by Dudley Pope
When one started thinking about the weights involved, the figures were startling – 260 tons of water, 52 tons of coals and wood, 214 tons of provisions, spirits and slops. The men and their effects accounted for 65 tons. And he had forgotten all the blocks – which people on shore insisted on calling pulleys – which with the rigging totalled more than 54 tons.
And for fighting there were 335 barrels of powder and 79 tons of shot, while the guns weighed a total of 178 tons, and the powder came to more than 20 tons.
And all of that was gliding along, pushed by the sails which at the moment obscured large rectangles of the star-filled sky. The downdraught from the mainsail was cooling, but the ship still seemed hot, the heat absorbed from the sun during the day. Astern six boats were towing on painters of varying lengths, and at last the grindstone had been stowed again after grinding away most of the day as the men sharpened cutlasses, tomahawks and boarding pikes.
The guns were loaded and run out. Many of the regular guns’ crews had been chosen as boarders or formed part of the boats’ crews, so earlier their replacements had been exercised – just in case the Dido needed to use her guns. Now the Marines were drawn up on deck for the final inspection by Rennick and his lieutenants. On Ramage’s direct order the Marines were not dressed in their regular uniforms with pipeclayed crossbelts. Instead they wore shirts and trousers: clothing better suited to scrambling aboard an enemy frigate. They were barefooted, too, though Ramage suspected that many of them would be stamping their feet out of sheer habit.
Only Southwick stood by the binnacle with him: the other lieutenants were with their boarding parties, giving them last-minute instructions and making sure that none of them was drunk or had any liquor with him. It only needed a drunken man to laugh or cry out to spoil the surprise.
Southwick put down the nightglass. ‘We are coming up to Pointe Blanche and the Ile à Ramiers. Not far to go now.’
Not far indeed, Ramage thought: from the island to the anchored frigate was about three miles. Another mile and the Dido would heave to and send off the boats. Ramage felt a tightening of his stomach muscles. Boarding was one of the most unpredictable of operations. It was, he always thought from what he had read of other ships’ experiences, one or the other: a complete disaster with very heavy casualties, or a complete success with hardly any casualties. There seemed to be no in-between: no happy medium. Obviously the more complete the surprise the more the chance of success, but he had no idea whether the frigate had guard boats out. It would seem an obvious precaution to have a boat full of armed seamen or Marines rowing round the ship all the time it was dark; on the other hand the French frigate might feel safe anchored under the protection of the guns of Fort St Louis. Well, if they bumped into a guard boat they would be in trouble – not because a guard boat could do much harm to six heavily armed boats but because it would raise the alarm and spoil the surprise. So, he could only hope that the frigate had been anchored in the Passe du Carénage for a long time and had become used to the only threat being a tiny brig sailing back and forth several miles to seaward.
‘I reckon we can see about a mile with the nightglass,’ Southwick said. ‘So we should be all right if we leave sending off the boats to a couple of miles out. They’ll never hear anything, and they certainly won’t see anything, even if they’re keeping a sharp lookout.’
‘I’ve little experience of cutting out expeditions,’ Ramage admitted, ‘but a couple of miles seems a nice distance. Not far enough to exhaust the oarsmen but far enough for everyone to get their night vision and settle down.’
Southwick said: ‘Here we are – the Ile à Ramiers bearing due east of us. Now it’s up to the men at the wheel.’ He called out a new course to the quartermaster and then with the speaking trumpet gave orders for a slight trimming of sheets and braces.
Over to starboard now, hidden in the darkness, were several beautiful beaches with shallow water and rocks off them. The direct course from the island to the frigate was free of all obstructions, and there should not be too much current. At least, Ramage hoped not: it could set the Dido well to the north, but the mountains at the back of Fort Royal would help the boats.
The leadsman in the chains sang out the soundings in a monotonous voice: Ramage had to concentrate: there was a shoal beyond the island and when they reached the far side of it and the water started to get deeper they would be two miles from the frigate and it would be time to heave to.
The soundings showed they were crossing the reef: six, five and then, in one or two places, four and a half fathoms, only just enough for the Dido to scrape across – she drew twenty-three feet aft when fully laden, though less now since she had been eating and drinking the provisions and water.
Suddenly the soundings went up: seven, nine, twelve fathoms.
‘heave to,’ Ramage told Southwick. ‘Back the maintopsail, have the boats hauled round.’
Slowly the Dido came to a stop, the wind on the backed sail balancing the thrust on the others. As the boats were hauled alongside to where rope ladders had been put over the side, the boats’ coxswains called out a description of them so that the boarders would find their way in the darkness. ‘Launch here!… Red pinnace, men for the red pinnace here… Green cutter, green cutter here!… Blue cutter – any more for the blue cutter?’
Seamen and Marines swarmed over the side and scrambled down the ladders. Ramage shook hands with Southwick and went forward, conscious of the two pistols in his belt pressing against his ribs. And, he had to admit, his heart sounded a bit hollow.
