by Dudley Pope
Eames had come and looked at the problem and gone back to tell the Admiral it could not be done. It was not a question of courage; it was a problem of wind directions and the courses that a ship could steer; of the amount of punishment a ship could take from dozens of guns firing down at ranges of a few score yards. Now thanks to the American chart, there was less risk of grounding on a shoal but that was his only advantage over Eames …
If he decided on towing out the Jocasta he had to allow for the fact that the boats (rowed by the survivors, and those not needed on board the frigate) could not possibly tow her at more than two knots, probably less. The channel was half a mile long so it would take a quarter of an hour to get to the entrance, and the forts there could keep up a fire for another fifteen minutes at least after she had reached the open sea, even if it was a dark night. The Calypso could not wait close in to take over the tow: she would be taking a big risk if she tried to help from half a mile out to sea.
It couldn’t be done; no amount of talking could change that. Eames would be in the clear although he had not even tried; Captain Ramage would be the man who attempted but failed to carry out the Admiralty’s orders. Admiral Davis might even explain away Eames’s visit by saying it was a reconnaissance …
The sentry at the door called: “Mr Aitken, sir, and Mr Southwick.”
The two men came into the cabin, Southwick carrying a roll of charts. Ramage stood up and went to the desk, throwing his hat across to the settee. “Let’s have the American chart here.”
“It’s a good chart,” Southwick said gloomily and shaking his head, “and all it tells us is—” he broke off and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t see how we can do anything without losing both ships.”
Aitken was watching Ramage and clearly expected his Captain to smile and contradict Southwick. Instead Ramage looked down at the chart and said: “I can’t either. How about you?” he asked the Scot.
“I—er, well, sir, we’ll probably lose one ship.”
“Ah, there you are, all you Scots are the same,” Southwick said with a sniff. “Too damned mean to lose two!”
“We mustn’t be too generous with the King’s property,” Ramage chided, and once again Aitken remembered the meeting in Captain Ramage’s cabin on board the Juno before the battle off Martinique, when the Captain was facing the prospect of fighting a French squadron with only two frigates. He still had not got used to Captain Ramage’s manner, and Southwick’s was just as bad. Here they were, faced with impossible orders, and both of them joking. He supposed there was some sense in it. If the Captain and his officers walked round the ship with long faces before a battle, the men would think it hopeless and would not display the kind of reckless bravado that Captain Ramage seemed to inspire with that truly diabolical grin he wore at the prospect of gunfire. Better die joking than grumbling! But with just the three of them in the cabin and a sentry on the door, was it necessary to keep up the play-acting?
At that moment Aitken realized that it was not play-acting: he saw Ramage looking down at the chart and guessed that he had long ago weighed up all the prospects. If the Captain could still laugh and joke after that, then he had every right to expect his First Lieutenant to be cheerful as well. Southwick must have been born with a grin on that chubby red face of his, and with an irreverent attitude towards just about anything that other men took seriously—including going into battle and getting killed.
Southwick jabbed at the chart, running his finger along until it reached the eastern end of the lagoon, near where the Jocasta was moored. “Perhaps we could land men farther up the coast and let ‘em attack overland.”
“If they didn’t break their necks falling over precipices on the way. These are mountains, you know, not hills—they’d be in fine shape after they’d swum out to the Jocasta. They could paddle round her and hurl abuse—their powder would be wet, so abuse would be their only weapon.”
“But, sir,” Southwick protested, “there are bound to be boats—fishermen tie ‘em up to piers and that sort of thing.”
“At night they’d probably be out fishing, but anyway they’re small boats. Would you gamble on finding enough little fishing boats—with oars left in them—for two hundred men? Forty boats at least?”
Well, no, sir,” said Southwick. “Some, though. But you’re right about oars: they’re all thieves and they certainly wouldn’t trust each other enough to leave oars on board.”
“You don’t think our men could get on board from our own boats, sir?” Aitken asked.
