Ramage's Diamond r-7 Page 8

  As he stopped by the binnacle he thought again of the Captain's words: 'It's the unexpected that sinks ships.' He had to admit there was some truth in it: those twisted purchases had wasted valuable minutes; in fact in heavy weather the ship would have been broached half a dozen times before they'd cleared them, and one bad broach could have left the Juno dismasted. And the mistake he'd made with the head pump hoses, and the delay in filling the cistern: by the time the engine was ready, flames would have reached the magazine. At least there had been no actual mistakes in preparing to anchor. Yet he had to admit that the risk of fire was present every moment of the day and night; it was the one thing that, with half a ton of powder in the magazine, could in half a minute transform the Juno into scraps of floating timber. And tiller ropes parting - that could happen unexpectedly. He could not seriously dispute that there were twenty hundredweights in the ton of truth that the Captain had just spoken: you had to keep a sharp lookout for the unexpected.

  He realized that Wagstaffe was standing in front of him. 'Did the Captain say anything?' the Second Lieutenant asked nervously, keeping his voice low.

  Aitken nodded warningly towards the skylight over the cabin. 'Clear away the hoses, pumps and engines, get the tackles cleared away in the tiller flat, then carry on as usual.' As he walked aft to the taffrail he wanted to add, beware of the unexpected, there's a whole day of unexpectedness ahead of us yet.

  He looked astern, watching the Juno's swirling wake and, on the distant eastern horizon, a long low bank of cloud behind which the sun had risen but was not yet visible. The band of cloud looked hard and menacing, as though bringing a gale of wind that would last a week, but Aitken knew from experience that it was a trick of the Tropics; once the sun had some heat in it the cloud would melt away, leaving a clear sky. Then, slowly and steadily, the Trade wind clouds would form up like balls of white wool rolling westward in orderly lines, and the decks would get hotter as the sun rose higher and higher.

  Then suddenly he understood completely what the Captain was doing. That last remark was not just a casual comment intended to spur on the ship's First Lieutenant. Everyone on board, except perhaps Southwick, had expected today's exercises to comprise sail handling and gunnery, rounded off with a thorough inspection of the ship's paint and brightwork. Now he realized that the Captain already knew how good (or bad) the men were at reefing and furling - he saw them doing it all the time. He already knew, from his regular Sunday morning inspection, the condition of the paintwork below. The Captain had known all along what Aitken had only just recognized - the real efficiency of a ship's company was not shown by the speed at which sails and guns were handled; it was the way they dealt with a completely unexpected situation that mattered. In fact, whether sailing the ship in a tropical breeze or taking her into action against the enemy, it was all that mattered. By the showing so far, Aitken reflected ruefully, the Captain must be bitterly disappointed.

  He heard the bos'n's mates piping through the ship, following the shrill notes with dire threats to anyone who did not hurry to lash up his hammock. On a morning like this, woe betide any man who lashed up his hammock so carelessly that the long sausage of canvas was too fat to pass through the special measuring hoop.

  The top edge of the clouds to the east were now lined with gold. Muster and stow hammocks . . . clean arms . . . the watch on deck to coil ropes and spread awnings while the watch below cleaned the lower deck . . . then, promptly at eight o'clock, breakfast. And after that, what had the Captain in store for them?

  After breakfast, Ramage had given the order to beat to quarters and the boy drummer, excited by the occasion, had handled his drumsticks with all the flourish of the conductor of an orchestra. The gunner collected the bronze key to the magazine and disappeared below, head pumps were rigged and water squirted over the decks ahead of men sprinkling sand. Gun captains collected the locks for their guns, priming wires, trigger lines, boxes of quill tubes and flasks of priming powder. Tackles were overhauled, guns run in, and handspikes, rammers and sponges unlashed. Small tubs were put between the guns, ready to soak the sponges: other tubs with notches cut at intervals round the top were placed nearby and short lengths of slow matches, in effect slow-burning fuses, were tucked in the notches, the glowing ends hanging down safely over the water but ready for instant use should the flint in a lock fail to make a spark.