Jackson was already in the sternsheets of the launch, gripping the tiller, and round the boat were Stafford, Rossi and the four Frenchmen. They were a reassuring crowd, Ramage thought. It was curious how being in action several times with men established a bond. Not curious really: it meant that you knew you could trust the men who were covering your back.
Down here in the water, with the side of the Dido towering up like the side of a cliff, it was quiet except for the slap of water and the low, urgent calls of officers checking over their men. He could just distinguish the voice of Kenton, counting the number in his party: now ‘Blower’ Martin was cursing a man who had fallen into the boat from the bottom of a rope ladder. Now Aitken was giving crisp orders to get his pinnace away from the ship’s side.
Ramage finished counting his men, found they were all present along with the gunner, and gave orders to Jackson to shove off. In a couple of minutes the Dido was just a large shadow and the men were bending their backs at the oars while Jackson thrust and pulled on the tiller to avoid other boats in the darkness.
And, away from the Dido, it seemed darker. It was an illusion, but Ramage was surprised how much the tiny candle in the binnacle of the boat compass lit up Jackson’s face as he leaned over to check the course.
‘Steer fine,’ Ramage said, and cursed himself for an entirely unnecessary order: Jackson was about the last man who had to be told how important it was to steer an accurate course. Ramage knew – and the thought irritated him – that he had only said it because he was feeling nervous. Well, sitting among a boat full of armed men on a pitch-dark night with the butts of a pair of pistols threatening to stave in your ribs did not leave you relaxed.
Looking at Jackson’s face, every wrinkle exaggerated by the light from the binnacle (it would have to be covered over very soon), Ramage found himself thinking of the passing years. Jackson was no longer the young American who had helped rescue the Marchesa de Volterra from that beach in Italy so many years ago; nor, for that matter, was he himself that very young lieutenant who was the sole surviving officer of his ship… Jackson’s face was lined and his hair was thinning and the years were passing…that young lieutenant now commanded a ship of the line, and it took a cutting out expedition to make him realise that time did not stand still.
He looked astern and could just make out the darker blobs of the five boats following the launch. He listened carefully but could not hear any noise except th
e faint hiss of the water being sliced away by the stem of the first pinnace. The oars were well muffled: even here in the launch there was little more than a faint groan as they rode against the rowlocks, a noise caused by movement and not the friction of wood against wood.
He opened the nightglass and looked ahead over the heads of the oarsmen. There was nothing, except blackness. Well, perhaps just a hint of land, but nothing he could be sure of. He could imagine the people in the boats astern straining their eyes to keep a watch on the launch – they were following at four-yard intervals, and as soon as the launch stopped – which she would do as soon as she sighted the frigate – the boats, forewarned, would form up in pairs for the final approach. Then, in the last fifty yards, they would split up to board from opposite sides.
Were there guard boats, and if so how far were they from the frigate? Half a mile? Two hundred yards? Or were there no boats? Did the French dismiss the brig as of no consequence? Oh, don’t start that train of thought again, he told himself; he had already been over it once and come to no conclusion, and now was not the time to fret: just keep a sharp lookout.
This really was the worst part of a cutting-out expedition, the long row to the target. It left a man alone with his thoughts and fears for too long: there was just the slopping of oar blades dipping in the water and the creak of the thwarts as the seated men strained at the looms of the oars. Time seemed to stand still; the darkness left one’s imagination open to the wildest thoughts.
What would Admiral Cameron think about this cutting out expedition – would he approve or dismiss it as a wild venture? If it was successful he would welcome an extra frigate – but success always brought approval; it was failure that brought condemnation.
Now Jackson was drawing a cloth over most of the binnacle to hide the light.
Chapter Fourteen
There was no mistaking it: that blacker shape was the frigate, lying head to wind and slightly to starboard. Ramage whispered to Jackson, who hissed an order to the men to lie on their oars. Out of the darkness a pinnace came and took its place to starboard and, looking aft over Jackson’s head, Ramage could see the other boats forming up in pairs.
Jackson gave another order and the men resumed rowing, and the pinnace kept station. If there was a guard boat out, Ramage had halved the chance of them being sighted by halving the length of the tail of boats. Anyway, the next three or four minutes were the dangerous ones: they could be sighted first by a guard boat and then by an alert lookout on board the frigate herself.
But would lookouts be alert, after weeks – probably months – of just peering into blackness? It was unlikely. Most sailors could doze off while still standing up, and there was no reason to expect that the men in the frigate were any different. Ramage knew his best allies were dozy lookouts. How many would there be, anyway? Well, since they could see the frigate now, alert lookouts could presumably see the boats.
Jackson stood up, as though he could see better. Jackson knew the responsibility for the boat now rested on him: Jackson would have to put the boat alongside the frigate’s larboard quarter. Each boat had been allocated its own position – with the proviso that, in case of confusion, a boat should put its men on board wherever the opportunity presented itself.
Still no shouted challenges. If there was a guard boat, it must be on the far side of the frigate. And by now the boats were well inside the field of vision of alert lookouts – and yet there was no shouted challenge. Ramage felt the tension mounting. He hitched at the pistols, which he realised had made his ribs sore. And he was wearing the sword presented to him at Lloyd’s. The presentation seemed a long time ago – another lifetime almost.
