by Dudley Pope
Martin had at once compared the graceful fregatas with Thames barges, and was soon in an argument about them with Kenton and Paolo. Both types of vessel were built for the same function—to carry bulky cargoes up rivers and for short distances along the coasts. The fregatas had apple-cheeked bows and were gaily painted, often with an ancient eye painted on each side. The mast was stepped well forward but raked aft at a considerable angle like a hurricane-swept tree so that the masthead was over the cargo hatch. Nor was this a coincidence—a heavy tackle at the masthead made it easy to use the mast to hoist up the cargo, and another tackle hauled it over the side and on to the quay. The sails were loose-footed and limited in size. The Thames barge, Kenton was quick to point out, was just a large box: it had none of the graceful curves of the fregata.
The practical Martin asked the obvious question: given a vessel of, say, eighty feet in length, what did you want: beauty or cargo space? It was almost impossible, he declared, to have both. With her flat bottom, straight sides, bluff bow and almost vertical stern, a Thames barge could use every possible inch for cargo. She hoisted the head of her great mainsail up the mast, and then extended the other corner with a long sprit, so that for a given length of vessel, a Thames barge could set half as much again more canvas than a fregata. And with her flat bottom, the keel in effect on the inside of the hull, she could carry a cargo up the River Crouch, the Medway, the Colne, Orwell, Yare—not to mention the Thames and the Rother and dozens of places in the Solent—and dry out to sit on the bottom when the tide left. That often meant, said Martin triumphantly, that the cargo could be unloaded directly into carts because the horses could come over the sand.
“Or get stuck in the mud,” Kenton said, waving aside Orsini’s claims for the polacca of the Mediterranean. The argument was stopped when Southwick pointed out that not one of their noon sights agreed with another. “According to Mr Kenton we must have made one great sternboard since noon yesterday, because he puts us so far north; Mr Martin would have us believe we’ve been making seventeen knots for the past 24 hours; and Mr Orsini must be teasing us.”
Gradually the latitude and longitude columns in Ramage’s journal began to change radically. The longitude started off from a few minutes of arc east of Greenwich, because the Calypso had sailed from the Medway, crossing the meridian while passing westward just south of Newhaven and Rottingdean. Since then the longitude had increased as they slanted south-west while the latitude grew less. Thirty-six degrees North showed they were level with the Strait of Gibraltar; 35° meant they were almost as far south as Rabat and bearing away to the south-west for Madeira, having completely failed to find the north-east Trades which should have hurried the Calypso down the Portuguese coast.
And at last it was getting warmer. For the time being the sun was brighter rather than hotter, but the sea was certainly not so cold and Ramage slept with the skylights propped open.
Ramage enjoyed and relived his own first voyage into the Tropics by seeing it through the eyes of Wilkins. The present voyage must be the fifth or sixth that would take him across that magic latitude, 23° 33’, which marked the Tropic of Cancer, the northern limit of the band circling the earth like a cummerbund and called the “Tropics.”
Wilkins, his blond hair blowing in the Trade winds, his blue eyes rarely still for a moment, was looking at the flowing waves, the sky dappled by Trade wind clouds, the Calypso’s sail, her deck, the movement of the men.
His first attempt to paint on deck had been disastrous: he was just settling down with brushes and palette, having drawn in with a few swift charcoal strokes the curve of the mainsail, when the combination of a lurch to leeward and a sudden puff of wind caught his canvas. The wooden frame of the stretcher hooked in his easel as it blew away and in a moment both had gone over the side, leaving a startled Wilkins still sitting on his folding stool, brush in one hand and the palette and more brushes in the other.
Ramage had run to the ship’s side and seen that the easel, heavy with metal fittings, had sunk. To his surprise the seamen who had seen the accident were even more upset than Wilkins. Instead of laughing at the sight of the artist sitting on his stool apparently working on an invisible canvas, they had offered to get some more canvas from the sailmaker. Then, catching Ramage’s eye and correctly interpreting the nod, the Calypso’s carpenter had gone up to Wilkins and asked for a sketch of an easel with dimensions, promising a replacement by the evening in bare wood, but tomorrow evening with two coats of varnish.
