by Dudley Pope
‘Well, we’ll soon know,’ Ramage said. ‘One thing about being in a ship of the line, it’s unlikely to be escorting a convoy!’
Slowly the Dido followed the coast round to the south-west, closing with the shore until they could make out the line of pale blue water, where it shallowed. Then, with a surprising suddenness, they were at Carlisle Bay, and Ramage quickly picked out Admiral Cameron’s flagship, the Reliant, and began the salute.
As the Dido anchored and the ship swung head to wind, Ramage felt the heat: until now the Dido had been out in the open sea, with the Trade wind blowing steadily across the deck and keeping the ship reasonably cool. Now, at anchor, the heat was coming off the land, humid and uncomfortable.
‘Get the awnings rigged as soon as you’ve finished squaring the yards,’ Ramage told Southwick. ‘I’m going across to report to the admiral.’
As he changed into his best uniform, tied his stock and put on his sword, he heard Aitken shouting orders as the boat was hoisted out ready for him.
So far so good, he thought: there were no strings of signal flags from the flagship telling him where to anchor, so Cameron was not one of the fussy sort of admirals who did not trust a captain to anchor properly. Perhaps he guessed that Ramage had anchored in Carlisle Bay a dozen or more times. Perhaps he did not care, Ramage thought.
He put his papers into the leather case, picked up his hat and, acknowledging the sentry’s salute as he went out of the door, made his way to the entryport. There the red cutter was alongside and sideboys were holding out the sideropes for him to hold as he climbed down.
As he went down he could smell the weed which had grown on the Dido’s hull as she crossed the Atlantic, and as he sat in the sternsheets he glanced along the waterline and could see dozens of goose barnacles growing like toadstools. It always amazed him how they could attach themselves to the ship and grow when she was ploughing through the water at a rate of knots, but they not only could but did in their hundreds, not deterred by the copper sheathing: in fact it almost seemed they had an appetite for copper.
Ten minutes later he was climbing on board the Reliant to the shrilling of bosun’s pipes, and on deck a man in a post-captain’s uniform with epaulets on both sides, denoting more than three years’ seniority and showing he was probably the captain of the Reliant, came up with outstretched hand. ‘I’m Simpson, welcome on board.’
‘Ramage. Thank you: I’m reporting to Admiral Cameron.’
‘Yes, indeed, come this way.’ Then Simpson said: ‘Been in command long? We don’t have an up-to-date Navy List, and mine shows the Dido out of commission.’
‘I’ve only had her a few weeks. Commissioned her in Portsmouth and sailed at once for here.’
‘The admiral will be glad to see you: we’re very short of seventy-fours and he’s grumbled to their Lordships. I expect you’re their response.’
Ramage found Rear-Admiral Samuel Cameron a burly, red-faced Scot with mutton-chop whiskers, who greeted Ramage cheerfully and seemed very glad to see him.
‘Did ye have a good trip m’lad?’
‘Yes, sir. We ran into a French seventy-four and a couple of frigates, but that was the only excitement.’
‘I hope you saw them off?’
‘We blew up the seventy-four and one frigate sank. The other was captured by a British frigate that happened to be on the scene.’
‘Splendid, m’lad, splendid,’ Cameron said enthusiastically. ‘You’ve written me a full report? Now, can I offer you a rum punch, or would you prefer a glass of wine?’
Ramage declined politely, and Cameron said: ‘Let me see your report on the action. I hope you haven’t brought me a lot of French prisoners.’
Ramage explained they were on their way to England in the frigates. He handed over his despatch and sat back comfortably in an armchair while the admiral started reading. The cabin was well furnished: obviously Cameron was a wealthy man – probably the Windward Island station brought him a good share of prize money. The admiral would have frigates cruising along the Main, and they would make a good number of captures.
Finally Cameron finished reading, and he grunted as he refolded the despatch. ‘Very creditable,’ he said, ‘and I shall say so in my letter to their Lordships. The Heron was fortunate to meet you. It would have been all up with her otherwise.’
Ramage nodded. ‘A frigate doesn’t stand much chance against a seventy-four.’
