by Dudley Pope
Perthshire seemed ten thousand miles away, and Dunkeld twice as far. As he walked away from the binnacle he thought of his home in the lee of the ruined cathedral at Dunkeld, with the River Tay sparkling and gurgling nearby, bitterly cold and alive with trout. Many a trout he'd tickled as a boy and cooked over a bonfire, and never did fish taste so delicious, even though one side was usually burned to charcoal and the other side raw. It had been a hard life as a boy, since his father had been away at sea for one and two years at a time, and his mother had to rule her family of three boys and three girls with the sternness of a drill sergeant, and there was never enough money. Until he had first gone to sea he had not known what it was to wear clothes specially bought for him: as the youngest son he had always had the clothes which his older brothers had outgrown.
That was something Captain Ramage had never experienced - there was obviously plenty of money in his family - yet you would never think it from the way he behaved. He was not mean but he lived simply and had simple tastes. He always set a good table when he invited any of the officers to join him for dinner, but there was none of the ostentation that Aitken had so often seen in wealthy captains. The patronizing comment about a vintage wine, for instance, knowing that a poor damned lieutenant's only knowledge of wine was probably the 'Black Strap' issued instead of rum when the ship was in the Mediterranean.
Aitken had heard some stories about Captain Ramage's father, too, the Earl of Blazey. Men said that as a captain and as an admiral the nickname of 'Old Blazeaway' was used with pride and affection by everyone who served with him, from the cook's mate to the most senior captain, and that it was a nickname earned not only because of his behaviour in battle but because he commanded ship, squadron or fleet sternly and justly, and woe betide anyone, cook's mate or captain, who did not measure up to his standards.
The son had puzzled Aitken at first. The son of a man who held one of the oldest earldoms in the kingdom and who had been one of the country's most famous admirals could have expected very rapid promotion if he chose the Navy: captain's servant or midshipman in ships whose captains would ensure he had the finest training; appointment as a master's mate the moment he passed his examination for lieutenant and waited until he was twenty, the lowest age he could serve as a lieutenant. And the day after he was twenty he would receive an appointment as lieutenant, and probably in some flagship so that he was readily available the moment a vacancy occurred in one of the ships of the fleet for a more senior lieutenant. By the time he was twenty-three or so, he could reckon to be made post, after having spent a year or two commanding a smaller vessel. He might have the necessary knowledge of ships and men but, Aitken reflected bitterly, it was rare: 'interest' mattered more than seamanship.
That had not happened with Mr Ramage; so much was obvious. He had commanded several ships as a lieutenant but Aitken knew that if 'interest' had been at work he would have been made post at least a couple of years ago, whereas in fact he had been made post only a few days before taking command of the Juno.
When the word had reached him from the First Lord's office that he was to be the Juno's new First Lieutenant, Aitken had been delighted: Lord St Vincent had certainly always kept his word that he would look after the son of the master of the first ship he had ever commanded. But as soon as he heard that the Juno's new commanding officer was to be Captain Ramage he had grave doubts. He had heard enough stories to know that he was brave - foolhardy, some had said - and a good seaman, but Aitken had been worried by two things. The first was why he had never used his title, and the second was why he had not been made post earlier. Perhaps his reputation for being a fine seaman was simply talk.
It had taken only a few hours to get the answers: the Juno was hardly clear of the Wight before he realized that this young Captain - he guessed they were about the same age - was not only a fine seaman, but a fine instinctive seaman, which was quite a different thing. There were few men who really had the feel of a ship, who could make a vessel do what they wanted with the vessel's co-operation. That was the secret; handle the ship like a horse, so you guided it, not fought it. And know the weather. Mr Ramage often said quietly that he thought it was time to furl topsails, or reef, when clouds on the horizon would not have worried Aitken, and sure enough an innocent-looking patch of grey cloud would suddenly turn into a screaming squall that would have ripped the sails from the yards but for the Captain's instinct. Back in Dunkeld, Aitken thought, it would have been called the second sight.
The three lieutenants who had joined the ship at the same time agreed with what Aitken had told them off the Lizard. They had grumbled at the Captain's announcement, and said that what he wanted was impossible and that they needed more time. But Aitken had told them flatly that they were lucky to be serving in the same ship as this Captain - and this Master, for old Southwick had more seamanship in his little finger than most men had in their whole bodies.
