The gardener’s hut was hot and smelly: obviously a donkey had recently spent several weeks in it, but since there was no window it was easy to shield the flickering candle. Ramage knew that even Jackson was on edge as they both waited for Stafford’s tap on the door, signalling that he had returned from his raid on the house.
When the tap came both men jumped nervously and then grinned at each other shamefacedly. Jackson held a tin mug over the candle flame and stood shielding the remaining faint light with his body as Ramage quickly opened the door. Stafford slipped in and blinked as Jackson lifted the mug and the hut lit up. He handed Ramage a small bundle of papers.
‘No trouble, sir. All in the top drawer. Only writin’ paper, quills, bottle o’ ink, sealin’ wax, candle an’ sandbox in the uvver drawers.’
Hurriedly Ramage glanced through the letters, careful to keep them in the right order. All had been sealed with red wax and several bore the superscription ‘Ministry of Marine’. The first two were routine letters telling Cordoba’s predecessor, Langara, that his request for more rope was refused because none was available, and he would have to make do with the gunpowder he had because although the Minister knew it was ‘somewhat deficient in quality’, it was the best that could be obtained. The third letter, addressed to Cordoba and signed by Langara in his new role as Minister of Marine, was brief, and after the usual polite introduction it said:
‘His Catholic Majesty has indicated to the Minister of Marine that it is His Royal pleasure that the Fleet under your command should complete its refit with all despatch and sail under your command from Cartagena at the latest by 1st February to join those of His Catholic Majesty’s ships already at Cadiz, which you will also take under your command. Orders have been sent ensuring these ships are ready for sea. Immediately upon your arrival at Cadiz you will report the fact to me, keeping your Fleet at twelve hours’ readiness to sail, and further instructions will be sent to you…’
1st February – in two days’ time. And for Cadiz, one of the greatest natural harbours on the Atlantic coast and Spain’s main naval base! There must be quite a few sail of the line there already. Once they were joined by Cordoba’s fleet, His Catholic Majesty would have something like an Armada ready. To do what?
Was this part of a great joint French and Spanish plan to launch an invasion of England or, more likely, Ireland? Would the ships, full of troops, sail from Cadiz and drive off the blockading British squadron at Brest and let out the French Fleet, so the combined fleets could sweep up the Channel to carry out a plan agreed by France and Spain aimed at destroying Britain? It must be something as vast as that for Spain to risk her whole fleet. They wouldn’t forget what happened the last time they sailed an Armada…
Ramage suddenly felt chilled as he realized the fate of England might – probably did – rest on how quickly Sir John Jervis received the information written on the piece of paper in his hand, and which he had just read in a stinking gardener’s hut by the light of half an inch of guttering candle.
After glancing through the rest of the documents he told Stafford to hold the letter while he unscrewed the cap of a tiny ink bottle, took a short quill pen from inside his hat, smoothed out a piece of paper he had brought with him specially for the purpose, and copied out the exact wording of the important part of the order. He then refolded the original order, put it under the letters relating to rope and gunpowder, and gave the bundle back to Stafford. ‘Thanks. Go back to the inn when you’ve returned them. Right, Jackson, douse that candle and bring it with you.’
Although there was a curfew there were few patrols in the streets to enforce it and the rope which one of the seaman had stolen from the dockyard was ready to be dropped from the window of their room when Ramage and Jackson arrived at the inn, followed a few minutes later by Stafford.
Lying on his bed in the darkness, Ramage had great difficulty in controlling his excitement: he was shivering, although hot from shinning up the rope. His plan had worked perfectly: in his pocket he had a copy of the order to Cordoba. But now he realized he had made yet another mistake. He’d intended to steal a zebec as soon as he knew the date the fleet was to sail, and make for Gibraltar. He should have guessed there’d be no exact date; that Cordoba’s orders would tell him to sail by a certain date. Now what the devil should he do? Today was 30th January and he could go to Gibraltar with the bare information that the Spaniards were under orders to sail within two days, even though it was extremely doubtful they’d be ready and the Spanish national habit of man˜ana and their Navy’s tradition of delay in getting to sea made the date mentioned in the King’s order more of an optimistic hope than a definite date in the calendar. And what had Cordoba replied to the Minister of Marine? That he could sail by then, or giving a later date?
