Ramage At Trafalgar r-16 Read online

He snapped the telescope shut and, in a couple of paces, was at the binnacle box drawer, taking out Popham's Code and flicking over the pages', checking the words (in alphabetical order) and the numbers beside them.

  "Orsini," he snappedv "make to the Euryalus the following.

  "Telegraphic code flag; then 249 - 'enemy', 354 - 'have', 864 -'their', 875 - 'top', 756 - 'sails', 986 - 'yards', 1374 - 'hoisted'. Got that? Right, get it hoisted as quick as you can.

  "Mr Hill, stand by to heave-to the ship. The enemy seem to have called in their gunboats."

  "Yes, sir: I was going to report that as soon as you had finished with the signal."

  The gunboats - boats from the ships of the Combined Fleet with a small gun mounted temporarily in the bow - had regularly patrolled the few hundred yards directly in front of the harbour, looking as threatening as water boatmen on a village pond.

  Ramage opened the telescope and looked again. Yes, several of the ships were hoisting in boats, swigging away at staytackles and swinging the boats in to nest them on top of the spare booms and spars. Topsail yards hoisted, along with boats . . . today, October 19, was going to be the day the Combined Fleet sailed from Cadiz, of that he was sure.

  "The signal's sent and the Euryalus has acknowledged, sir," Orsini reported.

  "Ship hove-to on the starboard tack, sir," Hill reported.

  "I'm going below to wash and shave," Ramage said. "Keep a sharp eye on the Euryalus for signals," he told Orsini. To Hill, he said: "Pass the word the moment there's any sign of the enemy ships weighing anchor."

  Shaving in cold water - with the ship's company at general quarters the galley fire had been doused - helped waken him thoroughly: he was too impatient to strop the razor sufficiently, and this morning the soap was reluctant to lather, so that each stroke of the razor seemed as though he was wrenching out each whisker by the roots. With his eyes watering he finally rinsed his face and then combed his hair.

  Silkin waited at the door with clean underwear, fresh stockings and newly polished shoes, along with a clean stock. Ramage dressed leisurely. Thus were legends started. The captain had felt greasy and bristly and tired, in no shape to think very clearly after an almost sleepless night, and as soon as the morning's signal had been sent off he had shaved and changed. But within a month (if they were all still alive by then) the ship's company would have embroidered the tale so that Captain Ramage was having a leisurely shave while thirty-four ships of the line of the Combined Fleet prepared to sail and give battle with the Calypso. Ramage grinned to himself. He had heard many similar stories told about brother captains, and guessed they had similar origins. Anyway, they were a sign that a ship's company was proud of their captain and the ship, and if it made them fight better, no harm was done. Seamen had keen eyes, and if an officer was a braggart they quickly ignored him, simply obeying orders.

  The marine sentry was announcing Orsini.

  "Mr Hill's compliments, sir, but the Euryalus has just repeated our signal to the Sirius, and one of the enemy has just let fall a topsail."

  Ramage pulled on a stocking. So the signal was already on its way across the fifty miles to Lord Nelson's fleet, and the enemy were making the first (the first of thousands!) move towards sailing. The significant report would be when the first of them hove up her anchors.

  Each ship would have at least a couple of anchors down - that was, apart from any other considerations, the only way of packing so many ships into such a confined anchorage without them swinging into each other. Heavy anchors and a muddy bottom: Ramage could picture the clunking of the pawls on the capstans - and the stench of the mud on the cable, with water similar to sewage being squeezed out of the strands of the rope as it came through the hawsehole . . . pity the poor fellows down in the cabletier whose job it was to coil the cables as they passed below.

  Finally Ramage was dressed and he went up to the quarterdeck. In the half hour he had been below it had turned into a fine day: three miles away to the eastward there was the gentle slope of vineyards, and then the land trended southward to the village of Santa Maria at the entrance to a small river and became dunes. They continued on to the marshes and saltponds on the other side of Cadiz, separated from the spit by the channel in which most of the Combined Fleet were moored.

  He examined Cadiz with the telescope. There was no flag on the Torre de Tavira, but that three-decker there, French (was she Villeneuve's flagship, the Bucentaure?), was making signals. One ship had just started catting her anchors. Another, Spanish, was at short stay and moving ahead slowly as the capstan hauled in the remaining anchor cable. He examined the ship's masts. There were men out along the fore and maintopsail yards - obviously throwing off gaskets.