Having satisfied himself about his new Captain's seamanship, Aitken had set out to discover, as discreetly as possible, why he was never known in the Service as Lord Ramage. Old Southwick, who had served with him for three or four years, soon gave him the answer: senior officers without titles sometimes became vindictive about junior officers with, and few hostesses knew where to seat titled juniors in relation to their untitled seniors.
Aitken saw now that Lord St Vincent really had been keeping his promise: he had deliberately chosen the Juno for him, knowing he would be under Mr Ramage. If the stories he had read in the Gazette were authentic, serving with Mr Ramage could bring you honour or it could get your head knocked off by a roundshot. It was not so much that he went looking for trouble but that he seemed to be given tasks that, even reading the dry-as-dust accounts in the Gazette afterwards, must have been almost impossible to achieve. He must get singled out for them. Well, whatever the reason, it meant that Mr Ramage was more than likely to have a detached command; orders which would mean that the Juno would carry out some special service in the Caribbean and not be attached to Rear-Admiral Davis's command at Barbados. For the whole of Aitken's life at sea so far he had served in ships attached to a particular command, usually working with a fleet in the Channel or Mediterranean . . . Dull work, and irritating, too, because any slackness was sure to be spotted by the flagship, and even if whatever drew down the admiral's wrath was not slackness but one of those mishaps that are bound to happen - a rope snagging on a cleat, a seaman slipping on a wet deck, a rips sail ripping from luff to leach - no excuses or explanations were accepted. Indeed, it was a stupid or unsure captain or lieutenant who even bothered to offer one.
Aitken thought about the coming day and took off his hat to wipe his brow. Mr Ramage was walking round the deck now, and he tried to think of the manoeuvres the Captain was likely to order him to perform in that quiet voice of his. All tbe usual sail-handling he knew the men would perform well - better than he could have hoped even a week ago. But from the talk he had heard, from the stories that Southwick had told him of past operations, Mr Ramage had a reputation for doing the unexpected. Admittedly Southwick's stories had all been about doing unexpected things against the French and Spanish, but any captain wanting to test his ship's company was likely to order something unexpected too ...
The truly remarkable thing, for which Aitken was thankful, was the change that was coming in the men's attitude. Efficient ships were always happy ships with firm but just captains; men like Captain Herbert Duff, with whom Aitken had once served. Captain Duff had insisted that all his officers had at least one pair of silk stockings - to be worn when going into action. When he heard that the Fourth Lieutenant could not afford a pair, Captain Duff had passed along a new pair as a gift. Silk stockings were not just some quirk on Captain Duff's part; the old Scot had explained in his dry Aberdeen accent that silk made it easier for the surgeon: a leg wound while wearing woollen stockings usually meant that scraps of wool were driven into the wound and often led to gangrene, while silk never did. Aitken shrugged his sho
ulders at the memory: poor old Captain Duff had been cut in half by a 24-pounder shot that went on to lodge in the mizenmast ... Suddenly he realized a figure was standing next to him and the familiar quiet voice said: 'There's a bad fire in the Master's cabin, Aitken... a good start to a Monday morning, eh?'
It took the young Scot a few moments to switch his mind from Captain Duff's death to the realization that Captain Ramage's promised day had begun early. As he began shouting the sequence of orders that set the calls of the bos'n's mates shrilling he tried to remember everything written in the Captain's Orders under the heading of 'Fire'. They had practised it twice, off Ushant and again off Madeira, and Aitken's mind became a blank as men began running across the deck in the darkness, swarming up from below. But he knew another minute of this and there would be complete confusion unless he began giving specific orders - and there was Mr Ramage standing by the binnacle, the watch in his hand illuminated by the binnacle light.
Aitken snatched at the speaking trumpet beside the binnacle box and began shouting, his broad Scots accent emphasized by the excitement and the trumpet: 'Boarders, engine and firemen to the quarterdeck; look alive there!' He paused a moment and then ordered: 'Boarders to starboard; firemen with your buckets to larboard!'
