by Pope, Dudley
Perhaps if he knew the answer he could leave the sea. But would finding the answer be like finding the Golden Fleece the very fact of succeeding meant there was nothing more to do with your life: no spur, no goal, no purpose…?
He turned for one last unhurried look at Gibraltar, and for a moment he was a child again, lying flat on his stomach on a Cornish beach staring up at a great boulder only a few feet away. The houses clustered on the steep sides were tiny limpets; the grey defensive walls studded with embrasures just cracks in the rock lined with sea snails. Was Gianna watching from a balcony of The Convent? He wasn’t too sure – they’d parted as both lovers and strangers; there’d been no time for the tranquil minutes which –
He glanced up to see La Providencia at anchor a hundred yards away. He hoped Sir John would buy her into the service. Even without him foregoing his share of the prize money, the six men now in the boat would each get a few hundred pounds; more than they’d ever earn in a lifetime as seamen.
‘She served us well.’
‘Aye, sir,’ Jackson said wistfully. ‘I wouldn’t mind having her as a privateer!’
In taking only three days and four nights from Cartagena La Providencia had made a fast passage in such light winds and Ramage, like the Commissioner, could only pray the Spanish Fleet had been delayed in leaving, then met the same humbugging winds, and found the convoy of seventy transports – if they sailed at the same time – as slow, mulish and stupid as convoys of transports usually were.
But the chances that they’d have a slow passage were slight – the wind had now gone east and was becoming squally, and the wispy clouds beginning to stream westward from the peaks of Gibraltar, like steam from a boiling kettle, were a warning that a strong easterly wind, the Levanter, was already on its way across the Mediterranean. Bringing heavy rain and poor visibility, it was just the wind to let Cordoba’s Fleet scurry through the Strait.
As he’d brought La Providencia round the great craggy Europa Point, close in along Dead Man’s Beach and up to Rosin Bay, he’d been startled to see that, with one exception, there wasn’t a ship o’ war at anchor in the Bay: obviously every available vessel was at sea, either helping Commodore Nelson evacuate the Mediterranean or with Sir John Jervis.
The boat came alongside and the men’s grins were wider than ever as Ramage scrambled up the side battens to the trilling of bosun’s calls. It was childish, but one of the best things about commanding a ship was being piped on board…
A few moments later he was returning Southwick’s salute and shaking him by the hand while the ship’s company, drawn up on deck in two ranks, began a wild, spontaneous cheering that Southwick did nothing to stop.
‘Welcome back on board, sir: the Kathleen hasn’t been the same without you!’
Ramage blinked and thought irrelevantly of the split seam in his coat. Jackson had been the first to spot the Kathleen at anchor as La Providencia rounded Europa Point, and Ramage had been both delighted and nervous until he’d reached the Commissioner’s office and been told the frigate Hotspur had recaptured both the Kathleen and the Spanish frigate towing her into Barcelona, and freed all her crew, who were prisoners in the frigate. His nervousness vanished completely when the Commissioner, after hearing about Cordoba’s instructions, had ordered him to resume command and find Sir John ‘with all despatch’.
But he hadn’t anticipated such a home-coming, for his return to the cutter was just that, and stood open-mouthed at the gangway as the men cheered again and again. By now Jackson and the gig’s crew had come on board and were standing to one side, and as Ramage waved to include them the ship’s company roared their approval.
Southwick said above the din, ‘I think they’d appreciate a few words, sir!’
Ramage jumped up on top of a carronade and held up his hand for silence. He tried to look grim and succeeded: the lean face, hard eyes, the diagonal slash of the scar light against the tan, lips compressed and muscles of the jaw taut, made him look both ruthless and determined.
He held up his hand for silence.
‘You must be the most stupid ship’s company it’s ever been the misfortune of any man to command,’ he said harshly.
The smiles vanished. Every man looked crestfallen, like an errant schoolboy.
‘I’ve tried to kill you with La Sabina and failed. I thought I’d get a second chance with the two frigates but they turned out to be British. I couldn’t be bothered the third time when we met the Spanish Fleet. Now you are so dam’ stupid you cheer me when I come back again.’
