Ramage At Trafalgar Page 5

  Nelson examined the nails of his left hand. “When will she be ready for sea?”

  “The last I heard (the day before yesterday), in about two weeks, sir.”

  “You’ve still got that same master? What was his name, Southwell, South – ah yes, Southwick?”

  “Yes, sir. He”ll be flattered that you remember his name.”

  “Ah, he’s a good man. Master of the Kathleen cutter when I put you in command, I remember. I see you make a point of always mentioning him in your Gazette letters. He must be one of the most famous frigate masters in the Service. One of the richest, too,” Nelson added. “You’ve done well with prize money. Have you kept mostly the same ship’s company?”

  “When Ramage nodded, the admiral commented: “They will be wealthy men. Some of your ordinary seamen could probably buy me out,” he said without malice. “I haven’t had much luck with prize money.”

  And here we are talking about prize money and I’m almost faint with wondering why you asked me to call, Ramage thought. It wasn’t to yarn about old times nor discuss the tactics at Copenhagen, nor display your remarkable memory of men.

  Did Nelson sense Ramage’s train of thought? He looked up at Ramage and grinned. A boyish grin, one which stripped fifteen years from his lined face. “You wonder why I asked your father to tell you to call on me, eh? Isn’t it enough that you meet Lady Hamilton and Horatia?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ramage said, and added shrewdly, “but they’re in the drawing room and we are here!”

  “And you, my dear Ramage, have had independent commands for too long. If you had served any time in a fleet, you’d know it’s more important to please the admiral than handle your ship well.”

  “Not in your fleet,” Ramage said bluntly, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

  Nelson grinned again. “I take that as a compliment. How would you like to serve with me?”

  Ramage looked so startled that Nelson laughed. “The idea doesn’t seem to appeal to you.”

  “It isn’t that, sir…” Ramage stammered.

  “Had you been serving with me, you might at this moment be tacking back and forth in front of a French or Spanish port, keeping an eye on the Combined Fleets of France and Spain. You find that idea daunting?”

  Hell-fire and damnation, Ramage thought: if in a dream (the only circumstances in which it could happen) Lord Barham had asked Ramage what appointment he would like, he would have asked to be sent to join Lord Nelson. Now here was Lord Nelson himself (and Ramage knew he was not dreaming) offering him just that job, and his mouth suddenly filled with sand and feet, and the right words disappeared up the chimney.

  He grabbed at Nelson’s earlier remark. “I’m not used to dealing with admirals, sir: I’m short on tact!”

  “You’re the son of one of the greatest admirals this Navy’s ever had, and if gossip tells stories correctly, you’ve ignored the orders of most admirals you’ve ever served under. But, so have I,” he admitted with a spontaneous grin. “Well, time is getting short – I expect I’ll have to rejoin my fleet within a few days, and I’m a great believer in ‘better one volunteer than three pressed men’.”

  “Me – I’m a volunteer, sir,” Ramage said quickly, afraid he had offended Nelson by implying tardiness. “You took me by surprise because my name is near the bottom of the Post List and–”

  “And it’s not often that an admiral commanding a fleet offers a junior post-captain a chance to join him, eh?”

  “Exactly, sir,” Ramage took a deep breath. “If we can join you, sir – I mean, if you and the Admiralty approve – we’ll have the ship ready for sea in a week and as soon as we can get up to Black Stakes and take on our powder, the Calypso could join you.”

  “Well spoken,” Nelson said quietly. “You’ll receive your orders from the Admiralty in a few days. In the meantime, if you can pass the word to your man Southwick, and your first lieutenant, of course, that might speed things up. Southwick knows most of the dockyard tricks. Replacing that copper sheathing is the most urgent job. Just the sort of time they run short of sheathing nails.”

  Ramage looked carefully at Nelson and then decided to chance it. The admiral had chased the French fleet across the Atlantic and back, and he had seen it evade him and join up with the Spaniards. The Combined Fleet must number thirty-five or more ships of the line, and some of those Spaniards carried more than a hundred guns. Nelson must have fewer than twenty ships, though Lord Barham was rushing out every available 74.

