All the time that the Kathleen ran down to the Victory, and while he was being rowed over to the flagship, Ramage deliberately thought of other things: of Gianna, whether or not he had left out too much in his official report to Sir John, and which he now had in his pocket, and where Cordoba’s Fleet was. He scrambled up the three-decker’s side, acknowledged the regulation salutes made to him as the commanding officer of one of His Majesty’s ships, and was just about to look round for the first lieutenant when he was startled at the sight of Sir Gilbert Elliot walking towards him, hand outstretched and a broad grin on his face.
‘Well, young man, you didn’t expect to see me here!’
Ramage saluted and shook the band of the former Viceroy.
‘Hardly, sir!’
‘And you nearly didn’t, by God! We spent the night before last in the midst of the Spanish fleet!’
At that moment Ramage saw the tiny figure of Commodore Nelson leave the admiral’s cabin and walk towards them.
‘Ah,’ said Sir Gilbert, ‘my dear Commodore, you see whom we have here?’
‘Yes, indeed. Well, Mr Ramage, you seem to have been busy since you left us at Bastia, eh? So have we. We’ve evacuated the Mediterranean, the Viceroy and I. And,’ he added almost bitterly, ‘we’ve left it a French and a Spanish lake. They can go boating without fear.’
The voice had the same high pitch, the same nasal intonation, but the man himself had undergone a subtle change. At Bastia Ramage had tried to define the curious aura about him, like the glow from a gemstone; but now whatever it was seemed even stranger. The one good eye – yes, he realized with a shock, it had the same look that Southwick’s had at the prospect of battle.
‘Don’t mumble,’ the Commodore said sharply. ‘Sir John tells me that so far you’ve admitted disobeying orders, surrendering your ship, being taken prisoner and adopting a subterfuge to escape, playing the spy, burgling honest men’s houses and reading their private letters – don’t you call that being busy?’
‘I thought you were going to call it something else, sir,’ Ramage said frankly, relieved at the bantering note on which the Commodore ended.
‘I gather Sir John has already expressed his views, so I’ve no need to add mine. But you took a devilish risk with the Marchesa. Never, never risk the lives of those you love or who love you, young man, unless you’ve written orders to do so.’
‘But I–’
‘If you don’t love her, you’re a fool. Don’t assume a one-eyed man is blind, Mr Ramage.’
‘No, sir, I didn’t–’
‘Now, now, Commodore, go steady for pity’s sake!’ interrupted Sir Gilbert, ‘You’re alarming the poor fellow more than the whole Spanish Fleet!’
‘Were you frightened of being killed when the two Spanish frigates came alongside that night?’
The Commodore’s question was so sudden that Ramage replied, ‘No, sir, not of getting killed; only of doing the wrong thing,’ before he had time to think… ’What d’you mean, “The wrong thing”?’
‘Well, sir, what people would think if I surrendered.’
The Commodore gripped Ramage’s arm in a friendly gesture. ‘I think Sir Gilbert will agree with this advice. First, dead heroes are rarely the intelligent ones. It takes brains to be a live hero, and live heroes are of more use to their country. Second, and more important, never worry what people will think. Do what you think is right, and damn the consequences. And don’t forget this: a man who sits on the fence usually tears his breeches.’
Sir Gilbert nodded in agreement. ‘One assumes, of course, that the person to whom you give that advice is not an irresponsible fool, eh Commodore?’
‘Of course! It’s not advice I give everyone, and young Ramage only just qualifies for it! Well, gentlemen,’ he smiled, ‘you must excuse me: I am hoisting my broad pendant in the Captain. It’ll be a pleasure to be back on board a seventy-four again – room for me to strut around, after being squashed up in a frigate. Though the discomfort was entirely alleviated by your company, Sir Gilbert.’
Sir Gilbert gave a mock bow.
‘And Mr Ramage,’ Nelson added, ‘you’ll find that the Kathleen’s position in the order of sailing will be two cables to windward of the Captain. I’ll signal your position in the order of battle. Keep a sharp look-out, watch my manoeuvres, and repeat any signals I might make so the rest of my division have no excuse for not seeing them. You’ll be expected to read flags through smoke as thick as those clouds!’
Ramage had just returned to the Kathleen and the gig was being hoisted when Jackson, who had been put in charge of the signal book, reported excitedly, ‘Flagship to the Fleet – number fifty-three, “To prepare for battle”, sir!’
