Ramage woke next morning with a taste in his mouth as though he had been sucking a pistol ball and a head which throbbed like a drum beating to quarters. He shouted for his steward and regretted it a moment later as pain as sharp as a knife blade stabbed his temples. He'd certainly supped well on board the flagship, but wisely? Had he talked too much? Been indiscreet? Revealed too much about his thoughts? He didn't know; but he must have been quite drunk by the time he came back on board the Kathleen.
He suddenly saw a letter on his desk and as his cot swung reached out and grabbed it. Written orders from Sir John - at dawn the Kathleen would take up and maintain a position five miles ahead of the Fleet. He looked at his watch - it was 7 a.m., an hour or more after dawn. At that moment the steward came into the cabin and was promptly sent off to fetch the Master.
Southwick arrived looking cheerful but obviously tired, and seeing the surly expression on Ramage's face as he held the letter said, 'Good morning sir. Don't worry about that - we're in position.'
'But how—?'
'When you came on board you mentioned something about orders, sir, and as you seemed a bit - er, tired, I took the liberty of taking the letter out of your pocket and opening it after you'd gone to bed.'
'Tired be damned,' growled Ramage, 'I was drunk.'
'You did mention, sir, that the admiral hoped to sight the Dons today.'
'Today or tomorrow. He thinks that if the Dons left Cartagena on time and ran into that gale, they'd have been swept even farther out into the Atlantic than we were, because they probably wouldn't have been able to heave-to. They should be working their way back to Cadiz now and we are stretching across their probable route...'
'Then with a bit o' luck we'll be the first to sight 'em!' The prospect clearly pleased the Master, who patted his stomach as if anticipating a good meal.
'Don't make any mistake this time, Southwick. Give me that paper on the desk - thank you. I worked this out yesterday. Sir John has fifteen sail of the line and the Spaniards twenty-seven. Seven of them carry more guns than any of our ships. Wait until you see the Santisima Trinidad - she's enormous. It all adds up to fifteen British sail of the line carrying 1,232 guns against twenty-seven Spanish sail of the line carrying 2,308. Which gives the Dons an advantage of 1,076 guns. Nearly twice as many as us in fact...'
'Well,' Southwick said placidly, 'we're not outnumbered then.'
'What!' Ramage exploded. 'Don't be so—'
Southwick grinned. 'They'd have to be carrying 3,696 guns - don't forget one Englishman equals three Spaniards.'
'Men, not guns,' snapped Ramage. 'That kind of reasoning is ridiculous.'
The steward brought in an urn of tea and Ramage motioned him to pour a cup for Southwick as well.
'You're half right, though,' he conceded. 'Men have to fire the guns.'
'I worked out that when we took La Sabinawe were outnumbered about four to one, but it didn't seem to worry you.'
'It worried me all right, but' - he recalled the look on the admiral's face the previous evening - 'it worried Sir John even more. In fact—'
There was a knock on the door and Jackson burst in. 'Sail in sight, sir, on the starboard bow.'
Ramage glanced up at the tell-tale compass above his head.
'Hoist the signal “Strange sail" and the compass pendants. Beat to quarters, Mr. Southwick.'
Southwick followed Jackson on deck while Ramage hurriedly washed and dressed. By the time he was on deck the signal flags for a strange sail and its compass bearing were streaming in the wind, giving their warning to the Fleet just in sight astern - the Kathleen was carrying out her task of increasing the Fleet's visible horizon by another five miles, like a giant telescope, signal flags taking the place of optical lenses.
Jackson, perched up the mast beside the lookout, shouted: 'Deck there! She's a frigate.'
'Mr. Southwick, haul down "Strange sail" and hoist "Strange sail is frigate".'
A few minutes later Jackson called, 'Captain, sir - she might be the Minerve.'
She could be; the Blanche and Minerve were both with Commodore Nelson. But he wasn't going to take chances: the frigate could not see the Fleet to leeward yet and might have been captured by the Spanish, and now eager to snap up a small cutter.