“I’m sure they might, but if they had to tow her out—two knots? More than half a mile to the entrance? Three forts with 50, 36 and 28 guns—a total of a 114 with the range barely above two hundred yards?”
“They might sail her out,” Aitken said hopefully.
“Indeed they might. Those would be my orders if there was any guarantee that she’s properly rigged and that we could tell from seaward when there’s a fair wind in the channel. We know she was originally stripped and her yards sent down. Now we know her yards are crossed and sails bent on. But what of sheets and braces? If I was the Spanish captain, worried about having his ship cut out—don’t forget Captain Eames was there less than a month ago—I’d leave reeving sheets and braces until just before I was ready to sail.
“So without being reasonably certain of a fair wind and without being certain she can be sailed, I’m not risking two hundred Calypsos. It wouldn’t even be risking, it would be sending them to death or captivity.”
“But at least you’d have tried, sir,” Aitken protested.
“Yes, but …” Now Ramage was smiling. “The ‘but’ is simple yet important. A dead hero who succeeds is one thing; a dead hero who fails is another. And a dead hero who unnecessarily sent two hundred men to their graves is a knave.”
“Quite, sir,” Aitken said quietly, suddenly recalling the almost incredible loyalty that Captain Ramage seemed to inspire in men who had served with him, ranging from Southwick to that flock of seamen led by Jackson. “But we don’t have much time, sir. The minute anyone on the coast spots us, they’ll pass the word to Santa Cruz.”
“Yes, indeed,” Ramage agreed, “and a neutral ship coming into Santa Cruz might sight us: why, we might even be seen by a guarda costa.”
“Then, sir …”
“This is where the conversation began,” Ramage said, still smiling. “Southwick had just said it was hopeless, and I’d agreed.”
“But, sir—” but then Aitken found he had nothing more to say. Southwick slapped him on the back and gave a hearty laugh.
“Cheer up—we’ve all stayed alive up to now and we’ve a deal of prize-money due soon!”
Ramage turned to Southwick. “How does this American chart compare with the others?”
“More soundings, and I suspect the Jocasta’s position is more accurately marked. Aitken said the Jonathan skipper showed where he usually anchored if there was no room at the quay—where he’s drawn in an anchor. That’s only a hundred yards from the Jocasta’s stern, and she’s secured to buoys and doesn’t swing.”
“The distances compare well? I mean the scale of this chart is likely to be correct?”
“Yes, sir. See here, now, the channel’s a hundred yards wide at the entrance, almost exactly half a mile long, and tapers down a bit to about eighty yards where it meets the lagoon. As you can see, the lagoon is just about rectangular, as though it was an artificial harbour. A mile long from east to west, half a mile wide.”
Southwick took the dividers from a rack on Ramage’s desk and used them to point at the fort on the inland side of the lagoon. “I reckon this is the one that could cause the most trouble: Santa Fé. It stands three hundred feet up and can cover the channel from one end to the other. One mile from the fort to the entrance.
“Now, these two at the entrance, they’ve been sited badly. I don’t reckon they can fire down the channel towards the lagoon: I’m sure they can only fire to seaward and just cover the channe
l between ‘em.”
Ramage looked closely at the drawing. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, you see how that Jonathan fellow sketched in the run of the hills here. Look, this is Castillo San Antonio, on the eastern side of the entrance. Well, that’s how it is on Summers’s drawing. I reckon the slope of the hill hides the channel from the fort. None of us spotted it then so it was too late to ask. Both charts agree about the hills on the west side, too, so this other fort, El Pilar, was probably built the same way, with the slope hiding the channel.”
Aitken said suddenly: “It would make sense, sir: they site Santa Fé to sweep the channel and stop any ships sailing down it, and build San Antonio and El Pilar to cover the seaward approach. I’m no soldier, sir, but I can’t see them siting fortresses to stop ships leaving the port!”
“How much of the channel do you reckon they might cover, Southwick?” Ramage asked.
