Ramage At Trafalgar r-16 Page 12

  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 saltpans 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 saltponds 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.

  "Saltponds 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 saltponds 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 hundred 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.

  Of course the west wind, he reflected, was the wind in which the French and Spanish seamen (even if not Villeneuve, who might well be impatient to carry out whatever orders he had received) could relax: they could not sail out in a west wind, and the English had to keep well out in case a sudden gale made the whole coast a dangerous lee shore.

  An east wind . . . that was what Lord Nelson (and probably the French Admiral Villeneuve) dreamed about: an east wind (or, if they were determined enough, any wind with a bit of east in it) was the wind that would let the Combined Fleet of France and Spain, thirty-three ships of the line, sail from Cadiz.

  At the same time, it put Lord Nelson and the English fleet fifty miles to leeward . . . The west wind that could bring Nelson to Cadiz at the rush was the very wind that prevented the enemy sailing: the east wind that let them out put the British fleet to leeward. English, British ... it was difficult to be consistent when the French, Spanish and Italian always referred to "les Anglais", "los Ingles" and "gli Inglesi", and the English themselves (quite fairly, of course, because of the Scots, Welsh and Irish) referred to "the British".

  Anyway, once having got out of Cadiz on an east wind, where would the Combined Fleet go? If north-westward for the English Channel, then (if they managed to evade Nelson) they had a soldier's wind and a calm sea. If they were bound for th
e Mediterranean, though, the Gut was only fifty miles down the coast to the south - five hours' sailing in a brisk breeze. But if the Combined Fleet was bound for the Mediterranean - for Malta, to try to intercept General Craig's convoy, or for some operation against Italy - as soon as they turned into the Strait that east wind would be foul for them . . .

  Neither the cat (Lord Nelson) nor the mouse (Villeneuve) had an easy task - unless Villeneuve was bound for the English Channel. But there was usually some warning of an east wind, and sails had to be bent on ... It would take the Combined Fleet many hours to get sails hoisted and anchors weighed, but using flag signals and Popham's new code, His Lordship should have the news in half an hour . . .

  Cadiz and this coast, Ramage mused, was scattered with history: that mountain to the south-east, as Southwick had told Orsini, was named after the family one of whose dukes led the Spanish Armada; fifteen miles northwards from Cadiz was the mouth of the Guadalquivir and Sanlúcar de Barrameda, from where Magellan sailed in 1519 to go round the world. Thirty-five miles north of there, from Palos on the Rio Tinto, Columbus sailed in 1492 to discover the New World . . . Columbus's discovery, Magellan's circumnavigation and the Spanish Armada sailing from Cadiz just about covered all that mattered at sea in the last few centuries, and it all began along fifty or sixty miles of this coast. . .

  The forthcoming battle (if it was forthcoming) might add a footnote, since if Nelson lost it (or the Combined Fleet evaded him) then there would be nothing to stop Bonaparte invading England (and Scotland and Wales!).

  And whether or not the Combined Fleet evaded Lord Nelson or was brought to battle by him might well depend on the intelligence to be passed tonight by this Spaniard, who lived in the lee of the San José church.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Jackson and the boat's crew. Jackson was an American, Rossi an Italian, Louis, Albert, Auguste and Gilbert were French, Orsini was Italian, but could pass for Spanish, and he himself could pass for Spanish. A cosmopolitan crew.

  So an inquisitive sentry answered in the dark in perfect Spanish or French might be satisfied . . .

  Quickly Ramage explained to the men what their task for that night was to be. The thole pins of the cutter, as well as the looms of the oars, were to be bound with cloth to cut down the creaking and squeaking; the sail was to be painted black; they were to check that there were a couple of grapnels on board, each with at least ten fathoms of line: they were to have a cutlass each and tomahawks if they wished, but no pistols or muskets. They were to wear dark clothes - if any of them owned only light shirts, they were to draw dark cloth from the purser - there was plenty of time to stitch up another shirt.

  "Might we ask where we're going sir?" Jackson asked.

  Ramage pointed towards Cadiz city. "I have to meet a man over there, and I'll be taking Mr Orsini on shore with me."

  "No chance of any of us having a run on shore to keep you company, sir?"

  "Not this time," Ramage said. "And by the way, if anyone has to speak it must be in Spanish or French or Italian. That means you and Stafford keep your mouths shut. So you can all get busy and prepare the boat. Oh yes, Jackson: you'll need to keep a check on the time. Arrange to borrow a watch from one of the lieutenants, and keep a lanthorn under a piece of canvas. Make sure you pick a good candle and trim the wick ..."

  "Lentement, lentement," Louis hissed as Gilbert eased away on the halyard and the black-painted dipping lug of the cutter was lowered into the boat, the men stifling the thick canvas. As soon as it was bundled up with a couple of gaskets tied round it, the men at the oars resumed rowing.

  Ramage, at the tiller, could distinguish the beach: a darker band of black with a thin white moustache where the small waves curled and broke on the sand. If they had sailed a good compass course from the ship and there had been no unexpected current running parallel with the shore, then the cemetery should be just at the back of the beach.

