Ramage and the Dido

by Dudley Pope

  There was hardly any light: here and there a lantern glowed dimly on the deck, casting weird shadows. The heat made the air seem almost solid and the lanterns were smoking.

  A man appearing apparently from nowhere suddenly hurled himself at Ramage, slashing with a cutlass. Ramage parried the first blow, having stuffed the pistols back in his belt and drawn his sword when he left the gunroom. Ramage was hard put to see the next slash because of the heavy shadows and parried instinctively. Then he caught sight of the assailant’s face, which was partly hidden as he crouched down to avoid the deck beams, and slashed at the throat. The man gurgled and collapsed.

  The problem was distinguishing Dido from Alerte, and Ramage cursed himself for not telling his men to wear white headbands. Still, most of the Alertes were either naked or just wearing trousers, as they had tumbled from their hammocks, while the Didos were wearing shirts and trousers, and many of them did have bands round their foreheads to keep their hair and perspiration out of their eyes. But the bands were not white, Ramage noted; they were grubby strips of cloth often obscured by hair.

  There was only one way of sorting out the Didos from the Alertes and he took a deep breath and then bellowed out: ‘To me, Didos! To me!’

  The crowd of men gave a convulsive heave and Ramage found himself surrounded by men wielding cutlasses and chattering with excitement. He waited a minute or two and then shouted: ‘Right, follow me – charge them!’

  He was conscious of Jackson on one side and Rossi on the other, with Aitken very close, as he ran crouching towards the waiting Frenchmen, who were obviously bewildered at suddenly finding themselves standing alone. As Ramage lunged at the nearest Frenchman he heard a solid thudding above him: he recognised the noise of axes slamming away at the anchor cable. That meant the topsails had been let fall, which in turn meant that any moment now the Alerte would be gathering way.

  And that meant his place was up on deck, starting to sail the frigate out of the anchorage, not fighting hand to hand below decks.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted at Jackson and, careful not to turn his back on the French, he made his way up on deck.

  ‘Take the wheel,’ he told Jackson, and in the darkness he could make out the topsails hanging down from the yards. Even as he watched they began taking up their shapes as men obeyed their orders and sheeted home the sails and braced up the yards.

  Now was the time to let Southwick know that the frigate was under way, so that he would light a couple of lanterns to guide them. ‘Where’s the rocket?’ he asked Jackson and the American said apologetically: ‘Still in the boat, sir.’

  ‘Hurry up and get it – I’ll take the wheel,’ Ramage said crossly, and seized the spokes as he looked aloft again at the sails.

  The wooden spokes felt smooth with wear as he turned the wheel slightly and thought to himself ironically: here is a captain of a ship of the line trying to steer a frigate on a straight course. He could feel a faint breeze on the back of his neck and was thankful because he could not see the sails very clearly and there was no light in the binnacle.

  He could just make out the two Marines guarding the French captain and he called to them: ‘One of you come and light the candle in the binnacle from your lantern.’

  That was something else he had forgotten: to detail a man to see to the binnacle light. Well, he was learning; if he ever cut out a frigate again things would be different.

  Still, some things had gone right: the topsails were set, men had cut the anchor cable at the right time, and the sails had been trimmed and the yards braced round. Soon the rocket would be sent off and then he would have to look out for the two lights, one above the other, which the Dido would hoist.

  Then Jackson was back with the rocket and launcher tube just as the Marine shut the binnacle door having lit the candle. Ramage quickly looked at the compass card, squinting as he focused his eyes. He was steering west-north-west. As far as he could estimate, the Dido would be a couple of points over on the larboard hand. Anyway, west-north-west kept them clear of any obstacles and for the moment he was more worried about coral reefs and shoals of sand than he was about the French.

  Just as he was thinking that, Hill suddenly appeared. ‘Mr Aitken sent me, sir: the French have surrendered! At first just a few of them cried for quarter, and the next moment all of them did. Many of them were unarmed and realised they didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘What’s Aitken doing now?’

  ‘Sorting out the prisoners with Rennick, sir: we’ve taken twenty as hostages – I told the rest of them that the hostages would be run through if they didn’t behave.’