  As soon as me men were standing by the guns ready for the order to load, and with Southwick at the conn and each of the four lieutenants standing by his division, Ramage sent for the gunner.

  Johnson came up from the magazine with the big key in his hand as proof that he had left the door locked. He was a tiny man with iron-grey hair and although the skin of his face was wrinkled as an old leather boot he usually wore a cheerful expression. Now, as he reported to the Captain, he looked worried: he had seen what had already happened this morning and dreaded to think what surprises were in store for his little kingdom of guns, powder and shot, ranges and trajectories, flintlocks and slow match.

  'We'll inspect the guns, Johnson,' Ramage announced, and led the way. At the first gun he pointed to two of the gun's crew. 'You two stand fast and the rest of you go and stand by on the fo'c'sle.' He did the same at the next gun and repeated it until only two men stood by each of the frigate's twenty-six maindeck guns, the rest of the men now crowded on the fo'c'sle. Then he led the way back to the quarterdeck, passing the word for the First Lieutenant and followed by a puzzled Johnson, who kept looking at the men grouped forward and shaking his head.

  As soon as Aitken joined them Ramage said: 'We are in battle, we've suffered heavy casualties, and the men at the maindeck guns are all you have left - forget the 6-pounders. When I give the word, you'll fire two broadsides to larboard and two to starboard.'

  'But sir,' the gunner protested, 'two men can't run out a gun, it's much too heavy!'

  'Tell that to the French, Mr Johnson,’ Ramage said grimly. 'Imagine that we are trapped, running between two enemy ships, and our only chance of surviving is keeping up as rapid a rate of fire as possible.'

  'But sir -' Johnson broke off as he saw Ramage rubbing the scar over his brow, and then taking out his watch. The First Lieutenant gestured to the gunner to follow him and hurried down to the maindeck taking Orsini with them.

  Southwick walked over to Ramage and grinned, removing his hat and running his fingers through his flowing white hair. 'It's been quite like old times so far today, sir,' he commented.

  Ramage nodded. 'Except that we learned all these things the hard way!'

  'Aye, and I'm beginning to wonder if that gunner has ever been in action before. He seems a conscientious man, but 'twould seem to me he lacks experience."

  ‘He's been in action half a dozen times, but only a few casualties,' Ramage said. ‘That's -'

  He broke off as Orsini hurried up, saluted and reported that they were ready to open fire.

  'My compliments to Mr Aitken,' Ramage told him, 'and tell him to open fire when he is ready.'

  Ramage was curious to know what Aitken and the gunner had contrived, but he had decided right from the start that today he would be an onlooker; an observer with a watch in his hand. Later this afternoon he would have a word with the ship’s company, and then the officers would be invited down to bjs cabin while Southwick acted as officer of the deck. He would hold an inquest on what did happen and what should have happened, and in front of him would be the sheet of paper with times written on -

  There was a shout from forward and several guns on each side fired, the sharp explosions followed a moment later by the heavy rumbling of the trucks rolling across the decks as the guns flung back in recoil. Ramage saw that alternate guns had fired: the remainder were still run out.

  The spurts of smoke merged into oily yellow clouds drifting forward in the following wind and some of it, swirling across the group of men on the fo'c'sle, set many of them coughing. Ramage glanced at his watch and waited as men hurriedly sponged them and began
to reload. Then the remaining thirteen guns fired and Ramage, stifling a sigh of relief, glanced across at Southwick, who was nodding his approval.

  Aitken and Johnson had done the right thing. They had obviously had all the guns loaded - two men at each gun could manage that. Then two men from alternate guns had helped the two at the next to run out and fire - that accounted for half the broadside on each side. Each four men had then run out the remaining guns, which had fired the second half of the broadsides.