“Maybe half of it: a quarter of a mile.”
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Towing at two knots, you wouldn’t get a rowing boat past them.”
“No, sir,” Southwick said lamely. “I was just pointing it out.”
“How high would you guess the walls of the fort?”
“Forty or fifty feet, sir.”
“I think you’ll find that guns mounted that high in either fort would clear the hills …”
“Yes, sir,” Southwick admitted, flushing. “I was going on the plan drawn here. Of course, that’d be ground level. Sorry, sir.”
“No, you may be right anyway. I’m only going by the fact Summers didn’t mention it when I talked to him. He had sharp eyes, that man; considering he drew his chart from memory, he didn’t miss much.”
He sat down at the desk and motioned the two men to sit down. “Southwick, have a couple of copies made of this chart. It will be a good job for young Orsini. Clean, accurate copies.”
“Yes, sir. You have anything in particular in mind?”
Again Ramage smiled. “Some brilliant idea snatched from a passing cloud? No, our only hope is something unexpected, so we may as well be prepared. We might have Aitken row in one night disguised as a fisherman—he can bring us back a nice mackerel or two and report on the town.”
“I wouldn’t trust him in Santa Cruz with all those beautiful Spanish ladies, sir. Wouldn’t trust myself, come to that,” the old Master said, giving a lewd wink.
“What are your night orders, sir?” Aitken said hurriedly. “Anything special?”
“No, we’ll reverse our course at sunset and hope we’ll be lucky tomorrow. Now, how are these Invincibles settling in?”
“Very well, sir. Another week and you won’t be able to distinguish them from the others.”
“And Kenton?”
“He’s young, sir—and I don’t mean that he’s only just past twenty. He’s supposed to have had good marks when he took his examination for lieutenant, but—well, I wish the Admiral had sent us someone else.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Southwick said mildly. “He’s got plenty of spirit! You were a fourth lieutenant once!”
“Aye,” Aitken admitted. “But this Kenton—he hasn’t half the head of young Orsini. I can hardly believe that boy has been at sea only a few months.”
“Sunset,” Ramage said, “we reverse course at sunset—and hope for some luck by the time we’ve had our breakfast.”
CHAPTER TEN
AT THE FIRST sight of dawn—the black eastern night sky softening to grey, dimming the stars low on the horizon—the diminutive Marine drummer boy began beating a ruffle as bosun’s mates went through the ship, following the shrilling of their calls with bellows of: “General quarters—all hands to general quarters!”
There was no wild rush: sleepy-eyed men stumbled up ladders and went to their guns, to the head pumps and to the magazine. Every ship of the Royal Navy at sea in wartime met the dawn ready for action, guns loaded and run out, in case daylight showed an enemy close by.
The Calypso’s six lookouts were still on deck, one on each bow and quarter and two amidships; lookouts did not go aloft until the first daylight would let them see at least two hundred yards round the ship.
Aitken was officer of the deck and Ramage joined him as Rennick mustered his Marines aft. The wind was little more than a stiff breeze and as the Calypso reached to the south-west her bow occasionally sliced the top off a wave and sent a shower of spray across the fo’c’s’le.
The dim candle in the binnacle, lighting the compass card, was growing yellower as dawn spread higher in the sky; soon Ramage could distinguish the wavetops dancing grey and menacing as they swept under the ship, hurried westwards by the Trade wind. He shivered and pulled at his cloak: this was the most miserable part of the day—the grey light washed out colours and the sea always seemed more menacing, and the almost inevitable line of low cloud to windward was stark and black, as though heralding bad weather.
He knew the colours would soon come, the sea lose its threat and the line of cloud would probably disappear once the sun had some warmth in it; but it was the time of day when he had little strength to fight off the doubts and fears which, this morning of all mornings, seemed to wriggle into his soul like silent snakes; the serpents that ate away a man’s confidence but which were driven back whence they came once the sun lifted over the horizon. One of the advantages of living on land was you could sleep through the hours of grey doubts.