  ‘Very well. Go back and tell Mr Aitken to come up here and leave the prisoners to Rennick and Kenton. You had better stay down there where your French will be useful.’

  By now Jackson had set up the rocket and Ramage said: ‘Right, fire it. Use the candle in the sentry’s lantern.’

  The rocket went soaring up into the sky and burst into white stars. ‘Take the wheel,’ Ramage told Jackson, ‘she seems quite happy on west-north-west, so steer that until we sight the Dido’s lights.’

  With that he went to the larboard side and stared into the darkness. Sailing the Alerte was just like sailing the Calypso – except that the gunroom was full of French officers being guarded by Marines, and below there was a whole French ship’s company being held prisoner by the boarders, while just behind him the French captain stood miserably between two Marine guards, his only movement that Ramage had seen being desultory slaps at mosquitoes.

  And not a shot from Fort St Louis: the sentries there had heard nothing of the shots – the Alerte was well to leeward – and either had not seen or had taken no notice of the lanterns moving around on the deck of the frigate.

  Then he saw two pinpoints of light: Southwick had hoisted the two lanterns in the Dido, and they seemed closer than he expected. He suspected Southwick had been working his way into the bay, ready to come to their help if the rocket had burst in a red star.

  Now he had to decide what to do with all the prisoners. He did not fancy losing any more of his men in a prize crew, and he was sure that Admiral Cameron would not welcome more than two hundred Frenchmen as prisoners. Why not send them back to their comrades under a white flag and an agreement that they would not serve until they had been regularly exchanged?

  And an exchange would take ages: the French would need months to capture more than two hundred Britons as a counterweight. But Ramage found he did not care; as far as he was concerned, the important task was to get rid of the prisoners and then send the Alerte to Barbados with the minimum prize crew that could handle her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  His instructions to Hill had been very exact: he was to take a boat to Fort St Louis with a flag of truce flying from the bow and stern, and he was to offer an exchange of 233 prisoners – the number of Frenchmen in the Alerte for the same number of Britons – thus establishing a credit, but with the firm agreement that none of the Frenchmen would serve again until regularly exchanged. No other terms would be acceptable, Ramage had emphasised, and the French acceptance had to be in writing.

  Now three hours had elapsed since Hill left the ship in a cutter. The lookouts had seen his boat arrive at the Fort but since then there had been no sign of movement. Ramage had suggested, if the French accepted the terms, that they should send out a couple of droghers, and the prisoners would be transferred to them: this would save the tedious task of rowing the prisoners ashore.

  Finally, soon after noon, when the ship’s company had been piped to dinner, a lookout hailed that the cutter was now leaving the Fort. Twenty minutes later an angry Hill arrived on board.

  ‘Not surprisingly, the French are furious at losing the Alerte,’ he reported to Ramage, ‘and they were determined to take it out on me. First of all I was marched on shore under armed guard and taken to the commandant of the Fort. He kept me waiting half an hour and then took two minutes to say it was a matter for the governor, whose
residence is in the middle of Fort Royal. He seemed to think it was up to me to walk there, but I reminded him that we were discussing the fate of 233 of his own people. He then provided a carriage and escort.

  ‘The governor was not too delighted at seeing me, but at least he did listen carefully to my proposals. He said he wanted fifteen minutes to think about them, but he kept me waiting half an hour in an anteroom.’

  Ramage interrupted impatiently. ‘Get to the point, Hill!’

  ‘Well, sir, he agreed to everything! He’s going to send three droghers out later this afternoon – I suggested two, but he insisted on three – under a flag of truce. And I have his agreement to the terms in writing, complete with the stamp of the Republic, “One and Indivisible”.’

  ‘Good work,’ Ramage said. ‘What were your impressions of Fort Royal?’

  ‘The blockade is bothering them. For instance, a wheel came off the carriage before we were a couple of hundred yards from the Fort, and from what the driver said when he went off to get another carriage, everything was just wearing out. The Fort is in a poor state, and the governor’s residence needs the attention of carpenters, and a few coats of paint. The people in the street look starved and unkempt, though there’s enough fruit growing on the trees.’

