwick said grimly.

  Fifteen minutes later Orsini, who had been watching the Combined Fleet closely with his telescope as well as keeping an eye on the Euryalus when she appeared briefly between rain squalls, shouted excitedly: "The French flagship has hoisted another signal!"

  "I wish we had a French signal book," Ramage grumbled. "Not that we can read the flags at this distance. Still, it's not too hard to guess."

  "You think he is heaving-to the fleet, sir?" Aitken asked.

  "No, with this west wind and Rota under his lee I think he is getting in a panic. I'm sure he wants to go south and he finds himself steering north. So he's ordering the fleet to tack."

  "Tack!" exclaimed Aitken. "But half of them are just milling around, dodging each other. There aren't half a dozen of them formed up into columns."

  "He's an unlucky admiral," Ramage said wryly. "There aren't many signals he can make at the moment. If he doesn't signal the fleet to tack and steer south, he's going to wave goodbye to several that won't weather the shoals off Rota ..."

  Within a few minutes they could see four or five ships emerging from the confusion and rain squalls to head south, forming into three columns.

  "You were right, sir," Aitken said. "He did signal the fleet to tack. He's a braver man than I."

  "Like most brave men, he has no choice," Ramage said.

  "You speak from experience, sir?" Southwick said teasingly.

  "Very deep experience," Ramage said. "And I'd like a sight of the British fleet at this moment."

  Southwick chuckled. "They won't be in this mess, I'll be bound. Snugly reefed, and probably in line of battle. Two lines, rather - His Lordship leading one and Admiral Collingwood the other, just as His Lordship describes in his memorandum."

  "Give the masthead lookouts a hail," Ramage told Aitken. "Watch to the westward for a sight of our fleet."

  It took Aitken several minutes, shouting at the top of his voice, to pass the order above the wind. "They've got their sou'westers pulled down over their ears," he grumbled to Ramage, who was becoming tired of wearing his thick oilskin coat: the smell of the tar that made it waterproof was giving him a headache; every move made the coat creak and crackle as the stiff material had to bend. It was easier to turn one's whole body than glance round - a movement of the head chafed the skin and also displaced the towel round the neck so that spray and rain soon trickled in and, slowly and coldly, snaked its way down the back.

  By six o'clock the mass of ships of the Combined Fleet were at last steering south, but only a dozen leading them were in the three columns that Villeneuve had ordered hours earlier. From the Calypso they had, from time to time, sighted the Euryalus, Pickle and Entreprenante, as well as being reasonably certain that the Naiad and Phoebe were also hovering round the enemy fleet. Presumably the Sirius (well out to the west) was in sight of one of the ships of the line which formed the link with Nelson.

  Although the Calypso was still at general quarters, Ramage continued the system of having every other gun's crew off watch, eating a meal or snatching some sleep. Every man could be back at his station for battle in less than five minutes, and a wet and windy night was in prospect.

  A few minutes before seven, after a slashing rain squall and while the officers on the quarterdeck had taken off their sou'westers, they heard a hail from the mainmasthead lookout: he could see many masts to the westward.

  "Ask him how many," Ramage told Aitken. "It's probably Lord Nelson, but it could be ships from Brest . . ."

  The lookout soon reported again. Eighteen ships, in good order and on the same course as the Calypso.

  "Very well," Ramage said, "we're steering south-east, and His Lordship intended sailing south-east once he had word that the Combined Fleet had sailed. No Brest ships bound for Cadiz would be that far out - and 'in good order'!"

  Ramage burrowed into his pocket to get out his watch. There was very little daylight left, and the only way of keeping in touch with the enemy in the darkness was by getting much closer. There would be little risk: he was satisfied that, with the French and Spanish (the Spanish, anyway) in their present disorder, the Calypso could, if she wanted to, range up alongside a three-decker in the darkness and shower them with abuse without any risk.

  "Pass the word to the gunner," he told Aitken. "Make sure he has a good supply of rockets and portfires ready: enough for one of each to be set off every ten minutes until dawn ..."

  The Euryalus and the other frigates would also be closing the circle as darkness fell, and if each of them lit a portfire or sent up a rocket from time to time Blackwood would know immediately if the e
nemy altered course. But unless Villeneuve was suicidal, Ramage knew, he would not order any change while it was dark: instead, he would be praying that none of his ships collided and that (by chance if not by design) they managed to get into columns.