  Yes - there's the foretopsail let fall. The breeze is light, not enough to shake out the creases in the canvas. Now they're bracing the yards sharp up - the captain is anxious to get under way the moment the anchor is aweigh, so that the wind does not drift him sideways on to the mudbank only a few yards on his larboard side.

  Ah, the other anchor is breaking the surface, and they've let fall the maintopsail. And there goes the maincourse and now the forecourse, and headsails are being hoisted. She's under way.

  "Mr Orsini," Ramage said briskly, "to the Euryalus: make number 370."

  Orsini, out of habit, said: "Number 370, sir, 'Enemy's ships are coming out of port, or getting under sail'."

  "Stand by to get under way," Ramage told Hill. A Spanish three-decker's broadside as she passed the Calypso at close range could reduce the frigate to so much firewood. There was plenty of shallow water on the east side of the bay, or northwards towards Rota, where the Calypso could sail but a 74 or bigger would go aground. The frigate's job was to watch and report to the Euryalus, not fight ...

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The big French ship of the line came out of Cadiz Roads with almost pathetic slowness. The wind soon dropped away to random zephyrs, so that her sails, in billowing curves when she got under way, flattened to hanging curtains of canvas by the time she was abreast of where the Calypso had been hove-to.

  Ramage had seized the opportunity before the breeze went light to get out to seaward, deciding not to risk being trapped in the bay by the French and Spanish frigates he knew were anchored in Cadiz.

  He watched as the Frenchman slowly steered northwards for Rota (at times turning round completely as she lost the wind and was at the mercy of the current) and then saw a second ship get under way and start struggling to get out of the Roads.

  The first ship was the Algésiras, which his list showed him was the flagship of Rear-Admiral Charles de Magon. When the second ship finally cleared the entrance and then lost the wind for several minutes, turning like a languid dancer, Ramage saw that the name carved across her transom (and heavily gilded: enough to catch the eye at this distance as it glinted in the sun) was the Achille.

  Although he was making for a position due north of the Castillo de San Sebastián, Ramage's last glimpse into Cadiz Roads showed him that a French frigate (the Hermione, he guessed) had managed to weigh and set sail, but almost immediately must have lost the wind because now her boats were towing her out, hard work against what was now a flood tide.

  With the wind falling away and the young flood beginning to carry him out of position, Ramage ordered the Calypso to anchor, and the best bower splashed down into four fathoms just short of the El Banquete shoal, a mile north-west of the Castillo. The Spaniards had never opened fire from the castle, but if they started now the Calypso might be in trouble: with no wind and having to weigh anchor, the young flood might carry her on to Punta del Nao, a vicious-looking rocky peninsula just north-east of the castle.

  But the castle guns remained quiet and the Calypso swung at anchor, watching the Algésiras, Achille and Hermione (eventually Orsini had read the name on her stern) struggle up towards Rota, revolving like sunflowers as they lost a puff.

  As the men at alternate guns were allowed to go below for a meal and Southwick went thr
ough the daily ritual of taking a noon sight (although it was easy enough to take a bearing of the castle, and a vertical sextant angle would give the distance for those unable to estimate it) Ramage watched the Euryalus and Sirius drift, becalmed.

  Well, Ramage commented to Southwick, today the wind was being neutral: it becalmed the Combined Fleet and it becalmed Lord Nelson - although, fifty miles out to the west, the weather might well be different.

  But, Ramage wondered, what would Lord Nelson be doing: would he pay any attention to Perez's report about the Mediterranean and steer south, anticipating that (when he got out of Cadiz) Villeneuve would make for the Strait, or would he steer north to intercept the Combined Fleet on the assumption it was making for the English Channel?

  "I'm glad I'm not His Lordship," Southwick said, apparently thinking on the same lines as Ramage. "Go north or go south . . . from fifty miles out he's got to rely on us frigates, but he's got to make a start now, and that means he has to guess. Like putting all your money on the turn of a card."

  "Yes, betting on whether it'll turn up red or black."

  "Yes, not odds for a sensible man."