  Ramage saw Aitken coming on to the quarterdeck and waved to him. ‘Hill’s foray was successful: the French accept our terms. They are sending out three droghers this afternoon, so we’ll be able to get rid of our prisoners.’

  ‘Are you keeping the captain, sir?’

  ‘No. He’s a pathetic specimen, anyway: he’s a martyr to stomach ulcers, so he tells me, and I suspect he thinks he’s going to die.’

  ‘Perhaps he is,’ Aitken said unsympathetically. ‘Ulcers can kill you just as surely as yellow fever, only they take a lot longer.’

  ‘I’ll tell him what you said: he needs cheering up.’

  Aitken pointed to the frigate anchored a hundred yards to leeward of the Dido, all her boats hoisted out and lying astern on long painters. ‘I can’t get over how like the Calypso she is. Except for the paint. I don’t know when she last saw a pot of paint.’

  ‘That’s a fair indication of how our blockade is bothering them: the Tropics are no place to neglect a ship’s paintwork.’

  ‘No. But the Alerte really looks sad, as though no one loves her.’

  ‘Admiral Cameron will love her!’ Ramage said. ‘He’ll soon have her painted up and fitted-out with new standing and running rigging. I noticed most of her running rigging was stretched, and the standing rigging is more tar than rope. I had no idea our blockade was hurting them so much.’

  ‘I wonder if that seventy-four is in any better condition,’ Aitken speculated. ‘Not that I’m suggesting we try to cut her out,’ he added hastily.

  ‘I have been trying to make up my mind who to send to Barbados with the Alerte. We seem to be losing so many officers and men in prizes – men, anyway.’

  Aitken gestured towards the brig, passing southwards two miles away on one leg of its sweep. ‘We could always send the Scourge along as well, and she could bring our people back.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Ramage said enthusiastically. ‘Well, that settles it: Kenton can command her and he can take Orsini. It’ll be good experience for them. Twenty men should be enough to handle her. It’s only a hundred miles or so, even if they’ll be hard on the wind. Now, if you’ll be good enough to pass the word to the Alerte that Kenton should be ready to transfer the prisoners to the droghers and then take command. He’ll need a chart and his quadrant. Tell him to pick twenty men from among the guards, and pass the word to Orsini too: he’ll enjoy the cruise.’

  He thought a moment and then added: ‘Our boats will help transfer the prisoners to the droghers so that we have them all out of the ship before it’s dark.’

  ‘Orders for the Scourge, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes, hoist her pendant number and the signal for the captain. Luckhurst will have his orders written out before he gets here.’

  The droghers arrived at three o’clock and anchored to leeward of the frigate, whose boats, along with those from the Dido, quickly transferred the prisoners. Hill had prepared written receipts for the drogher captains to sign, so there was a record of how many prisoners had been handed over to the French.

  Soon the droghers were on their way back to Fort Royal, and the Alerte and the Dido hoisted in their boats. Ramage was thankful that part of the operation was over: little did the governor in Fort Royal realise how accommodating he had been…

  With the Alerte and the Scourge on their way to Barbados, the Dido began to patrol across the mouth of the great bay, from Cap Salomon in the south to Pointe des Nègres to the north, a distance of six miles.

  The French seventy-four – she was called the Achille, according to the Alerte’s lugubrious captain – stayed in the Carénage, topsail yards sent down on deck and obviously not ready for sea.

  ‘We might just as well be blockading Brest,’ Southwick grumbled.

  ‘At least we don’t get a westerly gale once a week,’ Ramage commented. ‘And we don’t have an admiral peering over our shoulder.’

  ‘He’s not that far away. Who knows what orders the Scourge might bring back?’

  ‘He can’t be very upset with us at the moment: he was grumbling to me that he hasn’t enough frigates, and we’ve sent him two already.’

  ‘Wait a week or two and he’ll be complaining that we’re using up all the stores in Barbados refitting them,’ Southwick warned. ‘There’s no satisfying admirals: you ought to have learnt that by now.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Ramage said. ‘Anyway, there are no more frigates around for us to capture.’