  He listened, trying to cut out the muffled groan of the oars as the looms strained against the padded thole pins. There was the monotonous "quark" of a nightjar and now the buzzing of mosquitoes, showing just how close they were to the beach. No voices. In the distance he heard the thud of a galloping horse, but going away, down towards the fort and the town gate. Very few towns had a single gate, but being built on the end of a spit (like Port Royal, Jamaica, he realized) it was the only entrance by land.

  And now came the smells as they approached the line of wavelets and he eased over the metal tiller under his right arm. Was that eucalyptus? Did cork oak have a smell, because he could not identify it. And the cemetery, the curious musty smell of stonework mottled with lichen. And of course rotting seaweed. Or seaweed, anyway, whether or not it was rotting; thrown up on the beach by the waves; it provided a home for flying and jumping insects, all of which seemed to bite with an irritating sting.

  No challenge: no shout of alarm in Spanish or French. No shadowy figures running down the sloping beach towards them, shouting or shooting. Which meant that his gamble might work: he had guessed that the commander of the Cadiz garrison, or whoever was responsible for posting sentries, would never expect the English would dare send a party to land in the middle of the town. Beyond the fort or among the saltpans, yes; but beside the cemetery, a short stroll from the cathedral, no!

  "Stand by," Ramage whispered to Jackson, who hissed at the oarsmen. In a second the oars were tossed up, ready to be stowed flat along the thwarts, and Ramage had pushed the tiller hard over, turning the boat broadside-on to the small wavelets. While Jackson pulled up the rudder to avoid it being damaged, the boat grounded with a gentle scrubbing of the keel scraping on the sand. In a moment Ramage and Orsini had leapt over the gunwale, landed on the sand, and run forward to get their shoulders under the cutter's bow, to shove it seaward while the boat still had some buoyancy. As soon as the boat was clear of the beach, helped by oars pushing into the sand, Ramage and Orsini sat down and undid the laces securing their boots round their necks.

  "The sand sticks to the skin like glue," Orsini commented in Spanish, brushing it off his feet. "And the mosquitoes!"

  The high-pitched whining of the insects reminded Ramage that they had little time: trying to persuade an unsuspecting Spaniard of one's credentials while he had been in a room burning citronella candles and one's own face was puffy and gross-looking from stings, was making the job harder than necessary.

  The two men walked to the back of the beach, stepped across a line of what Ramage knew only by their Italian name of Fico dei Ottentotti, and then found themselves walking on coarse grass. Almost immediately Ramage spotted the elaborate marble angels, Virgins and crucifixes surmounting the tombs of the cemetery about twenty yards away on their right.

  Together they struck out for the far side, where they had to climb a low wall and almost immediately sighted a house.

  Ramage touched Orsini as a warning and then said in a conversational tone, his accent rough Castilian: "San José should be just the other side."

  A dog gave a disheartened bark and was promptly sworn at by someone in the house.

  Ramage stopped. "Might as well ask here," he said. "There's the door."

  As they walked along a short path the dog started barking despite the threats, and then yelped as it was obviously kicked. Ramage knocked on the door.

  A man's querulous voice answered: "Who's there?"

  "Visitors for Señor Perez."

  "Not here," the voice said abruptly, without opening the door. "The house on the north side of the church."

  "Thank you," Ramage said politely.

  "I wish I had a pistol," Orsini muttered as soon as they had gone on a few yards.

  "Oh yes," Ramage said sarcastically. "We need a few pistol shots to rouse out all the dogs in the neighbourhood, not to mention soldiery. What about a set of handbells?"

  Orsini was still trying to think of an answer which combined wit and brevity without being insubordinate when they reached the church.


  Ramage groaned, because the main square was on the north side of the church, with half a dozen large houses built round it.

  "Our fellow is probably one of the leading citizens of Cadiz if he owns one of those houses," Orsini muttered.

  Ramage stepped out towards the square, making no attempt to keep quiet. If there was a curfew - which he was beginning to doubt: the man in the house did not seem surprised, nor had he assumed that they were soldiers - then any patrol was probably on horseback.

  Now there were town smells. Horse and donkey droppings ripened by hot sun, rotting cabbage, stale urine ... a scurry told of rats interrupted at supper . . . and which house to choose first?

  He picked the third of the five forming the north side of the square. The house itself stood back behind a high-walled garden, and when he paused to see if another would be more convenient, he saw in the darkness that they all had walls and gates.

  He rattled the wrought iron a few times. A dog in the house started barking and a moment later a woman's voice demanded: "Who is that at the gate?"

  "Visitors for Señor Perez."

  "Who are you?"

  Was this - by an extraordinary piece of luck - the right house?

  "Is this the house of Señor Perez?" Orsini inquired.

  "It is," a man's voice answered, and Ramage guessed from his accent that he was a manservant.

  "Tell Señor Perez he has visitors."

  "What name shall I give, señor?"

  "Lieutenant Leblond," Ramage said on the spur of the moment, giving both words a pronounced French accent.

  "Please wait, Lieutenant," the voice said politely, "I will inform Señor Perez."

  Did custom demand that one stamped a foot and demanded the gate be opened at once, in the name of the Emperor, and was this the way to treat the representative of Spain's ally - or did one wait quietly?

  Ramage decided to wait quietly: he wanted to be face to face with Perez as soon as possible.