‘We’ll wear round, Mr Aitken,’ Ramage said. ‘Tell the gunners we won’t be firing again.’
‘And we never got round to boarding her,’ Southwick said regretfully, patting his sword. ‘Well, now we have to find that damned convoy.’
With the
Dido
hove to close to leeward of the
Achille,
Ramage was able to examine her closely through the glass and decide that she was securely wedged on the ledge of rocks running from the foot of the cliffs of Pointe des Nègres, and he was certain that the French did not have the means to get her off.
He thought about his orders. His main concern was to prevent the convoy getting into Fort Royal, and if he spent too much time on the
Achille –
setting fire to her after getting the crew off – he risked missing that quarry. Far better, he decided, to deal with the convoy and return to destroy the
Achille
in a few days’ time. Certainly she would not be going anywhere…
He gave orders for the
Dido
to let fall the courses and topgallants and then turn southwards for Cabrit Island, passing Cap Salomon and Diamond Rock. The wind was brisk enough to let the ship make six knots over the north-going current, but it was noon before they were off Cap Salomon.
As the land slipped by to the eastward Ramage felt cheerful. It was a bright sunny day, with the sun almost overhead and the big awning stretched above the quarterdeck, providing some welcome shade. The flying fish were darting out of the sea on either side of the
Dido,
and the occasional tropic bird flew overhead with its urgent wing beats. There was very little sea in the lee of the land and the
Dido
was hardly rolling. The sea was startlingly blue close in with the coast, shading into a bluish purple further out, where the water was deeper. Close along the shore it was a very light green where it broke on sandy beaches shaded by palm trees. Occasionally Ramage could see tiny villages, a dozen huts or so, nestling among the trees.
It was not only the scenery that made Ramage feel cheerful. He was pleased because two of the French ships of war that had been in Fort Royal, waiting for the convoy, had been accounted for. The
Alerte
frigate was in Barbados, by now probably bought into the King’s service, and the
Achille
was hard aground on Pointe des Nègres, helpless as far as the convoy was concerned. Which left?
Well, two or three frigates escorting the convoy. There would be the one that had sneaked into Fort Royal that night and got out again without the
Scourge
or the
Dido
seeing her, and probably two more making up the escort. Three frigates to deal with before seizing the merchantmen. Unless…unless the French had sent a ship of the line along as well, knowing that the British were blockading Martinique (though unaware that for much of the time it was with a tiny brig).
That would make an enormous difference: the
Dido
would be heavily outnumbered with a ship of the line and three frigates to deal with, especially if the frigates were skilfully handled. In that case three frigates would almost equal another ship of the line. Well, Ramage decided grimly, if that was the escort then Ramage would go at them like a wolf attacking a flock of sheep – he would try and evade the escorts and go for the merchantmen, sinking any that came within range. It would cut down on the prize money they could expect to collect, but the object was to stop the convoy getting into Fort Royal.
By now the
Dido
was abreast of Diamond Rock. The day when he had captured Diamond Rock and swayed up guns to the top seemed a lifetime ago. He still remembered the excitement, though – and the wild day which had ended up with the capture of a French frigate which had been renamed the
Calypso.
He had been very lucky: there were few young captains who managed to capture frigates and be given command of them, and certainly he had had an exciting life while commanding the
Calypso.
Exciting enough for him to wonder what life would be like in the comparatively enormous
Dido.
Well, so far it had not been too bad. But chasing a convoy was not really a job for a ship of the line, because she was big and comparatively unhandy. Yet, he realised, if there were three frigates escorting the convoy, he would have little or no success with only the
Calypso.
His reverie was broken as the hands were piped to dinner and the bosun’s mates went through the ship blowing their calls, which sounded like piercing bird songs.
‘They’ll never get her off those rocks, I don’t care what anyone says,’ Stafford announced, sawing away at a piece of salt beef. ‘You saw how she was up by the bow, and she must have stove in several planks. Probably set back her stem a couple of feet, too.
‘Even if they do get her orf,’ he added, ‘she’ll spend a long time in the dockyard. Her stern was completely smashed in. We were going past her so slowly it was no problem aiming. Every one of my shots ‘it her fair and square in the capting’s sternlights.’