  “Is there a chance they’ll come out and fight, sir?”

  Nelson shrugged, a curiously awkward movement which tugged at the empty sleeve. “The French – well, this fellow Villeneuve is no coward, but there’s no telling what orders he gets from Bonaparte, who is a great soldier when fighting land battles but doesn’t understand the sea. The Spanish? I don’t think their hearts are in it. The French can rouse themselves with all this revolutionary nonsense (quite apart from Villeneuve knowing he’ll be punished if he loses an action), but the Spanish…they seem to be trying to catch hold of Bonaparte’s coat-tails, and that won’t turn any captain into a fighting demon.”

  Nelson readjusted his eyeshade and the movement seemed to signal a change in the topic. “Well I shall see you at the Royal Exchange tomorrow, when you receive your sword. As I told the Master of Lloyd’s Coffee House last week, you ought to have had a dozen swords by now. Let’s rejoin the ladies.”

  As the carriage clattered back along Clarges Street and then swung right into Piccadilly on its way to Palace Street, Sarah said: “I’m proud of you, darling. Lord Nelson thinks you are one of the best frigate captains in the Service, and Lady Hamilton says you are certainly the most handsome!”

  Ramage grinned and took Sarah’s hand. “That makes you the luckiest wife in London – or in Clarges Street, anyway! What did you think of His Lordship?”

  “The biggest contradiction I’ve ever met!”

  Ramage’s forehead wrinkled. “How so?”

  “Well, he has an irritating nasal voice, he’s obsessed with his health, he’s obsessed with Lady Hamilton and wants everyone to accept her, he’s so confident of himself he seems a braggart, he has a quick tongue and isn’t afraid to use it, he’s physically insignificant…”

  “Yet…”

  “Exactly, yet! He’s also one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met. He can’t help his voice and one forgets it because of what he has to say. Yes, he’s obsessed with his health, but he’s been wounded so many times, and losing his right arm and being almost blind in one eye must give him a sense of frustration – in a lesser man it could almost destroy him.

  “Lady Hamilton? Well, she’s obsessed with him too, but she’s thoughtful, understanding, and I for one don’t care that she was once Emma Hart, Sir William’s nephew’s mistress: I’d be pleased to have her among my friends, and clearly she is His Lordship’s inspiration.

  “He has enormous confidence in himself because he knows what he wants and how to do it – that makes him unique among our admirals at the moment. Your father is about the only other one I can think of. Look what a mess Howe made at the Glorious First of June, and that indecisive fool Mann, and as for Lord St Vincent at his (I mean yours and Lord Nelson’s) battle…

  “What else was there? Oh, yes – the quick tongue. That must upset a lot of the slow-witted and tongue-tied admirals, but I’ve noticed one thing: a quick tongue usually goes with a quick wit, and a quick wit with a quick brain. Which means that for once we’ve got the right man commanding the fleet which may have to fight the Combined Fleets of France and Spain. Just think, it might have been St Vincent, or Lord Howe, or – it terrifies me to think of it.”

  “You must be one of the few wives who could sit with the full Board of Admiralty and make them sit up and listen!”

  “Lady Hamilton says more or less the same thing as me.”

  “Yes, but she says it out of a blind faith in Lord Nelson,” Ramage said. “You at least
have worked it all out for yourself.”

  “The devil take logic,” Sarah said unexpectedly, “at a time like this, when Bonaparte – his fleet, anyway – could defeat this country in an afternoon, I trust to what I feel in my heart. The Board of Admiralty would laugh at that, and with their crystal clear logic they almost invariably pick the wrong man. Sir Hyde Parker for command at Copenhagen, for example.”

  Ramage leaned over and kissed her. “I agree with every word. Anyway, St Vincent, not the Board, chose Parker. And remember, I’m not a member of the Board!”

  “You will be one day, so remember what I’ve just said.”

  Chapter Four

  The sword from the Lloyd’s Patriotic Fund, presented to him on its behalf by Sir Josiah Hobart, the Lord Mayor (hot and perspiring in his splendid but heavy robes of office), was a superb example of the sword cutler’s art. Back in Palace Street after the presentation, when his father and Sarah examined it with him, they were amused to find that it was made by Mr Prater, of Charing Cross, who always made their swords.