Ah, at last the Marines had woken up: there was the Marine officer - puffing and blowing, he was much too fat - and making for the poop, where they were to stand under arms. Now Baker, the Third Lieutenant, was waiting beside him, still in his nightshirt with breeches dragged on and his hat jammed askew on his head. And there's a thing, Aitken reflected crossly: the Captain's Orders said the First and Third Lieutenant were to go wherever the fire was and direct operations there, with the Captain taking the conn. But Captain Ramage was just standing by the binnacle and at that moment he turned, as if reading the First Lieutenant's thoughts, and said: ‘Regard me as dead in the fire, Mr Aitken...'
Aitken turned to Baker: 'Find Mr Southwick and go with him to the seat of the fire. It's in his cabin so maybe he's there already. Tell him I'm staying here at the conn. Hurry, man!' He thought a moment and called hurriedly: 'Tell him the Captain died in the fire and I am in command!'
All the other officers and warrant officers should have gone to their proper stations - but had they studied and remembered the Captain's Orders? He weighed up the risk of giving too many orders against the danger of men wandering around having forgotten what they were supposed to be doing, and jammed the speaking trumpet to his mouth.
'Gunner to the magazine ... Bos'n and carpenter to their store rooms . . . Master-at-arms to examine the tiers and then report to me here . . . Carpenter's mates with their mauls and axes to the larboard gangway ...'
What had he forgotten? Where the devil was Wagstaffe, the Second Lieutenant? - he and the Fourth Lieutenant, Lacey, were in charge of the pumps and hoses. He saw the two midshipmen waiting behind him, ready to run errands. He thought for a moment and chose Orsini. 'Run and find Mr Wagstaffe. Ask him how soon the pumps will be ready and whether he has the hoses led down to the Master's cabin yet, and report back to me.'
The boy hurried off and Aitken saw the Captain bend slightly so he could see the face of his watch by the binnacle light. Or was he looking at the compass?
'How are you heading?' Aitken snapped at the quartermaster. As soon as he knew they were still on course he took a quick glance astern to make sure no squalls were sneaking up in their wake and gestured at the other midshipman. 'Benson, find the Surgeon and tell him to report to me here.'
Even before the boy had time to point the First Lieutenant heard Bowen behind him saying gently: 'I did report, Mr Aitken, but you probably did not hear me.'
'Very well,' Aitken said, and realized it was time he had a report from where the fire was supposed to be: he did not want some over-eager idiots chopping away at bulkheads. 'Benson, get down to the Master's cabin and ask the Third Lieutenant for an immediate report!'
The whole business was a disaster; that was the only thing that Aitken was sure about. A good ten minutes must have elapsed since Mr Ramage appeared alongside him in the darkness and a real fire in the Master's cabin would probably have reached the magazine by now, since it was just below, and blown the ship to pieces.
At least the engine was now in place; he could see that much. Head pumps were rigged over the side and hoses were being led across the deck like long twisting snakes. Kinks in them, no doubt; there always were. He glanced aft - there were the Marines lined up with the Lieutenant in front of them. Well, even if he was a fat fellow no one could fault his efficiency.
The head pumps! Damnation, they were rigged over the side: there was not a faint hope their hoses would suck at the speed the ship was going: they should have been led below to the cistern - and had the carpenter started to let water into the cistern ready for the head pumps to pump it up to the tank on the engine? Did Mr Ramage want him to flood the cistern or - he was about to walk over and ask him when he remembered the quiet 'Regard me as dead in the fire . . .'
He looked round hurriedly for a reliable messenger and saw Orsini scurrying towards him. The boy saluted and said excitedly: 'Mr Wagstaffe says the pumps are ready, sir, but Mr Southwick's compliments, sir, and he says the fire is out!'
Aitken managed to stifle a sigh of relief: obviously the Captain had given the Master instructions earlier. He saw the Captain looking at his watch and then waving for him to come to the binnacle. At that moment a horrified Aitken saw the two helmsmen spinning the wheel, bringing the ship round to starboard and up into the wind: already the fluttering of the sails was turning into thundering claps and as the First Lieutenant turned to shout at the two men, Ramage said, his voice loud to make himself heard and holding on to the binnacle box as the ship began to roll: 'The tiller ropes seem to have parted, Mr Aitken ... I’ll take the conn.’