While he waited for the carpenter and his mates to produce a new easel, Wilkins talked to Ramage of his plans.
“The amazing thing is,” he said, “that in the last few days my entire world has changed. For the whole of my life the sea has been various shades of green, even though poets insist on calling it blue. The sky has been a pale blue, as weak in colour as the shell of a duck’s egg.
“Now, as we’ve come south and into this good weather, just look: the sea is a deep blue, the sky an exciting blue, the Trade wind clouds are just the funny shapes you predicted.”
Ramage had earlier tried to describe the day’s routine at sea in the Tropics but Wilkins, looking at the Channel off Ushant, had not really believed him. The day, Ramage had predicted, would begin with dawn revealing a band of cloud on the eastern horizon which, as the sun was behind it, would be menacing. Then, as the sun climbed higher the band would disappear and the sky clear.
By nine or ten o’clock, there would be an occasional tiny cloud, like white blanket fluff; within half an hour more would be gradually forming into narrow columns, like marching men, and all borne westward by the Trade wind, which would be increasing as the sun rose. Although it was an optical illusion the clouds would seem to be converging on a single point on the western horizon, and each would be changing shape until the underside was flat but the upper part would turn into a strange shape. To Ramage and to Wilkins when he first saw them they looked like the white alabaster effigies he had seen on tombs: a recumbent knight in armour, feet sticking up at one end, head complete with visor, at the other. There might be one which clearly represented a woman. Then Wilkins was spotting faces: just the profile staring up into the sky as though its owner was lying flat on an invisible bed.
The first real day of Trade wind clouds had Wilkins, the botanist Garret and Ramage vying with each other to spot and then identify the faces of well-known figures. Wilkins swore he could see the head of Sir William Beechey, the artist, but both Ramage and Garret protested they did not know what he looked like. They all agreed on the Prince Regent, followed ten minutes later by the bloated face of Dundas. Neither Ramage nor Wilkins could give a verdict on Garret’s recognition of Arthur Young, the Secretary of the Board of Agriculture, but all three soon spotted Evan Nepean, the Secretary to the Board of Admiralty.
A delighted Wilkins then spotted Southwick’s profile and the Master, made to hurry on deck, claimed the cloud flattered him.
Wilkins, continuing his survey of the voyage so far through an artist’s eyes, had one complaint. “You say the sea and sky will get much more blue before we reach our destination, but who in England will believe me if I paint what I see now? I hadn’t realized how few of my fellow artists ever travelled south of Rome—and many, like me, haven’t been able to set foot on the Continent yet because of the war. I have seen many paintings of subjects like a ‘Frigate action off Martinique,’ or ‘The Battle of the Saints’—they are islands nearby, are they not? The sea and the sky look like the Channel or North Sea: look like the sea should look—or so I thought. Now I realize that those artists had never seen tropical seas and skies; they were painting actions as described by individual captains, who would make sure the naval details were correct—the position of ships, the rigging, and so on. But they never told the artists—or the artists would not believe—the colours. Why, just look at that row of fire buckets—have you ever seen polished leather look so rich in England? The canvas of the sails—white be damned; just look at how much r
aw umber and burnt sienna there is. I’ll show you when I mix some colours.
“Gaudy, my dear sir, that’s what the Tropics are, and I love them: colours are beginning to live!”
“For real colour you should see the West Indies,” Ramage said. “The colour of the sea over a coral reef—light blue that seems alive, or a pale green like silk. The colours of the black women’s dresses: they take three pieces of cloth of unbelievable gaudiness, put them on their bodies and on their heads, and seem more fashionable than milady riding in Rotten Row.”