  The ships of the Combined Fleet were becoming harder to see; objects on the Calypso's deck - guns, binnacle, capstan, mizenmast - became blurred as night fell. Ramage gave night orders to Martin, who relieved Aitken as officer of the deck, but they were (apart from keeping a sight of the enemy) routine: Ramage knew that he himself would be spending most, if not all, of the night on the quarterdeck.

  Silkin came up to tell him that a cold supper was waiting for him, and it was clear from the tone of the man's voice that he did not think that watching the enemy from this distance was a good enough reason to have the galley fire out. Ramage had thought about it several times, anxious that the men at the guns should have a hot drink and some hot food, but the regulations were very strict: with the ship at general quarters, the galley fire had to be extinguished. Lighting it now, "within sight of the enemy", made no sense.

  No, with all that gunpowder around (and sparks would certainly fly aft from the chimney in this wind) it was not worth the risk: the men rarely spent hours at general quarters or went without hot food. And, he guessed, none of them, knowing they were watching such a large fleet of the enemy, would be grumbling.

  And then it was dark: it happened slowly and almost imperceptibly. The candle in the binnacle had been lit half an hour before, and Ramage crouched over, looking at the compass and then sighting along the last bearing they had taken of the enemy. Nothing. Not blackness because it was rarely entirely dark at sea, but. . . but, yes, there was a darker mass there! Ramage gave an order to the quartermaster (Jackson had gone below to get his supper) and the Calypso edged closer. Within five minutes, without using the nightglass, both Ramage and Martin could distinguish a line of ships close on the port side, a faint black strip on the eastern horizon.

  Ramage took the nightglass from the binnacle box drawer and put it to his eye. The nightglass inverted the image so that he could just see the bulk of the Combined Fleet apparently flying and going in the opposite direction. His eye caught a flicker of light on board one of the ships. And then another. Once he knew what to look for he could see many lights from lanterns being used carelessly in the ships or displayed to avoid collisions.

  He gave the nightglass to Martin. "They're lighting up for us," he commented. "You'll have no trouble following. . . just keep on taking bearings in case you get a rain squall..."

  So Sunday night passed: every fifteen minutes the gunner came up with a battle lantern and a rocket. He fussed about until he stood back smartly and the rocket crackled and then hissed its way into the night sky. From time to time Ramage saw other rockets from all round the outside of the enemy fleet. Blackwood's little inshore squadron was doing its job. And, if they were keeping a sharp lookout in Nelson's fleet, by now the nearest ships (and of course those forming the link) would be able to see the rockets too.

  Two great fleets on similar courses sailing along in the darkness; rolling, pitching, whipping up sheets of spray, soaked by the same rain squalls - and, perhaps within hours, they would be battering each other, killing hundreds of men, with roundshot slicing through many inches of solid oak and grapeshot cutting men down in swathes and parting rigging like a cobbler's knife severing thread.

  There was such a dreadful inevitability about it that Ramage shivered. Exactly sixty ships of the line, many of them three-deckers, had a grim rendezvous within a matter of hours, and at a guess half of them would be sunk, captured or so battered they would be scuttled before the sun set again. It was not often that he thought about death, but perhaps it was the sight of the Combined Fleet in such disorder at nightfall that brought it to mind.

  Kenton relieved Martin as officer of the deck, and in turn Hill took over, and almost as soon as Kenton had reported the course, wind direction and strength, and that there were no unexecuted orders, Hill commented to Ramage: "I think the wind's eased a bit, sir."

  Ramage, sleepy and dazed and wishing he had not rushed his cold supper because it kept repeating itself, had not noticed it. But yes, Hill was right: the ship was not heeled so much and the seas had eased slightly.

  "Just as well," he commented. "Much more bad weather and I think the Combined Fleet would go back to Cadiz with torn sails and sprung masts. And once they're in there we'd never get them out again!"

  "Half those Dons are seasick, I'll wager," Hill said. "If the story told by the man you saw in Cadiz is true, half the Spanish ships' companies were ploughing the fields or traipsing the streets of the city a month ago ..."

  "Yes," Ramage agreed, "but the fact that Villeneuve has stayed at sea this long instead of bolting back to Cadiz probably means he's determined to get down to the Gut, so there'll be a battle."