  "His Lordship has no choice," Ramage said.

  Southwick pointed to the end of Punta del Nao. Another ship of the line, all sail set but with every inch of canvas hanging slackly, was being towed out by its boats. Curious, Ramage reflected, how a little wind made a ship graceful and lively, and yet a calm reduced her to a clumsy and sluggish hulk, at the mercy of sweating men in boats pulling on oars . . .

  Soon they read her name, the Neptune. She was followed by another, the Héros.

  "Four French ships of the line and a French frigate," Aitken commented. "Does that mean the Spanish are staying at home?"

  "The first French out were probably the last to arrive," Ramage said. "Anyway, that French rear-admiral has set a good example."

  The sun passed its zenith and began the slow dip towards the west. Southwick, filling in the master's log, started a new day at noon. Although the civil day began at midnight and by civil time it was still Saturday, by nautical time Sunday began at noon. Southwick filled in the Calypso's position, the wind ("round the compass and frequent calms") and drew a line in the columns for "course" and "speed".

  "Two more ships coming out, both 74s and both French," Orsini reported. "Having a race," he added sarcastically. "The boats are making half a knot, with double-banked oars."

  Southwick took off his hat and with a characteristic gesture ran his hand through his flowing white hair. "They must be pulling against the full flood by now," he said. "Just needs two ships to get alongside each other and lock yards, and we'll see some fun."

  Aitken gestured to the Algésiras and the Achille, still less than a couple of miles away in their tedious attempt to get up to Rota. "Not much of a day for sailing; better to anchor and give the men a 'make and mend' day."

  "They've been 'making and mending' for months," Southwick growled. "No cloth for making and nothing left needing mending."

  "The nearest is the Argonaute, sir," Orsini reported. "I'll have the name of the other one in a moment, as soon as the bearing changes ... Ah yes, the . . ." he spelled out the name letter by letter, and then said: "Yes, the Duguay-Trouin, whoever he was."

  "Another two for the log," Ramage said to Southwick. "Make sure you spell them right."

  "Names are going to be a problem," Southwick growled. "We've got a Neptune and so have the French, while the Dons have a Neptuno. We have an Achille, so have the French. And there's a British and a French Swiftsure. And apart from the same names, the French have the Berwick, which sounds British, and we have the Spartiate, Tonnant and Belleisle, which sound French."

  "The French captured the Berwick. But Lord Bridport took the Belleisle ten years ago. The Tonnant and the Spartiate were taken by Lord Nelson in '98," Ramage pointed out.

  "That's what I mean," Southwick complained, "it's all very confusing."

  Ramage smiled. "Don't forget the Ville de Paris was built at Chatham!"

  "And there comes another, a Spaniard!"Orsini yelled excitedly. "That's six French ships of the line and a French frigate out before a Don gets his jibboom past the Mole!"

  "Hush," Ramage said in a sepulchral voice, "they are a peace-loving people and tomorrow is Sunday - for the people on shore, anyway."

  For the remainder of the afternoon Ramage and the Calypsos watched for the rest of the Combined Fleet to get out of Cadiz, but the easterly breeze did not freshen enough to give the big ships steerage way. Two more French frigates managed to get out, towing with boats. The Themis and the Rhin struggled to catch every whiffle of wind so that they could follow Rear-Admiral Magon, trying to get across Cadiz Bay and reach the safety of Rota.

  At nightfall, Ramage gave the order to weigh again and patrol close off the end of the Mole in case a breeze allowed more ships to sneak out. Rockets and portfires were brought out ready to signal to the Euryalus should enough wind spring up and the rest of the Combined Fleet decide to make a dash for it in the darkness.

  Jackson stood up at the gun of which he was captain: the deck on which he had been lying seemed to be getting harder.

  "My back," he grumbled to the rest of the gun's crew. "More than twelve hours at general quarters . . . and we'll be here the whole of tonight."

  "And all tomorrow too," Stafford said. "Seven got out today, but there's thirty-four or so ships of the line. At this rate it'll take 'em five days to get out!"

  "That's supposing they want to get out," Louis said. "If the Spanish have any sense they'll stay in port."

  "One Spaniard did sail," Gilbert pointed out.

  "Probably dragging his anchors!" Louis commented.

