Ramage and the Dido

by Dudley Pope

  Orsini hailed yet again: the last ship ahead was a seventy-four, and the second frigate was fast overhauling the first one. ‘I think the first one is flying the private signal, but she’s too far off to be sure.’

  ‘Make sure the reply is bent on the halyards,’ Ramage told Aitken. ‘I don’t want any delay in hoisting it when the time comes.’

  Above him on the poop deck he could hear the guns’ crews at work loading the carronades. Eight of them – four each side – might come in useful if there was any close fighting with the frigates, which were light and handy, much easier to manoeuvre than the heavy seventy-four. But for all that, one well-aimed broadside from the Dido could wreck a frigate. With all his experience of the Calypso, Ramage found he could see just how the French frigate captains up ahead would be thinking when they saw the Dido was a seventy-four. It was an interesting situation – as soon as they got closer to the Dido would they reduce sail and wait for their seventy-four to catch up with them, leaving the seventy-four to engage the seventy-four?

  They could not be blamed if they did: it was the convention that frigates engaged frigates and ships of the line engaged ships of the line – unless a ship of the line met a frigate, in which case the frigate could expect no mercy. That, he recalled ruefully, remembering his own experience, was when cunning counted more than firepower if the frigate was to escape.

  He picked up the speaking trumpet and hailed Orsini. ‘How far off is the first frigate?’ He could see her from the deck but Orsini, up aloft, would be able to judge more accurately.

  ‘The British frigate’s a couple of miles but the second frigate is almost abreast of her. The seventy-four is about three miles, perhaps four, from us.’

  Time was running out and ranges were getting shorter. Soon, he thought grimly, I shall be taking the Dido into action for the first time. It was a damned nuisance that it was not a clear-cut action with another seventy-four; having a couple of frigates thrown in as well complicated the issue, though with luck they would not be such a nuisance as the Calypso would have been in a similar situation. That was a pardonable conceit, he decided; after all, on her last voyage under his command she had been responsible for two French seventy-fours disabling themselves.

  He lifted his telescope to his eye. Yes, he could see the first – presumably the British – frigate quite clearly now, and Orsini hailed again.

  ‘The first frigate is flying the private signal, sir. Number sixty-three.’

  ‘Mr Aitken, hoist the reply!’

  The answer today was ninety-one, and quickly the two flags were hoisted, and Ramage added: ‘And now our pendant numbers, Mr Aitken.’

  Three more flags, representing the Dido’s number in the List of the Navy, were hoisted.

  Southwick, back from the gun deck, took off his hat, ran his fingers through his mop of white hair, and said: ‘I’ll wager he’s thankful to see the right answer to the challenge. Now he’s busy looking us up in the signal book. Not that he’ll know you command her now.’

  Southwick’s compliment was matter-of-fact: the man was incapable of saying anything sycophantic. Ramage was startled to think that it might encourage another captain to find that his would-be rescuer was commanded by Captain Ramage. Yes, there had been several Gazette letters which printed his despatches, but he had never thought of the effect they might have on his fellow captains, or that they might be building up a reputation for him that affected the attitude of other captains. Admirals yes; he had already suffered once or twice from jealous admirals.

  Orsini hailed again. ‘She has just hoisted her pendant numbers: five seven three.’

  Aitken snatched up the signal book and turned to the List of the Navy at the back. ‘She’s the Heron frigate, sir.’

  Ramage saw through his telescope that the French frigate suddenly luffed up, and from the speckles of red erupting from her side, obviously had just fired a raking broadside into the British frigate. But as, wreathed in smoke, she resumed her course it was obvious that the manoeuvre had cost her a couple of hundred yards: she was now astern of the Heron again.

  Ramage said: ‘It’s time to get Orsini down from aloft. Give him a hail – he can look after the poop.’

  Southwick picked up the speaking trumpet and bellowed the order to Orsini, who hurried down the shrouds, still clutching a telescope.

