‘That other frigate is
Le Requin,
I’ve just been able to read her name,’ Aitken said. ‘Are you going to tackle her next, sir?’
Ramage shook his head. ‘No, we’d better attack the seventy-four: she’ll be up with us before we can deal with the frigate.’
But how to deal with the seventy-four? Both ships were approaching each other bow to bow. Ultimately it would be reduced to a pounding match, broadside against broadside, with a big butcher’s bill on both sides.
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. That was war, and now he commanded a bigger ship, the butcher’s bill was likely to be larger. He tried not to think how many dead there must be in the
Sylphe:
he could not help comparing her with the
Calypso,
and imagining what might have happened if she had been caught in a similar position.
By now the
Sylphe
was being left behind on the
Dido
’s
starboard quarter and he could see that the remains of her crew were hurriedly furling sails. And was she slightly down by the bow? Ramage thought so, and guessed that several of the
Dido
’s
shot had hit her ‘twixt wind and water, and the leaks were flooding in water faster than her pump could clear it. Yes, with the glass he could see where the water was pouring over the side amidships as the pump started working. The poor devils – now they knew that only their own exertions could save them from sinking: they could expect no help from the other frigate or the seventy-four.
Now to concentrate on the seventy-four. He looked at her with the glass. Patched sails, dull paintwork. How was her rigging? Had she had a season under the Tropical sun? She was pitching slightly as she butted her way to windward and occasionally, as her hull lifted, Ramage could see the green of weed growing on her bottom. She had not been docked for some time and the weed would be slowing her down and making her unhandy. Her hull was painted black, unrelieved by any colour. She seemed slightly menacing as she worked her way to windward, the occasional sheets of spray flying up from her bow as she caught an extra large wave.
Her guns were run out, naturally enough, and they stuck out down her side like stubby black fingers. She would have the same size guns as the
Dido:
a ground tier of 32-pounders, then 24-pounders on the next deck, 12-pounders on the quarterdeck and probably 12-pounder carronades on the poop. The French had been quick to copy the carronades: at close range they were devastating and Ramage guessed that much of the damage to the
Sylphe
had been done by Orsini and his carronades up on the poop deck. He must remember to tell Orsini that would be his regular station at general quarters in future.
‘Steer to pass that seventy-four about fifty yards to windward,’ Ramage told Jackson, noting that the wounded man at the wheel had been replaced by a big red-headed seaman whose peeling skin warned what trouble he was going to have from the sun as soon as they were in the Tropics.
‘We’ll be engaging to starboard,’ Ramage told Aitken. ‘See that the gun crews are warned.’
Aitken beckoned to the two midshipmen and gave them orders.
Well, Ramage thought to himself, soon another first: just now he had taken the
Dido
into action, though admittedly only against a frigate; now he was going to match her against another seventy-four for the first time. It was certainly not going to be like engaging the
Sylphe:
the roundshot being fired at them would be 32-pounders, not 12-pounders, and if the French followed their usual practice they would be firing high to dismantle the rigging, sails and yards, so there would be casualties on deck. The quarterdeck would be the target of French sharpshooters – just as the Frenchman’s quarterdeck would be the target of Rennick’s Marines who were scattered round the upperdeck, muskets at the ready.
The range was closing fast: the seventy-four was only half a mile away now and Jackson was giving last-minute instructions to the men at the wheel while at the same time keeping an eye on the luffs of the sails.
Suddenly Ramage changed his mind. ‘Quick!’ he told Aitken, ‘send a couple of seamen after those midshipmen: we’ll be engaging to larboard.’
Take the enemy by surprise: that was the important thing. Surprise could often be the same as doubling the number of your guns. And one thing the Frenchman would not expect him to do would be to give up the weather gauge.
Yet there were advantages in crossing his bow and, after raking him, engaging from to leeward: the smoke of the guns blew back on board and set you coughing, but at least it did not obscure the target. And that was important if this fight was going to develop into a battle of broadsides.
The French seventy-four was still fine on the starboard bow and approaching fast. Ramage called Jackson over and quickly gave him his instructions. Much rested on his skill, although Ramage knew everything depended on his own timing.
He could make out every detail of the Frenchman now with the naked eye: the bowsprit and jib-boom jutted out at a sharp angle like a fishing rod from a river bank, the yards were braced sharp up as she fought her way to windward, and he could distinguish the grey of the dried salt on the black paint of her bow. And right aft he could make out the flapping of the red, white and blue Tricolour.
Black and menacing: that was his main impression of the Frenchman: the ship seemed larger than a two-decker but that was probably because she was close hauled and pitching into a short head sea as she fought her way up to the east-north-east. Ramage was not sure whether she was struggling to get up to the other frigate and protect her, or was intent on engaging the
Dido.
Not that it mattered either way. He glanced over the larboard quarter and saw that the
Heron
was now bearing down on the second frigate: her captain had understood signal number twenty-nine.
The
Dido
swept on with the easy ridge and furrow movement of a ship that had the wind on the quarter. Sheets and braces were properly trimmed, and the sails bellied out in great curves.
He could see Rennick and his first and second lieutenants standing by their sharpshooters, and he sensed rather than saw that Orsini was ready with his carronades. Suddenly he realised the young Italian would be expecting to engage to starboard, and turned and shouted up to him. At once Orsini called to his crews and they hurried across the deck to the other side.
The Frenchman was a hundred yards away on the starboard bow and Ramage could picture all the guns’ crews on her starboard side crouched down, ready to fire as the
Dido
swept past. Seventy-five yards, and then fifty. ‘Now!’ he bellowed at Jackson and the men spun the wheel. The
Dido
’s
bow gradually began to swing to starboard: slowly, agonisingly slowly. Ramage watched the Frenchman’s bow and began to think he had made a mistake in the timing: instead of suddenly turning across the enemy’s bow and raking him and then running down his larboard side, he imagined the two ships colliding in a dreadful tangle of jib-booms and bowsprits, each bringing down the other’s foremast.
But no: the
Dido
was just going to scrape past, and even as he sighed with relief he heard the crash as the forward guns fired, flame and smoke spurting out from the
Dido
in the first of a raking broadside.
Now there was the steady thunder of the 32-pounders, slamming their shot, more than six inches in diameter, into the Frenchman’s bow, and the lighter boom of the 24-pounders, with their shot of more than five and a half inches in diameter. Finally, as he was coughing from the smoke, the 12-pounders joined in and as the
Dido
turned slightly to larboard to pass down the Frenchman’s side there was the bronchitic cough of Orsini’s carronades up on the poop, sweeping the Frenchman’s decks with hundreds of musket balls. And there was the comparatively faint popping of the Marines’ muskets.
He began to see the Frenchman as though he was watching one of the new magic lanterns: there was her poop, with men scurrying about trying to get to the carronades after having to race across the deck when the
Dido
suddenly cut across her bow to attack on the other side. And there was the quarterdeck with a group of officers crouched down near the wheel. And a bewildering mass of ropes: shrouds, sheets and braces. And her boats stowed on the booms, two of which disintegrated into matchwood as he watched.
And he had taken the French completely by surprise: they were all prepared to fight the
Dido
on the starboard side, with the starboard side guns loaded and the locks cocked, the crews crouched and ready, when suddenly the British ship appeared on the larboard side after pouring a raking broadside into the unprotected bow.
But now the Frenchman had passed and Ramage had a quick glimpse of her stern, just having time to read her name,
Junon.
Aitken, speaking trumpet to his lips, was shouting orders which would tack the ship and take her in pursuit of the Frenchman, who was still close-hauled and making off to the east-north-east – whether trying to escape or to cover the frigate, Ramage was not sure.
What startled him was the lack of damage and casualties in the
Dido:
instead of the decks being littered with dead and wounded – especially the Marine sharpshooters – and the boats smashed and rigging hanging down torn by shot, there were perhaps half a dozen dead or badly wounded, and little sign of damage. Yes, the Frenchman had been taken completely by surprise. But the fight was not yet over; having lost the windward gauge, suddenly slipping across the bow was not a trick he could try a second time.
Quickly the sheets and braces of the
Dido
were hauled home so that the yards were braced sharp up and the
Dido
sailed to the east-north-east in pursuit of the
Junon,
which was now a good half a mile ahead.
Down at number seventeen 32-pounder on the starboard side, which Jackson normally commanded (along with number seventeen gun on the larboard side), Stafford, Rossi and the four Frenchmen sat on the gun and rested, having returned there after firing and then reloading the larboard side gun.
‘I don’t want to fight a long action with these brutes,’ Stafford said, slapping the barrel of the 32-pounder. ‘They’re just so damned big. I’m used to 12-pounders: they’re more my size.’
‘But think of the damage they do,’ Rossi said. ‘Our broadside just stopped that frigate dead and probably not done much good to that seventy-four either.’
Gilbert said lugubriously: ‘I couldn’t help thinking of when we were in the
Calypso
and we met those two seventy-fours. That could have been us, pounded to a stop and hauling down our flag.’
‘Well, thanks to Mr Ramage it wasn’t,’ Stafford said briskly, ‘so don’t get sad. They’re only French.’
‘So are we,’ Gilbert said, gesturing to the other three.
‘Yes, but you don’t count,’ Stafford said, completely unaware that he had been tactless. ‘You’re not the same sort of French.’
‘Thank you,’ Gilbert said ironically. ‘We are just the sort that they shoot if they ever catch us.’
‘Shoot?’ Stafford was puzzled. ‘You mean execute?’
‘Yes, of course. They regard us as traitors. They execute all Frenchmen they find serving the British.’
‘Be careful then,’ Stafford said, his voice serious. ‘We don’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Gilbert said, keeping a straight face, ‘we walk very carefully.’
Stafford stood up and stretched himself, having to crouch because of the low headroom. ‘I do fink the first lieutenant was a bit ‘ard on us when making out the general quarters, watch and station bill. These guns are supposed to have eight men, but ‘cos we’re short of complement he gives us only seven, which means six when we go to general quarters ‘cos we lose Jacko who has to go as quartermaster. Six ain’t enough.’
‘We manage,’ Louis said. ‘Stop grumbling, Staff. Always you grumble. The meat’s too salty, too many weevils in the biscuit, not enough men at the gun: you’re never happy.’
‘Oh yus I am,’ Stafford protested. ‘It’s just that when you come to a new ship you ‘spect things to be right. If eight men are allowed for a 32-pounder, let’s have eight: don’t make us hump it around with only six.’
‘Is a compliment,’ Rossi said matter-of-factly. ‘Mr Aitken knows that we can manage.’
‘Most of the other guns have eight men,’ Stafford pointed out.
‘Some have only seven, and they’re all former Calypsos,’ Rossi said. ‘And we have seven except when we go to general quarters, and Jackson has to go up to the quarterdeck.’
‘That’s the very time when we need the extra man,’ Stafford declared.
‘Well, we haven’t got him so we’ll have to make do,’ Gilbert said cheerfully. ‘For me, I prefer the
Dido
to the
Calypso
:
more room, a more comfortable motion in a seaway. There’s no comparison between serving in a frigate and a ship of the line.’
‘You’re right; there ain’t no 32-pounders in a frigate,’ Stafford declared. ‘But there’s too many people in a seventy-four. It’s not friendly, like in a frigate. Too many Marines, too many officers and petty officers. No, give me the
Calypso
any day.’
‘Well, if you were still in the
Calypso
and you had just met that French seventy-four, you might be dead.’
‘No, not with Mr Ramage,’ he said seriously. ‘He’d have thought of something.’
‘One day,’ Auguste said, speaking for the first time in the conversation, ‘Mr Ramage might not think of something, then you are dead.’
‘We’ll all be dead,’ Stafford said cheerfully. ‘Well, you can’t expect to live forever, can you?’
‘Yes,’ Rossi said fervently. ‘Well, maybe not forever, but I want to die in my bed of old age, with all my weeping grand-children round me.’
‘All sobbing and sayin’ prayers, eh? Some hope,’ Stafford said. ‘They’ll all be damned glad to see the back of you!’