With that the men began roaring with laughter and, breaking ranks, surged round him, several of them shouting ‘’ve another go, sir!’
‘I’m going to! But this time – and I’m not joking now – we’ll probably be playing chase with the Santísima Trinidad.’ He paused to let it sink in. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, she carries 130 guns. Once we’ve dealt with her there’ll be six more each of 112 guns, and two with eighty. Then if you’ve still got any fire left in your bellies, there’ll be eighteen more seventy-fours. But don’t think there’ll be any time for grog after that because you’ll still have a few dozen frigates left to bring into Gibraltar or the Tagus!’
If he thought the list would have a sobering effect he was mistaken: the men promptly began cheering again and he glimpsed Southwick rubbing his hands in a familar way. If every Spanish ship’s company had even half their spirit, he reflected, Cordoba’s great fleet would be invincible. Even as the men cheered, Ramage pictured Cordoba’s Fleet leaving Cadiz and joining the French Fleet at Brest for an attempted invasion of England. French troops marching through Cornwall, looting and burning St Kew Hall, and probably guillotining his father for being both an earl and an admiral. The men fell silent and he realized his thoughts showed in his face. Well, despite the need for secrecy on shore, there was no harm in telling them what it was all about, since they’d be at sea in fifteen minutes.
‘Now listen carefully. I’ve told you the size of the Spanish Fleet, and Jackson and the others have probably described what it looked like at anchor in Cartagena. What Jackson and the others don’t know is the whole Fleet was under orders to sail the day before yesterday. The Spanish Admiral has orders to make for Cadiz, so any minute you’re likely to see ’em pass Europa Point and out through The Gut.’
He gestured towards the grey mountains of Africa, less than a dozen miles across the Strait. ‘If they pass through there before we can get out, find Sir John and warn him then only the Spanish and French know what the consequences will be. If a Spanish Fleet that size picks up troops at Cadiz and sails north to raise the blockade of Brest and let the French Fleet join them, then there’s very little to stop them invading England: they’d total more than fifty sail of the line. To stop Cordoba’s twenty-seven sail of the line getting to Cadiz Sir John has only eleven, as far as we know. There you are, men: our job is to warn Sir John, but since we don’t even know where he is, we haven’t a moment to waste… Mr Southwick! Let’s get under way!’
With that he jumped down from the bulwark feeling as melodramatic as an actor who’d just recited Henry Vs speech on the eve of St Crispin’s Day – though omitting the beginning, ‘He which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart…’
As he walked to the companionway, the men still cheering, he thought wrily of an earlier phrase in the play, ‘I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.’ His fame was such that he’d need only a small pot of very poor ale.
Ramage took off his sword in the tiny cabin and when Jackson brought down a large leather pouch, he unlocked it and transferred the books and documents it contained to his desk. The key was still in the lock of the drawer – only the little lead-lined box usually kept beneath the desk and now sunk in about a thousand fathoms was missing. He’d have to get another made.
He sat down heavily. It was not just physical weariness: his brain was tired. He longed for a week’s rest with no decisions to be made, no need to be constantly goad
ing himself, and free from the constant fear that a moment’s relaxation would let the enemy – either Spaniards or weather – get one move ahead. To go to sleep without the fear that he’d be wakened only to deal with yet another emergency.
The Commissioner’s words still rang in his ears. ‘Yours is the only vessel we can send after Sir John… If I had three frigates, I’d use ’em all: but there’s only your cutter. Make no mistake, Ramage, find Sir John you must. You know what’s at stake. Drive the ship and drive the men as you’ve never driven ’em before, even if you get a gale a day. If you see a frigate, give her captain one of the sets of orders I’m having drawn up. Go from one rendezvous to the next. If you find a neutral ship, wring the master’s neck if that’s the only way to make him say whether or not he’s seen Sir John’s squadron. And,’ he’d added grimly, ‘if you fail, don’t offer any excuses.’