‘It’s a wonder we didn’t bring her mizen down,’ Jackson said. ‘It must have been peppered with shot.’
‘That’s a very exposed reef,’ Rossi said ‘A good blow making her roll might bring it down. Her mainmast too, because those shot must have torn her insides out.’
Gilbert, pushing his plate away, leaving some gristle on the side, said: ‘I wonder how many men we killed.’
Jackson shook his head. ‘A hundred, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ve never seen a ship so thoroughly raked since we attacked that frigate at Capraia Island. But that was with the
Calypso,
and we didn’t have anything like the
Dido
’s
broadside. One thing about a big ship – her broadside is something to respect.’
‘It’s the 32-pounders that do the damage,’ Stafford said solemnly.
‘You don’t say,’ Jackson said sarcastically. ‘I thought it’d be Mr Orsini’s carronades.’
‘Don’t underestimate those carronades: they slaughter ‘em on deck: cut ‘em down like ‘ay before a scythe.’
‘Well,’ said Louis, ‘we must find the convoy.’
‘Ah, that might be a needle in a ‘aystack,’ Stafford said.
‘But it has to come round the south of the island,’ Gilbert protested. ‘If we just wait, it will come to us.’
‘It’s something over twenty miles from Cabrit Island to Fort Royal,’ Jackson said. ‘If the convoy arrived at night, it doesn’t give us much time to hunt it down.’
‘Arrive at night?’ exclaimed Rossi. ‘They’d never dare make a landfall at night.
Mamma mia,
they might all end up on the beach!’
‘Don’t forget they’ve got frigates that can scout ahead,’ Jack-son pointed out. ‘They might use them as pilots.’
‘I bet they won’t stop one of them French mules running slap into Diamond Rock!’ commented Stafford. ‘It’s just put there for ‘em to ‘it – specially on a dark night, and we’ve only got the new moon for an hour.’
‘This salt beef is even tougher than usual,’ Jackson grumbled. ‘They must’ve had it in pickle since the last war.’
‘Antique, that’s wot it is,’ pronounced Stafford. ‘Every piece a genuine antique. You can carve it or polish it. Just don’t try to chew it: it’ll stave in your gnashers.’
‘Those dockyard Johnnies at Portsmouth knew we were going to the West Indies, so they got rid of some of their old stuff,’ Jackson said. ‘It’s their favourite trick. They don’t issue it to any ship of the Channel Fleet because they know they’d soon hear about it. But the West Indies are far enough away.’
‘There ain’t many currants in this duff, either,’ exclaimed Stafford. ‘Who’s the cook this week? You, Louis? What happened?’
‘You can’t have a lot of currants all the time,’ Louis said defensively. ‘I put plenty of currants in the last one. There weren’t many left. Stop grumbling!’
‘Not much to be cheerful about,’ Stafford said. ‘Tough meat, no guts in the duff, and where the ‘ell’s the convoy? I ask yer!’
‘The trouble with you is you worry too much,’ Jackson said ironically. ‘What with the meat and the duff and the convoy, you’ve got too heavy a load on your head.’
‘Yus,’ Stafford agreed seriously, ‘that’s my problem: I worry too much. Mind you, I ‘ave to. You lot don’t give tuppence about the meat and the duff, and the convoy might as well not exist. So I worry.’
‘Very kind of you,’ Jackson said, keeping a straight face. ‘We appreciate it, don’t we lads?’
The others murmured their agreement, and Stafford was satisfied that he was appreciated.
Later in the day there were the funerals. The Reverend Benjamin Brewster read the funeral service over eight men who had been killed by the shot from the
Achille.
Bowen reported to Ramage that the ten men wounded were making good progress and six of them would be able to return to duty within the week.
When Bowen paused on the quarterdeck for a few minutes, Southwick teased him about his chess. Bowen was a keen and expert player who had sometimes managed to trap an unenthusiastic Southwick into playing a game with him. Now the master was relieved to find that the chaplain was a chess player and, although not as good as Bowen, only too happy to play him.
Ramage watched as the carpenter and his mates worked hard to finish the main topgallant yard, splintered by a shot from the
Achille.
The wreckage had been lowered to the deck and the men were working fast on the repair.
Aitken had reported that it would take them five hours: the yard would be swayed up again before darkness fell, and the sail – fortunately not badly torn and already repaired – bent on again.