  “The first sword I ever bought you – your midshipman’s dirk, rather,” the earl said, “cost twenty-five guineas, and the first real sword forty guineas. Soon after that I stopped buying you new swords because you made a habit of losing them on the decks of French ships!”

  “Yes, so now I use an ordinary cutlass if we have to board,” Ramage said. “But I must admit my present dress sword looks shabby; the brasswork on the scabbard corrodes. This will look smarter when I call on admirals – you can’t beat gold fittings!”

  Sarah lifted the heavy curved blade, decorated in blue and gold, holding the white ivory grip and gilt hilt. “What is this?” she asked, pointing out the stub sticking out at right-angles opposite the knuckle-guard.

  “That’s called the guillon. You can see it’s designed as a Roman fasces.”

  “And this?” she indicated the hilt running upwards from the guillon.

  “That’s the backpiece. It represents the skin and head of a lion, as you can see.”

  “And this?”

  “The knuckle-guard – stops the other fellow’s sword sliding down the blade and lopping off your hand. It’s shaped like Hercules’ club, with a snake twisted round it.”

  She gave the sword back to Ramage. “It’s magnificent,” she commented and then sighed. “You know, I sat through that enormous dinner and was polite to Lord Barham on one side and Lord St Vincent on the other, but I still don’t really know what Lloyd’s Patriotic Fund is or who Lloyd’s are. Neither the past nor the present First Lord seemed to know much about them, either.”

  “Well, I do know,” the earl said, “so I’ll tell you. In James IIs time a worthy fellow called Edward Lloyd opened a coffee house in Lombard Street, and there men of business connected with ships and the sea tended to congregate. They met in Lloyd’s place to gossip and exchange information. Edward Lloyd always knew which ships had arrived, which ships were for sale, and so on. And if you own a ship or propose shipping a cargo somewhere, you need insurance, so it wasn’t long before shipowners, shippers and insurance brokers were congregating there, arranging voyages.

  “The original Edward Lloyd died but the coffee house remained the centre for shipping folk, and of course one of the most important things they wanted – whether they were owners, shippers or underwriters – was news: news of whether their ships and cargoes had arrived safely in the West Indies, sailed from Gravesend, or been wrecked off Dungeness. A shipowner was also interested in how much a rival sold a ship for, while shippers needed to know the latest price for carrying a hundred tons of molasses from Jamaica or a hundred pipes of port from the Peninsula. And the underwriters, of course, were involved in providing insurance cover for all of it.

  “So in 1743 the coffee house started publishing a newspaper – little more than a broadsheet, really – which it called Lloyd’s List, giving just the sort of news its customers wanted. Eventually – bearing in mind the need to guard against shipping fraud and the necessity of accurate news – a committee was formed to run the place, and a few years later the whole thing moved to the Royal Exchange, where it still is. The Committee chose the subscribers (whom it now called ‘members’, for reasons best known to itself) and when the warstarted it began co-operating with the Admiralty and shipowners in arranging convoys, and that sort of thing.

  “When a ship’s captain misbehaves in a convoy–” the earl looked at his son and smiled, “–not an unknown occurrence, as you know, my dear Sarah, the Board complains to the Committee of Lloyd’s who, in theory, chide the owner of the ship, who disciplines his captain. The Board suspects, though, that the Committee tears up the letters.”

  “Swords,” Sarah reminded him. “Who pays for the swords?”

  “Ah yes. A couple of years ago Lloyd’s set up a Patriotic Fund intended to help the Navy’s wounded and reward the brave. It was an immediate success, I remember: the East India Company and the Bank of England each gave £5,000, while the City of London came up with £2,500. Several of the theatres gave gala performances, with the night’s takings going to the Fund.”

  “I wonder where the hundred guineas came from that paid for Nicholas’ sword?” Sarah said.

  “The profits from shipping spices from the Indies or a spicyplay at a theatre, eh?” Ramage said mischievously. “Lieutenants and masters get the fifty guinea swords, and mates and midshipmen rate thirty guineas.”