Find Sir John’s squadron… Ramage reached out for the chart. Precious little he had to go on. Sir John had sailed from Lisbon, leaving the Tagus on 18th January with eleven sail of the line to escort some Portuguese men o’ war and a Brazil convoy southwards to a safe latitude. (How far south was ‘safe’?)
Having done that, Sir John intended to work his way back to the rendezvous off Cape St Vincent to meet any reinforcements the Admiralty had been able to send from England. He certainly needed them. The Commissioner – who was in a difficult position since officially he had no executive authority over Ramage – did not expect Sir John to be back at the rendezvous before about 12th February.
Once through the Strait and out into the Atlantic, the rendezvous off Cape St Vincent (the south-western tip of Portugal and one of the most forbidding headlands on the Atlantic coast) was 170 miles away to the north-west. With an easterly wind, the Kathleen could be there in about thirty-four hours, assuming an average of five knots.
If Sir John, the reinforcements or a frigate were not there, Ramage decided he would head down towards the Canaries – that would be the route Sir John would take with the Brazil ships – for three days, and then return to the rendezvous. That increased the chances of finding Sir John farther to the south, so the Fleet would have less distance to cover to intercept the Spaniards before they reached Cadiz.
Jackson appeared at the companionway. ‘Mr Southwick’s respects, sir: the cable’s up and down.’
The Master was waiting by the taffrail. ‘Very well, Mr Southwick, let’s get under way. And remember,’ he added quietly, ‘with no other ship here, every telescope on shore is going to be trained on us… Jackson, I want you at the helm.’
Southwick nodded, picked up his speaking trumpet and began bellowing orders. Soon the two headsails and the great mainsail were hoisted, the gaff and boom swinging lazily from one side to the other and the canvas of the headsails rippling as the wind blew down both sides of them, finding nothing to exert its force on.
Once again the windlass creaked as men heaved down on the bars (why, Ramage thought idly, don’t they fit cutters with capstans?) and slowly the heavy cable came home, water squeezing out of the strands and streaming back down the deck. A seaman watching over the bow signalled to Southwick – the anchor stock was in sight.
‘I’ll take the conn, Mr Southwick.’
The Kathleen had a little sternway which Ramage used to pay off the bow to starboard. He gave an order to the men at the helm, another to the men at the sheets, and the wind filled the great mainsail with a bang. Slowly she began forging ahead.
Ramage was just going to tell Southwick to set the gaff-topsail when he saw a dark shadow moving fast across the water between the cutter and shore, a shadow rapidly becoming dappled with white-capped wavelets: one of the sudden white squalls for which Gibraltar was notorious.
‘Ease sheets, Mr Southwick: smartly now!’
Turning to Jackson and the man with him, he yelled, ‘Meet this squall! Here – you two men: stand by the helm!’
Then it was on them: although invisible it seemed solid, snatching their breath and screaming shrill in the rigging, slashing off the wave tops and driving them to leeward like heavy rain. Under the wind’s enormous pressure the Kathleen heeled over until the water swirled in at the gunports. Ramage saw that although the helm was hard over in an attempt to keep the cutter on course, she was being forced to round up into the wind and head for the shore. The headsails were beginning to flog: in a few moments they’d probably explode into a dozen strips of torn canvas.
‘Let the mainsheet run, Mr Southwick!’
The waves slicing up solid over the weather bow were blowing into spray, sparkling briefly in a few moments of weak sun. Then, after what seemed like hours, with Ramage waiting for the sails to blow out or the mast to go by the board, the big boom moved over to leeward as the men slacked the sheet, easing the pressure on the mainsail, which had been forcing the cutter’s bow up into the wind. Almost immediately her angle of heel lessened and as the men eased the helm to bring the Kathleen back on course the headsails stopped their insensate flogging.
Algeçiras, on the Spanish mainland, was five miles away across Gibraltar Bay on the starboard beam; Europa Point was almost on the larboard beam and he could see past it into the Mediterranean beyond. Ahead on the African coast, eleven miles across the Strait, low cloud streaming in fast from the east now hid the great peaks of Renegado and Sid Musa which ranged parallel with the coast like teeth in a petrified jawbone. For a brief moment he glimpsed the isolated summit of Haffe del Benatz, climbing almost sheer to fifteen hundred feet, and then Marsa farther west.
