by Dudley Pope
“I was hoping we’d be told to do that,” Southwick said. “We’re not doing any good out here now, and frigates caught between two fleets could get their toes stamped on! I see the French frigates are well to leeward of their line.”
Ramage took one long look at the Combined Fleet before giving Aitken the order to tack to the westwards. He would never again see so many enemy ships drawn up in line of battle – at least, he hoped not. It was an awe-inspiring sight, although it was hard to believe so many ships could be so badly handled by a commander-in-chief. Indecision, nervousness, lack of experience, lack of faith in the ability of his captains… One could sympathize with Villeneuve. No, it was rather that one could understand his position; sympathy had to be withheld when one realized he commanded some 2,500 guns…
Chapter Fifteen
With the Calypso close to Nelson’s column, Ramage stared at the scene, trying to fix it in his memory. If only he was an artist with an easel, canvas and paints set out in front of him. A pale, washed-out sky with wisps of high cloud had a weak and watery sun which seemed shy of lighting up such a dreadful, war-like scene.
Ahead of the Calypso (and the other four frigates, Pickle schooner and Entreprenante cutter) was the Combined Fleet of France and Spain: thirty-three big ships (and five frigates and a couple of brigs) sailing in line of battle from right to left, a line of ships stretching along half the eastern horizon, steering back to Cadiz.
Gaps in the line showed where ships were dropping astern and other spaces revealed ships sagging to leeward out of the line, forming another abbreviated and ragged line of battle, eight or so ships which mingled with the frigates. The ships had all their sails set – courses, topsails, topgallants and royals. They were stretching along on a reach but sailing just too high for studding sails to draw. Yet, Ramage thought, if anyone needs studding sails to hurry them along…
And Nelson’s fleet: the two columns over on the starboard hand were steering to meet the centre of the Combined Fleet’s line of battle like the points of two sabres intending to hack a section from the middle of a long snake.
Yet the grace: the French and Spanish ships were rolling heavily with the swell waves catching them on the beam, but they were big and all of them had fine sweeping sheers, masts buff-coloured with the mastbands picked out in black. Their ensigns drooped: the red and gold of Spain looked like twisted curtains; the French Tricolour hung so that the last colour, the red stripe in the fly, obscured the rest.
The Victory led the nearest British column: Nelson’s proper place as commander-in-chief was somewhere in the middle of the windward column but, Ramage noticed, the Victory was just where one would expect her to be, leading the column – having a race with the Téméraire, which was rigging out studding sails. And as he watched, Ramage saw the booms also being slid out at the end of the Victory’s yards, as though Nelson was determined not to be overtaken.
Then came the Neptune – and Ramage remembered Nelson giving her captain, Thomas Fremantle, the letter which told him that his wife Betsy had just given him another daughter.
Then came the Leviathan and following her the Conqueror which (since she was commanded by Captain Israel Pellew) would be manned by Cornishmen. Astern of her was the Britannia, carrying Nelson’s third-in-command, the Earl of Northesk.
Altogether there were twelve ships of the line in Nelson’s column, but the last four, dull sailers, were beginning to straggle astern. Ramage could imagine the frustration of their captains as they tried every trick they knew to keep up.
And Admiral Collingwood’s column: he too was leading it in the Royal Sovereign, followed by the Belleisle and then came Captain Duff’s Mars: no doubt the Duff family were as excited as the Scot on board the Calypso, Aitken, who showed his excitement by not saying a word.
“What a sight! What a sight!” Southwick exclaimed for the tenth time.
“Let’s hope the wind holds,” Ramage said. “It might die any minute.”
“Yes, His Lordship must be cursing this breeze,” Southwick said, shaking his head. “His column isn’t making more than a walking pace…”
“At least they’re running before the wind and not spilling it as badly as the enemy,” Aitken pointed out. “They’re just pitching; Villeneuve’s ships are rolling heavily.”
The breeze was growing fitful: the Calypso’s sails were going flat and then filling again with a bang which shook the ship. And Ramage saw with his glass that the same was happening to both the enemy ships and Nelson’s.
