Ramage At Trafalgar Page 12

  “Oh, goodness me, no: most of them have never even spoken to His Lordship before! Let me see–” he looked round, counting.

  “Yes, only five of these captains served with His Lordship in our famous chase round the Mediterranean and across to the West Indies. One joined us over there. And the rest–” he counted, “–the other twenty-one have all joined recently from the Channel Fleet, many of them while Lord Nelson was in England.”

  He looked over the captains, counting yet again. “My dear Ramage, you started me off on a train of thought. Would you believe it, but of the twenty-seven captains here in this cabin (excluding you), only eight of them have ever before served with Lord Nelson!”

  Scott paused a moment, thinking and looking round the cabin. “What’s more, only two of them have served with His Lordship since the year before last, and one of those is Captain Hardy! So, believe it or not, nineteen of the captains in this cabin have never before served with His Lordship!

  “You’d never believe it, to watch them all talking together! Well, I don’t know when the Combined Fleet is going to come out and fight, but His Lordship hasn’t much time to train his fleet.”

  Ramage looked round him and sensed the camaraderie that already existed. “I don’t know how or why,” he admitted to Scott, “but I think most of them share his spirit!”

  “Well, that’s the extraordinary effect His Lordship has on men,” Scott said confidentially. “You should have seen him at Copenhagen. Wonderful with Sir Hyde Parker – they were both in a very difficult situation – and wonderful with the Danes after the battle.”

  At that minute they heard Nelson’s high-pitched nasal voice. “Gentlemen, let me have your attention. Gather round. I want to explain how I propose – intend, rather – to beat the Combined Fleet, providing we can lure it out of Cadiz. My plan is simple: it will so surprise the French Admiral Villeneuve that his advantage in number of ships will be lost. I count on taking or destroying at least twenty of the enemy: I trust you won’t disappoint me. And this is how we are going to do it.”

  Ramage, like every other man in the cabin, listened spellbound. Nelson did not hesitate once or use any of the “umms”, “ers” or other hesitancies one might have expected. Nor had he exaggerated when he said his plan was simple. Ramage realized he might equally well have called it revolutionary. One thing was certain – if he succeeded with this plan he would be a hero; if he failed, he would be lucky to escape Their Lordships bringing him to a court martial, and (whatever the verdict) he would never be employed again by the Admiralty, even as a rat-catcher in a sail loft.

  Up to now, opposing fleets fought by each getting into a line, one ship astern of the other, follow-my-leader fashion, and approaching obliquely until they were side by side. Then each ship had to try to drive its opponent out of the line. St Vincent had used these tactics against the French and Spanish at Cape St Vincent and (but for Nelson) they would have been as useless as they always were. At the Nile and Copenhagen, Nelson had successfully attacked the enemy at anchor. Now he could expect to be attacking an enemy at sea and, as he described it to the listening captains, the Combined Fleets of France and Spain would probably comprise a long line of thirty-four ships (unless more broke into Cadiz from Brest, or some such place, and reinforced them).

  He lost no time in describing how he was going to surprise (and overwhelm) the enemy. The long line of thirty-four ships would probably be sailing with the wind on the quarter or on the beam. In other words, there would be a leeward end probably formed by the leading, or van, ships, and a windward end, the centre and rear ships.

  If the leading ships wanted to turn back to reinforce the rear they would have to tack or wear and then beat to windward to get into position, zigzagging along the line.

  We shall be outnumbered, Nelson said. He did not know how many ships of the line he would have on the day of the battle, but the British would be heavily outnumbered. So he would not even try to pit all his ships against the thirty-four of the enemy. No, he was going to attack and overwhelm one section of their line with two columns. Breaking through the enemy’s line at right-angles, he would cut off the centre and rear divisions, leaving the leading ships sailing on to leeward and out of the fight until they could beat back to help the centre and rear – by which time the British should have captured several ships.

