Ramage At Trafalgar

by Dudley Pope

  Still no signal from the Victory. But the three-decker ahead was Admiral Collingwood’s temporary flagship, the Dreadnought (the Royal Sovereign had yet to arrive from England), and admirals did not like frigates bolting across their bow.

  “Bear away and pass under the Dreadnought’s stern,” Ramage said, “and then bear up on the Victory’s larboard side.”

  It was a long way from Clarges Street, Ramage thought, and Lord Nelson was probably missing Lady Hamilton as much as he was missing Sarah. Supposing one was bound for India, two years from home and probably more than that: did the pain lessen? It could not get worse; he was damned sure ofthat.

  Now they were past the Dreadnought and running up on the Victory’s quarter. She was towing a single cutter. Quickly Ramage lifted his telescope and swept the Dreadnought’s deck. Yes, her cutter was missing. Lord Nelson’s second-in-command was on board the Victory.

  What was Admiral Collingwood really like? Ramage had never met him but had heard many stories. For a start, Collingwood was rarely separated from his dog Bunce. He was a Northumberland man who loved the country and was so worried about the rate at which England was using up her oak trees to build ships of war that when he was out walking in the country he had a pocketful of acorns, which he planted in likely places, to ensure that in a hundred years’ time, in 1905, England would not lack for oaks. What else about him? He was a strict but very fair disciplinarian who hated flogging – he was reputed to have said that flogging made a good man bad, and a bad man worse. A quiet and reserved man, the complete opposite of Lord Nelson, who by contrast was like a bowl of quicksilver. But apparently both men knew each other well, and worked together.

  “Start the salute,” Ramage told Aitken.

  A minute later number one gun on the larboard side gave a snuffling thud, and Ramage pictured the gunner timing the five-second firing intervals with the time-honoured phrase, “If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here, number two gun fire… If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here, number three gun fire…” He found himself repeating it, and the gunner seemed to be timing it correctly. A captain joining the fleet, to his commander-in-chief, seventeen guns. If the gunner had any sense he had seventeen musket or pistol balls in a pocket, transferring one to another pocket every time a gun fired, until the first pocket was empty: that was the only safe way of not firing sixteen or eighteen.

  Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen: that was the end of the salute. And a flutter of flags from the Victory. Ramage read the Calypso’s three pendant numbers, followed by numbers 103.

  “Signal from the flagship, sir,” Orsini called excitedly. “Our pendant and then 103, ‘Keep in the Admiral’s wake’.”

  Which, given the limitations of the four hundred orders in the Signal Book, was the only way to order the Calypso to take up a position astern of the Victory. (There was no signal which could order the Calypso to take up a position ahead or on either beam…)

  “See to it, Mr Aitken,” Ramage said, knowing the first lieutenant had heard Orsini’s report. “One cable astern of the Dreadnought.”

  A simple enough manoeuvre, but this time executed within yards of Admiral Collingwood’s flagship, and several telescopes would be scanning the new arrival, eager to spot poor or dilatory seamanship. Thus, Ramage reflected ruefully, could a captain’s reputation be sported away, no matter how many successful actions he had fought. Flag lieutenants and all the rest of the people serving an admiral (from clerks to a chaplain and a host of midshipmen) were like a medieval king’s courtiers: they had little else to do but scratch each other’s backs and gossip…

  Ramage made a point of standing four-square on the quarterdeck, obviously leaving the handling of the ship to his first lieutenant – not to avoid responsibility but to show any prying eyes that the Calypso’s captain had complete faith in his officers. Obviously Lord Nelson (and almost certainly Admiral Collingwood) were above all the gossip, but the other ships in the fleet liked to hear it, especially if about a well-known captain making a fool of himself. And, Ramage reflected, he was just well enough known by now to be a target.

  An hour later Martin, as officer of the deck, reported to Ramage that the Victory and the Dreadnought had backed their maintopsails.

  “If we don’t do something, we’ll be aboard the Dreadnought,” Ramage said. “Admiral Collingwood may well be put out if Lieutenant Martin puts the Calypso’s jib-boom through the sternlights of his great cabin…”

  Martin grinned because the lieutenants enjoyed being teased by the captain. He lifted the speaking trumpet, which he had picked up the moment he saw the Victory’s maintopsail start to shiver, and bellowed the orders for the Calypso to follow suit.

