Ramage At Trafalgar

by Dudley Pope

  “Stand by to get under way,” Ramage told Hill. A Spanish three-decker’s broadside as she passed the Calypso at close range could reduce the frigate to so much firewood. There was plenty of shallow water on the east side of the bay, or northwards towards Rota, where the Calypso could sail but a 74 or bigger would go aground. The frigate’s job was to watch and report to the Euryalus, not fight…

  Chapter Twelve

  The big French ship of the line came out of Cadiz Roads with almost pathetic slowness. The wind soon dropped away to random zephyrs, so that her sails, in billowing curves when she got under way, flattened to hanging curtains of canvas by the time she was abreast of where the Calypso had been hove-to.

  Ramage had seized the opportunity before the breeze went light to get out to seaward, deciding not to risk being trapped in the bay by the French and Spanish frigates he knew were anchored in Cadiz.

  He watched as the Frenchman slowly steered northwards for Rota (at times turning round completely as she lost the wind and was at the mercy of the current) and then saw a second ship get under way and start struggling to get out of the Roads.

  The first ship was the Algésiras, which his list showed him was the flagship of Rear-Admiral Charles de Magon. When the second ship finally cleared the entrance and then lost the wind for several minutes, turning like a languid dancer, Ramage saw that the name carved across her transom (and heavily gilded: enough to catch the eye at this distance as it glinted in the sun) was the Achille.

  Although he was making for a position due north of the Castillo de San Sebastián, Ramage’s last glimpse into Cadiz Roads showed him that a French frigate (the Hermione, he guessed) had managed to weigh and set sail, but almost immediately must have lost the wind because now her boats were towing her out, hard work against what was now a floodtide.

  With the wind falling away and the young flood beginning to carry him out of position, Ramage ordered the Calypso to anchor, and the best bower splashed down into four fathoms just short of the El Banquete shoal, a mile north-west of the Castillo. The Spaniards had never opened fire from the castle, but if they started now the Calypso might be in trouble: with no wind and having to weigh anchor, the young flood might carry her on to Punta del Nao, a vicious-looking rocky peninsula just north-east of the castle.

  But the castle guns remained quiet and the Calypso swung at anchor, watching the Algésiras, Achille and Hermione (eventually Orsini had read the name on her stern) struggle up towards Rota, revolving like sunflowers as they lost a puff.

  As the men at alternate guns were allowed to go below for a meal and Southwick went through the daily ritual of taking a noon sight (although it was easy enough to take a bearing of the castle, and a vertical sextant angle would give the distance for those unable to estimate it) Ramage watched the Euryalus and Sirius drift, becalmed.

  Well, Ramage commented to Southwick, today the wind was being neutral: it becalmed the Combined Fleet and it becalmed Lord Nelson – although, fifty miles out to the west, the weather might well be different.

  But, Ramage wondered, what would Lord Nelson be doing: would he pay any attention to Perez’s report about the Mediterranean and steer south, anticipating that (when he got out of Cadiz) Villeneuve would make for the Strait, or would he steer north to intercept the Combined Fleet on the assumption it was making for the English Channel?

  “I’m glad I’m not His Lordship,” Southwick said, apparently thinking on the same lines as Ramage. “Go north or go south…from fifty miles out he’s got to rely on us frigates, but he’s got to make a start now, and that means he has to guess. Like putting all your money on the turn of a card.”

  “Yes, betting on whether it’ll turn up red or black.”

  “Yes, not odds for a sensible man.”

  “His Lordship has no choice,” Ramage said.

  Southwick pointed to the end of Punta del Nao. Another ship of the line, all sail set but with every inch of canvas hanging slackly, was being towed out by its boats. Curious, Ramage reflected, how a little wind made a ship graceful and lively, and yet a calm reduced her to a clumsy and sluggish hulk, at the mercy of sweating men in boats pulling on oars…

  Soon they read her name, the Neptune. She was followed by another, the Héros.

  “Four French ships of the line and a French frigate,” Aitken commented. “Does that mean the Spanish are staying at home?”

  “The first French out were probably the last to arrive,” Ramage said. “Anyway, that French rear-admiral has set a good example.”

