Bennett waved an acknowledgement and the brig turned away to head southwards.
With almost startling suddenness it was daylight and Ramage could see the
Achille
clearly. She had run up on the landward end of the short reef running seaward from the cliff. The cliff itself was a good fifty yards away.
‘If she’d been twenty yards further out she’d have passed clear,’ Southwick said, and snapped his telescope shut. ‘Her captain is an unlucky fellow.’
‘He’s going to have a hard time at his court martial explaining why he was so close inshore,’ Ramage said dryly. ‘Gun flashes or no gun flashes, he was passing the Pointe much too close.’
‘He was probably rattled by the
Scourge
’s
false fires,’ Aitken said. ‘He never thought of us waiting here for him.’
‘And that’s why he’s on the rocks,’ Ramage said unsympathetically. ‘It should have been obvious that the
Scourge
was shadowing him, and she would only have been burning false fires to warn us.’
‘Let’s be thankful that French captain is unimaginative,’ Southwick said. ‘It makes our job easier.’
‘Well,’ Ramage said, ‘now we are at general quarters we may as well go across and give our French friend a few broadsides. Let’s weigh anchor, Mr Southwick. We’ll do it under topsails, Mr Aitken.’
By now it was light enough to see the
Achille
clearly, and Ramage noticed that she had the same faded appearance as the
Alerte:
her paintwork was bleached by the hot sun and she looked as though she had been neglected for months. The effect of the blockade? Ramage suspected it was: paint (and probably rope) was not getting into Martinique. How were the French off for powder and shot? They might be getting short of wine but the island grew enough vegetables, and there were plenty of cattle, so no one would be starving.
There was no doubt that the
Achille
was stranded: she was close up under the cliffs and slightly up by the bow. But, Ramage noted, she was not noticeably down by the stern, so she was not making a lot of water. Just then he saw that there was a stream of water running down her side: her pump was working hard, so she definitely had a leak.
But she sat on the end of the reef like a huge black animal which had been cast up in a hurricane: helpless and at the mercy of the sea. What surprised Ramage was that there was no flurry of boats round her: he would have expected the French to be carrying out anchors, ready for an attempt to heave her off. Had the French captain decided that she was too firmly wedged on the rocks to be hove off? Or were they waiting for a flotilla of boats to come out from Fort Royal?
As if echoing his thoughts, Aitken said to him: ‘They don’t seem very excited over there. I’d have expected to see boats laying out anchors.’
‘They might be waiting for boats to come round from Fort Royal. Or she might be too firmly lodged on the reef.’
‘I doubt if she hit that hard – her foremast didn’t go by the board.’
In the distance Ramage could hear the clanking of the pawls on the
Dido
’s
capstan as the anchor came home. Then came a message from Southwick: the seaman announced that the cable was at long stay, and he had hardly left the quarterdeck before another arrived to report it at short stay, followed by another to tell Ramage that the cable was up and down. Then a seaman announced that the anchor was aweigh. Immediately Aitken picked up the speaking trumpet and began shouting orders which trimmed the topsails and got the
Dido
under way.
Ramage gave orders which turned the ship to starboard, up towards the
Achille.
The Frenchman was lying with her bows into the reef and her stern to the south. The best way of attacking her without spending too long in the arc of her guns was to sail in towards the cliffs, crossing her stern and raking her. Then immediately the
Dido
had fired a broadside she would have to tack round, to avoid running aground, and head back in the opposite direction, firing her other broadside into the
Achille
’s
stern.
A few raking broadsides, Ramage thought grimly, should produce results, although the
Dido
was going to have to tack round smartly, or she too would go aground, right under the cliffs and at right angles to the
Achille.
He explained to Aitken what he intended to do. ‘There’s not much room for us to tack,’ he added, ‘so let’s not waste any time.’
The sun was just beginning to rise over the land and the cliffs looked less menacing, long shadows replacing the harsh blackness of the night. The waves were small and not breaking along the foot of the cliffs. If one was going to go aground, Ramage thought, these were the ideal conditions. The French were lucky, although they did not seem to be doing anything to take advantage of it.