Soon the cutter turned to head out towards the Atlantic and with the wind aft she rolled violently, the end of the main boom occasionally dipping in the water. Ramage could see the tiny island of Tarifa ahead, with the Moorish town of Tarifa on the mainland, high-walled with several towers sticking up like enormous tree stumps.
The current was west-going at the moment and stronger close inshore, and because he was anxious to gain every yard to the westward Ramage kept as near the mainland as he dared. The Kathleen was at that moment in sight of at least half a dozen Spanish watch-towers and a couple of castles. If they knew of the scrap of paper locked in his desk, horsemen would already be on their way to Madrid. The tiny ship they were mercifully ignoring – too lazy, perhaps even too contemptuous, to fire at – had the potential to defeat the objective of the combined Fleets of France and Spain…
On the south side of the Strait the African coast was trending south-west, but it would be dark before they passed Tangier. Now Tarifa was near – he guessed Admiral Cordoba would also be glad to get it abeam. From there, Cordoba would have a short run of about forty miles north-westward along the coast to Cadiz, passing only two capes, de Gracia and Trafalgar with its off-lying shoals.
The Kathleen, however, had 170 miles to sail before reaching the rendezvous off Cape St Vincent, crossing a gulf notorious for its sudden south-easterly gales which could trap ships so they could neither weather Cape St Vincent at one end nor round Cape Trafalgar to run into the Strait of Gibraltar at the other.
By the time Tarifa was abeam and with darkness falling, Ramage saw the weather was rapidly deteriorating so that only a miracle could save them from an easterly gale by dawn, and he had to decide within the next hour whether to get some shelter by following the Spanish coast as it trended round northward to Cape Trafalgar and Cadiz, or steer direct for Cape St Vincent and risk eventually being forced to run westward before the full force of it, a course which would take him well out into the Atlantic, leaving Cape St Vincent forty or fifty miles to the north.
Prudent seamanship indicated keeping in the lee of the Spanish coast, but the scrap of paper locked in his drawer; not to mention the Commissioner who’d emphasized every word by thumping his fist on the deck as he said, ‘Drive the ship and drive the men as you’ve never driven ’em before, even if you get a gale a day…’ left him with no choice: he must sail direct and risk the gale. There was some consolation that even if the same gale brought Cordoba’s
Fleet scudding through the Strait, the Spaniards with their great three-deckers and clumsy transports would have a much harder fight to claw up to Cadiz without getting driven far out into the Atlantic.
The full force of the gale – which was bad even for a Levanter – caught the Kathleen just as she cleared the Strait and entered the Atlantic, with Cape Spartel on her larboard quarter showing where the African coast suddenly swept sharply southward to begin the curve which ended in the Gulf of Guinea, almost on the Equator, while on her starboard beam the mountains of Spain disappeared as they trended north towards Cadiz.
Southwick swore the gale was the worst Levanter he’d ever seen but Ramage, although fearful and yet awed by its majestic, and apparently effortless power, reckoned the Kathleen’s smallness exaggerated it. But it could not have caught them at a worse time: the east wind howling uninterrupted for perhaps a thousand miles across the Mediterranean, was now being funnelled through the narrow Strait by the high mountains of Spain and Africa, compressing and increasing its frenetic power just as it met the full strength of the Atlantic current which was flowing into the Mediterranean. Wind against current; the worst combination of all.
Its enormous strength was piling up great waves which rose and rolled and thrust up crests which the wind slashed off in sheets of spindrift and foam, driving it across crest and trough in long angry veins until the whole surface of the sea seemed a mottled, raging cataract of molten green and white marble.
Ramage, standing beside Southwick at the taffrail and looking aft as one wave after another surged up astern, mountains of water, each steeply sloping side threatening to scoop up the ship, each curling breaker atop it apparently intent on sweeping the decks bare of men and gear, was almost too numbed to wonder that a frail box of wood like the Kathleen could ever survive.