He sat up suddenly, realizing there was really no problem. Even if he left a couple of days ahead of the Spanish Fleet they could easily overtake him if he ran into a calm or strong headwinds, and anyway it’d probably take several days to locate Sir John Jervis. It was much more important that Sir John should know the Spanish Government’s intentions than the precise date they were to be carried out.
‘Jackson,’ he whispered, ‘get dressed, and tell the rest of them to get dressed, too.’
‘I haven’t undressed, sir,’ said Jackson, ‘but I’ll rouse out the others.’
He felt a moment of irritation. The American didn’t know what was written in Cordoba’s orders but seemed to have some sixth sense when there was the chance of a sudden emergency.
The men, dressed quickly and gathered round Ramage, who whispered:
‘We are sailing for Gibraltar at once. La Providencia is still down at the quay, it’s eleven o’clock, and the crew will probably be drunk. We’ve got to board and sail in absolute silence. If the Spaniards suspect anything, we’ll be blown out of the water before we get past the Santa Anna Fort. Use your knives: no shouting by anyone. We’ll leave here one at a time and go down to the quay. Watch out for patrols. Meet at the buttress where the old fisherman mends his nets. And don’t forget – over the city wall; don’t try marching out through the gate!
‘When I give the word, we all board amidships: the crew will probably be asleep aft, if they’re on board at all.’
Twenty minutes later the seven men were crouching beside the huge buttress in the shadow of the city wall, the three masts and long lateen yards of La Providencia a few yards away jutting at odd angles, black and stark against the southern horizon. The wind – what there was of it – was light and from the north, Ramage noted thankfully. Once clear of the quay and the high land behind him, he’d find it fresher, and the hills flanking the harbour would funnel it at the entrance. He could just make out the dark mass of Punta Santa Anna on his left and Punta de Navidad on his right. He had to pass at least six batteries and two forts. Perhaps the sentries would be dozing…
He looked both ways along the quay and saw there was no one in sight, and as he whispered, ‘Now!’ the men glided bare-footed across the quay towards the zebec, fanning out slightly so they could all climb over the bulwark at the same time. There was absolute silence except for the monotonous clacking of the frogs, the metallic buzzing of cicadas and the slapping of wavelets against the quay.
With his throwing knife grasped in his right hand Ramage quietly climbed over the bulwark, put his boots down gently, and followed by the rest of the men crept aft under the overhanging quarterdeck. He was frightened now: up to that moment he’d been too busy to think about danger. Now the dagger-in-hand creeping, like an assassin at work, reminded him of the soft days at the inn. Once again sudden death was standing a watch with him, and the thudding of his heart seemed loud enough to rouse out the Spaniards.
It was almost impossible to see, and there was a great danger his men might attack each other by mistake. As his foot suddenly touched something soft he lunged down with his knife and there was a thud and a shock through his arm as the blade pierced a mattress and stuck in the deck. In a moment he’d struck twice more, moving along each time, but there was no one on the mattress. A similar thud to his left warned him one of the other men was doing the same thing. He crept on, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the intense darkness he could make out small, lighter squares on either side, indicating the position of the gun ports. Another mattress at his feet and again he stabbed downwards, but there was no one on it. He passed two ports and was abreast the last one when he felt yet another mattress and again the knife plunged, to bury its point in the wooden deck. Men were moving aft level with him. In a moment his groping hand touched the transom.
‘Found anyone?’ he whispered.
The men hissed their replies. Mattresses, but no Spaniards. Where the hell were they? Surely not down in the hold or on the fo’c’sle? Hurriedly he ordered Fuller and Jensen to search the fo’c’sle and then stand by the foremast, Rossi and Stafford to check in the hold before going to the main mast, and Maxton and Jackson to cast off the lines – the breeze would blow the zebec clear of the quay.
Ramage then crept out from under the quarterdeck, climbed the ladder and hurried aft to the tiller, which curved up from deck level just abaft the mizzen. A few moments later he heard a heavy rope splashing into the water and saw a man jump back on board.
‘All clear aft, sir,’ Jackson called in a low voice, and another splash was followed by Maxton’s arrival beside him reporting all clear forward.