‘As you showed,’ Cameron said. ‘Well, I don’t know that we can offer you that sort of excitement out here. But the fact is I am very short of seventy-fours. At the moment I have only two – one refitting at English Harbour, and the other down off Surinam. It was in anticipation of the one having to go into Antigua for a refit – long overdue – that I wrote to the Admiralty asking for a replacement and that’s why you were sent out.’
Ramage nearly sighed: so it was going to be a boring old routine: no excitement, nothing out of the way. Simply, in all probability, just patrolling among the islands. Well, at least he knew his way around, which was something. And it was better than patrolling up and down the English Channel, with its abominable weather and the constant battle against southwesterly gales which blew their way through with monotonous regularity. All he had to do was to keep his ship’s company fit: make sure that they were not hit with yellow fever.
‘You know your way round out here, I believe,’ the admiral said. ‘You were out here with a frigate, I hear.’
‘Yes, sir, the Calypso.’
‘Ah yes, I remember: the Diamond Rock affair, when you captured the island. It was sheer carelessness on our part that we lost it again after you had returned to Europe. Well, I’m proposing sending you up to Martinique again.’
He tugged at his mutton-chop whiskers, as if trying to decide how he was going to explain to Ramage. ‘The fact of the matter is, our blockade o’ Martinique has more holes in it than a boarding net, and the French now have a seventy-four in Fort Royal which they are using to escort their convoys for the run into the island – the time when our frigates used to be able to capture a few ships and disrupt a convoy.
‘I can’t spare the seventy-four that is patrolling off Surinam, and as I mentioned, my other seventy-four is refitting in Antigua, and if I know anything about English Harbour the work is going to take an age and be badly done. Which leaves you and the Dido to do the business for me.’
‘The business of stopping the convoys?’ Ramage asked.
‘Aye. How ye’ll set about it I don’t know. You might intercept one of the convoys and deal with the seventy-four – which means finding them several days out, I have no doubt. Or, ye can settle with the seventy-four before she gets far away from Fort Royal. It’ll be up to you, depending on how you find things at Fort Royal.’
Ramage nodded. ‘I understand, sir. It rather depends on how the French react to a seventy-four cruising up and down outside. They might sail their own seventy-four to drive it off – or they might keep her in harbour…’
‘I wouldn’t try and guess which it’d be,’ Cameron said. ‘You’re lucky that the convoys have to come round the south end of the island – that’s about the only advantage you’ve got.’
For an admiral giving orders to a newly joined captain, Ramage thought Cameron was surprisingly frank: in his experience, admirals never pointed out, or made any allowances for, any slight advantage there might be. But Cameron was remarkably friendly. Or was it that as one became older and more experienced, and commanded bigger ships, then admirals became more confiding? He was far from sure, but whatever the reason it made a pleasant change.
Cameron’s comment that the convoys had to come round the south end of the island was a sensible one for him to make, because a captain who did not know the island probably would not know that peculiarity, caused by currents and calms.
Martinique’s size and her mountains meant that the island blocked off the usual north-east and easterly winds, creating a calm area stretching several miles to t
he westward. In addition, the northgoing current was strong along the west side of the island, through the calm area. All this meant that any ship – especially a heavily laden merchantman, which would in any case be a dull sailer – approaching round the north end of the island and bound for Fort Royal, which was also on the western side, would run into the area of calms, and lying becalmed she would find herself swept to the northwards by the current, away from Fort Royal. If she managed to find a whiffle of wind, it was unlikely to be strong enough to let her make any headway against the current. So ships made sure they approached round the south end of the island where, because of the lie of the mountains, the calms started further north and anyway the current swept a ship along the way she wanted to go, up to Fort Royal.
Fort Royal itself was on the north-west corner of a large bight which was in turn the wide entrance to a river. At first glance it seemed to be an open anchorage, but the chart showed that Fort Royal was set well back into the river entrance so that it could be protected by a fort and batteries, which could also cover any ships anchoring in the roads.
