Ramage At Trafalgar (14 page)

Ramage was thinking the same thing: for a moment he imagined a snatch of gossip at the Green Room in Plymouth, with one post-captain asking another: “Hear how that fellow Ramage joined Lord Nelson off Cadiz? Why, drifted into the
Victory
and boarded her in the smoke, haw, haw!”

And with nine 74s passed, one or two by the thickness of a coat of paint (or so it appeared from the
Calypso
: the ships were apparently unworried), the
Victory
still seemed to be as far away through the mass of hulls and masts.

“Bear up,” he snapped at Aitken: “We can just scrape across the bow of the
Belleisle
without carrying away her jib-boom.”

“If you say so, sir,” Aitken said doubtfully, bellowing into his speaking trumpet and snapping a helm order to Jackson.

Topsail sheets and yards braced sharp up, men hauled at the headsail sheets to flatten the curve of jibs and staysails; the
Calypso
seemed to stagger for a few moments and then pointed even higher into the wind: just enough, Aitken realized, to get clear: but beyond the jib-boom loomed yet another 74, black-hulled with white strakes – the
Conqueror
? Aitken was guessing, but there seemed no way the
Calypso
could turn to larboard or starboard, luff up or bear away to avoid ramming her amidships.

Aitken glanced at the captain. He was startled to see that Ramage seemed to be enjoying himself: his teeth were bared in a wide grin; his hands were clasped behind his back. For a moment Aitken imagined a confident gambler watching the dice roll the way he wanted.

“Back the maintopsail, Mr Aitken!”

And stop the ship? Aitken shouted the orders which brought the men sweating and cursing at the braces, hauling the topsail yard round, and then the sheets were trimmed. The
Calypso
suddenly stopped, the pitching and rolling ceased; instead she just heeled slightly under the press of the backed sail.

And an unbelieving Aitken watched the
Conqueror
draw ahead: instead of the
Calypso
’s jib-boom lancing the 74s foremast shrouds, Aitken saw the
Conqueror
slide to larboard until her mainshrouds were ahead, then her mizen and finally her transom slid across the frigate’s bow leaving – Aitken almost whooped with relief and joy – an empty space, then one three-decker beyond her, the centre of a spacious area, the
Victory
, her three yellow strakes glistening, with another three-decker, the
Dreadnought
, in her wake.

Aitken glanced again at Ramage and saw the satisfied grin on his face – the captain had calculated that manoeuvre down to the last few feet – and the first lieutenant was ready with the speaking trumpet when Ramage said: “Very well, let it draw!”

It took only moments to brace the yard and trim the sheets so that the maintopsail filled with wind and the
Calypso
began hissing through the water again with an easy pitch and roll like, Aitken thought, a young man strolling carefree through the park on a spring morning.

Still no signal from the
Victory
. But the three-decker ahead was Admiral Collingwood’s temporary flagship, the
Dreadnought
(the
Royal Sovereign
had yet to arrive from England), and admirals did not like frigates bolting across their bow.

“Bear away and pass under the
Dreadnought’
s stern,” Ramage said, “and then bear up on the
Victory’
s larboard side.”

It was a long way from Clarges Street, Ramage thought, and Lord Nelson was probably missing Lady Hamilton as much as he was missing Sarah. Supposing one was bound for India, two years from home and probably more than that: did the pain lessen? It could not get worse; he was damned sure ofthat.

Now they were past the
Dreadnought
and running up on the
Victory
’s quarter. She was towing a single cutter. Quickly Ramage lifted his telescope and swept the
Dreadnought
’s deck. Yes, her cutter was missing. Lord Nelson’s second-in-command was on board the
Victory
.

What was Admiral Collingwood really like? Ramage had never met him but had heard many stories. For a start, Collingwood was rarely separated from his dog Bunce. He was a Northumberland man who loved the country and was so worried about the rate at which England was using up her oak trees to build ships of war that when he was out walking in the country he had a pocketful of acorns, which he planted in likely places, to ensure that in a hundred years’ time, in 1905, England would not lack for oaks. What else about him? He was a strict but very fair disciplinarian who hated flogging – he was reputed to have said that flogging made a good man bad, and a bad man worse. A quiet and reserved man, the complete opposite of Lord Nelson, who by contrast was like a bowl of quicksilver. But apparently both men knew each other well, and worked together.

“Start the salute,” Ramage told Aitken.

A minute later number one gun on the larboard side gave a snuffling thud, and Ramage pictured the gunner timing the five-second firing intervals with the time-honoured phrase, “If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here, number two gun fire… If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here, number three gun fire…” He found himself repeating it, and the gunner seemed to be timing it correctly. A captain joining the fleet, to his commander-in-chief, seventeen guns. If the gunner had any sense he had seventeen musket or pistol balls in a pocket, transferring one to another pocket every time a gun fired, until the first pocket was empty: that was the only safe way of not firing sixteen or eighteen.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen: that was the end of the salute. And a flutter of flags from the
Victory
. Ramage read the
Calypso
’s three pendant numbers, followed by numbers 103.

“Signal from the flagship, sir,” Orsini called excitedly. “Our pendant and then 103, ‘
Keep in
the Admiral’s wake
’.”

Which, given the limitations of the four hundred orders in the
Signal Book
, was the only way to order the
Calypso
to take up a position astern of the
Victory
. (There was no signal which could order the
Calypso
to take up a position ahead or on either beam…)

“See to it, Mr Aitken,” Ramage said, knowing the first lieutenant had heard Orsini’s report. “One cable astern of the
Dreadnought
.”

A simple enough manoeuvre, but this time executed within yards of Admiral Collingwood’s flagship, and several telescopes would be scanning the new arrival, eager to spot poor or dilatory seamanship. Thus, Ramage reflected ruefully, could a captain’s reputation be sported away, no matter how many successful actions he had fought. Flag lieutenants and all the rest of the people serving an admiral (from clerks to a chaplain and a host of midshipmen) were like a medieval king’s courtiers: they had little else to do but scratch each other’s backs and gossip…

Ramage made a point of standing four-square on the quarterdeck, obviously leaving the handling of the ship to his first lieutenant – not to avoid responsibility but to show any prying eyes that the
Calypso
’s captain had complete faith in his officers. Obviously Lord Nelson (and almost certainly Admiral Collingwood) were above all the gossip, but the other ships in the fleet liked to hear it, especially if about a well-known captain making a fool of himself. And, Ramage reflected, he was just well enough known by now to be a target.

An hour later Martin, as officer of the deck, reported to Ramage that the
Victory
and the
Dreadnought
had backed their maintopsails.

“If we don’t do something, we’ll be aboard the
Dreadnought
,” Ramage said. “Admiral Collingwood may well be put out if Lieutenant Martin puts the
Calypso
’s jib-boom through the sternlights of his great cabin…”

Martin grinned because the lieutenants enjoyed being teased by the captain. He lifted the speaking trumpet, which he had picked up the moment he saw the
Victory
’s maintopsail start to shiver, and bellowed the orders for the
Calypso
to follow suit.

Southwick lumbered on deck, saw what was happening and asked Ramage: “What’s His Lordship doing?”

“Letting Admiral Collingwood return to his ship, from the look of it.” He steadied the telescope. “Yes, I can see men hauling round the painter of that cutter. And there are two admirals walking the quarterdeck.”

“That’s our excitement for the day,” Martin muttered. “Unless the cutter capsizes and we can rescue the admiral from drowning.”

When Orsini laughed, Ramage said: “That reminds me: why was there such a delay in answering the
Victory
’s signal to us?”

“The answering pendant wasn’t bent on the halyard, sir,” Orsini admitted lamely.

“If you want to live long enough to go up to Somerset House and take your examination for lieutenant, let me give you some advice,” Ramage said. “When you’re near a senior officer’s ship,
always
keep an answering pendant bent on the halyard ready. And remember – in most fleets it matters less that a ship’s gunnery is poor than that she answers signals quickly. Not with Lord Nelson, but with most senior officers.”

“Yes, sir,” Orsini said apologetically. “I had realized that – too late – but we have the pendant bent on now.”

