Ramage & The Drum Beat

by Pope, Dudley

  Sir John nodded. ‘Yes, we had trouble with that gale too. If it caught the Spaniards in the Strait, do you think they could have made up for Cadiz?’

  ‘No, sir, definitely not.’

  ‘You seem very certain, Ramage.’

  ‘Yes, sir: it was one of the worst I’ve been in. Even allowing the Kathleen’s only a cutter, I don’t think anyone could have made up for Cadiz in that weather.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ growled Calder, ‘how do you know this order’ – he waved Ramage’s translation – ‘isn’t a forgery? Or a deliberate attempt to mislead us? I can’t see the Spaniards leaving orders around just for you to read.’

  Ramage, still puzzled by Calder’s blatant hostility, glanced at Sir John, but the admiral’s face was still impassive.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. It could be a forgery, or it could be a deliberate attempt to mislead us.’ Ramage kept his voice flat, and he sensed Hallowell – who must be considerably junior to Calder – was also puzzled not so much by the questions but by the tone of the man’s voice.

  ‘But you don’t believe it’s either?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘No, sir. Admiral Cordoba has replaced Langara and was staying in a house in Cartagena. The order was taken from a locked drawer in his desk. He hadn’t the slightest reason to suspect anyone would burgle his house. And since the orders aren’t missing he still doesn’t know anyone has seen them, let alone that you now have a copy.’

  ‘Who burgled the house, then?’ demanded Calder.

  ‘One of my seamen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  The implication and tone was so insulting that Ramage flushed, but Sir John gave a slight nod which told him to answer.

  ‘It was a question of burgling Admiral Cordoba’s house at night, and picking locks. The seaman was formerly a locksmith by trade and I gather an occasional burglar by choice. He preferred to work alone. It would have been too risky to light a candle to read through all the papers in the house, so I waited in a shed in the garden with a light, pen and paper…’

  Sir John interrupted: ‘Ramage, you’ve obviously a splendid tale to tell. It’ll sound all the better at supper, so join us at five o’clock. Let me have a written report as soon as possible.’

  Ramage was just turning to go when Sir John said: ‘You have no news of Commodore Nelson?’

  ‘No, sir. They were worried at Gibraltar.’

  ‘Very well,’ and then he said, almost to himself, ‘I’ll be glad when Nelson joins us. If the Dons run into his frigates and transports… Calder, make a signal to the Britannia, Barfleur and Prince George – I’ve no doubt the rest of my admirals will also enjoy young Ramage’s tale.’

  As Ramage was rowed back to the Kathleen he realized that round the supper table, listening to the story of how Admiral Cordoba’s house came to be burgled, would be Vice-Admiral Thompson, Vice-Admiral Waldegrave and Rear-Admiral Parker. None, as far as Ramage knew, had been connected in any way with his father’s trial. Each might have private views, but none had joined in the vendetta. And that, he realized, was probably why Sir John in his shrewd way had invited him to supper: they were all powerful men in the Navy and likely to become more so – and they (and Sir John, too, for that matter!) would be able to form their own opinion of ‘Old Blaze-away’s’ son. The supper or, rather, the way he behaved and spoke during it, could be a turning point in his career. And he was so tired he had as much chance of shining in such company as a mirror in a mine shaft.

  The supper was a complete success, and as soon as the cloth was removed and the brandy poured, Sir John told Ramage he would buy La Providencia as a dispatch vessel, and then insisted he began his tale by relating how he captured the dismasted Spanish frigate.

  When Ramage described the explosion boat, Calder immediately interjected that it was a barbarous idea but was promptly squashed by Sir John, who pointed out that as far as the victims were concerned having the stern of their ship blown off by powder in a boat was far less dangerous to life and limb than having it blown off by the powder in the guns of a ship delivering a raking broadside.

  The description of how Jackson produced a blank Protection and filled it in for Ramage’s use led Sir John to comment, ‘It’s a pity the American Minister Plenipotentiary in London can’t see that Protection. Have you still got it?’

  Ramage had patted his pocket and Sir John said drily, ‘Keep it – might want it again one day!’