  The two columns would in effect be two knives slicing a section out of a long snake. He would lead one column in the Victory, and Admiral Collingwood the other: two columns each of a dozen or so ships. But he wanted to lure the Combined Fleet out: that was his most difficult task. At the moment it was expected they would sail and head north to the Channel, to try to seize control of the Strait of Dover for long enough for Bonaparte to sail over the invasion flotillas he had waiting in Calais, Boulogne and all the other ports and anchorages) to land on the Kent and Sussex coasts. It is only in England, on English soil, that the French can finally beat us, Nelson said, and Bonaparte knows that well enough: he is camped on the hills at Boulogne; all he dreams about is his troops getting on shore in England.

  My fleet here, blockading the Combined Fleet in Cadiz, is all that prevents Bonaparte from sailing his flotillas, Nelson said quietly. If we let them escape us, Bonaparte’s flotillas will sail. Quite apart from that, we have a large British convoy of General Craig’s troops sailing to the Mediterranean to join the Russians in Italy. Any French or Spanish ships at sea will threaten General Craig and his troops. Unfortunately, Nelson admitted, no one knew quite where the general and his convoy were at the moment.

  But, Nelson emphasized, the Combined Fleet would not be lured out by the sight of a score of British ships of the line waiting on the horizon ready to attack. Therefore tonight – as soon as the captains had returned to their ships – the whole fleet would shift fifty miles to the westward, leaving a couple of frigates to watch Cadiz, and another frigate and three ships of the line (because he did not have enough frigates) would stretch out to the fleet, each within signalling distance of the other, and then they would wait.

  Provisions, Nelson said abruptly. He did not know how long they would have to wait off Cadiz, but the men of the fleet must be kept fit. That meant fresh provisions. Yes, most of the ships had enough salt tack and water for three months but salt junk eventually meant scurvy, so for fresh meat he would be sending a few ships at a time the eighty-odd miles to get bullocks from Tetuan, watering at Gibraltar on the way.

  And he intended introducing Sir Home Popham’s new telegraphic code into the fleet, as a supplement to the Signal Book. “I brought out copies for each ship: make sure each of you collects a copy when you leave.”

  Nelson then asked if any of the captains had questions, or comments. It was already obvious that the captains were delighted with Nelson’s two-column, cut-off-the-head attack. Several indicated that they were in no rush to go down to Tetuan and so risk missing the battle.

  And then it was over. Captains took their farewell of Nelson like excited schoolboys leaving for the holidays, and soon the great cabin was empty again except for Ramage, Scott and His Lordship.

  “Ah, Ramage, now for your orders. First, I don’t suppose you have anyone else on board who speaks Spanish?”

  “Yes, a midshipman speaks it fluently.”

  “Is he Spanish?”

  “No, sir: he is the nephew of the Marchesa di Volterra.”

  “Ah, the beautiful Marchesa you rescued on the Italian mainland.” Nelson’s face clouded. “But wait a moment, didn’t I hear recently that Bonaparte seized her when she decided to go home during the Peace of Amiens?”

  Ramage nodded. “Yes, sir. As far as we know she’s still a prisoner – unless he had her assassinated. But three or four years ago her young nephew escaped from Italy, and she asked me to take him as a midshipman.”

  “And how has he turned out, eh?”

  “As lively as the Marchesa. A fine seaman and one of the most popular people in the ship. Once he passes for lieutenant he�
��ll be one of the best in the Navy.”

  “Well, ‘uncle’,” Nelson said with a grin, “the job I have for you doesn’t require seamanship but you’ll both need Spanish – and courage. You have good charts of Rota and Cadiz on board the Calypso?”

  When Ramage shook his head, Nelson said to Scott: “Please go and tell the master to make copies of the ones we have. Mr Ramage must have them.”

  As the chaplain left the cabin, Nelson dived his left hand into the pocket of his armchair, obviously searching for a particular paper. Do I offer to help him? Ramage wondered. He decided against it: no one had fussed around the admiral while the captains were on board: Nelson seemed a man who overcame his own problems.

  Finally he brought out a black folder held together by tapes. Holding the folder between his knees, he tugged at the tapes and then opened it on his lap.

  “Ah, yes, here it is. Take this and read it.”