  The sun passed its zenith and began the slow dip towards the west. Southwick, filling in the master’s log, started a new day at noon. Although the civil day began at midnight and by civil time it was still Saturday, by nautical time Sunday began at noon. Southwick filled in the Calypso’s position, the wind (“round the compass and frequent calms”) and drew a line in the columns for “course” and “speed”.

  “Two more ships coming out, both 74s and both French,” Orsini reported. “Having a race,” he added sarcastically. “The boats are making half a knot, with double-banked oars.”

  Southwick took off his hat and with a characteristic gesture ran his hand through his flowing white hair. “They must be pulling against the full flood by now,” he said. “Just needs two ships to get alongside each other and lock yards, and we’ll see some fun.”

  Aitken gestured to the Algésiras and the Achille, still less than a couple of miles away in their tedious attempt to get up to Rota. “Not much of a day for sailing; better to anchor and give the men a ‘make and mend’ day.”

  “They’ve been ‘making and mending’ for months,” Southwick growled. “No cloth for making and nothing left needing mending.”

  “The nearest is the Argonaute, sir,” Orsini reported. “I’ll have the name of the other one in a moment, as soon as the bearing changes… Ah yes, the…” he spelled out the name letter by letter, and then said: “Yes, the Duguay-Trouin, whoever he was.”

  “Another two for the log,” Ramage said to Southwick. “Make sure you spell them right.”

  “Names are going to be a problem,” Southwick growled. “We’ve got a Neptune and so have the French, while the Dons have a Neptuno. We have an Achille, so have the French. And there’s a British and a French Swiftsure. And apart from the same names, the French have the Berwick, which sounds British, and we have the Spartiate, Tonnant and Belleisle, which sound French.”

  “The French captured the Berwick. But Lord Bridport took the Belleisle ten years ago. The Tonnant and the Spartiate were taken by Lord Nelson in ’98,” Ramage pointed out.

  “That’s what I mean,” Southwick complained, “it’s all very confusing.”

  Ramage smiled. “Don’t forget the Ville de Paris was built at Chatham!”

  “And there comes another, a Spaniard!” Orsini yelled excitedly. “That’s six French ships of the line and a French frigate out before a Don gets his jib-boom past the Mole!”

  “Hush,” Ramage said in a sepulchral voice, “they are a peace-loving people and tomorrow is Sunday – for the people on shore, anyway.”

  For the remainder of the afternoon Ramage and the Calypso watched for the rest of the Combined Fleet to get out of Cadiz, but the easterly breeze did not freshen enough to give the big ships steerage way. Two more French frigates managed to get out, towing with boats. The Themis and the Rhin struggled to catch every whiffle of wind so that they could follow Rear Admiral Magon, trying to get across Cadiz Bay and reach the safety of Rota.

  At nightfall, Ramage gave the order to weigh again and patrol close off the end of the Mole in case a breeze allowed more ships to sneak out. Rockets and portfires were brought out ready to signal to the Euryalus should enough wind spring up and the rest of the Combined Fleet decide to make a dash for it in the darkness.

  Jackson stood up at the gun of which he was captain: the deck on which he had been lying seemed to be getting harder.

  “My back,” he grumbled to the rest of the
gun’s crew. “More than twelve hours at general quarters…and we’ll be here the whole of tonight.”

  “And all tomorrow too,” Stafford said. “Seven got out today, but there’s thirty-four or so ships of the line. At this rate it’ll take ’em five days to get out!”

  “That’s supposing they want to get out,” Louis said. “If the Spanish have any sense they’ll stay in port.”

  “One Spaniard did sail,” Gilbert pointed out.

  “Probably dragging his anchors!” Louis commented.

  “Against a foul current?” Stafford asked. “Well,” he announced, “I’m looking forward to seeing the Santy Trinidaddy.”

  Jackson groaned at the Cockney’s pronunciation. “You mean the Santissima Trinidad. Means the Holy Trinity.”

  “Does it?” Stafford said. “Well, they say she’s the biggest ship in the world. Carries 130 guns, I heard Mr Ramage telling Mr Orsini.”

  “Too big for us to attack,” Louis said jokingly.