  As soon as Stafford’s role as the burglar had been related, Hallowell slapped the table and exclaimed, ‘Well, Sir John, that man deserves to be appointed Locksmith-in-Ordinary to His Majesty’s Fleet!’

  ‘Lock-picker,’ corrected Sir John. ‘But I think we’ll leave him with Mr Ramage. If I had him on board the flagship I’d be forever worrying about the lock on my wine chest!’

  When Ramage finished his story the Commander-in-Chief reached out and in a slow and deliberate move pushed aside the brandy glass on the table in front of him, and Ramage sensed his mood had changed.

  ‘Tell me, Ramage, when you decided to tackle the dismasted Spanish frigate,’ he said in a deceptively quiet voice ‘did it occur to you that you were disobeying the Commodore’s orders?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You mean it occurred to you before you did it, not after.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Before.’

  ‘It’s becoming fashionable for a young officer to assume that if he disobeys orders and does something else, he gets promoted if he succeeds and court-martialled if he doesn’t. That was what you were gambling on, eh?’

  ‘No sir,’ Ramage said frankly, ‘because I didn’t think I’d succeed.’

  ‘Why try it, then? You don’t need the prize money.’

  Ramage, conscious the four admirals were watching him closely, knew it was no good lying. ‘I still don’t know why, sir. I think – well, the ship’s company, the Marchesa, Count Pitti, they all took it for granted we’d do it.’

  ‘Do you mean to sit there and tell me you let your ship be run by a woman and a bunch of ignorant seamen?’ growled Sir John.

  Hallowell said bluntly, ‘With respect sir, I think it’s to Ramage’s credit that they had such faith in him.’

  ‘Faith be damned, Ben; it only proves they’re even more stupid than he is!’

  ‘But Sir John,’ said Admiral Waldegrave, ‘surely it depends on the point of view. Ramage obtained this information. But one could argue that in using the American Protection, technically Ramage deserted from the King’s Service and could be sentenced to death by the British under the Sixteenth Article of War. Yet at the same time if the Spaniards had discovered he was a British officer wearing seaman’s clothes and carrying an American Protection while arranging for Cordoba’s house to be burgled, surely they’d have shot him as a spy?’

  ‘They could have and would have, my dear Waldegrave,’ Sir John said grimly, ‘and no one could blame them. But that has nothing to do with disobeying orders. Mr Ramage was under orders to get the Marchesa to Gibraltar by the safest possible route.’

  ‘But I was on that route, sir,’ Ramage said hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps the Commodore’s orders were loosely worded,’ Admiral Parker said.

  The Commander-in-Chief glared round the table. ‘The first part of the Nineteenth Article of War lays down only one penalty – death. I’ll trouble you gentlemen to recall the wording – “If any Person in or belonging to the Fleet shall make, or endeavour to make, any Mutinous Assembly, upon any pretence whatsoever…” It seems to me the whole bunch of you are making a mutinous assembly right in front of m’ own eyes, on the pretext that young Ramage didn’t disobey the wording of his orders! He simply disobeyed the spirit of them, which is worse.

  ‘However, instead of making an order for his trial I’ll give you a toast – gentleman, to young Ramage and his absurdly trusting ship’s company!’

  No sooner had they drunk to that than Captain Hallowell, who was a Canadian, said, ‘And may I propose another – to his loy
al band of temporary Americans!’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ramage woke next morning with a taste in his mouth as though he had been sucking a pistol ball and a head which throbbed like a drum beating to quarters. He shouted for his steward and regretted it a moment later as pain as sharp as a knife blade stabbed his temples. He’d certainly supped well on board the flagship, but wisely? Had he talked too much? Been indiscreet? Revealed too much about his thoughts? He didn’t know; but he must have been quite drunk by the time he came back on board the Kathleen.

  He suddenly saw a letter on his desk and as his cot swung reached out and grabbed it. Written orders from Sir John – at dawn the Kathleen would take up and maintain a position five miles ahead of the Fleet. He looked at his watch – it was 7 a.m., an hour or more after dawn. At that moment the steward came into the cabin and was promptly sent off to fetch the Master.

  Southwick arrived looking cheerful but obviously tired, and seeing the surly expression on Ramage’s face as he held the letter said, ‘Good morning sir. Don’t worry about that – we’re in position.’