Cameron said: ‘I’ve just had to send a couple of frigates off to England with a convoy, and two more are cruising off the Main for another three or four weeks. The only ship I have off Martinique at the moment is a brig, which is keeping a watch on Fort Royal with orders to report back here at the first sign that a convoy is due. Not,’ he admitted ruefully, ‘that I could do much about it until you arrived. I’d take the Reliant out, of course, but she’s a damnably dull sailer: about all she’s fit for is being anchored here in Carlisle Bay as the flagship.’
He tugged his whiskers again, and said: ‘I suppose every commander-in-chief complains he doesn’t have enough frigates, whether he’s commanding a fleet or a station, but I’m supposed to keep a watch on the Windward Islands – including blockading Martinique – and assemble and sail convoys to England, providing the escorts, as well as covering the whole of the Main. All this with four or five frigates, a couple of seventy-fours, and a brig or two. Their Lordships ignore my requests for frigates – in fact I often have to sail convoys with the same escorts that brought them out, which isn’t really fair on the frigates, which are doomed to sail back and forth across the Atlantic escorting convoys and never getting a penn’orth of prize money.’
He paused for a minute or two and then said briskly: ‘Well, my problems don’t concern you. I’ll have your orders ready for you by tomorrow morning. You’ve got to water and provision, so I hope you’ll be on your way to Martinique in a couple of days.’
Chapter Eleven
The Windward and Leeward Islands lay in line north and south like the blade of a sickle, with Grenada at the southernmost point. Next to the north came St Vincent, on almost the same latitude as Barbados, which was nearly a hundred miles to the east, a lonely outpost in the Atlantic.
Just north of St Vincent was the mountainous island of St Lucia, and then came Martinique, followed by Dominica, Guadeloupe, Antigua and then the group of French and British islands forming the north end of the Leewards.
From Barbados, Martinique was about 125 miles to the north-west, and a few hours after sailing, the Dido was rolling and pitching her way along with a brisk quartering wind from the east, with the white cotton balls of Trade wind clouds scudding along overhead in their relentless march to the westward.
The Dido had left Carlisle Bay in the darkness, and as soon as dawn broke and the ship’s company stood down from general quarters – where they always went to meet dawn and dusk – the washdeck pumps were rigged over the side while seamen collected buckets of sand and holystones ready to scour the decks. The holystones were blocks of sandstone about the size of housebricks and once the deck had been swilled down with water and sprinkled with sand, the men on their hands and knees used the holystones to scour the planking. It was backbreaking work, but since it was done daily the men were used to it, thankful that they were doing it in a warm climate, instead of the Channel, where often there was a bitterly cold wind as well as icy water spurting from the washdeck pumps.
‘Holystoning is almost a pleasure in the Tropics,’ Rossi commented to Stafford as they worked the blocks back and forth.
‘Where’s the pleasure?’ demanded the Cockney.
The Italian seaman sighed. ‘Nothing ever pleases you, Staff. The water’s warm, the wind is warm, and soon the sun will be up, bringing another nice day. Be cheerful!’
‘That’ll be the day,’ growled Stafford. ‘You’ll never find me ‘appy ‘olystoning: you oughta know that by now, Rosey. It’s m’knees. I must be getting old: the joints creak.’
Rossi called across to Jackson, who was holding the hose of a pump. ‘Here, Jacko: we need more water.’ Then he waved at Gilbert, who was holding a bucket. ‘Come on, we want some sand over here, or we’ll never get these decks clean.’
‘I swear we’ll wear out the wood afore we’ve finished,’ Stafford said, giving the holystone he was holding an extra flourish.
Finally the deck was scoured and Jackson directed the stream of water from the pump to wash the excess sand over the side. While some men had been holystoning the deck, others had been polishing the brasswork, using strips of cloth and brickdust.
The men were just beginning to go below for their breakfast when from the masthead came a familiar hail. ‘Deck there!’ Martin, who was officer of the deck, snatched up a speaking trumpet and answered.
‘Sail dead ahead, just lifting over the horizon.’
Ramage, who was listening, said: ‘What does he think it is?’
Martin shouted up the question and the lookout answered: ‘Probably no bigger than a frigate but on the same course as us.’
Ramage looked round aloft. The Dido was sailing along under courses, topsails and topgallants. ‘Rig out the stunsails, Mr Martin,’ he ordered. ‘There’s no British warship around here.’