  Ramage could see now that the Heron was about a mile and a half away. She was steering north, hard on the wind, with the two French frigates close astern in her wake and the twenty-four a mile or so astern, and obviously intent on overhauling her. The Dido was still heading south with a quartering north-east wind. On this course she could collide with the Heron, so it would be easy enough to steer slightly to leeward of her – that would put him nicely to windward of the first French frigate, cutting her off from the Heron. What would the Heron do then – would she continue scampering off to the north or would she turn to help the Dido deal with the frigates? She would be silly to try to tackle the seventy-four, but Ramage knew he would be glad of her help in tackling the frigates, because there would not be much time before the French seventy-four was in the middle of the fight and probably taking up all the Dido’s attention.

  Which meant giving the Heron orders: he was startled to find that he would be the senior officer. It could be that the Heron was commanded by a grizzled old frigate captain whose commission was dated long before Ramage’s, but he would not know it. The Heron’s captain would instinctively obey orders signalled by a seventy-four, and that was all that mattered until this coming action was over.

  It was time to get ready for the first broadsides. ‘I’ll have the guns run out, Mr Aitken, we’ll be engaging first on the starboard side, so make sure the men are warned.’

  Steady, he told himself; it was quite unnecessary to tell Aitken about warning the men: he was letting himself get fussed by the thought of taking a seventy-four into action for the first time.

  Chapter Seven

  Men were wetting the decks again with the head pumps: the heat was drying the planking – an indication that they were nearly in the Tropics. More men were going round sprinkling sand. Others would be doing the same thing on the gun deck.

  As Ramage reached for the signal book he heard Orsini’s voice on the deck above giving some orders.

  He flicked through the pages. Yes, number twenty-nine would do: there would not be a signal which said precisely what he intended, but twenty-nine should cover it: ‘The ships of the fleet are, independently of each other, to steer for and engage their respective opponents in the enemy’s line.’

  ‘Respective opponents’ should make it clear to the Heron that she was expected to engage the frigates, not the seventy-four.

  ‘Mr Aitken, have signal number twenty-nine bent on ready for hoisting.’

  There I go again, he thought crossly: there was no need to mention ‘ready for hoisting’; if the flags were bent on obviously they would be hoisted in time.

  His telescope showed him that the Heron’s sails were almost new: obviously she had only recently left England. Most probably she had been bound for the West Indies, like the Dido, when she ran into the French force. But for sighting the Dido, she would have been battered into hauling down her flag. And do not forget, Ramage told himself ruefully, that even now the Heron and the Dido are outnumbered by one frigate which, in this strange contest just coming up, could be significant.

  Had that Frenchman’s raking broadside had much effect on the Heron? Ramage wondered. It certainly had not brought down any masts or yards, though the French usually aimed at the rigging and sails, firing on the upward roll, while the British always went for the hull, firing on the downward roll, making sure that a shot fired a little late would be likely to hit ‘twixt wind and water.

  The Heron was fast approaching at the combined speeds of the two ships, and she was sailing as close to the wind as possible, trying to outpoint the French. But these French frigates were close winded, usually able to point higher
than their British opposite numbers.

  He was watching the Heron through his telescope when suddenly she turned to larboard across the bow of the first French frigate. Ramage realised at once that she was raking the enemy and was making an attack because the nearness of the Dido meant that her attempt to escape from her pursuers was not so desperate.

  The frigate was covered in smoke from her broadside and immediately she hauled her wind and turned north again, towards the Dido. Ramage could not see the effect on the enemy, but it was an impudent attack which might have been lucky in bringing down a mast.

  ‘That might teach the Frenchman not to get too close,’ commented Aitken.

  ‘The Frenchman will be slowing down very soon,’ Ramage said. ‘They won’t want to get tangled up with us. They’ll wait until their own seventy-four has caught up.’

  The Heron was now a mile away and Ramage told Aitken: ‘Hoist number twenty-nine.’

  He wanted enough time for the Heron to see the signal – in the excitement of having just raked her pursuer they might not be watching the Dido – and for her captain to understand what was expected of him.