The
Achille
was now less than half a mile away on the
Dido
’s
larboard bow, and Ramage told Aitken: ‘Warn the gunners that they will be engaging on the larboard side, and after we’ve tacked we’ll be loosing off the starboard broadside.’
He thought how easy the forthcoming manoeuvre would have been in the
Calypso
frigate: just sail in, rake the Frenchman with the larboard broadside, tack smartly and sail back along the reciprocal course, raking the
Achille
with the starboard broadside. The frigate spun like a top when she tacked. In the
Dido
tacking was a more stately business: the great ship needed plenty of room to turn, and this was the first time Ramage had handled her in such a confined space. Well, one mistake and the
Dido
would end up like the
Achille.
Southwick came bustling back to the quarterdeck. ‘Nothing like a good raking broadside,’ he said cheerfully, much as one might comment on the beneficial effect of a tot of rum. ‘Not much room, though.’
Ramage watched as the
Dido
approached. Passing thirty yards off the
Achille
’s
stern would be just the right range. Probably the aftermost ten French guns would be able to fire at the
Dido
as she went by, and they would be able to rake her bow as she approached and her stern as she tacked, but it was a chance that had to be taken: it would be more than balanced by the thirty-seven guns of the
Dido
’s
broadside.
He gave a helm order to Jackson, who once again was the quartermaster, and looked at the
Achille.
He could just make out a group of French officers standing on the quarterdeck. One or two of them were pointing at the
Dido,
and Ramage was reminded of the Italian gesture for warding off the Evil Eye.
The range was closing fast and Ramage could make out the details of the French ship’s rigging. He saw them holding a Tricolour, a gesture which made him glance astern to make sure that the
Dido
was flying her ensign.
Just then he saw puffs of smoke spurting out from the
Achille
’s
side as several of her aftermost guns opened fire, and a moment later he heard the thud of the explosions. But he did not feel any thump as shot hit home. Strange: the range was short enough.
‘Warn the gunners they’ll be opening fire in a couple of minutes,’ Ramage told Aitken, who snatched up the speaking trumpet. Just then a French shot tore overhead, missing Ramage by a foot or two, and crashed into the mizenmast. A moment later a second shot passed overhead with the usual noise of calico ripping and also buried itself in the mizenmast, which was almost twenty-two inches in diameter.
Southwick sniffed. ‘I get the feeling that they are aiming at us, sir.’
‘They must be poor shots, then, at this range!’
The
Dido
surged ahead, caught by a random puff of wind funnelling off the cliffs, and the range closed rapidly: the
Achille
seemed to be sliding along the larboard side. Suddenly the first of the
Dido
’s broadside guns fired and Ramage swung his telescope to watch the
Achille
’s
transom for shot holes. Yes, one had smashed in the sternlights of the captain’s cabin, and then he saw several more shotholes as the broadside continued to thunder out. A section of the transom in way of the wardroom seemed to be beaten in by the weight of shot, and then he glanced forward. The cliffs were advancing rapidly and Ramage turned to the first lieutenant, who was watching him anxiously.
‘Very well, tack Mr Aitken!’
Aitken called to Jackson and then, with the speaking trumpet, shouted to the men at the sheets and braces. Slowly – agonisingly slowly, it seemed to Ramage – the
Dido
began to turn amid the flapping of the topsails, which seemed to want to flog the masts out of the ship.
‘The breeze is freshening,’ Southwick commented as the ship began to swing, before starting to sail out the way she had come in. Ramage could imagine the gunners, crouched down because of the low headroom, running over to the other side of the ship to man the starboard broadside guns.