  "I don't fancy spending the winter off Cadiz on blockade duty," Hill said. "There's no lee round here. We'd have to rush down to the Gut every time a storm comes up from the west..."

  "The wind's now easing quickly," Ramage commented. "We'll probably be becalmed by dawn!"

  "Aye, Southwick says this Gulf of Cadiz is famous as a strange place for sudden gales and calms, like the Texel. The seas are easing, certainly, sir, but there's the very devil of a swell."

  Ramage watched the eerie blue glow of signals from the Euryalus as Blackwood passed the signal to the Sirius that the Combined Fleet was still steering south, and a minute or two later the Sirius repeated the signal for the next ship forming the link with Nelson's fleet.

  Ramage felt very sleepy and his eyes seemed to have sand in them. The Combined Fleet was still jogging along to the south, probably much more concerned with avoiding collisions with each other than fighting the British. Now was the time to snatch some sleep: he would need to be wide awake during the coming day.

  "Call me if there's any change concerning the enemy," Ramage told Hill. "And if we get becalmed!"

  Three hours later, waking just before dawn, Ramage realized that the wind had dropped away, because the ship was rolling badly from the westerly swell left by the gale, the masts and yards were creaking wildly, with little weight on the sails.

  By the light of the lanthorn left hung up in his bed place, Ramage hurriedly washed and shaved. He would be one of the few men shaved in the Calypso, but shaving was almost an obsession: he hated the rasp of stubble on his silk stock; unshaven, he always felt greasy and unclean and his brain never seemed sharp. The razor, it seemed, woke him up and cleared his head.

  Aitken was officer of the deck and Southwick was with him. It was still dark but dawn was close, and the wind no longer howled across the quarterdeck. The guns gave impatient grunts as the frigate rolled heavily, allowing the carriages half an inch of movement, just enough to let the trucks turn a fraction.

  "Bit o' a change in the weather, sir," Southwick said cheerfully as Ramage walked up to the quarterdeck rail. "I'll wager that Villeneuve fellow is thankful."

  Ramage looked to the south-east. Yes, there was the long darker band representing the ships of the Combined Fleet.

  "Are we any closer?" he asked Aitken.

  "No, sir - at least, I don't think so. They're steering a regular course and we're doing the same."

  "I have the same feeling as you, sir," Southwick admitted. "They seem to be more stretched out . . ."

  "They are, much more," Ramage said. "And it's not because the rear ships are straggling."

  "What do you reckon is happening, then, sir?" Aitken asked. "They don't seem any different from when I came on watch."

  "I think Villeneuve was in even more trouble last night than we thought. As night fell he seemed to be still trying to get his ships into three columns, which is the wrong formation for when he meets His Lordship.

  "I think he realized that, and without us seeing it he signalled his fleet to form line of battle. That's why they seem to be more stretched out now - the
y're still trying ..."

  The poor devils, Ramage thought; they've spent the night trying to form up one ship astern of the other (in no particular sequence), a clumsy game of "After you" played in the dark with snapped jibbooms, locked yards and torn shrouds the penalty for misunderstandings or clumsiness.

  Thirty-three ships trying to form the line of battle in the darkness . . . Much of the night there had been those slashing rain squalls . . . even now there was this miserable swell to knock the wind out of sails, catching the unwary in irons and sending them drifting into the next ship.

  "Like tipsy one-legged seamen, playing blind man's buff," Southwick said, taking out his watch and looking at the time in the light of the candle in the binnacle. "Hmm, dawn is not far off."

  Ramage could see stars here and there, fighting thin cloud and now fading slightly. It might even turn into a fine day . . . And just where was the British fleet?

  Dawn came fast, or so it seemed to Ramage: as soon as there was enough light to see the ritual grey goose at a mile and lookouts went aloft, Ramage saw that the Calypso was about two miles to windward of the Combined Fleet which was still steering south. As he had guessed, the first dozen or so ships were in line of battle and regularly spaced, but astern of them the rest of the fleet was still lumped together. The leading ships seemed a row of leafless trees lining a road; the rest looked like a small forest, their masts and yards merging like trunks and branches bared after winter frosts.

  And in the distance to the westwards, way up to windward, there were mastheads: the British fleet.

  "His Lordship's got the weather gage all right," Southwick muttered admiringly. "Nicely tucked up to windward, ready to jump on Villeneuve whatever he does."