By dawn Aitken and the rest of the ship's company were exhausted. One party had no sooner clapped emergency tackles to the tiller as topmen furled the topsail and the great mainsail and foresail were trimmed to get the strain off the rudder, allowing Aitken to report to the Captain that the ship was under control again, than Ramage had ordered the ship to be hove-to, using the tiller tackles, and a cutter hoisted out to starboard, rowed round the ship carrying ten Marines, and recovered on the larboard side.
When that had been done - with the decks still strewn with hoses and the engine sitting by the mainmast, well lashed down and its handles resting like a seesaw - Ramage had told the Second Lieutenant to take the conn. Aitken relaxed and was thankful that while they had been working on the tiller tackles he had remembered to make sure the lookouts were sent aloft just before dawn. He watched Ramage walking forward to the companionway and envied him: no doubt his steward would soon bring him a cup of hot tea.
But at the top of the companionway Ramage paused, looked ahead and turned suddenly to the Second Lieutenant. 'Mr Wagstaffe - I see breakers ahead. Your masts have gone by the board, so youll have to anchor,' With that he disappeared down the companionway.
Wagstaffe stared helplessly at Aitken. Since they were in the middle of the Atlantic, more than a thousand miles from land in any direction, they were nowhere near ready: the anchors were secured with preventer stoppers, the cables were ranged below, bucklers closed off the hawse-holes so that seas did not sweep through them and flood into the ship.
Aitken paused a moment. It was obvious that the Captain intended that Wagstaffe should carry out the first moves to deal with this particular emergency. He shrugged his shoulders and said: 'You are the officer of the deck; we'll be on the rocks in a few minutes unless you do something!'
The moment Wagstaffe recovered from his surprise, like Aitken before him at the fire alarm, he seized a speaking trumpet and began bellowing orders. The First Lieutenant was about to take over - the normal procedure once the officer of the deck had discovered the emergency and given the preliminary orders - when Orsini came scurrying up from below. The Captain was to be informed, he told Aitken, t
he moment they were ready to anchor.
The next ten minutes, as far as Aitken was concerned, had been chaos or, at best, partly-controlled confusion: seamen working in almost complete darkness in the tier had wrestled with the cable, which was seventeen inches in circumference and 720 feet long, stiff and heavy - it weighed nearly four tons. The buckler closing the hawse had been removed so the end of the cable could be led out and round the bow and secured to an anchor and finally, hours later it seemed, Aitken was able to hurry below to report all was ready.
He found Ramage sitting at his desk, a pile of papers in front of him. The First Lieutenant recognized them - the routine reports that would have to be ready for the Admiral when the Juno arrived in Barbados: muster tables giving details of every man in the ship's company, slop book showing what each had bought from shirts to tobacco, sick book, returns from the bos'n, gunner and carpenter concerning their stores...
Ramage glanced at his watch as Aitken began his report and scribbled the time on a piece of paper, commenting sourly: 'I'm glad they weren't real breakers.'
‘I’m sorry, sir,' Aitken said miserably, 'but it was an unexpected - er, evolution.'
'Quite, but it's the unexpected that sinks ships,' Ramage said, his voice neutral. 'Very well, carry on: unbend the cable and ship the buckler - and you'd better get the decks cleared. The ship looks as though the men from the Westminster Fire Office have been fighting a burning street.'
Aitken went back to the quarterdeck with mixed emotions: resentment, annoyance at his own shortcomings, anxiety over what was to come ... It was still only half past six and on a normal morning the ship's company would by now have washed the decks, polished the brightwork, spread the awnings, and be waiting for the order to lash up and stow hammocks. Instead they had gone through a complete fire drill in the darkness, rigged emergency steering, and prepared to anchor. And all the Captain said was: 'You'd better get the deck cleared,' and made a sarcastic remark about one of the fire insurance companies. Of course the hoses were still all over the deck and the tackles were still rove in the tiller flat, although unhooked now and snaking all over the ward room. How the new rope in those damned blocks had twisted and kinked. That was one lesson he had learned - never use new rope in purchases for emergency steering: the men had to use handspikes to untwist them,