  ‘No, but we’ll probably build a reef with our own beef bones, sailing up and down here keeping an eye on this fellow. How are we going to winkle him out?’

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know about winkles; he’s stuck in there like a limpet. We’re going to have to wait until he sails to escort a convoy in – whenever that is.’

  ‘We’re going to be heartily sick of this bit of coast by then.’

  ‘As soon as the Scourge gets back she can resume this close watch: we’ll spread our wings a bit.’

  Down at mess number seventeen, Stafford was making a similar complaint. ‘Back and forth, six miles south and then tack, six miles north an’ then tack; I tell you, we’ll get dizzy afore long.’

  ‘Stop grumbling,’ growled Jackson. ‘When we’re in the Channel you’re always complaining it’s too cold and wet. Now you’ve got lovely weather and you’re still complaining. What’s the matter, tired of the sun?’

  ‘Not the sun,’ Stafford said defensively, ‘just the same view: we’re going to be lookin’ at it for the next six months.’

  ‘Why six months?’ demanded Rossi.

  ‘S’gonna take six months for that Frenchman to sail.’

  ‘Brest,’ Rossi said laconically. ‘Don’t forget we thought we were going to blockade Brest.’

  ‘At least there’s variety there!’

  ‘Variety!’ Rossi said scornfully. ‘Yes – a westerly gale alternates with an easterly one, so one day you’re close up with the Black Rocks and then you’re giving them a good offing. And for a change, it blows hard from the north and maybe there’s some snow, and the canvas freezes. I don’t notice any snow round here.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Stafford said placatingly. ‘But when we’re on the Channel station at least we get fresh meat while we’re in port.’

  ‘Damnation!’ exclaimed Jackson. ‘Out here you get fresh limes, fresh oranges, and fresh bananas, as well as perfect weather – except for a bit of haze, and the occasional squall. You get cold, you put on a shirt: you get wet, and you’re dry in ten minutes.’

  ‘My oath!’ grumbled Stafford, ‘a chap can’t comment on the view without a lot of bullies jumpin’ on ‘im.’

  ‘And judging from the last few days, there’s plent
y of prize and head money around,’ Gilbert said unexpectedly.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ exclaimed Stafford. ‘I’ve had enough from Jacko and Rosey.’

  ‘Well, you should be ashamed of yourself,’ Gilbert said. ‘Here you are, serving in a fine ship with a good captain and officers, we’ve had plenty of action in the last week, and now we have to wait for this ship of the line. You are too impatient, Staff.’

  ‘Well, I may be a bit impatient,’ Stafford admitted, ‘and I wouldn’t want to swap this for blockading Brest, but when is this Frog going to move?’

  Gilbert ignored the ‘Frog’ epithet and said quietly: ‘If you were him and you saw what happened to the frigate, and you knew the Dido is waiting outside and commanded by the famous Captain Ramage, what would you do?’

  ‘I s’pose I’d stay where I was,’ Stafford admitted grudgingly.

  Jackson said: ‘As long as he stays in there, you stay out here. Which would you prefer, being him trapped in there or us out here?’

  ‘All right, all right, you’re boarding me in the smoke,’ Stafford said. ‘Can’t a chap have a grumble now and then?’

  Gilbert, to change the subject, said: ‘How much do you think we’re going to get for the frigates?’

  ‘Not so much for the first one,’ Jackson said. ‘She was armed en flûte, so she didn’t have many guns, nor a very big ship’s company. I can’t see the admiral or their Lordships allowing us much for all those plants – after all, no one knows what they are. Whoever heard of a mango? But anyway she wasn’t damaged, nor was this last one, the Alerte. We should get a fair price for her – apart from a coat of paint and new rigging, she’d pass for new. And a full crew means plenty of head money.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not like the Calypso days: we’ve got a bigger ship’s company to share the money. Nearly three times as big.’ Stafford sounded as though he could burst into tears at the mere thought of sharing with the new men in the Dido. ‘In the old days we were 225 or so in the Calypso; now there are 625 of us. I’m not very good at sums, but I reckon that means we get two-thirds less for every ship we capture.’