  “She could hoist us on board without strain,” Jackson said.

  “Just let her try!” Stafford said.

  Jackson walked over to the low tub of water standing between his gun and the next and inspected the short lengths of burning slow match, fitted into notches round the lip of the tub, their glowing ends over the water.

  “Have to change this match soon,” he said. “May be needed for the rockets and portfires.”

  “’Ere, Jacko, why’re they called ‘portfires’? – we never set ’em orf in port.”

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “Why call them ‘fires’? All that matters is that they make a big glow when we light ’em! They last so much longer than rockets, so there’s more chance of seeing them. A rocket’s up, over and down in a minute: you could easily miss it. But a portfire – well, from a distance it looks just a glow but it lasts so much longer.”

  “They won’t come out, anyway,” Gilbert said.

  The Italian seaman, Rossi, growled: “If you keep saying that, you give them the idea!”

  “There are many admirals and captains in there–” Gilbert pointed at Cadiz, now over the starboard bow, “–only too content to stay at anchor. They’re beaten already!”

  “Beaten already?” exclaimed Stafford. “Wotcher mean, they ain’t even gone to sea yet!”

  “Nelson,” Gilbert said. “Just the name. If they’re Spanish they know what Commodore Nelson did at Cap St Vincent: if they’re French they know what happened at the Nile. And whether they’re Spanish or French they’ve heard all about Copenhagen. He’s never been beaten in a big battle. Not only never been beaten, but he wins by destroying the enemy. How many ships of the line escaped at the Nile or Copenhagen?”

  “Not many,” a voice said out of the darkness, and the men sprang up as they recognized Captain Ramage’s voice.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Ramage said. “Nothing so soft as a well-scrubbed deck or a gun carriage.”

  “Yus, sir,” Stafford said cheerfully. “Trouble is I’m afraid I’ll get so used to it I’ll have trouble sleepin’ in me ’ammick when all this is over!”

  “If it’s a problem,” Ramage said with mock sympathy, “I’ll tell the carpenter to give you half a dozen short planks to use in your hammock as a mattress.”

  “Do you think they’ll come out tomorrow, sir?” Jackson asked.

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Depends on the wind. If the wind had held up today I’m sure most of them would have come out.”

  “What makes you sure they’ll come out, sir?”

  “Bonaparte,” Ramage said grimly. “He’s ordered them out. I think they might be more scared of him than Lord Nelson…”

  “Silly fellows,” Jackson commented.

  “They’ve not much choice. Madame Guillotine or Lord Nelson’s roundshot.”

  “Serves them right for siding with the Revolution,” Gilbert commented bitterly.

  “The Spanish haven’t much choice either,” Rossi pointed out.

  “Bonaparte scared the Spanish government,” Ramage said. “Eventually government decisions come down to seamen waiting in harbour.”

  With that Ramage moved on to talk to the next gun’s crew, who were just as full of comments and questions. For everybody in the Calypso it was going to be a long and dreary wait for the dawn, but at ten o’clock Ramage intended to let the crews of alternate guns stand down. By doing watch and watch about they would all get some sleep before “see a grey goose at a mile”.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dawn on Sunday morning found Ramage pacing the quarterdeck in his boatcloak: during the night cloud had gradually hidden the stars, and the breeze, while freshening, had gradually veered to the south: now it was blowing straight out of Cadiz harbour, so that the Calypso had to beat (in an almost flat sea and a wind so light that the ship seemed reluctant to come round) to keep near the end of the Mole.

  “All they’ve got to do now,” Southwick said sourly, “is get their anchors on board: then they can’t help drifting out to sea.”

  “Don’t underestimate them,” Aitken said. “Just imagine the Santissima Trinidad going ahead as they haul on their capstan and fouling the French flagship, the Bucentaure. Picture the shouting and cursing and running about. Jib-booms snapping like carrots, yards locked…”

  “That’s a fine imagination you’ve got,” Southwick said. “They’ll be so damned cautious it’ll take ’em all day to get under way. You’ll see, we’ll have another night out here dodging the El Diamante shoal.”

