by Dudley Pope
“Very well. We’d better start getting ready for entering La Guaira.”
Southwick eyed him curiously. “Aye, aye, sir. We’ll be anchoring?”
“I don’t know yet, but the Spaniards will be expecting us to, so we have to have everything ready.”
“The men at quarters?”
“Yes, but hidden below the bulwarks. Guns loaded but not run out and boarders standing by.”
Southwick obviously had many more questions to ask, but he nodded and said: “Very well, sir, I’ll see to it.”
Aitken, as First Lieutenant, had to know what was going on, and Ramage walked aft to where he was standing near the binnacle and gave him his instructions. “I’ll take the conn,” Ramage said. “We’ll be there in two or three hours.”
By now the grindstone was hard at work, one man working the handle, another pouring water into the trough through which the bottom of the stone turned, and a third moving the blade of a cutlass across the spinning wheel. He then sighted along the blade and, when satisfied, put it to one side, picking up another from the waiting pile.
The sun was getting hot; already the deck was uncomfortably warm and Ramage began pacing the quarterdeck. The glare from the waves as they surged past the frigate made his eyes ache and it would get worse as the sun climbed higher.
Paolo, having satisfied the Master that he could now work out the distance off by the vertical angle, was marching up and down, hands clasped behind his back, a frown on his face.
“Mr Orsini,” Ramage said, “you look worried. Are sines and tangents still bothering you?”
“Oh no, sir. It’s my dirk. The blade is chipped and I was hoping I could put it on the grindstone before they stow it.”
“How on earth did you chip it?”
“When we boarded the Jocasta, sir. I was warding off a cutlass, and I think the blow made a dent in the edge.”
Ramage stared at the boy. “You boarded the Jocasta with your dirk?” he demanded.
“Why yes, sir: it’s a very good dirk: the best that Mr Prater had. Aunt Gianna went with me to Charing Cross—Mr Prater is the best sword cutler in London—and told him she wanted the finest dirk for me.”
“I know all about Mr Prater,” Ramage growled, “but that dirk is not for fighting! Why, it’s only a twelve-inch blade. I’ve told you before, use a cutlass.”
“But I had a cutlass as well, sir,” Paolo protested. “I was using my dirk as a main gauche, but I had to ward off one Spaniard’s blade with the dirk and kill him with the cutlass.”
A main gauche! In the days when duellists paid little attention to rules, a man held a dagger in his left hand, hoping to use the sword in his right hand to swing his opponent round with a parry, leaving him wide open to a jab from the dagger. Paolo had learned duelling in Volterra; his tutor had obviously impressed on him the merits of surviving.
“Very well,” Ramage said, “you can have five minutes. But let the seaman put the dirk on the stone; you’ll grind away half the metal!”
Aitken was going round the deck and as he called names from a list in his hand men went obediently to collect boarding-pike, tomahawk or cutlass. Ramage noticed that the first thing a man did was to examine the point or edge and some, with obvious grunts of disapproval, went over to the grindstone.
As soon as Paolo came back to the quarterdeck, his newly sharpened dirk slung round his waist, Ramage gave him a key: “You’ll find a Spanish signal book in the second drawer of my desk. Bring it up here, and look through it. You’ll find it easy enough to understand.”
If anything happened to Gianna, or she died without having a son, her nephew Paolo would be the next ruler of Volterra. Well, he was getting a good training in leadership. Perhaps Gianna was shrewder than he had given her credit for when she asked him to take Paolo as a midshipman. She knew better than anyone what was needed in a ruler of that turbulent Tuscan state, where treachery was a commonplace and, once the French were driven out, revolution would probably join it. He shivered at the thought of what Gianna would face when she returned to Italy. The way things were at the moment, with the French armies victorious from the North Sea to the gates of the Holy City, it was some consolation (for him anyway) that it would be a long time before she could go back to Volterra.
He shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts. For a few moments he had been among the smoothly rounded hills of Tuscany, and it was almost a shock now to find himself staring at the sharp peaks of the Main—peaks which made him feel uneasy for reasons he could not understand but which, from long experience, he knew he should not ignore. And yet, he thought helplessly, what was it that he ought not to ignore?
Men were stowing the grindstone as Southwick bustled up, pointing to a headland just coming clear of the land on the larboard bow: “I’m sure that’s Punta Caraballeda, sir. About six miles this side of La Guaira. We’ll sight two smaller headlands, Cojo and Mulatos, and then we’re in the anchorage.”
Ramage nodded. Caraballeda was about five miles away. “We’ll send the men to quarters as soon as Caraballeda is abeam. We can—”
He broke off and looked to the south. The wind was falling away and there was still a curious light over the peaks, a harsh white light as though the sun was trying to break through thin high cloud, but the only cloud in the sky was a scattering of balls of cotton. The Jocasta slowed perceptibly and the quartermaster looked anxiously at the dog-vanes on the hammock nettings. Each vane was made up of a number of corks with feathers stuck in them and suspended by thin line from a small staff, and they were no longer streaming out in the breeze; instead they were bobbing and jerking as the wind became fitful.
Ramage glanced aloft, then decided to follow his instincts even if it left him looking foolish. He reached for the speaking-trumpet. “We’ll take in stunsails, topgallants and courses, Mr Southwick, and double-reef the topsails if we have time!”
The Master stood for a moment, obviously dumbfounded, his eyes going to the south, trying to discover the reason for the Captain’s completely unexpected move. Then the habit of discipline took over as Ramage began bellowing the first of the orders.
“All the studding-sails—ready for coming in!”
Seamen stopped what they were doing and ran to their stations, a handful racing up the rigging. The suddenness of the order alerted them all that something unexpected was happening, and as Ramage continued his stream of orders the halyards were eased, tacks started and downhauls manned. Swiftly the studding-sails were lowered and the booms rigged in, slid along the yards out of the way.
Now it was the turn of the topgallants, the highest of the squaresails that the Jocasta was carrying.
“Man the topgallant clewlines … Hands stand by topgallant sheets and halyards … Haul taut!”
Ramage watched the men aloft struggling with the sails and was thankful the wind had eased. He glanced back to the south. Nothing had changed; the peaks seemed to be making their own light, like phosphorescence, but the wind continued to fall away. He put the speaking-trumpet to his lips again.
“Let go the topgallant bowlines. Look alive, there! … In top-gallants!”
So much for them. Now for the fore and main courses, the largest and lowest of the sails.
“Lower yard men furl the courses … Trice up … lay out …” So the stream of orders continued until the two great sails were, like the topgallants, neatly furled on the yards, and only the top-sails were still set, each nearly 2000 square feet of flax, alternately bellying in a puff of wind and then hanging limp.
Ramage glanced yet again at the mountains. Aitken had hurried up to the quarterdeck, Southwick was standing at the rail, and both men were watching him. There was no expression on their faces: the Captain was giving the orders, and they and the ship’s company were obeying them. Obviously they wondered why the Captain should be taking in sail in a falling wind, and Ramage realized that Southwick saw nothing strange, let alone ominous, in the light over the mountains.
Dou
ble-reef the topsails? The Jocasta’s speed would drop to a couple of knots, the pace of a child dawdling to school. Ramage was obeying his instincts rather than the rules of seamanship, and he was liable to be ordering the topmen aloft within half an hour, setting the sails again. He looked at the mountains. Nothing had changed; nor had his instincts stopped nagging him to get the Jocasta jogging along under double-reefed topsails.
He raised the speaking-trumpet to his lips and soon reached the last of the orders: “Lower topsails … trice up and lay out … take in two reefs!” Now the topmen were working out on the yards, hauling at the stiff cloth of the sails and tying the reef points. “Lay in,” which sent the men scrambling along the yard to the mast, was followed by “Lower booms,” when the stunsail booms were dropped until they were lying along the yards; and then came “Down from aloft!”