  Ramage walked over and took the single sheet of paper. In neat copperplate writing was a Spanish name and the name of a church.

  “Now give it back,” Nelson said and as soon as Ramage had handed it over he said, squinting his good eye and holding up the page to catch the light: “Now repeat the name and the church.”

  Ramage did so, and Nelson put the page back in the black folder.

  “You can guess the rest,” he said

  Most of it, Ramage thought sourly. The clues were speaking Spanish and the name of a Spaniard in Cadiz, his address being somewhere near that church. Go and see him. Find out from him all you can about the enemy.

  “I think so, sir,” Ramage said. “Is he one of our agents?”

  “I don’t know about ‘one of our’,” Nelson said. “He’s our only agent in Cadiz or Rota. A disaffected Spanish nobleman who hates the French. His name and – such as it is – address was written down for you by none other than the Secretary of State for the Foreign Department, which gives you some idea of the need for secrecy. This man’s son-in-law is one of the Spanish captains commanding a ship in the Combined Fleet – with not much enthusiasm, I gather. Now, this nobleman has been passing his intelligence to Gibraltar, somehow or other, and he will not be expecting you. You will say you are a friend of the Secretary of State, who assures me that will be sufficient. Then you will ask him about the following.”

  Nelson reeled off several questions and then said sternly to Ramage: “Nothing in writing, mind you. This man, apart from being a friend of the Secretary of State’s family since before the war, is a very important agent. So you report to me as soon as you have the information.

  “You notice I am not giving you any instructions about how to carry out this task: you have more experience than most officers in landing on the enemy’s shore, so I wish you good luck, Uncle Ramage and nephew…!”

  Chapter Ten

  The Spanish and the French must wonder what the devil is going on, Ramage thought. Last night they could see more than twenty ships of the line and some frigates, menacing sentries on the western horizon. When they woke this morning the horizon to the westward was clear of ships, except for a couple of frigates close in and another five or six miles out, and in the distance, its sails from time to time dipping below the curvature of the earth, perhaps another frigate: anyway, not a ship of the line.

  So where had the English fleet gone? Ramage could imagine the puzzled faces and arguments on board the Bucentaure, which was apparently the flagship of Admiral Villeneuve, who commanded the Combined Fleet, and the Argonaute, the flagship of the Spanish admiral, Gravina.

  As long as they argued, they would be less likely to concern themselves about Blackwood’s Euryalus, now tacking back and forth just outside the El Diamante and La Galera shoals, a couple of miles into the bay beyond the entrance to Cadiz anchorage. From there he could see Rota on the north side of the bay and all the French and Spanish ships at anchor in Cadiz; a sharp-eyed man with a telescope could watch for any undue boat activity between the ships and, more important, see immediately when particular ships began bending on sails or swaying up yards. Both the Bucentaure and Argonaute were in sight from that position, Blackwood had told Ramage when they talked on board the Victory, so that by watching the boats coming and going it was almost possible to keep both admirals’ visitors’ books.

  While the Euryalus kept watch on the north side of Cadiz city, by noon the Calypso was hove-to south of the small city, and Ramage was sitting astride a carronade, a telescope to his eye, Orsini on his left and Southwick, clutching a slate and drawing a rough chart, on his right.

  Rota, Cadiz Bay and Cadiz harbour itself formed a huge sickle: Rota was at the tip; then the bay formed the curving blade with Cadiz itself at the end, at the top of the handle.

  The handle itself represented the long anchorage with Cadiz on the seaward side, the anchorage itself getting very shallow and becoming marshes and salt-pans three miles from the entrance, with a narrow and deeper channel curving through it and allowing just enough room for ships of the line to anchor, though a sudden wind shift on the turn of the tide would give captains and first lieutenants a few anxious moments…

  So there was Cadiz spread out before him at the end of a long sandspit. The spit stretched five miles northwards from the salt-ponds but was only a hundred feet wide for almost half its length before widening out into a bulge of land large enough for the city to be built.