Aitken was still busy with the trim of the sails when Ramage gave Jackson a new helm order and the men at the wheel grabbed at the spokes. The ship had only just settled down on her new course with the sails trimmed when the first of the starboard broadside guns started firing, and once again the smoke drifted aft over the quarterdeck, starting them coughing again. Ramage watched the
Achille
’s
stern with his telescope and once again saw the shot hitting home. He could imagine the shot smashing their way through the comparatively thin wood of the transom and then tearing their way along the length of the ship below decks, killing men and sending up swathes of splinters.
He realised the
Achille
had not fired, even though the after-most guns would bear. Had that first raking broadside driven the men from the guns, or even overturned the guns as they rested on their carriages?
Finally the last of the
Dido
’s
broadside guns and Orsini’s carronades on the poop had fired and Ramage repeated his order to the first lieutenant: ‘We’ll wear, if you please, Mr Aitken.’
Again there was a thunderous slapping of the topsails as the
Dido
wore round, and Ramage knew the guns’ crews would be frantically reloading, ready for the next run across the
Achille
’s
stern. But, below decks, crouching in the half darkness, they would not know what was going on. The gun captains would see the target flashing past the gunports and would pull the trigger-line, but the rest of the men would be too busy to see anything, unless they managed to snatch a glance in the instant before the gun fired. Then they would be like men trapped in a thick fog as the gun smoke drifted back in through the port, half blinding them and setting them coughing. They would swab out and load the guns by instinct rather than being able to see what they were doing, and no sooner had they got their gun reloaded than it would be time to dash across the deck to the guns on the other side.
Ramage watched the
Achille
again as the
Dido
stretched across towards her. This time there were spurts of smoke as the guns on her quarter opened fire, and Ramage felt rather than heard the thud of some of her shots hitting the
Dido.
It gave one a particularly helpless feeling to sail along being shot at without being able to reply, but the
Dido
was now sailing fast enough that only a lucky shot from the French ship would do much damage.
Ramage was just considering that when a shot tore past him and again thudded into the mizenmast.
‘Our mizen seems to be the favourite target,’ Southwick commented, but as if to contradict him another shot ripped along the inside of the bulwark on the starboard side, spraying out a shower of splinters which cut down a seaman who was standing just forward of the quarterdeck.
Once again the range was down to a few yards and once again Ramage lifted his telescope to watch the French ship’s transom. Yes, it looked battered, but even as he noted that the first of the
Dido
’s
broadside guns opened fire, smoke spurting out and the carriages rumbling back in recoil. There were several puffs of dust, showing where shot had smashed their way through the planking, and Ramage could see several rust-ringed holes where shot had penetrated. Then, as more guns fired, another section of the transom was beaten in, and the sternlights disappeared from the captain’s cabin, the frames and windows completely smashed by roundshot.
Then the
Dido
had shot past and Aitken was bellowing orders for the ship to tack, with the cliffs looming up ahead, as if inviting the ship to run aground. Once the sails were trimmed and the yards braced round, Ramage watched as the ship sailed back along her own wake, and the starboard broadside was fired, gun by gun, each shot smashing into the
Achille
’s
transom.
‘I don’t know how much more of this she can take,’ Aitken said. ‘It must be like a butcher’s shop down below there.’
‘She’s had enough,’ Ramage said, pointing to the Tricolour, which was now being hauled down. ‘I wonder how many ships have surrendered while being aground on their own soil!’
‘What do we do now?’ asked Southwick. ‘We can hardly take possession of her.’
‘No, we just stop firing,’ Ramage said. ‘She’s in a terrible position, hard aground and being smashed by our guns. The only thing she can do to stop her crew being slaughtered is surrender. In fact her captain knows we can hardly take possession of her and he must be worrying about whether we’ll take any notice of the fact he’s surrendered. I wouldn’t like to be him.’
‘Well, he’s a lucky fellow, because not everyone could resist the temptation to take a few more passes across his stern and reduce him to a complete wreck.’
‘We haven’t done too badly as it is,’ Aitken commented. ‘The captain’s cabin and the wardroom must be completely wrecked, and no doubt the rudder and tiller have been smashed. It’ll take months to repair her – that’s if they ever get her to float again, which I doubt.’