by Dudley Pope
“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 dry dock 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 breakdown 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’ advice when Secretary of State at the War Department 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 hadheard 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 sun-tanned 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 post-chaise for hours and he had come from a sunny climate. And t
he 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.
Now, if Ramage’s memory served him, Blackwood was commanding the frigate Euryalus. And at that moment Ramage realized how weary the man must be.
“Do sit down. Have you eaten recently? A hot drink?”
Blackwood shook his head but sat down thankfully, obviously painfully stiff. “I’m a little weary, so forgive me if I don’t make much sense: I arrived in Lymington village late last evening, after losing the wind at the back of the Wight and having to be rowed in. I managed to post up to Town – I kept those horses at a good gallop – and reached Lord Nelson at Merton at five o’clock this morning, and after giving him the news, posted on to the Admiralty to tell Lord Barham.”
The man was almost asleep – certainly dazed with weariness. “What news?” Ramage asked gently.
“Sorry, I was thinking of Lord Nelson’s message for you. What happened was, we understood the Combined Fleet was in Ferrol and Coruña – they’d bolted there when His Lordship chased ’em back across the Atlantic. But I was off Cape St Vincent with the Euryalus when I suddenly met them all at sea, steering south, either for Cadiz – most likely – or the Strait.
“I guessed they were making for Cadiz to join the rest of their brethren, so I chased them long enough to be sure. Then I steered for the Channel to raise the alarm. I met Rear-Admiral Calder with eighteen line-of-battle ships and warned him, and while he went south after the enemy I carried on for the Channel. Took me ten dam’ days with contrary winds before I got up as far as the Isle of Wight and lost the wind altogether.
“I had myself rowed ashore in the dark – and a wretched muddy place Lymington creek is, I can assure you – and managed to hire a ’chaise to London: it’s going to cost Their Lordships £15 9s. – if they agree to pay the charge.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Shake me if I fall asleep on you: the drumming of the hoofs and the clatter of the wheels are still in my head. Anyway, I reached Merton and told His Lordship, and then went on to raise the alarm at the Admiralty. Lord Barham may be well over eighty years old, but he wakes up a deal faster than I do!
“Now we get to Lord Nelson’s message (sorry, I had to tell you the rest so it makes sense). Before I left him at Merton – he decided to come up to the Admiralty in his own carriage with Lady Hamilton – he gave me your address and told me to call as soon as I’d finished at the Admiralty. The message is simply that His Lordship will be sailing in the Victory from St Helens as soon as maybe, and you’re to sail as quickly as possible, joining him at St Helens or, if he’s managed to get away from the Isle of Wight, join the fleet off Cadiz and place yourself under my command.
“He said that he doesn’t mind if you arrive short of a couple of new topsails and half a dozen guns, but he needs every frigate he can get. As he’s giving me command of a sort of inshore squadron, I can bear that out: there’ll be three or four frigates, once I get off Cadiz with the Euryalus, but for what His Lordship has in mind, ten wouldn’t be enough. I tell you, Ramage, His Lordship is breathing fire: he won’t be satisfied with less than the complete destruction of the Combined Fleet.”
“How many ships have they?”
“About thirty or more,” Blackwood said. “Depends how many were waiting for them in Cadiz.”
“And His Lordship?”
Blackwood made a face and admitted in a soft burr: “Well, Lord Barham was counting them up while I was in his office and he waited for Lord Nelson, and with luck there’ll be twenty. More, of course, if they can be got ready in time. But several ships of the line are in the dockyards, quite apart from frigates like your Calypso. I gather you’ve already had your orders from Lord Barham: it’s just a question of chasing up the dockyard, and taking on powder at Black Stakes?”
Ramage nodded, thinking of Aldington, St Kew, his father’s new will, and Sarah. Yes, it was different for a married naval officer. “Yes – with a decent wind I’ll be at St Helens before His Lordship boards the Victory!”
Chapter Five
Farewells were over: Raven had carefully stowed his trunk on the post-chaise at London Bridge, where the Dover ’chaise started, and the Marsh man, before saying goodbye to Ramage and taking the carriage back to Palace Street, handed over a letter. “From Her Ladyship, sir. Said you was to read it on board your ship.”