  Now was the time to plan his own move. It was – to begin with – fairly simple: he would run down between the Heron and the Frenchman, firing his starboard broadside into the enemy – providing the Frenchman did not do the sensible thing, which would be to turn and run back to the protection of the seventy-four. Then the Dido would run on and give the second frigate a broadside, and then leaving both frigates to the Heron, he would go on to attack the seventy-four. She was, he knew, the main threat – both to the Heron and any ships on their way to the West Indies. If she got loose in a convoy, for instance – most outward-bound convoys had small escorts – the effect would be devastating.

  The north-east wind was still little more than a fresh breeze; not enough to stir up whitecaps. The sky was still mottled with thunder clouds but the waterspouts seemed to have gone elsewhere. It was rather close, as though a thunderstorm was imminent. Today he had seen his first shoal of flying fish, and he had felt the usual excitement of returning to the Tropics. He freely admitted he hated the northern climate: it always seemed to be damp and cold, with usually a depressing drizzle. If he was free to live where he wanted he would buy a plantation somewhere like the island of Nevis. Not Barbados, which was too crowded and anyway too flat, nor Antigua, because he did not like the people who had settled there. Grenada, perhaps: it was a beautiful island.

  But what the devil was he thinking about, considering the islands, when he had two enemy frigates ahead of him and a seventy-four? At least he had the weather gauge. Being to windward of them all gave him a considerable tactical advantage because he could run down to attack them while they had to beat to windward to get up to him.

  That went a part of the way to making up for the fact that he and the Heron were outnumbered by a frigate. And he was pleased to see that the captain of the Heron was a man with spirit, as shown by his attempt to rake his pursuer.

  Now they were about to go into action for the first time. Jackson was the quartermaster – he always liked to have the American there when they were in a battle. Southwick and Aitken were with him on the quarterdeck, Aitken ready to take command if a random shot knocked his head off.

  What would Sarah be doing now? Perhaps on her way down to Aldington. He was pleased that she so liked the estate he had inherited from his uncle. Given that he could not retire to the Tropics, Aldington was the next best place, sitting among the hills overlooking Romney Marsh, giving him a view extending to Dungeness.

  ‘A point to starboard,’ he called to Jackson, who relayed the order to the four men at the wheel. It did not take four men to handle the wheel in this weather, but at general quarters two extra men joined the normal two, just in case any of them were killed. The two on the windward side were the ones that did the work.

  That alteration of course would put the Heron fine on his larboard bow and kept the Frenchman to starboard. It should be clear to the Heron what he intended to do.

  The Dido had barely turned when Southwick gave another of his prodigious sniffs as they saw the French frigate suddenly turn out to starboard and tack, turning south towards the seventy-four.

  ‘Shows he’s got some sense,’ Southwick commented. ‘I was wondering how he’d stand up to our broadside!’

  But Ramage now had a decision to make. The Dido was sailing along with her great courses furled: under reduced canvas she would never catch up with the frigate, and presumably the second one would turn away too. The question was, would the seventy-four stay and fight, or would she too make a bolt for it with the frigates?

  There was no reason why she should bolt, since the French had the advantage; but, Ramage thought, there was also no reason why the French should stay and fight. There was a considerable difference between snapping up a single frigate and finding yourself unexpectedly in action with a British seventy-four as well.

  He made up his mind and said to Aitken: ‘Let fall the courses.’ The sails had hardly tumbled down and been sheeted home before the Dido had reached the Heron, and as she swept down past her the frigate turned out to starboard and tacked, so that she came round on to the same course as the Dido.

  ‘He’s understood what you meant by number twenty-nine,’ Southwick commented.

  It took two or three minutes for the courses to start drawing properly, then as they added their thrust to the other sails the 2,800 tons of the Dido began to surge in pursuit of the French frigates.

  The nearest one was now less than half a mile away, and with his glass Ramage could just make out the name Sylphe painted on her transom. She was fine on the starboard bow and steering directly for the French seventy-four, like the chick running to the mother hen, but the Dido was overhauling her. Would she range up alongside before the frigate reached her consort?