‘Acknowledge it, then! Mr Southwark – our position is two cables to windward of the Captain – the Commodore’s ship.’
‘Aye aye, sir – they hoisted his pendant some time ago.’
Ramage looked at his watch. Five minutes past four on the thirteenth day of February – the eve of St Valentine’s Day. It ought to have been St Crispin’s, considering the odds, and he’d sit on the bowsprit end and recite Henry Vs speech.
As the bosun’s mate’s call trilled, followed by his stentorian ‘D’you hear there! All hands, all hands, prepare for action! D’you hear there…’ the Kathleen got under way again and bore up to windward of the Captain.
As soon as the cutter was in position, and while the men were placing match tubs and water casks, wetting and sanding the deck, carrying up more shot, rigging preventer stays, and completing what had become a ritual for them, Ramage called Southwick aft to the taffrail.
‘We have to repeat all signals that the Commodore might make, so rig spare signal halyards in case any get shot away. We may have to take wounded men on board – get sails spread out below to put them on. A ship might need carpenters, so tell the carpenter’s mate and his crew to have bags of tools ready. Hoist out the gig again and tow it astern out of the way. And remind me if I’ve forgotten anything – oh yes, both head pumps on deck.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Southwick. ‘Can’t think of anything else for the moment.’
‘Oh dear,’ groaned Ramage as he saw the grindstone being brought up on deck. ‘Must we have that damned thing scraping away again? Soon there won’t be a cutlass, pike or tomahawk on board with any metal left…’
Southwick had managed to retrieve his sword when the Kathleen was recaptured and, remembering the flat he’d ground into it when preparing to board La Sabina and which he’d forgotten to grind out, said hurriedly, ‘We’d better just make sure sir – and it’ll give the cook’s mate a chance to put a sharp edge on his cleavers!’ With that he strode forward, the sheer delight at the thought of battle showing in his gait.
A mixture of tiredness and excitement had so far stopped Ramage pausing for a few minutes to have a good look at the Fleet, now lying-to in two columns. Even as he looked he saw three tiny bundles soaring up on the Victory’s signal halyards and turned to point them out to Jackson, but the American was already watching with his telescope for the flagship’s seamen to give the tug that would break out the flags. Suddenly all three streamed in the wind.
‘Preparative – sixty-six, sir.’
Ramage nodded. ‘To make sail after lying-to.’ The order would be obeyed the moment the ‘Preparative’ signal was hauled down, and each of the sail of the line would get under way.
‘To prepare for battle’, then ‘To make sail after lying-to’. What, speculated Ramage, would the next signal be? It was getting dark fast now; the Victory couldn’t make many more flag signals tonight.
How many men in those ships – and in the Kathleen, for that matter – wouldn’t live to see another sunset? What was Gianna doing – and, more important, thinking at this moment?
‘You look like an owl who’s just woken up… But why did you stay so long in Cartagena?… But, my love, all you’ve told me so far is that I’ve got to keep secret the fact you know a secret…’ Would she ever understand that even as she had a duty to Volterra, so he had a duty?
And the Commodore. Did he understand too much? Could he see too far into a man’s heart? ‘Were you frightened of being killed when the Spanish frigates came alongside that night?… What do you mean “The wrong thing”?… It takes brains to be a live hero…never worry about what people think. Do what you think is right and damn the consequences.’
That look in the Commodore’s eyes – it was just like Southwick’s in a killing mood. Was the Commodore a killer in that sense? Ramage wondered if he was himself. Walk up to a man and shoot him in cold blood… In the heat of battle, yes, but in cold blood?
Southwick, coming on deck for some fresh air as night closed down, was just in time to glimpse the nearest of the big ships as dark thumb marks against an ever-deepening grey backcloth. He was satisfied his own log was up to date, he’d checked that Jackson was keeping a correct signal log, and he’d had an hour’s sleep. But he was irritated with the Commander-in-Chief’s signal ‘Prepare for battle’ because it was obviously made much too soon, and had meant dousing the galley fire.
Southwick, who enjoyed his supper, had intended ordering a hen from his coop on the fo’c’sle to be killed and cleaned in anticipation, although he admitted in fairness to Sir John that it was a scraggy hen: plump birds were not to be bought in Gibraltar these days. But with the bird alive and uncooked for the lack of a galley fire he still felt empty – cold cuts from yesterday’s roast were good enough for boys; but men needed hot food – it lined one’s stomach for a cold night, Southwick always proclaimed.