As the enemy’s line (forming, Ramage now realized, more of a gentle crescent round the edge of the eastern horizon than a straight line) slowed down, so did Nelson’s two columns. And if this was in fact a dying breeze, every yard that Nelson sailed took him into greater danger.
When one ship attacked another on the beam the attacked ship’s whole broadside could fire at the attacker, which was unable to reply because its guns could not be trained round. Nelson’s plan for attacking the Combined Fleet’s line was unique because every one of his ships would be attacking the enemy from the unfavourable bows-on position. It was, Nelson reckoned, the only way of smashing the enemy’s line: it was the only way, he considered, that he could cut off the leeward ships from those to windward. But a ship’s bow and stern were the weak spots: raking fire could send roundshot scything from one end of the ship to the other.
But – and it was a big but, getting bigger every moment – if the wind dropped as the leading ships of Nelson’s column came in range of the enemy’s broadsides they would be battered to pieces as they lay becalmed and helpless: scores of guns would be raking their unprotected bows with roundshot, grape and langridge while they could not reply – except from the laughable bowchasers.
For a moment Ramage pictured the Victory, Téméraire, Leviathan, Conqueror and Britannia in one column, and the Royal Sovereign, Belleisle, Mars and Tonnant in the other, wallowing becalmed, their bows exposed to the broadsides of a dozen or more French and Spanish ships. Imagine the Victory at the mercy of the raking broadsides of the Bucentaure and the enormous Santissima Trinidad…
And the same wind which was taking the Calypso along at the speed of a child dawdling to school was carrying Nelson’s fleet down to fight what would be the greatest sea battle the world had ever known – if the wind kept up.
“It’s going to be close,” Southwick said gloomily. “If this wind dies on His Lordship…”
“It’s a risk he’s calculated,” Ramage said, taking his copy of Nelson’s memorandum from his pocket and unfolding it. “Listen, half-way through His Lordship says: ‘Something must be left to chance, nothing is sure in a sea-fight beyond all others…’”
“Ah,” Southwick said with a sniff, “we know what His Lordship is attempting and we agree with it, but what if he fails? The Board of Admiralty will sink him without a trace…”
“Perhaps that’s what he meant when he wrote ‘Something must be left to chance,’” Ramage said with a grin. “Just pray the wind holds for another hour…the Victory has only a mile to go… The French and the Dons will soon be opening fire…”
Orsini reported: “From the Victory, ‘Prepare to anchor at the close of day.’”
“Repeat it,” Ramage said. So Lord Nelson recognized the weather warning in the sky: by tonight another gale would be blowing, judging from the clouds and watery sun.
Aitken said: “The Victory will be under fire for ten or fifteen minutes before she breaks through the line.”
“A lot longer if this wind drops much more,” Ramage said, “but don’t forget all those enemy ships are rolling badly and their gunnery will suffer. And remember, providing he gets up to the enemy, the more the wind drops the more Lord Nelson’s plan is likely to succeed: the leading enemy ships he’s cut off from the main body will find it almost impossible to turn back to join the battle.”
“What a gamble!” Southwick exclaimed. “It’s all depending on a few puffs of wind. Dozens of ships, hundreds of lives…
”
“And the safety of Britain,” Ramage said. “That’s why an admiral gets an earldom if he wins and disgrace if he loses. But a gamble? I think I’d call it a deliberate calculation.”
Orsini called: “Signal to all ships from the Victory, sir. Telegraphic flag, then 253, 269, 863, 261, 471, 958, 220, 370 – and then, spelled out, 4, 20, 19, 24.”
As soon as he had seen the answering pendant run up, Orsini took the slate on which Aitken had written the numbers, snatched up Home Popham’s code book, and started writing in the words above the numbers, reading them out as he did so.
“The signal says, sir: England expects that every man will do his duty – they had to spell out the last word as it isn’t in the book.”
“Very well,” Ramage said. “Repeat it.” He then turned to Southwick: “You have the loudest voice: tell the ship’s company what Lord Nelson says – not that they need reminding, but it’s a good signal.”