  So far, so good: the real test was how long it would take two men to reload each gun and then repeat the whole performance. But the important thing, Ramage knew, was that Aitken and Johnson, faced with two choices, had picked the right one. They could have run all the guns out and fired a full broadside, or they could divide them. Either way was effective but Ramage had a particular reason for preferring the divided broadsides. A ship firing full broadsides but at long intervals revealed to the enemy that heavy casualties had slowed her rate of fire. However, dividing the broadsides meant that at least some guns were firing frequently - and making a lot of smoke which would certainly obscure all the gun ports and probably conceal from an excited enemy that the real rate of fire was very slow. In battle it might prove decisive: at a critical moment for the Juno the enemy might sheer off, convinced they were doing no good. It will be interesting to hear the explanation of Aitken's choice, Ramage thought; it is easy enough to do the right thing for the wrong reason...

  Ten minutes later the guns had been sponged out and secured, the magazine locked, rammers and sponges lashed, tubs emptied and stowed and men were busy washing away the sand which had already dried on the deck from the hot sun. Ramage thought of the other orders which he could give to test the ship's effectiveness in battle - rigging out boarding nets, hoisting grapnels to the yardarms ready to run alongside an enemy ship and hook them in the rigging so they could board, making the men shift guns from one position to another - but he was satisfied. The men were working with a will and the officers were wide awake. Later there would be extra questions for the officers, and he already knew what they would be.

  Finally the Juno's decks were clean, the brasswork shone, ropes were coiled neatly, leather buckets were back on their hooks. The time had come to begin his inspection, accompanied by Aitken and Southwick, with young Benson following, armed with a pencil and notebook ready to write down any faults that Ramage might find. It took two hours, and by the time he had finished Ramage was hot and weary: below decks the heat was stifling, even though ventilators and wind sails were rigged. The ship was making six knots but the Trade winds were blowing at a little more than fifteen, giving a breeze of only nine knots across the deck: not enough to make a decent cooling draught through the ship.

  Ramage had to admit that the general condition of the Juno was a credit to Aitken, even if not to the Portsmouth Dockyard. Paint bubbles on beams and planking had set Ramage digging with a knife that revealed patches of rot; many beams and some futtocks should have been doubled before the ship left Spithead for the West Indies. Benson scribbled hastily as Ramage made his comments, and Aitken had been shamefaced at some of them. Most of the axes stowed ready for wreck-clearing or any other emergency were not only blunt but had their blades pitted and scarred where at some time or other they had bitten into metal. More than half the tomahawks and cutlasses which would be wielded by a boarding party would not, as Ramage had commented acidly, have cut into a ripe paw-paw, and while the heads of boarding pikes were neatly black-enamelled most were so blunt they would hardly drive through a rip sail, let alone a thick-skinned Frenchman.

  Finally, back on the quarterdeck, Ramage had taken Benson's notebook, glanced at it and given it back to the boy. 'Can you read your own writing?' he asked incredulously, and when the midshipman, his face crimson, said he could, Ramage ordered him to go down to the midshipmen's berth and make a fair copy.

  The First Lieutenant waited anxiously, wondering what orders would follow. Ramage looked at his watch. 'Well, carry on, Mr Aitken. It's half-past eleven - clear decks and up spirits, and make sure the men get their dinner promptly at noon: I don't doubt but they have a good appetite.'

  'And this afternoon, sir?' Aitken asked timidly.

  Ramage laughed drily. 'We'll let Mr Southwick write in his log, "Ship's company employed A.T.S.R.",' he said referring to the time-honoured abbreviation for 'As the service required'. Then he added: 'I want to hear that grindstone at work: axes, tomahawks, pikes and cutlasses. Check them all. And have Mr Johnson check every musket and pistol...’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ramage was sitting at his desk, trying to finish all the forms the Rear-Admiral would require when they arrived in Barbados, when Southwick came down with the noon position written on a piece of paper. He pointed to the longitude. 'We're making our westing. If this wind holds, we should make a fast passage.'

  Ramage glanced at the figures as he gestured to the Master to sit down. The old man put his hat on the cabin sole and wriggled himself comfortable, a movement that Ramage knew from long experience meant he wanted to have a serious talk about something.