It was hard to judge distances in the darkness but they were now close enough that Ramage could see the frigate’s rigging obscuring stars. They were down to under three hundred yards. The pinnace to larboard was turning slightly, increasing the distance between them: that pinnace was due to attack from the starboard side. Ramage glanced astern and saw two more boats were hauling out to starboard. Good – that meant that so far the plan was working. But now was the really dangerous time – when the men became excited. Then they were likely to start rowing faster, increasing the chances of catching a crab and making a splashing noise with an oar. Or start shouting when they boarded – although every man had been warned to keep quiet, so that the French would not know the extent of the attack.
Now he could clearly distinguish the rigging and knew they must be within a hundred yards of the frigate. There was no need to give orders since the boarders, crouching in the boat, could see as well as he could that they were approaching their target.
Now they were in the wind shadow cast by the frigate: the sea was calmer and there was practically no wind. Fifty yards. No shout from a lookout: no sign of a guard boat. Now the ship’s transom was looming up high overhead. He could not quite make out the name. Yes he could – the Alerte, the letters just distinguishable in the starlight.
Twenty-five yards – and Jackson was leaning on the tiller, and a minute or two later was hissing orders to the men on the starboard side: he knew the risk of them clattering their oars against the frigate’s side.
Suddenly there was a cry in French from the deck above: a hasty, almost uncertain challenge. Immediately Ramage called in French that they had come from the town – not a convincing answer but sufficiently unexpected, he hoped, to baffle the sentry for a valuable couple of minutes.
‘From the town?’
‘Yes, from the town, with urgent despatches.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Yes, you fool, the Republic’s business cannot wait.’
By then Ramage and several of the boarders had leapt up, clawing for the projecting edges of gunports, or anything that gave a handhold. The sentry was still hesitating, then apparently he looked over the side and decided that the nocturnal visitors were boarding in a strange way, and started shouting. But his uncertainty robbed his voice of its strength.
Ramage found a foothold and levered himself upwards, hauling with his fingertips and pushing with his feet as soon as he found a foothold. He was conscious of a writhing mass of men close to him as the other boarders scrambled up the side of the Alerte. With a final heave he managed to grasp the lower edge of the hammock nettings and quickly climbed up them and on to the bulwark. By now the lookout had made up his mind and was shouting at the top of his voice only three or four yards from where Ramage landed on the deck, unsheathing his sword at the same time. He lunged at the shadowy figure and the shouting stopped as the man pitched forward and fell gurgling to the deck.
By now more boarders were jumping down from the nettings. Following their orders, they went after Ramage as he headed for the gunroom. Half a dozen Marines headed for the captain’s cabin, and Ramage almost breathed a sigh of relief: the Alerte was just like the Calypso, even to the siting of the binnacle.
By now the two men who had been entrusted with shaded lanterns had climbed on board and were lighting up a few yards of deck. Ramage snatched one of the lanterns before plunging below, realising he was a good target for any Frenchman who had a pistol.
There had been only one lookout: that was obvious. Had his shouts been heard below, where men would be sleeping in their hammocks? Or in the gunroom, where the officers would be in their cots? No one had answered the sentry, at any rate, and as he made his way down to the gunroom Ramage coughed when the smoke from the guttering candle in the lantern caught the back of his throat.
Now he was standing at the gunroom door, holding the lantern high. There was no movement: the officers were snoring in their cabins, and Ramage was sure that the shouting would not be heard down here. He put the lantern down on the table, sheathed his sword and pulled out the two pistols. Then, with more boarders crowding into the gunroom behind him, he banged on the table with the butt of a pistol until he heard two or three sleepy voices asking in French what was the matter.
As soon as he was sure the offic
ers could hear him, he shouted out a peremptory command in French: everyone was to fall in outside their doors. A few voices, still sleepy, asked who he was. He repeated the order, and told them to hurry.
At that moment he heard muffled shots from forward: boarders were having trouble with men sleeping forward on the lowerdeck. It would not take those men more than a few moments to roll out of their hammocks, though they would have to grope their way to find where cutlasses were stowed.
The first of the officers stumbled out of his cabin and stood by the door, blinking in the light of the lantern. More followed until all the officers, looking comical in their nightshirts, were standing uncertainly in their doorways. Ramage looked round at the boarders and recognised a corporal of Marines. ‘Keep all these men standing where they are: shoot anyone that tries to move!’
With that he ran up on deck to find out that the captain had been taken in his bunk and was at present standing by the binnacle in his nightshirt guarded by two Marines. But there were sounds of fighting coming from below, and at that moment he found Aitken standing beside him.
‘Some Frenchmen have got hold of swords, sir: quite a number of them, in fact.’
‘All right, where’s your party?’
‘Right here, sir: we’ve just boarded.’
‘Very well: let’s join the fight!’
He heard more shots as he and Aitken hurried below, and he found the lowerdeck in chaos: men crouching because of the low headroom, crowded by all the hammocks slung from the deckhead, were slashing and parrying with cutlasses and by now shouting at the tops of their voices in English and French.