Now there remained only the orders for the men on deck: “Man the topsail halyards … Haul taut … Tend the braces, step lively there! …” Finally, with a glance at the dog-vanes: “Trim the yards … Haul the bowlines!”
As Ramage reached out to put the speaking-trumpet back on its hook at the side of the binnacle box he saw Southwick point over the larboard side and Aitken’s face suddenly freeze the moment he looked.
A long line of tumbling spray was racing over the water towards them: a great squall which must have come down the side of the mountain was now tearing up the sea. This side of the squall line the wind was little more than a breeze; beyond it there was a gale. Following it down the side of the mountains in a solid blanket were black clouds, writhing and twisting and tumbling towards the shore like lava from a volcano.
“Eight points to starboard, steer north!” Ramage snapped at the quartermaster, and snatched up the speaking-trumpet to give the orders that would brace up the yards and trim the sheets as the wind arrived. He wanted the squall to catch the Jocasta on the starboard quarter, giving her a chance to pick up way as the tremendous wind hit her. If it caught her on the beam it would simply lay her over; even if it did not rip her masts out she might not be able to convert the enormous pressures on her sails and masts into a forward motion, and they would capsize her, like a storm blowing down a fence.
As the men ran to the sheets and braces Ramage glanced towards La Guaira and was startled to see the whole coast hidden by the same kind of tumbling cloud pouring from the peaks, the sea already a boiling mass of water for a mile or more offshore, and the squall line moving out, slow but inexorable.
The yards were coming round, the two men at the wheel were hauling desperately at the spokes and the quartermaster was already shouting to another two seamen to bear a hand. Ramage hurried to the binnacle and peered in at the compass, conscious that the sunlight was fading rapidly, like the beginning of a solar eclipse.
Eight points should do it, and the ship’s head was beginning to swing. Over on the larboard quarter what had been a line of spray was now a steep wall of blackness, a swirling mass of rain and cloud and spray reaching up sheer like the face of a cliff.
“Must be a caldereta,” Southwick muttered, his voice betraying awe at the sight.
“I hope the rigging is going to stand up to it,” Ramage said sourly. “There’s a gale of wind there …”
It was still nearly a mile away, advancing slowly. Again Ramage thought of lava crawling down a mountainside, or a glacier, moving slowly but with enormous strength, crushing everything in its path.
The guns were still secured, the boats lashed down. The Jocasta was now steering up to the north, still on the starboard tack, with a veering wind and almost directly away from the coast. There was nothing more he could do except wait and hope the wind inside that rain would be steady in direction. If it veered too fast and caught the Jocasta aback, the masts would go by the board. Ramage had a sudden picture of Admiral Davis’s face as he tried to explain what had happened … but to be able to explain, he thought inconsequentially, he had to be safely back in English Harbour …
Three-quarters of a mile now and the wind was veering slightly. A puff of warm wind, and then another, and the black wall seemed to be speeding up. Ramage reached for the speaking-trumpet. “All hands! All hands!” he shouted. “Hold on for your lives when this squall hits us.”
Aitken was watching him. “Nice range for a broadside,” Ramage said.
“I’d reach it with a musket,” the First Lieutenant said, and a few moments later added: “Or a pistol!”
Then it was on them; a series of ever-increasing blasts lashing them with rain and salt spray which streamed in almost horizontally, needle-sharp on the face and blinding for the eyes. The noise reached a crescendo, the wind invisible yet seeming solid, screaming into the rigging, battering at bodies, tearing at sodden clothes, whipping up ropes’ ends like coachmen’s whips.
Ramage, blinded even though he had held his hands over his eyes, felt the Jocasta slowly heeling: not the easy movement of a roll as a wave passed under the ship but a gradual inexorable tilting of the deck as the enormous force of the wind pressed against every square inch of hull, masts, yards, ropes and sails; as though she was being hove down for careening.