Ramage was sitting at his desk looking through the journals kept by Kenton, Martin and Orsini. They were supposed to be diaries of happenings on board the ship, with navigational facts, descriptions of “any unusual events” and sketches of any coasts the Calypso passed. Kenton and Martin were, for practical purposes, almost illiterate, and Orsini was lazy. Kenton and Martin had gone to sea at an early age; they could knot and splice, box the compass, load a cannon and fire a musket at an age when most boys on land were still scared of the dark, but they could not parse a sentence and even now would not know what to do with an adverb. Paolo’s ruthless tutors at home in Volterra made sure he had a remarkable knowledge of grammar, so he spoke English, French and Spanish fluently, as well as Italian. This was normal for most intelligent aristocrats. Paolo’s trouble was sheer laziness and almost a nostalgie de la boue for the rougher side of seamanship. He preferred rope-work to navigation; he would sooner paint Stockholm tar on to rigging than study elementary ballistics. He picked up a pen with the same reluctance other men might grasp a smoking grenade.
It was curious how three clever, perceptive young men could fail to see—or, rather, to note—interesting events. A few days ago several whales were sighted, some young ones among them; last Sunday a school of dolphins played under the bow for hours like huge joyful children; on Monday seamen towing a huge hook caught a large shark and the task of killing it after it had been hoisted on board had made the decks run with blood—more blood than had ever flowed in battle. And the next day there had been a tropic bird.
For Ramage there were five things that he would always remember about the West Indies—the Tropics, in fact—even if he never visited them again: tropic birds, flying fish, blue sea, pelicans and palm trees. This tropic bird, the first of the voyage, had come up from the east, alone, passed high over the ship with a casual elegance, and flown on to the west—where the nearest land was nearly three thousand miles away. It was not a big bird but a striking one—all white with a very long forked tail. In fact the tail was three or four times longer than the bird—V-shaped like a swallow’s, and very thin, as though each part comprised a single feather.
But there was no mention of whales, shark, dolphins or tropic bird in any of the journals. They were accepted like sunshine and squalls as part of a daily routine. How did one make people aware of their surroundings?
Ramage was just closing the last journal when the sentry at the door called: “Mr Southwick, sir.”
The Master came in, a cheerful grin on his sunburned face, his white hair now greasy because of the water shortage, and put a slip of paper on Ramage’s desk. Usually he brought down the slate on which he had written the noon position, and the use of a piece of paper made Ramage look carefully at the figure.
The longitude was of course west of Greenwich and in the thirties, but the latitude stood out as though Southwick had written it in large figures: 9° 58’ 12”. The Calypso was now south of ten degrees North!
Ramage looked up at the old Master and smiled. “So we’ve crossed our own personal Equator! Pass the word for Mr Aitken while I find my keys. Time to break the seals!”
By the time the First Lieutenant arrived in the cabin, Ramage had unlocked the drawer and taken out the packet with its four seals, each bearing the three anchors symbol of the Admiralty. It was addressed to him and bore the instructions: “Not to be opened until south of the 10th parallel of latitude.”
It was far more exciting for Aitken and Southwick because Lord St Vincent had already told Ramage the Calypso’s final destination although he had been unable to mention it to anyone else.
Ramage slid a paperknife under the seals, levered them up and opened the letter, which comprised two sheets of paper folded into thirds, the two ends then being folded inwards and a seal applied to each corner of the flaps. In the top right-hand corner was the usual “By the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty …” Then the elegant copperplate opened in the time-honoured way: “I am directed by my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to acquaint you …” He continued reading to himself.
Having resumed command of the Calypso frigate after her refit, and received on board the extra provisions, stores and equipment listed in the margin of the second page, and having received on board the supernumeraries also listed on the second page and
… Ramage stopped: the habit of making a letter one long sentence, a series of statements linked by “and” and “whereas” was both confusing and tiring to read. Very well, now the Calypso is south of ten degrees North and the orders are opened.
You will make the best of your way to the Ilha da Trinidade situated to the best of our knowledge in 20° 29’ South latitude and 29° 20’ West longitude, or thereabouts, and upon arriving there you will take possession of the island in the King’s name and erect plaques permanently recording the fact and recording your name and that of the ship and the date.