  The earl said: “I saw you had a word with Southwick and your first lieutenant, Aitken. Your news made their day, I shouldn’t wonder!”

  “Yes, both of them were all for posting straight back to Chatham to get young Martin to chase his father!”

  The earl looked puzzled and Ramage reminded him. “You’ve forgotten that Martin’s father is the Master Shipwright in the dockyard. A private word with him can be worth ten urgent letters from the Navy Board!”

  “Hmm, you’d better check up and see whether the master shipwrights at Portsmouth and Plymouth have sons who want to ship as midshipmen, then you’ll be set up round the South Coast.”

  “You’ll never believe me, but when young Martin joined the Calypso I had no idea who his father was.”

  “More fool you. It’ll be thanks to him if you get down to Cadiz in time. By the way,” he said heavily. “Don’t forget that frigates are just an admiral’s scouts and means of signalling: they don’t stand in line of battle. That’s why,” he added sarcastically, “64-gun ships and larger are called ‘line-of-battle’ ships. And no admiral today likes to put even a 64 in the line; he wants 74s and larger.”

  “Yes, father,” Ramage said dutifully and, bearing in mind that he had lost the Kathleen in a successful attempt to prevent a Spanish three-decker from escaping at Cape St Vincent, added with a grin: “I’ll remember: frigates stand at the back of the crowd and cheer.”

  “You were lucky with the Kathleen,” the earl said, reading his thoughts, “and Lord Nelson is now repaying that debt. But anyone who relies too much on luck is a fool and–” he said jocularly, but intending Ramage should take notice, “Sarah is too young to be a widow.”

  He sighed and then grumbled, “I might just as well talk to myself.” He turned towards Sarah. “Tell me about Lady Hamilton’s daughter, my dear. Is she Lord Nelson’s child?”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt about that, when you see them together, and for all the polite talk of ‘godfather’ he is just a normal doting father. And why not?” she said unexpectedly. “This war goes on year after year, and Nelson has nearly been killed so many times. Why shouldn’t he seize what happiness he can? Anyway, if he goes on as he has in the past, he’ll be lucky to be alive for Horatia’s fifth birthday…”

  “Now, now,” the earl chided, “you fly to His Lordship’s defence at the mere mention of his name!”

  “I should think so!” Sarah said crossly. “You didn’t have to listen to those wives at the Royal Exchange today! Why, they even made comments to me, thinking I would agree with them.�
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  “But you didn’t, so what answer did you make?” the earl asked, curious.

  “I said that Lady Hamilton was a particular friend of mine,” Sarah said defiantly, “and because I’m my father’s daughter and my husband’s wife, the hypocritical wretches had the grace to blush.”

  “Good for you,” murmured the earl. “I’ll follow your example with the husbands!”

  Next morning Hanson, flustered at being interrupted while polishing the silver, bustled into the drawing room where Ramage was reading the Morning Post and reported that there was an Admiralty messenger at the door with a letter for Captain Lord Ramage which, Hanson added heavily, he would not hand over to anyone else.

  “He’s got a receipt book that needs signing, too,” Hanson commented gloomily, as if this was proof that the man was not a messenger but a lurking thief after the silver.

  Ramage went to the door, signed for the letter and carried it back to the drawing room, picking up a paper-knife on his way.

  As he weighed the bulky packet in one hand, looking at the fouled anchor Admiralty seal, he savoured the moment. Yes – when he was a small boy up an apple tree and finally managed to reach the largest and ripest fruit…that moment with Raven when a rabbit shot out of its hole and landed with a thump in the net, to be followed by the beady-eyed ferret looking left and right as though the daylight dazzled him after the darkness of the warren…the moment when the masthead lookout hailed that he had sighted a sail which could only be French. And opening fresh Admiralty orders. All were preceded by excitement and anticipation – and a tincture of apprehension too, just enough to add spice.

  He slid the paper-knife under the seal and unfolded the single page of thick paper. There was the usual address and introduction, and then William Marsden, who had recently succeeded Evan Nepean as Secretary to the Board, had written: