Ramage and the Dido (30 page)

Orsini held his hands out in a typical Italian gesture. ‘It would never work. It might start off with promotion by merit, but soon the politicians would get their fingers into it, and it would turn into favouritism, influence and patronage. Politicians foul everything they touch. So maybe it is safer to rely on seniority.’

Martin was startled by Orsini’s matter-of-fact wisdom. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, but in the meantime we have to put up with the Calders and the like, promoted on seniority, not merit.’

‘It’s the price we pay. Sometimes merit and seniority combine and we get a Lord Nelson.’

‘Don’t forget,’ Martin said, ‘that it was Lord St Vincent that picked him for Copenhagen.’

‘And put that old fool Sir Hyde Parker in command!’ retorted Orsini. ‘It nearly caused a disaster – in fact if it had not been for Lord Nelson it would have been a complete disaster: the command and the battle.’

‘Well, Lord Nelson won, in spite of the confusion.’

‘Yes, Mr Ramage says the Danes never studied the Battle of the Nile. Had they done so, they would never have fought the battle like they did because they let Nelson fight the same sort of battle – with the same sort of results.’

At that moment Ramage came on to the quarterdeck and, overhearing Orsini’s last few words, asked: ‘What are you two naval strategists discussing?’

‘Lord Nelson and Sir Hyde Parker at Copenhagen, sir,’ Martin said. ‘The divided command.’

‘You can talk about that for a month without reaching any conclusions,’ Ramage said, deciding not to enter into any conversation criticising senior flag officers. He had talked about Copenhagen with his father and Paolo at Palace Street, but they were family conversations, not exactly private but not the sort of talks he would have with his junior officers, since he had been very critical of Sir Hyde Parker, who was unsuited to Danish waters after several years of comparative luxury in the West Indies, where the only enemies were mosquitoes, yellow fever and occasional enemy cruisers.

‘Well, can you two strategists tell me how far we are from Cabrit?’

‘Five miles, sir,’ Martin said with a promptness that told Ramage he was making a guess. Martin, he decided, had learned the old trick of always giving a prompt reply, relying on its promptness to assure the listener of its accuracy.

Not, Ramage admitted, that it mattered on this occasion: they were on course for Cabrit and were about halfway between Diamond Rock and the island itself, so five miles was a good guess. From this angle, Cabrit Island still seemed to be part of the southern tip of Martinique, not yet outlined against the sea horizon.

Which side of the headland should he wait on? He had already decided not to go hunting for the convoy; instead he would wait and tackle it somewhere between Cabrit and Diamond Rock. That gave him a distance of ten miles. In that distance he had to deal with two or three frigates, perhaps a ship of the line, and a dozen or so merchant ships (maybe more).

It was not a great distance, but he could always chase them the last few miles up to Fort Royal, and there was nowhere there for them to hide – they could not all huddle under the protection of Fort St Louis. But how many merchant ships would there be? It was hard to guess. A British convoy to England from somewhere like Barbados could amount to fifty ships, sometimes a hundred, and those coming back were as big. But the French were only supplying Martinique, they were not sending out ships to bring back molasses and sugar and hides and spices: no, they were just breaking the blockade, so the ships would probably be carrying supplies for the Navy (rope, powder, canvas and salt tack) and the army (guns, powder and shot, muskets, clothing) and, if they were lucky, some cargo for the civil population. The French were fortunate to have been able to assemble and sail a convoy from Europe – there were plenty of British squadrons cruising off the French coast, ready to intercept such ships.

Yet the French would be prepared to take risks to supply Martinique. It was one of their more important colonies and, to the authorities in Paris, it must seem to be one of the keys to French power in the West Indies. But at the moment it was a dog without teeth: the
Alerte
frigate was captured and in Barbados, the
Achille
was on the rocks. The army in Martinique was helpless without the French Navy to carry it anywhere.

Anyway, the convoy would have a large escort, and some of the ships might stay behind, to reinforce the French in Martinique. Or at least that would be the intention of the Ministry of Marine in Paris, unaware just what had been happening in the past few days. All of which boiled down to one thing – that the
Dido
might be in for a surprise when the French hove in sight; a surprise and a bitter fight against heavy odds. Well, as usual, the
Dido
’s
only ally would be surprise: the French would be expecting to be met by the
Achille
and the
Alerte
;
in their place they would find the
Dido.

As soon as the
Dido
reached Cabrit Point she tacked and began retracing her course up to the north-west. Ramage told Southwick: ‘We’ll hold this course for an hour and then wear round and steer back for Cabrit. We’ll continue doing that until we sight the convoy.’

‘What’ll the French do when they don’t see the
Achille
and the
Alerte
?
’
the master asked.

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. ‘I hope they’ll assume there’s been some mix-up and that both ships have gone to a different rendezvous. It wouldn’t be the first time that something like that has happened. They wouldn’t have sent that frigate very far ahead: just to give the
Achille
time to get ready for sea. Perhaps twenty-four hours, and another day to reach the rendezvous.’

‘Yes, they wouldn’t be sure enough of their navigation to set a time and place too far ahead.’

‘I doubt if they did much more than give a latitude,’ Ramage said. ‘They probably aren’t very sure of their longitude after an Atlantic crossing. Most likely they said “Rendezvous in l4° 40’ North”, or something like that. I can’t see them being more exact. Nor is there any need.’

‘I’d give a lot to know whether they are going to try to get into Fort Royal in the dark,’ Southwick said.

‘The easiest way of answering that is to ask yourself what you would do if you were the French.’

‘I’d have a go,’ Southwick declared. ‘The frigate did it once, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t try it again, and pilot the convoy in.’

‘Exactly. He will be very confident of himself. And quite rightly so: that was a very creditable piece of seamanship. He fooled us!’

‘He did that,’ Southwick said ruefully. ‘But perhaps we’ll get our own back by fooling him.’

‘I hope so,’ Ramage said. ‘Though we haven’t a lot of room to tackle both escorts and convoy.’

‘But if we manage to destroy the pilot, perhaps a lot of the French merchantmen will run aground through not weathering Pointe du Diamant. It’s a big gulf, and a lot of them might go aground on the north shore.’

‘Not too many,’ Ramage said jokingly. ‘I want to send most of them into Barbados as prizes.’

‘Well, the former Calypsos don’t need the money, but the new Didos will be thankful. The prize and head money from the
Alerte
will have just whetted their appetites!’

At that moment Aitken came on to the quarterdeck, and Ramage asked: ‘How did the gunnery exercise go? I was busy writing the
Achille
report for the admiral, otherwise I would have been down there with my watch, timing them.’

‘I gave my watch an airing,’ Aitken said, ‘and their times are much better. That action against the
Achille
seems to have woken them up.’

‘Well, they’d better be wide awake when we meet the convoy: they’re going to have to do a lot of shooting in a very short time.’

Ramage thought a moment. ‘If we’re likely to meet the convoy at night it might be a good idea to train the men to work in darkness. Blindfold them, so that they get used to moving round the guns instinctively.’

Aitken looked doubtful and Ramage said: ‘You don’t seem very keen on the idea.’

‘No sir, to be quite honest I’m not. It’s never quite that dark: the flashes of the guns going off – except for the first broadside they never fire at the same time – gives light enough for the men to move about.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Ramage agreed. ‘All right, let them exercise in daylight, but tell the officers to remind them what it’s like at night, with smoke as well as the darkness.’

All that night and the following day the
Dido
tacked and wore to the north-west of Cabrit Island, but there was no sign of the convoy. Ramage would have worried that the ships had come in round the north of the island but for the fact that the
Scourge
was still off Fort Royal and would come south immediately to warn if any ships arrived.

The fine weather continued but the wind fell light. The sea was almost flat calm, with just a slight swell from the east, and overhead there was the scattering of balls of cotton as Trade wind clouds made their way westward in even lines, like marching soldiers. Flying fish flashed up from the depths, skimmed above the waves and then vanished as effortlessly as they came. Gulls mewed pitifully in the
Dido
’s
wake, as if pleading to be thrown scraps, and the black and menacing frigate birds curved and dived gracefully, swooping down almost faster than the eye could follow to pursue a flying fish or snatch up a piece of rubbish from the sea, careful never to get their feathers wet.

The ship’s company had spent the morning exercising at the guns. It was tedious for the former Calypsos, Ramage realised, but the new Didos had to reach their standard, and only constant exercise would do that. And all the time Ramage was waiting for a hail from the lookout aloft, reporting sail rounding Cabrit. There were times when it was as much as he could do not to seize the speaking trumpet and hail the lookouts. He cursed the fact that he had been born impatient: he wanted the action to start.

Southwick took his hat off and ran his fingers through his flowing white hair. ‘This light wind must be delaying them,’ he said. ‘I can just imagine the trouble those French frigates are having with the mules. I’ll bet they’re the same as our merchantmen – reefing right down at night, falling astern, and not getting back into position until noon.’

‘You sound as though you have unhappy memories of convoys,’ Ramage said jokingly.

Southwick sighed. ‘Is there any naval officer alive, British or French, that remembers convoy work with affection? D’you remember that convoy we took to England from Barbados, when we met that frigate commanded by a madman?’

‘I’m not likely to forget it, since it led to me being courtmartialled. I remember it because of the trial; I suppose you remember it for other reasons.’

‘Well, of course I remember the trial, sir, but it was the last time those mules had a chance of driving me mad!’

‘You’ll recover in time,’ Ramage said consolingly. ‘Just think of other things – like flogging to windward down the Channel with snow flurries and leaking oilskins…’

‘That’s done it,’ Southwick said, laughing. ‘I could just feel the cold water trickling down my neck, and my eyebrows begin to freeze up.’

‘It’s amazing how thinking about that can cheer you up,’ Ramage said. ‘It’s one of the worst experiences I can think of.’

‘It’s worse for the topmen having to handle frozen ropes and sails. I get sorry for them, too!’

‘Well, don’t waste sympathy on Frenchmen jogging along comfortably in the Trades with reefed sails at night,’ Ramage said. ‘They’re not only upsetting the French frigates, but they’re annoying me!’

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, with the men aloft exercising at sail handling, this time sending down a topsail and hoisting it again, all against Ramage’s watch. It was hot work in the Tropical sun but the men, naked to the waist and now well tanned, enjoyed it.

‘Next time we’ll send down the yard as well,’ Ramage told Aitken. ‘If these Frenchmen don’t arrive soon, we’ll have them sending down the yard at night. I want the men as used to doing things in darkness as in daylight. We were lucky in the action against the
Achille.
Next time we might not be so lucky.’

At dusk the lookouts were brought down from aloft and, with more men, stationed round the ship. At the same time the drums beat to quarters, so that the
Dido
met the night ready for action.

When the time came to stand down, Ramage gave orders that the guns were to be left loaded and run out. The big disadvantage of a seventy-four, he reckoned, was that it took a quarter of an hour for the men to get to quarters and be ready for action, against the five minutes it took a frigate. If the French suddenly turned up in the darkness he could ill afford to waste fifteen minutes while the men went to quarters. They would have to sleep by their guns.

A new moon cast a watery light, and it was setting fast. The sky was clear and Ramage knew he could look for some starlight. The wind was still light – the
Dido
was making a bare five knots off the wind – and there was very little sea, the earlier swell having subsided. It was, he thought bitterly, a night more suited to lovers than war.

As the
Dido
headed north-west, the wind on her starboard quarter, there was a downdraught from her mainsail which made the night almost chilly as Ramage stood on the quarterdeck. The sails gave an occasional desultory flap as the wind faltered and then picked up again. The masts occasionally creaked as the ship gave a lazy roll, and the beams groaned in sympathy. Apart from the downdraught, the air was warm and damp and several of the men on watch were not wearing shirts.

Kenton was the officer of the deck and every fifteen minutes he called to the lookouts to make sure they were still wide awake. As a midshipman he had learned to doze off standing up, and he knew it was a skill that most seamen possessed. Thinking of dozing reminded him of the seaman’s slang for having a sleep, ‘taking a caulk’. Sleeping on the bare deck in a warm climate, when the caulking in the seams between the planks was soft, usually meant that the sleeper woke with lines of pitch marking his shirt and trousers – a sure sign that he had been ‘taking a caulk’. Indeed, the expression for ‘Do you want to talk or sleep’ was ‘Yarn or caulk?’ On a night like this the pitch was warm enough to mark a man’s shirt; indeed it was warm enough to settle in the seams and make sure they did not leak if there was a sudden downpour. And downpour was the right word, Kenton thought. Frequently the tropical rain was so heavy that it was impossible to see the fo’c’sle from the quarterdeck, and it would stop as suddenly as it started, and in a few minutes the sun would be shining, hot enough to send the water back up again as steam. Men out on deck during the rain did not bother to change their clothes: the sun and breeze dried them in minutes.