  "Against a foul current?" Stafford asked. "Well," he announced, "I'm looking forward to seeing the Santy Trinidaddy."

  Jackson groaned at the Cockney's pronunciation. "You mean the Santissima Trinidad. Means the Holy Trinity."

  "Does it?" Stafford said. "Well, they say she's the biggest ship in the world. Carries 130 guns, I heard Mr Ramage telling Mr Orsini."

  "Too big for us to attack," Louis said jokingly.

  "She could hoist us on board without strain," Jackson said.

  "Just let her try!" Stafford said.

  Jackson walked over to the low tub of water standing between his gun and the next and inspected the short lengths of burning slowmatch, fitted into notches round the lip of the tub, their glowing ends over the water.

  "Have to change this match soon," he said. "May be needed for the rockets and portfires."

  " 'Ere, Jacko, why're they called 'portfires'? - we never set 'em orf in port."

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders. "Why call them 'fires'? All that matters is that they make a big glow when we light 'em! They last so much longer than rockets, so there's more chance of seeing them. A rocket's up, over and down in a minute: you could easily miss it. But a portfire - well, from a distance it looks just a glow but it lasts so much longer."

  "They won't come out, anyway," Gilbert said.

  The Italian seaman, Rossi, growled: "If you keep saying that, you give them the idea!"

  "There are many admirals and captains in there -" Gilbert pointed at Cadiz, now over the starboard bow, "- only too content to stay at anchor. They're beaten already!"

  "Beaten already?" exclaimed Stafford. "Wotcher mean, they ain't even gone to sea yet!"

  "Nelson," Gilbert said. "Just the name. If they're Spanish they know what Commodore Nelson did at Cap St Vincent: if they're French they know what happened at the Nile. And whether they're Spanish or French they've heard all about Copenhagen. He's never been beaten in a big battle. Not only never been beaten, but he wins by destroying the enemy. How many ships of the line escaped at the Nile or Copenhagen?"

  "Not many," a voice said out of the darkness, and the men sprang up as they recognized Captain Ramage's voice.

  "Make yourselves comfortable," Ramage said. "Nothing so soft as a well scrubbed deck or a gun carriage
."

  "Yus, sir," Stafford said cheerfully. "Trouble is I'm afraid I'll get so used to it I'll have trouble sleepin' in me 'ammick when all this is over!"

  "If it's a problem," Ramage said with mock sympathy, "I'll tell the carpenter to give you half a dozen short planks to use in your hammock as a mattress."

  "Do you think they'll come out tomorrow, sir?" Jackson asked.

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Depends on the wind. If the wind had held up today I'm sure most of them would have come out."

  "What makes you sure they'll come out, sir?"

  "Bonaparte," Ramage said grimly. "He's ordered them out. I think they might be more scared of him than Lord Nelson ..."

  "Silly fellows," Jackson commented.

  "They've not much choice. Madame Guillotine or Lord Nelson's roundshot."

  "Serves them right for siding with the Revolution," Gilbert commented bitterly.

  "The Spanish haven't much choice either," Rossi pointed out.

  "Bonaparte scared the Spanish government," Ramage said. "Eventually government decisions come down to seamen waiting in harbour."

  With that Ramage moved on to talk to the next gun's crew, who were just as full of comments and questions. For everybody in the Calypso it was going to be a long and dreary wait for the dawn, but at ten o'clock Ramage intended to let the crews of alternate guns stand down. By doing watch and watch about they would all get some sleep before "see a grey goose at a mile".

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dawn on Sunday morning found Ramage pacing the quarterdeck in his boatcloak: during the night cloud had gradually hidden the stars, and the breeze, while freshening, had gradually veered to the south: now it was blowing straight out of Cadiz harbour, so that the Calypso had to beat (in an almost flat sea and a wind so light that the ship seemed reluctant to come round) to keep near the end of the mole.

  "All they've got to do now," Southwick said sourly, "is get their anchors on board: then they can't help drifting out to sea."

  "Don't underestimate them," Aitken said. "Just imagine the Santissima Trinidad going ahead as they haul on their capstan and fouling the French flagship, the Bucentaure. Picture the shouting and cursing and running about. Jibbooms snapping like carrots, yards locked ..."