Seeing the captain leaning on the bulwark looking at the Fleet, Southwick knew they both faced a tiring night: keeping station was going to be difficult Even before turning in he’d felt fog in the air: his right wrist ached and that was a sure sign. A couple of years earlier a blow from his sword had gone clean through a Frenchman’s arm and the blade brought up so hard on the barrel of a gun that the shock had broken the bone. Although painful enough at the time, Southwick had since regarded it as a blessing in disguise – when forecasting the weather he put more stock in his wrist and an old piece of dried seaweed hanging in his cabin than all the mercury glasses he’d ever seen. Men laughed when he said he felt a night’s fog aching in his wrist and damp on the seaweed. But he always laughed last later when he found them huddled on deck, the fog so thick it dripped off their noses.
Ah well, he thought, a fleet action at last. He’d served at sea all these years and never been within five hundred miles of one. He no longer feared death – that was one of the pleasant sides of growing old. Going over the standing part of the foresheet was inevitable one day – he’d lost count of how many times he’d stood by as the body of a shipmate, an old and valued friend sewn up in his hammock, had been launched over the gangway just above where the standing part of the foresheet was secured to the ship’s side.
His thoughts were interrupted by Ramage, who walked over and said, ‘Well, Mr Southwick, the Dons will have fog to help them, I saw a few patches to the south-east just before it began to get dark, and now the wind’s falling light and it seems warm and damp…’
‘Aye, sir, and I can feel it in my wrist: it’ll be a thick night and plenty of bang bang – p’raps I ought to get some of the shot drawn from the forward guns?’
Ramage agreed: it was certain they’d have to be fired for fog signals during the night, and it would be better to have the shot removed now, in case it was forgotten later, and the fog signal ended up as a round shot through the Commodore’s sternlights.
Half an hour later it was too dark to distinguish the big ships and Ramage had settled down to the tiring task of keeping in position using the shaded lanterns on the poop of the Namur, the ship next ahead of the Captain, when he noticed that occasionally they vanished for a few minutes as thin patches of fog drifted past. Each time he called to the men at the helm ‘Watch your heading!’ and the quartermaster standing at the binnacle peered down at the dimly lit compass.
But the Namur’s lanterns had been out of sight for three or four minutes when suddenly he heard Commodore Nelson’s reedy voice shouting urgently from dead ahead, ‘Ramage, you dam’d dunderhead, wear ship or you’ll end up in Cowley’s tap-room!’
Surprise paralysed Ramage for a moment; then fearing a collision was imminent, he leapt to the larboard bulwark and peered ahead for some sign of the Captain, but he could see nothing. Cowley’s – that was the well-known inn at Plymouth Dock! He was about to hail the forward lookouts when the Commodore shouted again: ‘D’ye hear me Ramage? Are you dreaming or dragging your anchors for the next world? Put y’helm hard up for Poverty Bay – let fly the sheets an’ let’s square the yards of those dam’ Dons.’
Ramage jumped back with a curse as a bellow of rage from Southwick resounded through a speaking trumpet.
‘Come aft, you drunken scoundrel!’ the Master roared. ‘Poverty Bay indeed! You wait until I’ve finished with you!’
At last Ramage realized what was happening – a drunken seaman sitting out on the end of the Kathleen’s bowsprit was giving a passable imitation of the Commodore’s voice… Ordering Southwick to stay aft and keep a watch for the Namur’s lights, Ramage walked forward, still feeling shaky and foolish, only too aware of stifled chuckles from the other seamen on deck. Just as he reached the windlass a dark figure said, ‘Captain, sir?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Beg to report the lookout at the starboard cathead’s drunk, sir.’
Ramage recognized Stafford’s voice.
‘Who’s the lookout at the starboard cathead?’
‘I am, sir,’ Stafford said, giving a prodigious belch.
‘Get yourself aft,’ snapped Ramage, ‘I’ll give you Cowley’s!’
He said it quickly in case he began laughing. Where the devil had Stafford heard the Commodore speaking? He hadn’t realized the Cockney was such a good mimic and followed his unsteady walk aft until the man stood swaying slightly in the faint glow of the binnacle light.
‘Why are you drunk?’ Ramage demanded harshly.
‘Dunno, sir – I only ’ad one nor’wester, and that don’t do no ’arm normalally – I mean normally.’
He paused and, still swaying, made a tremendous effort to correct himself. ‘I mean usuallilly, like I said, sir.’