  ‘But how–?’

  ‘When you came on board you mentioned something about orders, sir, and as you seemed a bit – er, tired, I took the liberty of taking the letter out of your pocket and opening it after you’d gone to bed.’

  ‘Tired be damned,’ growled Ramage, ‘I was drunk.’

  ‘You did mention, sir, that the admiral hoped to sight the Dons today.’

  ‘Today or tomorrow. He thinks that if the Dons left Cartagena on time and ran into that gale, they’d have been swept even farther out into the Atlantic than we were, because they probably wouldn’t have been able to heave-to. They should be working their way back to Cadiz now and we are stretching across their probable route…’

  ‘Then with a bit o’ luck we’ll be the first to sight ’em!’ The prospect clearly pleased the Master, who patted his stomach as if anticipating a good meal.

  ‘Don’t make any mistake this time, Southwick. Give me that paper on the desk – thank-you. I worked this out yesterday. Sir John has fifteen sail of the line and the Spaniards twenty-seven. Seven of them carry more guns than any of our ships. Wait until you see the Santísima Trinidad – she’s enormous. It all adds up to fifteen British sail of the line carrying 1,232 guns against twenty-seven Spanish sail of the line carrying 2,308. Which gives the Dons an advantage of 1,076 guns. Nearly twice as many as us in fact…’

  ‘Well,’ Southwick said placidly, ‘we’re not outnumbered then.’

  ‘What!’ Ramage exploded. ‘Don’t be so–’

  Southwick grinned. ‘They’d have to be carrying 3,696 guns – don’t forget one Englishman equals three Spaniards.’

  ‘Men, not guns,’ snapped Ramage. ‘That kind of reasoning is ridiculous.’

  The steward brought in an urn of tea and Ramage motioned him to pour a cup for Southwick as well.

  ‘You’re half-right, though,’ he conceded. ‘Men have to fire the guns.’

  ‘I worked out that when we took La Sabina we were outnumbered about four to one, but it didn’t seem to worry you.’

  ‘It worried me all right, but’ – he recalled the look on the admiral’s face the previous evening – ‘it worried Sir John even more. In fact–’

  There was a knock on the door and Jackson burst in. ‘Sail in sight, sir, on the starboard bow.’

  Ramage glanced up at the tell-tale compass above his head.

  ‘Hoist the signal “Strange sail” and the compass pendants. Beat to quarters, Mr Southwick.’

  Southwick followed Jackson on deck while Ramage hurriedly washed and dressed. By the time he was on deck the signal flags for a strange sail and its compass bearing were streaming in the wind, giving their warning to the Fleet just in sight astern – the Kathleen was carrying out her task of increasing the Fleet’s visible horizon by another five miles, like a giant telescope, signal flags taking the place of optical lenses.

  Jackson, perched up the mast beside the lookout, shouted: ‘Deck there! She’s a frigate.’

  ‘Mr Southwick, haul down “Strange sail” and hoist “Strange sail is frigate”.’

  A few minutes later Jackson called, ‘Captain, sir – she might be the Minerve.’

  She could be; the Blanche and Minerve were both with Commodore Nelson. But he wasn’t going to take chances: the frigate could not see the Fleet to leeward yet and might have been captured by the Spanish, and now eager to snap up a small cutter.

  Once again the familiar drum beat echoed across the Kathleen’s decks and the drummer had just tucked his sticks into his boot-top and was unhitching his drum amid a rush of men to the guns when Jackson again hailed.

  ‘She’s the Minerve all right, sir, and she’s flying a broad pendant.’

  ‘Very well. Mr Southwick, warn the Fleet and signal its bearing for the Minerve – I doubt if she can see it yet. I’m going below to shave.’

  By the time Ramage came back on deck, feeling a lot fresher, the Minerve was close enough for her bow wave to look like a white moustache at her stem. As she ran down towards the cutter, Ramage was reminded of the ridge and furrow flight of a woodpecker as she rose and fell on the overtaking swell waves. There was hardly a wrinkle in her straining sails, but almost every one of them had been patched several times. The sailmaker and his mates must have been busy. Ramage would have given a lot to know if the Commodore had sighted the Spanish Fleet at sea… An hour after the Minerve rounded up to leeward of the Victory, Jackson reported to Ramage that the flagship was signalling for the Kathleen’s captain. As he stood in his cabin, the steward hurriedly brushing his coat, straightening his stock, and carefully brushing his new cocked hat, Ramage wasn’t sure whether he was apprehensive or pleased. Either the Commodore considered he had disobeyed orders and Sir John had decided to take action, or – oh well, he’d know soon enough.