The zebec’s high stern caught most of the breeze and started to swing out while the forward part of the ship, being lower, was still in the lee of the quay. So far so good. The pivoting effect of the stern meant her bow was heading in towards the quay. No problem about that.
‘Right, Maxton: get for’ard and tell ’em to set the foresail and sheet it in smartly. Jackson – take the helm. Let her head fall off. Keep over to the eastern side in case the wind backs – I don’t want to tack or wear this thing in the dark.’
A flapping from forward and a dark triangle unfolding against the sky, blotting out the stars, showed the foresail was set, and a few moments later there was the squeak of ropes rendering through blocks as they trimmed it.
The quay was now receding fast and the zebec’s bow swung seaward under the pressure of the sail. She gathered way and the rudder began to get a grip on the water.
‘Stafford!’ he whispered sharply. ‘Let fall the mainsail. Lively now!’
The mainsail, only slightly larger than the foresail, flopped down like a large sheet being shaken out of a window and began to slat. Once out of the lee of the quay the wind was fresher, as Ramage had anticipated, and while the men sheeted home the sail and braced the yard the zebec gathered way and he could hear the crisp bubbling of the water round the stern.
Ramage hurried to the tiller. ‘Right, Jackson: set the mizzen – I’ll take the helm.’
The tiller was surprisingly light compared with the Kathleen’s. The mizzen suddenly dropping down overhead made him jump but fear had gone: he had too much to think about. High up to starboard, outlined faintly against the stars, he could see the Castillo de Galeras towering over the harbour more than six hundred feet up, with the Apostolado Battery almost at sea level below it. He could see a light at the Battery – were the sentries alert and even at this moment raising the alarm? Or would they be so accustomed to looking for a ship trying to enter that they’d never think of one trying to leave?
Three minutes since the foresail was sheeted home: more than time enough for the Spaniards to have loaded the guns. For a moment he imagined a dozen gun captains kneeling down, sighting along a dozen barrels, the point of aim being the zebec.
As he pushed the tiller over, heading directly for the entrance, the wind was right aft and the sails trimmed too flat: a fluky puff of wind would gybe the zebec all standing. If the masts went by the board under the muzzles of the batteries…
‘Jackson! Ease all sheets and vangs – smartly, now!’
The Apostolado Battery abeam to starboard and a light showing in the window of the soldiers’ hut. On the starboard bow he could distinguish the outline of Punta de Navidad sloping from three hundred feet right down to the sea level. No more batteries to starboard until he’d rounded the point, but on the other side of the harbour the San Leandro must be almost abeam now – though he couldn’t pick it out – with the Santa Florentina beyond and then the Fort of Santa Anna.
The zebec began to pitch slightly as she met the swell waves rolling lazily into the harbour entrance from the open sea beyond. The three triangular sails seemed enormous against the sky, blotting out whole constellations of stars. For a moment it seemed impossible the sentries at the batteries would miss seeing them; then he realized they would hardly show against the black hills on either side. A sharp-eyed man more than six hundred feet up in the Castillo could see the ship as a dark patch against a shiny sea reflecting the starlight and pewtered by the wind, and he might also see her wake.
Ropes squealing through blocks again, and the three triangles of the sails broadened out and curved, the hard edges rounding as the canvas bellied. Ramage was startled at the way the zebec suddenly picked up speed: already the Apostolado Battery was on the starboard quarter and he realized he’d passed most of the Spanish Fleet anchored over to larboard because they were dark against the shadows of hills behind them. Had they guard boats out, rowing round the harbour? Give me three minutes, he prayed: then it won’t matter if the alarm is raised – the artillery men at the barracks wouldn’t have time to load and train the guns. But no – with this wind an alert frigate could slip its cable and get out of the harbour only too easily and give chase…
Maxton, the West Indian, was standing beside him. ‘Small boat dead ahead, sir! Forty, maybe fifty yards!’
Ramage leaned against the tiller to heave it to larboard. The sweeping sheer of the zebec cocked the bow up so high it was difficult to see anything close ahead, but Maxton, leaning over the bulwark, said ‘You’ll pass it twenty yards off, sir!’