  Southwick lumbered on deck, saw what was happening and asked Ramage: “What’s His Lordship doing?”

  “Letting Admiral Collingwood return to his ship, from the look of it.” He steadied the telescope. “Yes, I can see men hauling round the painter of that cutter. And there are two admirals walking the quarterdeck.”

  “That’s our excitement for the day,” Martin muttered. “Unless the cutter capsizes and we can rescue the admiral from drowning.”

  When Orsini laughed, Ramage said: “That reminds me: why was there such a delay in answering the Victory’s signal to us?”

  “The answering pendant wasn’t bent on the halyard, sir,” Orsini admitted lamely.

  “If you want to live long enough to go up to Somerset House and take your examination for lieutenant, let me give you some advice,” Ramage said. “When you’re near a senior officer’s ship, always keep an answering pendant bent on the halyard ready. And remember – in most fleets it matters less that a ship’s gunnery is poor than that she answers signals quickly. Not with Lord Nelson, but with most senior officers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Orsini said apologetically. “I had realized that – too late – but we have the pendant bent on now.”

  Ramage nodded. “Good – that’s the first lesson you’ve learned about joining a fleet. There’ll be more. Just remember that when you’re in company with a flagship, you’re standing at the wrong end of someone’s telescope…”

  Chapter Nine

  Ramage was in his cabin, his sword, best frock coat and hat on the settee, when Aitken hailed through the skylight: “Sir, signal from the flagship…two…one…three. Orsini is looking it up… Yes, ‘The captains of the fleet, or of the ships pointed out, are to come to the Admiral’. Shall I hoist out the cutter, sir?”

  “Yes, and tell Jackson to assemble my boat’s crew. And have ’em tidy themselves up: some of those captains of 74s dress up their boats’ crews like puppets.”

  The captain of the Harlequin frigate, for instance: he was a wealthy man and dressed his men as harlequins. Ramage thought of some of the more unusual names in the list of the Navy: the Alligator, a 28-gun frigate, the Beaver, Bittern and Badger, Bouncer, Boxer, Biter and Bruiser.

  He imagined men in shirts with stripes down their backs.

  “What ship?”

  “The Badger, sir.”

  He stood up and looked down at himself. Yes, shoes polished and the gold buckles fitted; silk stockings unmarked – he had remembered not to cross his feet: Silkin never managed to get all the polish off his boots or shoes, so the back of his stockings usually suffered. Breeches – not creased. He was just going to pick up his frock coat when Silkin hurried in.

  “Thank goodness I fitted those gold buckles, sir,” the man said. “The silver ones would never have done for seeing the admiral.”

  “Rubbish,” Ramage said curtly, “admirals wouldn’t notice if their captains arrived barefoot!”

  “Oh sir!” Silkin exclaimed, as if he knew that Ramage was quite capable of arriving on board a flagship like that, to the eternal shame of his servant.

  He held up the frock coat and Ramage eased himself into it. The price of a good tailor was being uncomfortable: he wanted your frock coat to fit like a glove, and breeches were so tight that sitting down suddenly was
dangerous.

  “You’re not taking the presentation sword, sir?”

  ‘‘No.’’

  “It’s a fine sword, sir.”

  “And it has ‘Lloyd’s’ written all over it.”

  Silkin shook his head, puzzled.

  It will be interesting, Ramage thought sourly, to see which of those captains with presentation swords actually wear them to meet Lord Nelson. It was like wearing a label, he thought, saying “I’m brave, sir.”

  Ramage looked at his watch. In half an hour there would be so many boats with impatient captains milling about at the foot of the Victory’s entryport that a wise man either arrived very early or very late, thus avoiding the scramble. The Calypso was the nearest vessel now the Dreadnought had returned to her station. Arrive early, Ramage decided.

  Just fifteen minutes later Jackson laid the Calypso’s cutter below the Victory’s entryport and, after a quick hitch at his sword belt, Ramage seized the sideropes being held out clear of the hull by the sideboys and began the long scramble up the battens to reach the port itself.