She was not paying off! Eight points had been too much; the ship was dead in the water and gradually going over. He managed to blink his eyes open for a moment and saw the men fighting, eyes shut, to hold the wheel, but the quartermaster had lost his footing and was struggling on his back in the lee scuppers like a stranded fish. And along the starboard side the seas, driven before this tremendous wind, were piling up like snow against a wall. Southwick was clutching the quarterdeck rail; Aitken, spreadeagled on the deck, was holding on to an eyebolt, and the whole ship was inside a cocoon of streaming rain and spray: he could barely see the end of the jib-boom. A moment before the stinging salt made him shut his eyes again he saw that the reefed maintopsail was in shreds but, by a miracle, the fore-topsail was holding, a bulging, swollen grey curve straining every stitch and seam.
He realized he was now gripping the cascabel of a six-pounder gun and hard put to keep on his feet, but as he sorted out what he had just seen in his mind he knew that the Jocasta was on the verge of capsizing: a few more pounds of pressure, a few more degrees of heel … Already the water was … Suddenly he felt the ship recovering from being a dead mass: she seemed to give a massive shrug and the hull began to move, life slowly coming back to her as she gathered way.
The wheel! Blinking away the salt in his eyes he scrambled to the wheel. Three men were holding on to the spokes, pulling down with all their weight, but the fourth man had fallen.
“Hold her!” Ramage bellowed, seizing a couple of spokes and hauling down. “Hold her, otherwise she’ll broach!”
Now, with his back to the wind and rain and spray, it was easier to see, and the ship was slowly, agonizingly slowly, coming upright as she turned to bring the wind aft: all the enormous strength was now beginning to act on the foretopsail and the transom, trying to thrust her before it instead of pressing along the starboard side, trying to lay her over on her beam ends.
“Ease her!” Ramage gasped, able to do little more than guess the wind direction, and the four of them let the wheel turn slowly, a spoke at a time. “Another couple of spokes … and two more … two more … that’s it: hold her there!”
He staggered to the binnacle, noting that the wind-vanes had disappeared, wiped the compass glass and saw the ship was steering north by west. A moment later the quartermaster was beside him, his face streaming with blood from a cut on the brow.
“Sorry, sir, I’m all right now!”
“North by west,” Ramage shouted, “hold her on that!”
He realized that the sound of gunfire was in fact the main-topsail: the torn cloths of the sail still secured to the yard were flogging violently and shaking the whole mast so that the decks trembled. But the double-reefed foretopsail was holding; it was holding and keeping the Jocasta running before the wind, pulling her like a terrified mare being dragged from a flooded stable.
Ramage looked round for Southwick and saw that somehow he had managed to get down to the main deck and was collecting a party of topmen to send aloft to secure the remnants of the maintopsail. But two seamen were crouched over Aitken and a moment later Ramage saw Bowen staggering across the quarterdeck towards the First Lieutenant. The Surgeon must have come up the companion-way the moment he could climb, knowing that there would be injured men needing his attention.
Southwick was dealing with the torn topsail, Bowen was attending to Aitken; what else needed doing? The quartermaster’s face was a red smear as rain spread the blood. The man was white-faced and wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, but he was watching the compass and turning to give an occasional order to the men at the wheel.
Then Ramage noticed Jackson hurrying up the quarterdeck ladder and looking round anxiously. He saw Ramage and, reassured, was about to turn and go back to the main deck when Ramage waved to him and pointed to the quartermaster.
The American understood immediately and went over to tap the bloodstained man on the shoulder, but the man shook his head. Jackson pointed at Bowen and then at Ramage, and gave the man a shove away from the binnacle. With the wind still screaming it was almost impossible to talk, and Ramage went over to the binnacle to shout in Jackson’s ear: “Hold her on this course unless the wind shifts!”
Jackson nodded and bellowed back: “You all right, sir?” Ramage nodded in turn and pointed to Aitken and the quartermaster, who was now kneeling beside Bowen, more anxious to help him attend the First Lieutenant than be treated himself. “How are things on the main deck?”
“No one hurt,” Jackson shouted. “All the gun tackles held. A few pikes came out of the racks, otherwise everything’s all right. We were holding on tight!”