  All the time that the Kathleen ran down to the Victory, and while he was being rowed over to the flagship, Ramage deliberately thought of other things: of Gianna, whether or not he had left out too much in his official report to Sir John, and which he now had in his pocket, and where Cordoba’s Fleet was. He scrambled up the three-decker’s side, acknowledged the regulation salutes made to him as the commanding officer of one of His Majesty’s ships, and was just about to look round for the first lieutenant when he was startled at the sight of Sir Gilbert Elliot walking towards him, hand outstretched and a broad grin on his face.

  ‘Well, young man, you didn’t expect to see me here!’

  Ramage saluted and shook the band of the former Viceroy.

  ‘Hardly, sir!’

  ‘And you nearly didn’t, by God! We spent the night before last in the midst of the Spanish fleet!’

  At that moment Ramage saw the tiny figure of Commodore Nelson leave the admiral’s cabin and walk towards them.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sir Gilbert, ‘my dear Commodore, you see whom we have here?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Well, Mr Ramage, you seem to have been busy since you left us at Bastia, eh? So have we. We’ve evacuated the Mediterranean, the Viceroy and I. And,’ he added almost bitterly, ‘we’ve left it a French and a Spanish lake. They can go boating without fear.’

  The voice had the same high pitch, the same nasal intonation, but the man himself had undergone a subtle change. At Bastia Ramage had tried to define the curious aura about him, like the glow from a gemstone; but now whatever it was seemed even stranger. The one good eye – yes, he realized with a shock, it had the same look that Southwick’s had at the prospect of battle.

  ‘Don’t mumble,’ the Commodore said sharply. ‘Sir John tells me that so far you’ve admitted disobeying orders, surrendering your ship, being taken prisoner and adopting a subterfuge to escape, playing the spy, burgling honest men’s houses and reading their private letters – don’t you call that being busy?’

  ‘I thought you were going to call it something else, sir,’ Ramage said frankly, relieved at the bantering
note on which the Commodore ended.

  ‘I gather Sir John has already expressed his views, so I’ve no need to add mine. But you took a devilish risk with the Marchesa. Never, never risk the lives of those you love or who love you, young man, unless you’ve written orders to do so.’

  ‘But I–’

  ‘If you don’t love her, you’re a fool. Don’t assume a one-eyed man is blind, Mr Ramage.’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t–’

  ‘Now, now, Commodore, go steady for pity’s sake!’ interrupted Sir Gilbert, ‘You’re alarming the poor fellow more than the whole Spanish Fleet!’

  ‘Were you frightened of being killed when the two Spanish frigates came alongside that night?’

  The Commodore’s question was so sudden that Ramage replied, ‘No, sir, not of getting killed; only of doing the wrong thing,’ before he had time to think… ’What d’you mean, “The wrong thing”?’

  ‘Well, sir, what people would think if I surrendered.’

  The Commodore gripped Ramage’s arm in a friendly gesture. ‘I think Sir Gilbert will agree with this advice. First, dead heroes are rarely the intelligent ones. It takes brains to be a live hero, and live heroes are of more use to their country. Second, and more important, never worry what people will think. Do what you think is right, and damn the consequences. And don’t forget this: a man who sits on the fence usually tears his breeches.’

  Sir Gilbert nodded in agreement. ‘One assumes, of course, that the person to whom you give that advice is not an irresponsible fool, eh Commodore?’

  ‘Of course! It’s not advice I give everyone, and young Ramage only just qualifies for it! Well, gentlemen,’ he smiled, ‘you must excuse me: I am hoisting my broad pendant in the Captain. It’ll be a pleasure to be back on board a seventy-four again – room for me to strut around, after being squashed up in a frigate. Though the discomfort was entirely alleviated by your company, Sir Gilbert.’