  Conscious that the whole port was neatly painted, the scroll work picked out in gold leaf, Ramage entered, to be met by a large man wearing epaulets on both shoulders – a captain with more than three years’ seniority.

  The man held out his right hand. “I’m Hardy – you must be Ramage. His Lordship hoped you’d take advantage of your nearness and get here first.”

  “I’ve been chasing you for days,” Ramage said. “I was hoping we’d get to St Helens before you sailed.”

  Hardy grinned amiably. “I’ll let you into a secret: we only just beat you: we joined the fleet last night – you probably saw Admiral Collingwood reporting on board. Oh yes, by the way, today’s His Lordship’s birthday. He’s forty-seven.”

  Ramage nodded gratefully and followed Hardy’s directions up to the great cabin. That entryport, Ramage thought, told him a good deal about Hardy: only one lieutenant, the master at arms and two seamen were waiting there; the sideropes were scrubbed white, even though the Victory had been at sea for days, and every bit of brasswork in sight was gleaming. Nor was Hardy a scrub-and-polish captain; by reputation he was a fighter.

  Ramage was met at the door of the main cabin by a man dressed in a dark-green suit, with spectacles and a slight stoop. “I’m Scott, His Lordship’s chaplain. Allow me to announce you – the name?”

  “Ramage.”

  “Ah,” the man exclaimed, “you just joined the fleet in the Calypso. One of our famous young frigate captains! His Lordship was telling me that he saw you in London. Well, please follow me.”

  Nelson was sitting in a curiously shaped armchair close by the sternlights, reading a document. As soon as he heard Scott and looked up he gave an exclamation of pleasure, folded the document with one hand and slid it into a wide pocket sewn into the side of the chair like a large poacher’s pocket. As he stood up, Ramage saw that the chair was very narrow and deep, obviously specially made for the admiral: dark-green leather, high back, and the curious pockets on each side.

  “My dear Ramage, I’m glad you caught up with us: we just beat you from St Helens. You probably lost time taking on powder at Black Stakes – but you must have made good time across the Bay of Biscay: we joined the fleet only last night.”

  “I must wish you a happy birthday, sir,” Ramage said.

  Nelson gave a boyish grin, belying his forty-seven years. “Thank-you. I’ve now reached the age where I’ll be held responsible for my actions! Tell me, you left the beautiful Lady Sarah well?”

  “Very well, sir – though, to be honest, not delighted at my departure.”

  “Oh dear,” Nelson gave a mock groan, “she’ll hold it against me. Lady Hamilton and my dear god-daughter Horatia are convinced I go to sea only to avoid them. Twenty-four days, dinner to dinner – that was all the time I was in England, after two years all but a few days on board this ship without setting foot on land.”

  “You seem to keep remarkably fit, sir.”

  Nelson shook his head and Ramage remembered too late that the admiral, although far from fit, was a man who enjoyed bad health. “Ah, no, my health is ruined. After I’ve settled with the Combined Fleet I shall retire to Merton and cultivate my roses. Can you picture me as a country gentleman?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” Ramage said candidly. “It’s hard to imagine you as anything but what you are.”

  “I know you mean that as a compliment. Well, my dear Ramage, we are not so far from Cape St Vincent, and I remember very well your very brave action in taking that little cutter of yours across the bows of those Spanish ships of the line, delaying them long enough to allow another insubordinate captain called Nelson in the Captain to come to your help. Now you’re a post-captain with a lot more experience of life, I trust you realize that Commodore Nelson and Lieutenant Ramage were lucky not to be court-martialled for that day’s work?”

  “Yes, sir – had we failed. But unless my memory betrays me, it resulted in the capture of four Spanish line-of-battle ships, two of which you took yourself.”

  “Two line-of-battle ships and a baronetcy, and all thanks to you, Ramage, which is why I hope one day to render you a service in return.”

  “You are not in my debt, sir,” Ramage said hastily.

  “I’ll be judge of that,” Nelson said briskly. “Now,” and his face became sterner, and he gestured with his left hand to emphasize his words, “Mr Scott here tells me he understands you speak passable Spanish.”