  And the second frigate: she was now swinging out and tacking before turning south, following the Sylphe’s manoeuvre. She was perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of the Sylphe, busy trimming her sheets and braces after tacking.

  Yes, the Dido was catching up on the Sylphe; he wanted to shout at the big seventy-four to pick up her skirts. That was the difference between a frigate and a ship of the line: a seventy-four was so much slower to answer – whether to the helm or random puffs of wind. Fortunately the wind was steady now so, with all her canvas drawing, the Dido surged ahead. She had all the advantage of a clean bottom, while the French ships were probably foul: at least he could hope so. That should knock a knot or two off their speed.

  Now the Sylphe was close enough for him to be able to pick out details with the naked eye: she had a big patch on the larboard side of her main topsail, and her topmasts were painted black, which was unusual. Her name was picked out in red on a white background with blue scrollwork. There was a puff of smoke as she opened fire on the Dido with her two sternchase guns, but Ramage had decided not to use the Dido’s two bowchasers: better to wait for the full broadside.

  And that would not be long in coming: the Sylphe was barely a couple of ship’s lengths ahead, now: Ramage could distinguish men standing on her poop and looking astern. And well they might: being chased by a lumbering seventy-four was, he knew from bitter experience, an intimidating spectacle, and they must be cursing that the Dido would overhaul them before they could reach their own seventy-four.

  ‘I’ll have the guns run out, Mr Aitken.’

  Two of the midshipmen who had been standing aft on the quarterdeck were sent running down to the guns, and Aitken hailed up to Orsini on the poop. A moment later Ramage heard the heavy carronades being hauled out on their slides.

  Ramage saw that the Dido would pass about fifty yards from the Sylphe’s larboard side: just the right distance for the Dido’s gunners to be able to see their target clearly and to be able to fire without haste. Passing too close meant that the target flashed past the gunports without giving the gun captains time to adjust their aim.

&nbs
p; Ramage knew the value of the first broadside: fired without haste there was no smoke to obscure the target, and the men were not too excited. It should be calmly destructive.

  Now the Dido’s bowsprit was abreast the Sylphe’s taffrail and Ramage could picture the second captains cocking the locks and springing back to clear the recoil. Then the bowsprit was abreast the mizen and suddenly there was a heavy drumroll as the forward 32-pounders and the 24-pounders began firing. Gradually the heavy booming moved aft as more guns came to bear, and as Ramage watched the side of the Sylphe he saw the red flashes of her 12-pounders firing back.

  He was not absolutely sure of his feelings: the Sylphe was the enemy, and with her consort might well have pounded the Heron to matchwood if the Dido had not hove in sight, but she was a frigate with puny 12-pounders while the Dido was a ship of the line with 32-pounders: it seemed desperately unfair. Then he shook his head: it was only a few weeks ago in the Mediterranean that the Calypso had found herself caught between two French seventy-fours, and he was sure that neither captain had much sympathy with him.

  The Dido’s guns were firing quite slowly because she was not overtaking the Sylphe very quickly, and he was able to watch their effect. They were slowly dismantling the ship. Already the bulwarks aft had been smashed in and the starboard side of the taffrail had been battered down, as though the frigate’s quarter had hit a dock. The boats stowed on the booms were smashed in and the wreckage hurled across the deck. Half a dozen gun portlids hung down, ripped off their hinges by shot which had ploughed on to kill men serving the guns.

  Now Ramage saw dust rising from amidships as more roundshot hammered into the frigate’s side, and Ramage could imagine the lethal showers of splinters cutting down the men at the guns. There was no doubt that the Dido’s men were obeying instructions and firing into the hull: there was very little damage to masts and yards – that he could see, anyway.

  ‘Keep alongside her!’ he snapped at Aitken and the first lieutenant shouted the orders that clewed up the courses, reducing their area, and under just topsails and topgallants the Dido slowed down, staying abreast of the Sylphe.