You will then cause the island to be surveyed and mapped, with particular concern for the watering places, and any sheltered bays suitable for use as anchorages should be sounded and proper charts drawn.
If wells are necessary they should be bored and lined with brick by the masons you carry; the botanist should choose and mark suitable land for the planting of maize, Irish potatoes and sweet potatoes. This land should be cleared, dug, prepared and sown under his instructions.
The surveyors, with the Marine officer, should pay particular attention to siting batteries to cover the main anchorages and the watering places, and these batteries should be built as expeditiously as possible. Appropriate magazines and kitchens should also be built.
He glanced up at Aitken and Southwick, both of whom were controlling their impatience. He resumed reading to himself.
If the island proves suitable, a signal station should be established which will also serve as a lookout tower, permitting an all-round view.
Having surveyed the island and its anchorages, provided it with batteries and a signal station, ensured a ready supply of water and planted the crops you are carrying, and having taken possession of the island in the King’s name and leaving a Union flag flying at the signal station or lookout tower, you will return with your ship to the United Kingdom and report to their Lordships in detail and without delay upon your proceedings.
No surprises then, simply more details. Ramage turned to Southwick and with a straight face said: “Well, you take us to 20° 29’ South and 29° 20’ West and anchor as convenient.”
“Do I, by Jove,” Southwick said, his brow wrinkled as he worked out the position. “Fernando de Noronha? No, too far south. It’s about a thousand miles east of Rio de Janeiro, isn’t it, sir? It’ll be rather deep for anchoring …”
Aitken’s eyes were shut as he searched his memory and looked at an imaginary chart. St Paul Rocks … no, they were north of Fernando de Noronha. Twenty south—that must be about the same as Rio de Janeiro—ah! “Abrolhos Rocks!” he said triumphantly; they were a hundred miles or so off the Brazilian coast.
Ramage shook his head.
“Martin Vaz island!” Southwick exclaimed. “Although how we’ll find it I don’t know, enough people have looked.”
Again Ramage shook his head and told a crestfallen Southwick: “You are close. Ilha da Trinidade, which is nearby.”
Southwick sniffed and Ramage recognized the sound as expressing the Master’s contempt. “How big is it?”
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Big enough to s
how on a chart; small enough, I suspect, to miss on a hazy day. I trust our chronometer is behaving itself.”
“It didn’t like those couple of months in England any more than I did,” Southwick grumbled. “My rheumatism was playing up, and so was the chronometer.”
“Might one ask why we … ?” Aitken ventured, tactfully tapering off the sentence.
“No one can leave the ship before we arrive, so there’s no reason why the pair of you don’t read my orders,” Ramage said, sliding them across the desk to the First Lieutenant.
Aitken was halfway down the first page when he said: “We claim it? Who owns it now?”
“Let Southwick read it, then we can go over the questions together.”
Aitken finished the first page and then ticked off the items listed on the second page. He knew all about them, and his curiosity why one of the King’s ships should be carrying bricks, plasterers’ tools, spades, rakes and hoes, sacks of seed potatoes and grain as well as surveying equipment was now satisfied.
Southwick read, folded the orders and gave them back to Ramage. “Whatever it is,” he said slowly, “don’t let’s forget that the Ilha da Trinidade lies beyond the Doldrums … At this time of the year we could take weeks to cross them.”
“The Spanish aren’t very original about names, are they?” Aitken complained. “There’s the big island of Trinidad at the entrance to the Caribbean, a city in Cuba and I seem to remember seeing a reference to another island with that name off Bahia Blanca, three hundred miles or so south of Buenos Aires.”
“There’ll be more,” Southwick commented. “It’s like Santa Cruz. When in doubt the Dons call a place either Santa Cruz or Trinidad.”
“This one was named by the Portuguese,” Ramage said.
Southwick sniffed again. “Not much difference, except the language. Maybe the Portuguese are better sailors.” He thought for a few moments and then amended his remark. “They were, a couple of centuries ago, but not now. But if they named the island I presume they own it.”