  Ramage nodded, waiting for what was to come. Speak Spanish? What on earth had that to do with commanding a frigate in His Lordship’s fleet?

  “Just how ‘passable’? Don’t be modest and don’t boast: it might lead to you getting your throat cut.”

  “It’s fluent,” Ramage admitted. “A Castilian accent.”

  “And if you were caught and questioned you could tell a convincing story, eh?”

  Ramage nodded. “A story it’d take them three or four weeks to check.”

  Nelson looked up at Scott who, Ramage realized, had been watching him closely. “What do you think?”

  “I agree with you,” the chaplain said enigmatically.

  “Very well, Ramage, I have a special job for you, but there’s no time to tell you about it before the rest of my captains arrive on board, so wait behind when they go. I’m shifting the fleet further out tonight – fifty miles to the west – and I want to give you your orders before then. Ah, I hear the first of the rest of the captains. Scott, will you take up your duties by the door – and speak the names clearly, man: I don’t know at least half these fellows!”

  Ramage stood back as two captains were announced: Blackwood of the Euryalus, whom he had met briefly in London, and a burly, fleshy-faced man with fair hair and red cheeks whom Scott introduced as Captain George Duff of the Mars.

  Ramage heard Duff greet the admiral and realized he was a Scot.

  After thanking him for birthday greetings, Nelson said: “And how is the family ship? Hardy tells me you have most of the Duff clan on board. Are there any Duffs left behind in Banffshire?”

  Duff gave a delighted laugh. “Aye, sir, just a few!”

  “How many are on board the Mars?”

  “Well, m’son Norwich – he’s just turned thirteen – joined the ship a few days ago and brought his young cousin Thomas with him. Thomas’ elder brother Alexander is an acting lieutenant. Both are sons of my brother Lachlan.”

  “Why ‘acting’?” Nelson asked.

  “Too young, sir. He’s passed his examination but has to bide a few months for his twentieth birthday.”

  Nelson nodded. “So your wife will he waiting for news of you all, eh? Where is she?”

  “Ah, Sophie is living in Edinburgh. It’s probably an anxious time in Castle Street until the letter arrives!”

  The next captain to arrive was Thomas Fremantle of the Neptune, and at the sound of his name Nelson gave a delighted laugh.

  “Ah,
Fremantle – which would you have, a boy or a girl?”

  Fremantle, who Ramage knew already had two sons and two daughters, said quickly: “A girl, sir.”

  “Be satisfied,” Nelson said, smiling broadly, “and here is a letter for you from Betsy’s sister Harriet.”

  A flush-faced Fremantle, who Ramage remembered had helped Nelson when he was badly wounded and lost an arm at Tenerife, withdrew to read his letter.

  Several more captains arrived, among them Captain Edward Codrington of the Orion, who was immediately greeted by Nelson, who took something from the pocket of his armchair.

  He turned to Codrington and gave him a letter. “I was entrusted with this by a lady, so I make a point of delivering it myself.”

  Codrington glanced down at the writing and grinned. “I haven’t heard from Jane for a long time.”

  Finally Scott told the admiral that all the captains were present. The great cabin was now crowded with happy and chattering men, and Ramage took the opportunity to cross over to the larboard side to examine a small portrait in a gilt frame which was screwed to the bulkhead near the sternlight. It showed a smiling, curly-haired young child. It was a good portrait of Horatia.

  The cabin sole, covered in the usual canvas as a carpet, had been painted in black and white squares so that the captains stood on it like so many chessmen. The most important piece, also by far the smallest, was of course Lord Nelson. The second was Vice-Admiral Collingwood, the second-in-command who had been handling the fleet off Cadiz in Nelson’s absence. Tall, going bald, and with a cleft chin, although Collingwood talked with several of the captains clearly he was a withdrawn man.

  The third piece on this giant chessboard was the third-in-command, Rear-Admiral the Earl of Northesk. Ramage remembered as a young lieutenant meeting him. Northesk was another Scot, one of the Carnegies and a Scottish peer, one of the older creations.

  After a while Nelson’s chaplain came up to him. “You don’t know many of the other captains, Ramage?”

  “No – don’t forget I’ve never served with His Lordship, and I’m sure most of these men were with him in the Mediterranean.”