On the quarterdeck Martin, who was officer of the deck, was having a very serious conversation with Paolo Orsini about playing the flute, the skill which had earned Martin his nickname of ‘Blower’.
‘Could you teach me how to play?’ Orsini asked.
‘I think so,’ Martin said carefully. ‘It depends on many things. How musical are you? Are your fingers nimble? And you’ll have to learn to read music.’
‘That won’t be any harder than navigation,’ Orsini said ruefully. ‘Anyway, I hope not. As for being musical – well, I like it when you play Telemann. I thoroughly enjoy it. The Bach, too.’
‘Very well, I’ll lend you my second-best flute. First you have to learn just to blow it. That means controlling your breath. And that means controlling your breathing: you can’t run out of breath in the middle of a complicated piece of music.’
‘I can practise breathing on watch,’ Orsini said eagerly.
‘As long as Mr Aitken doesn’t notice: I don’t think he would approve. He’d say you aren’t concentrating on your job.’
‘Oh, but I would be. After all, you’ve got to breathe anyway.’
Martin laughed. ‘Well, just be careful.’
The wind fluked round to the north-east and Martin hailed the watch to trim the sheets and brace round the yards. ‘It would be nice if we sighted the convoy coming round Cabrit Point,’ he said conversationally. ‘I can’t wait to get into the middle of them.’
‘I can’t get used to being in a ship of the line,’ Orsini admitted. ‘I still think in terms of the
Calypso,
then I suddenly realise the size of our broadside. The way we smashed in the stern of the
Achille,
for instance. Those 32-pounders throw a powerful shot.’
‘Your carronades seem to be quite effective at clearing the deck. They certainly swept the
Achille
clean.’
‘They have their uses,’ Orsini admitted modestly. ‘Having them so high means their shot get over the enemy’s bulwarks. There’s nothing between us and the target.’
‘I wonder what would happen if you fitted-out a ship of the line entirely with carronades. She’d be fearsome at close range.’
‘They did try it – at the Battle of Copenhagen the
Dictator
had only carronades. Commanded by Captain William Bligh – “Breadfruit” Bligh. From what I heard she was quite a success, but because of the short range of the carronades she had to keep close.’
‘They were short enough at Copenhagen,’ Martin commented. ‘Any closer and they would have been throwing pikes at each other.’
‘Ah,’ Orsini said sadly, ‘I’m sorry we missed Copenhagen – and the Nile, too, for that matter, since Nelson used the same tactics. I suppose we were lucky to have been at Trafalgar. Mr Ramage was at the Battle of Cape St Vincent – and so was Southwick and several of the ship’s company – so they have been in two of his Lordship’s great victories.’
‘Earl St Vincent got the credit for that last battle,’ said Martin, who had read the description of it several times – in fact David Steel’s
Naval Chronologist
had been one of his purchases just before they left Portsmouth. He had eagerly read the description of the battles, including Trafalgar, in which he had taken part.
Admiral Duncan’s victory at Camperdown was another battle he would like to have been in – it was, like the Nile and Trafalgar, clear cut.
‘St Vincent may have got the title but it was Nelson’s victory, no doubt about it,’ Orsini said contemptuously. ‘Mr Ramage was there and he saw it all. In fact he lost the
Kathleen
cutter in the battle.’
‘I heard about that,’ Martin said. ‘Well, he would know!’
‘To hear Jackson tell the story, it was quite a battle. Mr Ramage stopped a Spanish ship of the line by letting it ram the
Kathleen.
This slowed the Spanish up and gave Lord Nelson – Commodore as he then was – time to catch up. His Lordship never forgot that.’
‘Yes, we lost a good friend when he was killed. It doesn’t do to think what the Navy lost. There’ll never be another admiral like him,’ Martin said.
‘Let’s hope we don’t have another battle like Trafalgar to fight, because I don’t think we have an admiral capable of fighting it: they’re all so old or inexperienced. Look what Calder did – he was court-martialled, and quite rightly so.’
Martin nodded and said: ‘Yes, but it will be quite a day when Mr Ramage gets his flag. The war may be over by the time he has enough seniority – that’s the curse of the Navy, seniority. Why they don’t promote on merit alone I’ll never understand.’