  Ramage started his detailed examination from the southern end. “Salt-ponds and marshes,” he told Southwick. “There’s a windmill down there that’s probably the saltworks, pumping seawater into the pans, or grinding the salt itself: how the devil does one make salt?

  “Then the spit starts, and it’s not thirty yards wide. Runs along to the nor’nor’west and doesn’t get any wider for…well, more than two miles. Ah, then there’s a fort: that’s the Fuerte de La Cortadura, the entrance to the city and which cuts off the spit.

  “Have you got that, you two? Just over a couple of miles of spit and then the fort, and then the city – such as it is – begins. Oh yes, on the seaward side there are rocks with sand behind from the salt-ponds almost up to the fort, but then it is a wide sandy beach, a gentle slope up to it, just right for beaching a boat.

  “Now…still going nor’nor’west from the fort, there’s a castle and tower on the inshore side. Yes, that’ll be the Castillo de Puntales, built to cover the entrance of the anchorage from the inside: it can’t fire to seaward.

  “Are you listening closely, Orsini? A mile along from the fort and almost in line from here with the Castillo, is a conspicuous church – and that’s San José, the one we’re interested in. Stands back three hundred yards from the beach, behind a long cemetery. A very long cemetery, with houses between it and the church. They must have a long walk to the grave after a funeral service in the church.”

  He handed the telescope to Orsini and pointed out the church. “Examine it: you’re going to have to find your way round there in the dark. There’s what looks like a bullring another three hundred yards along the shore north of the cemetery – so there’s just a short journey for any bullfighter making a fatal mistake.”

  After five minutes Orsini said he had memorized the view and Ramage motioned to Southwick to look with the telescope. “Draw as good a chart as you can from the fort up to the bullring: show the castle, church, cemetery and some of the most conspicuous of those houses between the cemetery and the San José church.”

  While the master scratched away with his slate, Ramage continued looking north, towards the end of the spit. A mile along the shore was a tower and very close to it a dignified building with a dome which was obviously the cathedral: the weak sun reflected off the dome and, beyond it, on the other side of the spit, Ramage caught sight of masts and yards – part of the Combined Fleet, those ships anchored near the entrance on the other side of the spit.

  The spit curved slightly to seaward where it widened, and Ramage counted three more churches in the last half a mile, the nearest being only three hun
dred yards from the cathedral. Towards the end of the spit, amid strong fortifications, was a big watch-tower – that must be the Torre de Taviras, with half a dozen towers close by. The Spanish always loved building towers: he remembered the dozens lining the coast all the way from the Portuguese border down to Gibraltar, and then along the Mediterranean coast, and as though they still had plenty of stone and energy, the scores built in Italy, to protect Spanish possessions in Tuscany.

  “Not very promising, sir,” Southwick said with a disapproving sniff, giving Ramage back the telescope. “Nice smooth sandy beach to land from a boat – with all the sentries in that fort watching you. Then you have to get through the gate attached to the fort, and the sentries will want passes. Probably a curfew, too, with all these ships in port. Dusk till dawn. So why’re you out, eh? They’ll pop you both in a cell and slap your hands.”

  “We could always wade through the marshes and avoid the fort.”

  “Then you’d stink so much a sentry would smell you a mile off, the dogs will follow barking in protest, and this Spanish gentleman will hold his nose and tell you to go away.”

  “Quite right, too,” Ramage said gravely, “nothing worse on a hot night than the stink of a ripe marsh…”

  “So what are we going to do, sir?” asked an alarmed Orsini.

  “Avoid making a stink by landing on the city side of the fort, of course,” Ramage said. “Now fetch Jackson and my boat’s crew: they have a lot to do.”

  Nodding at Southwick’s promise that he would go below at once and draw a fair copy of the chartlet, Ramage sat for a while on the carronade while the Calypso’s sails slatted as she sat hove to. From the shore it would seem natural enough for a frigate watching a place to be hove-to: watchers, whether soldiers or sailors, would imagine those English officers staring through telescopes, and could appreciate that this was more easily done from a stationary ship than one forging up and down the coast, pitching and rolling in the Atlantic swell which almost always thundered on the beach in a wind with any west in it.