Then with shouts and the cracking of whips over the backs of the four horses, the post-chaise began its dash: the one other passenger was a bishop returning to his see of Dover, the usual plump and self-satisfied prelate who at first seemed put out at having to share the carriage with a Navy captain but who became almost servile the moment he heard Raven bidding farewell to “My Lord”. Was His Lordship travelling far? the bishop inquired. No, Ramage said, not far. Perhaps His Lordship lived in Kent? Yes, Ramage said, at Aldington.
But…but this ’chaise doesn’t go to Aldington: it goes through the Medway towns. For Aldington His Lordship needs the ’chaise that goes through Ashford.
“I’m not going to Aldington,” Ramage said shortly, cursing that he had to start the day, let alone the journey (which would end at Cadiz!), with this dreary, cringing churchman whose pink complexion and bloated features labelled him a trencherman, as handy with a fork as a Biblical quotation.
“Oh, I thought you said…”
“You asked me where I lived. I also have an estate in Cornwall and a house in Town, but I’m not going to any of them,” Ramage said coldly and was quickly ashamed of his exaggerations, but this wretched fellow refused to be snubbed.
“Ah, you’re joining a ship; I can guess that.”
Ramage looked out of the window. The carriage was just approaching the Bricklayer’s Arms. “Yes,” he said grudgingly, and suddenly felt a wish to boast that he was joining Lord Nelson, but to this bishop war, no doubt, was only an inconvenience since it did not interrupt meals.
“It must be an exciting moment.”
“On the contrary; I’ve lived on board the same ship for the past few years and it will stink of fresh paint and men will be hammering away all day and night.”
“Dear me, how unpleasant. You should send your deputy down, until everything is ready.”
Was that how the Lord’s work was done in the see of Dover? Ramage wondered.
The bishop lifted a large basket on to his lap and began folding back a napkin. The basket was full of food and the bishop began tearing the meat from a chicken leg. The chomping of his teeth kept time with the horses’ hooves until he stopped to wrench the cork from a bottle of wine.
New Cross…they would change horses at Blackheath. How long would that basket of food keep the worthy bishop quiet? The ’chaise was soon passing the Isle of Dogs, over to the left, on the far side of the Thames as it snaked its way through London. In half an hour – less, perhaps – they would reach Shooter’s Hill, passing the quiet beauty of Greenwich Palace on the left. Down there, within a few hundred yards of the Thames, Henry VIII and his two daughters, the great Elizabeth and the less favoured Mary, had all been born. Both the father Henry and the daughter Elizabeth had (almost alone among the monarchs!) understood the importance of a strong Navy due, perhaps, to childhood days spent watching the ships passing? Today the great palace was the Seamen’s Hospital: men crippled in the King’s service at sea now stumped about with crutches and wooden legs where once (three centuries earlier) a boyish Henry
VIII had played.
The bishop chomped on, delving among the napkins to see what else he had to eat. Enough at the present rate to last him until the ’chaise got through Welling and stopped at the Golden Lion at Bexley Heath… Golf. The thought suddenly struck Ramage. Wasn’t it somewhere round here – the common at Blackheath? – that James I first introduced the curious game to England? Ramage shrugged: he did not play himself, and the bishop looked as though he was already taking the only physical exercise he favoured.
Finally, the carriage swung into the courtyard of the Golden Lion and the two postboys leapt to the ground to drop the steps with the usual crash. The bishop groaned, though Ramage was not sure if it was the noise or the need to leave his food.
Ramage jumped down to be met by the innkeeper, anxious to serve sherry, cocoa, coffee, ale or whatever the gentleman fancied. The gentleman, stiff and bored, his thoughts suspended somewhere between Palace Street and the number three dock at Chatham, wanted to be left alone. The bishop called for “A cool mug of ale, my good man,” and the ostlers led up the fresh horses.
Soon after the carriage had started again, the bishop belched contentedly as he dozed, and then wakened to assault the basket once more and continued eating until they had gone through Crayford and were pulling in at The Bull at Dartford to change the horses. Ramage walked round the carriage a few times and soon after they began moving again the bishop was snoring stertorously, lulled by more beer rather than the rough road.
Horns Cross (curious, he remembered a village of the same name in Devon), then Northfleet and Gravesend, the brown muddy Thames running alongside. The driver had barely started the horses pulling out of Gravesend when he had to stop at the first of the turnpikes, at Chalk Street. Like a thousand coachmen before him, he swore as he fished in his pocket for the coins to pay the toll-keeper.