  At that moment the starboard forward lookout gave the time-honoured cry of “See a grey goose at a mile” and two of the lookouts who had been stationed round the ship were sent aloft.

  Almost at once they were hailing: at least five of the enemy ships of the line were weighing anchor in Cadiz Roads. Ramage sent Orsini aloft with a telescope and orders to describe in detail how many ships had weighed and how many if any were actually under sail. “The flagships,” Ramage emphasized. “What they’re doing gives the clue to what the two fleets will do.”

  Very soon Orsini was hailing the quarterdeck. He had identified Villeneuve’s flagship, the Bucentaure, and she had hoisted various flag signals. Seven ships of the line were actually weighing, two already at short stay, although the Bucentaure was lying to a single anchor. A brig was sailing through the anchored fleet – “Acting as whipper-in, I don’t doubt,” Orsini shouted in a hail which brought a smile to Ramage’s face.

  Several ships had let fall topsails, Orsini added, but none was under way. “The Mole, sir!” he called. “You should be able to see it from down there: thousands of people all along it, watching the fleet sail.”

  “Aye, weeping wives and sobbing strumpets,” Aitken said unsympathetically.

  “Listen,” Ramage said.

  Across the water came the tolling of church bells. The nearest were those of the Iglesia del Carmen, at the northern tip of the Cadiz peninsula and barely half a mile from the end of the Mole. Marked “Conspicuous” on Southwick’s chart, it was the sailors’ church. This morning, Ramage thought grimly, the sailors are out in the ships, weighing and catting the anchors, but their families are crowding the church and, judging from the deeper boom of its bells, the cathedral too.

  Aitken said quietly: “They make the fleet’s sailing a religious event, don’t they. I can imagine dozens of candles burning, incense, monks chanting, priests droning away… Bit different from Portsmouth Point when our ships sail!”

  “Aye, the Dons have bishops and mitres at the end of the Mole; we have bailiffs and mistresses!” Southwick said.

  Orsini hailed from the masthead. “First of the ships of the line has let fall her courses.”

  “We’ll go about, Mr Aitken,” Ramage said. “Back to our original position a mile north of the Castillo de San Sebastián, only this time we won’t anchor. And as soon as we’re clear of the land and can get a sight of her, we’ll make a signal to the Euryalus, telling Captain Blackwood that the Combi
ned Fleet is at last sailing.”

  But…again Ramage decided he was thankful he was neither the French Admiral Villeneuve nor Lord Nelson. As far as the French admiral was concerned, yes, the south wind let him sail out of Cadiz, but supposing his orders were (as Señor Perez reported) to go to the Mediterranean and intercept General Craig’s convoy…although the wind was fair for getting out of Cadiz, it was foul for the Strait… Lord Nelson would fall on him as he tried to get his Combined Fleet those fifty miles down to the Strait, the British ships savaging it (Ramage hoped) like wolves after so many spring lambs.

  But…supposing you were Lord Nelson. Perez’s report that Villeneuve might be sailing south after General Craig’s convoy in the Mediterranean was (as Perez had been the first to emphasize) only a rumour. Villeneuve was just as likely to come out of Cadiz and, with this fair wind, head north-west for the English Channel…

  Well, as soon as the Combined Fleet got out (and were joined by the seven ships which came out yesterday and were now lying up there to the north, hove-to off Rota if not actually at anchor) the line of British frigates and 74s could shadow the enemy, passing the signals to His Lordship, which would give him an early hint. Unless, of course, the French admiral sailed north and then cut south in the darkness – or headed south and changed to the north as soon as night fell.

  The Calypso, sailing in a calm sea in the lee of Cadiz and with a clean bottom, reached fast across the end of the peninsula and as soon as she was north-west of the castle, with the Euryalus in sight further along the coast (obviously Blackwood was watching the enemy across the sandspit), Ramage gave Aitken the order to heave-to.

  With the frigate heading south, the foretopsail backed, Ramage told Orsini, now down from the masthead, to get the slate and take down a signal for the Euryalus.

  The signal was barely made before the first of the enemy 74s sailed out, followed five minutes later by a second and, close astern of her, a third.

  “That’s a total of ten of ’em out,” Southwick said.