He looked astern at the Calypso’s wake, a smooth swathe through the waves. At that moment Aitken shouted: “Lookouts to the masthead!”
The two men standing amidships on each side ran to the shrouds: one started up the ratlines of the foremast, the second went hand over hand up the main. The other four men went to their stations for action. By the time the two lookouts were aloft and had taken a good look all round the horizon, visibility would be two hundred yards. Aitken had timed it well—but he had several years’ experience, Ramage thought to himself and, the way the war was going, had several more years ahead of him.
How he hated the smell of damp wool. His cloak had a fair share of salt on it from the spray and it soaked up the damp of the night. It was chilly and he was hungry: he would be glad when the ship stood down from general quarters and the galley fire could be lit. He stared round the horizon, expanding quickly now, and suddenly there was a hail from high overhead: “Deck there! Sail ho!”
“Where away?” Aitken shouted.
“Dead ahead, sir, two miles or less, an’ crossing our bow to the westward!”
It would be another neutral; Ramage was sure of that. Another Jonathan bound for one of the Spanish ports along this stretch of the Main with a cargo of salt cod and “notions.” She’d have made a landfall at Punta Peñas—probably passing the Calypso to windward in the darkness—and was now running westward for her destination. And, arriving there, she would report seeing an English frigate in the area, thus raising the alarm …
“Deck there!” This was the lookout at the foremast. “She’s a small brig.”
“Aye, aye,” Aitken acknowledged.
Brig? Still, Ramage thought, she could be an American, though most of them were schooners. She was unlikely to be Spanish this far to the east: Santa Cruz was still about seventy-five miles farther along the coast. It was the nearest Main port to the Atlantic for any ships trying to break the blockade, having slipped out of Cadiz in a gale of wind on a dark night and dodged the patrolling frigates, but such ships were rare.
“I can see her, sir,” Aitken said, and told the quartermaster to bear away a point to starboard. “Fine on our starboard bow.”
Ramage was more interested in having a cup of hot tea, a pleasure which had now been put off for at least an hour by the appearance of this brig. “Very well,” he said, and began walking up and down along the starboard side. There was no way of stopping the wretched American raising the alarm: he would have seen the Calypso by now. Damn all neutrals!
All round the ship the men were standin
g at the guns; along the centre line the ship’s boys squatted on the cylindrical wooden cartridge cases they had carried up from the magazine. The sand sprinkled on the dampened deck grated underfoot, but the light was at last bringing out the colours. He went over to the binnacle drawer and took up his telescope. He pulled out the extension tube to the mark filed in the metal to show the correct focus for him and, balancing against the aftermost gun, looked at the brig. She was small, she was pierced for eight guns—and she was Spanish: that was clear from the cut of her sails.
“Mr Aitken,” he called and, as soon as the First Lieutenant was standing beside him, said quietly: “Take a good look at her—she’s a typical Spanish guarda costa. She’s looking for smugglers.”
The Scot put the telescope to his eye. “I can see now that her sails have that high roach the Spanish like, sir. But couldn’t she be American?”
“No—she’s Mediterranean-built. Just look at that sheer and stern … Ah! She’s spotted us—see the men grouping by the guns? Run up our colours—and make the challenge, just in case she’s a prize put into service from Jamaica.”
Two minutes later three flags streamed out from the Calypso’s mainmast: three numbers which were the challenge and changed daily. Any British ship of war would have the diagram which also showed the correct numbers which were the reply.
The Calypso was approaching fast and, as though she was bringing the daylight with her, Ramage could see more details. Black hull with a bright red strake; four guns a side, and they were now run out. Men scrambling aloft—going to let fall her topsails, no doubt, though little good they would do her with a frigate approaching. No answer to the challenge … if she was a former Spaniard now commissioned into the Royal Navy, the flags for both challenge and reply would have been bent on to the halyards, ready for just such a situation as this.