  Ramage looked at him quizzically. 'How do you think our "Monday morning" went?'

  'Better than I expected, sir,' Southwick said frankly. ‘A lot better than I thought possible when we dropped the Lizard astern.'

  'You and Aitken have worked hard,' Ramage said.

  Southwick shook his head. "Twasn't Aitken and 'twasn't me, sir. The credit is yours.'

  'Mine?' Ramage was obviously startled.

  'Yours and those dozen scalawags of ours. I must admit I never appreciated them fully when we were in the Triton but they turned the trick here. What with you wielding the stick and carrot from the quarterdeck and those fellows sermonizing on the lower deck like some of Mr Wesley's preachers, the ship's company - well, they're a deal different from the crowd I first clapped eyes on when I boarded at Spithead!'

  Ramage rubbed his jaw reflectively. 'Well, all that's past now. I wonder what the Admiral has in store for us at Barbados.'

  'Convoy work,' Southwick said gloomily, 'I can feel it in my bones. Taking a dozen merchantmen from Barbados to Grenada and waiting a week while they drum up business, and then take the mules on to St Vincent and St Lucia, and the same there, and an even more infuriating sail up to Antigua with them dropping astern at night and French privateers scurrying out of Martinique to snap 'em up. Mules,' he repeated crossly, 'there isn't a master of a merchant ship that isn't a mule!'

  'It may not be as bad as all that,' Ramage said mildly. There was no harm in confiding in the Master. In many ways theirs was a strange relationship; one which had begun years earlier in the Mediterranean when Ramage took over his first command, the Kathleen cutter. He had been given her, he imagined, because Commodore Nelson had taken a liking to him. He had been lucky, as a very green lieutenant with his first command, that Southwick arrived as the Kathleen's master. Southwick was old enough to be his father and was probably one of the finest seamen in the Navy. He could handle the toughest ship's company, treating them like a benevolent father or the Devil's drill sergeant, as the occasion required. Apart from his skill as a Master, though, what had endeared him to Ramage was the way the old man, without ever once overstepping the invisible line separating the captain of the ship from the master (who was only a warrant, not a commission officer), had never let him make a mistake. At times there had been an almost imperceptible shake of the head, at others a cough, occasionally one of the famous sniffs. More important perhaps, was the knowledge that the old Master was on board, a cyclopaedia of knowledge, always at hand, and whom Ramage had never seen ruffled, whether at the prospect of having the tiny cutter rammed by a Spanish line-of-battleship - for that was how the Kathleen had been lost - or by a hurricane, which had sent the Triton brig's masts by the board.

  'I'm carrying orders from the First Lord to Rear-Admiral Davis for some special operation,' he said.

  'I guessed as much,' Southwick said. 'But
is the Juno named in them?'

  Ramage shook his head. 'I don't think so. When His Lordship gave me my orders, they were simply "to make the best of my way" ' - he parroted the traditional phrase - "to Barbados, place myself under Admiral Davis's command, and deliver the usual budget of papers. His Lordship did just mention that there was a special operation forthcoming . . .'

  'Aye, but if he didn't name the Juno then it won't be for us, sir,' Southwick's voice was even gloomier. 'The Admiral has probably asked for more frigates - admirals never do have enough o' them. His Lordship decided to give you the Juno, since you've just been made post, and send her out to Admiral Davis. If there's any special operation you can be sure the Admiral has his favourites; he won't give plums to a stranger - you don't know him, do you, sir?'

  Ramage shook his head. Southwick was right and only echoed his own opinion. The Juno was just another frigate bringing out orders and mail for the Windward and Leeward Islands station; it would be convoy work through the islands. The favoured few captains would be away patrolling the areas off the Spanish Main where there was a chance of finding enemy ships and taking prizes; those out of favour would be with the convoys. An admiral could make a young frigate captain rich in this way (and himself, too, since he shared in the prize money), and one could not blame him if he favoured the captains who had served with him a long time.