It took time to rig out the studding sails, which were extensions to the ordinary sails, the head extended by a short yard with a boom which slid out along the yards to hold out the foot.
As soon as they were trimmed, Ramage could feel the effect: the Dido had increased her speed by a couple of knots. Southwick had come to the quarterdeck and he said: ‘Whoever she is, she seems to be steering for Martinique. But she’s come from the south. From French Guiana, perhaps.’
‘Maybe she’s a privateer,’ Ramage said. ‘Anyway, we shan’t know until we get a closer look.’
Orsini, sent aloft with a telescope, was soon hailing that the sail was a frigate, on the same course, and that she had just set her royals.
‘That settles it, she’s French,’ Ramage said. ‘If she was British she wouldn’t set royals just because a two-decker came up astern: she’d be certain the two-decker had come from Barbados: it’s obvious from the course.’
But, Ramage wondered, what was a French frigate doing out here? As Southwick had speculated, she might be coming up from French Guiana, but it was unlikely. Cayenne, the only town in French Guiana, had only one use and that was because Devil’s Island, just up the coast, was used as a penal colony. The ships visiting Cayenne were usually frigates or transports carrying royalist prisoners from France. Usually they were frigates armed en flûte, in other words carrying only a few guns, the rest of the space being used as accommodation for the prisoners.
Ten minutes later Paolo Orsini was hailing again. The frigate was definitely French, judging from the cut of her sails and her sheer, and they were gaining on her rapidly: she seemed to be a very slow sailer. He stopped talking for a few moments and then added: ‘She’s just rigging out stunsails.’
Ramage could see the ship clearly with his glass and he could distinguish that the frigate was beginning to look wider as the stunsails were set. Aitken had come up to the quarterdeck and Ramage nodded to him. ‘You’ve arrived at the right time: I was about to tell Martin to beat to quarters. Bend on the challenge.’
A minute later the Dido’s two Marine drummers were stridi
ng up and down the upperdeck, thudding away at their drums, and at once the ship’s company ran to their stations, reminding Ramage yet again of a disturbed anthill.
Again it was the same procedure: the washdeck pumps, only just put away after holystoning the deck, were brought out again and rigged, the gunner collected the big bronze key of the magazine and went below, and the crews began hauling on the lanyards that raised the gunport lids. As water was sprayed over the deck men scattered sand, and soon Ramage heard the report from Aitken that all the guns were loaded and ready to be run out. ‘Can I bring Orsini down now, sir, so that he can look after his carronades?’
‘Yes, we can see what we’re about from down here.’
He could imagine just how the French captain felt now, with a seventy-four rapidly overhauling him There was no chance of him reaching Martinique in time to seek shelter: even now the island was just coming into sight, a bluish bruise on the horizon to the north-west.
Now, with every stitch of canvas set in the Dido, it was only a matter of time before they ranged up alongside the frigate and started firing broadsides into her.
He saw Orsini coming down from aloft and watched him hurry up to the poop, to take command of the carronades. He knew that the three lieutenants, Kenton, Martin and Hill, were standing by at their divisions of guns, as were some of the senior midshipmen. He knew that every available telescope on board the French frigate was trained on the Dido. ‘Run out the guns,’ he told Aitken. It would depress the French even more, once they saw those stubby black fingers sprouting out along the Dido’s sides.
‘Hoist the challenge, if you please Mr Aitken.’
Ramage watched as the flags rose on the halyard. He put the glass to his eye, watching the frigate as a matter of routine. But no answer was hoisted, not that Ramage had expected one.
Still Ramage puzzled over why a French frigate should be out here. If she had come from French Guiana – which he finally decided was a remote chance – there was no reason why she did not go up the inside of the island chain, keeping to the westward. That way she would not risk interception by any British warships on passage between Barbados and other islands such as Grenada and Antigua. Could she have come from France and made a landfall too far south? That too seemed unlikely. A mistake in longitude, yes, putting her too far east or west, but not in latitude, taking her too much to the north or south: a latitude sight did not have to depend on the accuracy of the clock: the highest altitude around noon was sufficient.