The master took up the speaking trumpet and with a bellowed “Now hear this!” told the men that the commander-in-chief, Lord Nelson, had just made them a signal which said – and he read from the slate as Orsini held it up for him.
Ramage was startled and then delighted as waves of cheering swept through the frigate: obviously Nelson had chosen just the right moment and just the right words. Both Aitken and Southwick were grinning.
At that moment, in a pause in the cheering, Ramage heard a snatch of “Heart of Oak” – the band on one of the ships of the line was striking up.
“Another signal, sir,” Orsini exclaimed. “Numbers one and six.” He opened the first page of the book. “‘Engage the enemy more closely,’ sir.”
“Very well, Mr Orsini, repeat it,” Ramage said. “Unfortunately that one doesn’t concern us.”
“No, sir,” the youth said, and then repeated what he had heard said before: “‘Frigates do not stand in the line of battle.’”
“If they did, they’d stand about one broadside from a 74,” Southwick growled. “Have you forgotten Le Brave?”
“No,” Paolo said, “I really meant it’s a pity we have to miss a good fight!”
Aitken suddenly pointed. “Look, the first shots!”
Winking red eyes followed by spurts of oily grey smoke started out of the side of one of the enemy ships along the line, close to the Royal Sovereign. Almost immediately another broadside followed from her next astern.
Southwick gave one of his contemptuous sniffs. “Those ships are rolling so much the gun captains will see blue sky one moment and green sea the next. Might as well try using a pistol to shoot a woodpecker from the back of a runaway horse!”
“Don’t forget that if they fire late on the upward roll the broadsides can bring down masts and spars, or tear sails,” Aitken said.
“Better than firing on the downward roll and hitting the hulls,” Southwick growled. “Better a torn sail than twenty men dead from shot and splinters.”
Aitken shrugged. “With this light wind, no one can afford to lose much canvas. Look, stunsails set on the Victory, Téméraire, Neptune, Leviathan…”
It was an interesting problem working out where the Victory and the Royal Sovereign would break the enemy line: because of the forward movement of the Combined Fleet’s line, it would be four or five ships astern of the ones at present dead ahead of them. The Victory seemed at present to be heading for the second 74 ahead of the great Santissima Trinidad, which in turn was being followed by the French flagship, Villeneuve’s Bucentaure.
And knowing Nelson, it was not hard to guess where the Victory was intended finally to arrive: Nelson’s memorandum said that his column would try to cut through “two or three or four ships ahead of their centre”, thus separating the enemy’s van and centre squadrons, while Collingwood’s column would cut through about the twelfth ship, separating the centre from the rear.
From the look of it, though, the Royal Sovereign would in fact (allowing for the enemy’s forward movement) arrive at about the fifteenth ship from the rear while Lord Nelson would reach the twelfth from the van – attacking the Bucentaure, a happy coincidence: Nelson undoubtedly regarded it as his right to capture or destroy the French flagship!
But, Ramage cursed to himself, he was obliged to watch the battle from the deck of the Calypso, not firing a shot, with nothing to do but repeat any signals made by the Victory so that all the rest of the ships could see them. Yet, if he was honest, the brush with Le Brave had brought home to him that frigates getting into action with 74s were just asking to be blown out of the water.
It was a case of like against like. The Africa could be unlucky – she was one of the old 64-gun ships, most of which had now been replaced by 74s. In fact she was starting off the battle on the wrong foot: because she missed a signal during the night, she was only now catching up with the fleet and approaching the Combined Fleet’s line of battle from the north-west.
Like against like: ship of the line against ship of the line; frigate against frigate – except that frigates did not get involved in a battle like this, even against enemy frigates…
But why not? Ramage asked himself. Tradition, he supposed, but the tradition that ships of the line only fought ships of the line was a little hard on the Africa: her sixty-four guns could be opposed to the one hundred and thirty guns of the Santissima Trinidad, which must be three times her size apart from carrying double the number of guns. In fact, Ramage reckoned, the difference between the Africa and the Santissima Trinidad was effectively greater than between the Calypso and Le Brave…
He looked across at the Victory: she seemed to be the sharp end of a thin wedge of ships aimed at the side of the enemy line of battle; but her sails flapped occasionally in the intermittent breeze as if hinting to Lord Nelson that Nature might not be on his side.