Ramage nodded. “Good – that’s the first lesson you’ve learned about joining a fleet. There’ll be more. Just remember that when you’re in company with a flagship, you’re standing at the wrong end of someone’s telescope…”

Ramage was in his cabin, his sword, best frock coat and hat on the settee, when Aitken hailed through the skylight: “Sir, signal from the flagship…two…one…three. Orsini is looking it up… Yes,
‘The
captains of the fleet, or of the ships pointed out, are to come to the Admiral’
. Shall I hoist out the cutter, sir?”

“Yes, and tell Jackson to assemble my boat’s crew. And have ’em tidy themselves up: some of those captains of 74s dress up their boats’ crews like puppets.”

The captain of the
Harlequin
frigate, for instance: he was a wealthy man and dressed his men as harlequins. Ramage thought of some of the more unusual names in the list of the Navy: the
Alligator
, a 28-gun frigate, the
Beaver
,
Bittern
and
Badger
,
Bouncer
,
Boxer
,
Biter
and
Bruiser
.

He imagined men in shirts with stripes down their backs.

“What ship?”

“The
Badger
, sir.”

He stood up and looked down at himself. Yes, shoes polished and the gold buckles fitted; silk stockings unmarked – he had remembered not to cross his feet: Silkin never managed to get all the polish off his boots or shoes, so the back of his stockings usually suffered. Breeches – not creased. He was just going to pick up his frock coat when Silkin hurried in.

“Thank goodness I fitted those gold buckles, sir,” the man said. “The silver ones would
never
have done for seeing the admiral.”

“Rubbish,” Ramage said curtly, “admirals wouldn’t notice if their captains arrived barefoot!”

“Oh sir!” Silkin exclaimed, as if he knew that Ramage was quite capable of arriving on board a flagship like that, to the eternal shame of his servant.

He held up the frock coat and Ramage eased himself into it. The price of a good tailor was being uncomfortable: he wanted your frock coat to fit like a glove, and breeches were so tight that sitting down suddenly was dangerous.

“You’re not taking the presentation sword, sir?”

‘‘No.’’

“It’s a fine sword, sir.”

“And it has ‘Lloyd’s’ written all over it.”

Silkin shook his head, puzzled.

It will be interesting, Ramage thought sourly, to see which of those captains with presentation swords actually wear them to meet Lord Nelson. It was like wearing a label, he thought, saying “I’m brave, sir.”

Ramage looked at his watch. In half an hour there would be so many boats with impatient captains milling about at the foot of the
Victory
’s entryport that a wise man either arrived very early or very late, thus avoiding the scramble. The
Calypso
was the nearest vessel now the
Dreadnought
had returned to her station. Arrive early, Ramage decided.

Just fifteen minutes later Jackson laid the
Calypso
’s cutter below the
Victory
’s entryport and, after a quick hitch at his sword belt, Ramage seized the sideropes being held out clear of the hull by the sideboys and began the long scramble up the battens to reach the port itself.

Conscious that the whole port was neatly painted, the scroll work picked out in gold leaf, Ramage entered, to be met by a large man wearing epaulets on both shoulders – a captain with more than three years’ seniority.

The man held out his right hand. “I’m Hardy – you must be Ramage. His Lordship hoped you’d take advantage of your nearness and get here first.”

“I’ve been chasing you for days,” Ramage said. “I was hoping we’d get to St Helens before you sailed.”

Hardy grinned amiably. “I’ll let you into a secret: we only just beat you: we joined the fleet last night – you probably saw Admiral Collingwood reporting on board. Oh yes, by the way, today’s His Lordship’s birthday. He’s forty-seven.”

Ramage nodded gratefully and followed Hardy’s directions up to the great cabin. That entryport, Ramage thought, told him a good deal about Hardy: only one lieutenant, the master at arms and two seamen were waiting there; the sideropes were scrubbed white, even though the
Victory
had been at sea for days, and every bit of brasswork in sight was gleaming. Nor was Hardy a scrub-and-polish captain; by reputation he was a fighter.