In the Calypso, Ramage knew everything was ready for battle, although they would not be firing a shot: the gunner was down in the magazine and the “fearnought” felt curtains were hanging down, doused with water and protecting the magazine and serving hatch from flashes; the decks were wetted and sanded; the guns were loaded, with flintlocks firmly bolted on, and their captains ready to grab the trigger lines which, until needed, stayed neatly coiled on the breeches of the guns. The second captains were ready with their prickers, which would be rammed into the vents to penetrate the cartridges, ensuring that the coarser powder ignited the moment the priming powder flashed into the vent. The men would have been issued with cutlasses, tomahawks, pikes or pistols, depending what was marked against their name in the general quarter, watch and station bill, which listed the name of every man in the ship and his task for every evolution, whether anchoring, tacking, wearing, furling, reefing or fighting the enemy.
Jackson had brought up Ramage’s two pistols, loaded and ready to fire – a task the American had set himself years ago. And Ramage was, at Silkin’s insistence, wearing his Lloyd’s Patriotic Fund sword. Ramage preferred a seaman’s cutlass for fighting, but today (of all days) he could be sure the Calypso would not be doing any fighting…
The Victory had half a mile to go. And there! the French 74 ahead of the Santissima Trinidad fired a broadside, red winking eyes giving way to smoke which, because the wind was too light to disperse it quickly, filled the ship and blurred her outline as it streamed out of the gunports.
Ramage looked at the Victory with his glass. The enemy’s broadside must have fallen short. And then the great Spanish three-decker seemed to shiver as the guns on all her decks fired. Smoke curled up, wrapping itself round her tumblehome like fog and reaching up to her sails, following their shape. Again Ramage could see no effect on the Victory or the Téméraire, which seemed to be trying to race the Victory.
The range was now so short that it could only be bad gunnery, and while Ramage speculated whether he would see spurts of water from shot falling short, the French flagship fired a broadside, but wherever her shot fell she might as well have been pelting the Victory with snowballs for all the effect t
hey had. By now the three enemy ships were sailing along in a bank of swirling smoke because the wind was so light that ships and smoke went along together.
But the range was closing fast and he saw that the Victory was passing through the line close under the stern of the Bucentaure. It was going to be a bad place, because another French 74 was very close astern of the Bucentaure while a third (she had sagged off to leeward) was just beyond the gap, ready with a broadside.
Suddenly the three enemy ships were firing at the Victory and the Téméraire; a moment later – or so it seemed – the Victory had steered under the Bucentaure’s stern and, from smoke wreathing up from her bow and the clouds of dust now drifting across the French flagship’s stern, had raked her with the great 68-pounder carronade on the larboard side of her fo’c’sle. Ramage could imagine dozens of grapeshot sweeping along the length of the Bucentaure, cutting men down in swathes,
Within five minutes the whole section of the enemy line of battle was hidden in clouds of twisting and swirling smoke as the Leviathan and Neptune broke through. Well beyond, the leading ships of Admiral Collingwood’s column – the Royal Sovereign, Belleisle, Mars and Tonnant – smashed their way through and, like those in Nelson’s column, immediately turned to larboard, to steer parallel with the enemy ships.
“What a sight! What a sight!” Southwick kept muttering. “Oh, why couldn’t I be the master of the Victory!”
“It’s worked, sir!” Aitken exclaimed. “The wind held up for His Lordship!”
“It needs to hold on a bit longer to bring up the rest of the ships,” Ramage said grimly, “Otherwise the odds against Lord Nelson and Admiral Collingwood will be five to one…”
“Seems strange to be out here while all the fighting is going on over there, sir,” Aitken said. “By the way, did you see that French frigate to leeward of their line?”
“Yes,” Ramage said, “She’s a sister ship of the Calypso, unless I’m much mistaken.”