Once again the familiar drum beat echoed across the Kathleen's decks and the drummer had just tucked his sticks into his boot-top and was unhitching his drum amid a rush of men to the guns when Jackson again hailed.
'She's the Minerve all right, sir, and she's flying a broad pendant.'
'Very well. Mr. Southwick, warn the Fleet and signal its bearing for the Minerve - I doubt if she can see it yet. I'm going below to shave.'
By the time Ramage came back on deck, feeling a lot fresher, the Minerve was close enough for her bow wave to look like a white moustache at her stem. As she ran down towards the cutter, Ramage was reminded of the ridge and furrow flight of a woodpecker as she rose and fell on the overtaking swell waves. There was hardly a wrinkle in her straining sails, but almost every one of them had been patched several times. The sailmaker and his mates must have been busy. Ramage would have given a lot to know if the Commodore had sighted the Spanish Fleet at sea ... An hour after the Minerve rounded up to leeward of the Victory, Jackson reported to Ramage that the flagship was signalling for the Kathleen's captain. As he stood in his cabin, the steward hurriedly brushing his coat, straightening his stock, and carefully brushing his new cocked hat, Ramage wasn't sure whether he was apprehensive or pleased. Either the Commodore considered he had disobeyed orders and Sir John had decided to take action, or - oh well, he'd know soon enough.
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 hand 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 gem stone; 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 V's 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 Sabinaand 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 made a good enough supper 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 -1 mean normalilly.'
He paused and, still swaying, made a tremendous effort to correct himself. 'I mean usuallilly, like I said, sir.'
'One nor'wester be damned,' snapped Ramage. 'More likely four due north. Mr. Southwick, man the head pump - Stafford can refresh himself by drinking a couple of mugs of Cowley's special Cadiz Bay sea water and then stand under the pump for fifteen minutes until he knows whether he's a lilly or a lally!'
'Fetch me a mug!' growled Southwick, seizing Stafford by the shoulder and giving him a push forward. 'Man the starboard head pump,' he bellowed, in a sudden burst of anger, 'our Mr. Stafford's going to dance more than one jig at Cowley's tonight!'
Ramage heard the pump gurgling as it began to draw, then its regular splashing. A few minutes later Stafford was violently sick, and Southwick came back to the binnacle still holding the mug. 'Can't understand him, sir. Been hoarding his tot, but I don't think it's because he's scared. One nor'wester, though!'
Ramage remembered the cool way Stafford had burgled Admiral Cordoba's house.
'No - he's not scared. Send another man forward as a lookout.'
Southwick's reaction was amusing: clearly he was more disgusted that Stafford should be drunk after only one nor'wester than of his actually getting drunk. But Stafford was being modest: in sailor's jargon, 'north' meant raw spirit and 'west' meant water, while a 'nor'wester' was a mug of half water and half spirit, which was clearly insufficient to provide the Cockney with enough inspiration for tonight's antics.
Just after nine o'clock - by which time a sobered Stafford, shivering with cold and thoroughly ashamed of himself, had come aft and apologized, and been sent below to change his clothes - they heard the boom of one signal gun and then another: the signal from the Victory for the Fleet to tack in succession, and the other flag officers repeating it.
'Belike the Captain’llrun into a patch of fog now,' growled Southwick.
'If she does,' said Ramage, 'it'll be the real Commodore, not Stafford shouting at us!
The follow-my-leader turn after the order to tack in succession meant the Fleet was steering south-east. Unless they met the enemy or there was a sudden change of wind, it would stay on this course for the rest of the night. Somewhere ahead another fleet of nearly twice as many sail of the line was also under way, trying to make its way to Cadiz and being humbugged by variable winds and fog. The Spaniards would probably be uncertain of their position, desperately anxious to make a good landfall at daylight and, if they knew there was a British fleet near by, scared of their own shadows.
In three hours or so it would be St. Valentine's Day. Ramage thought of his parents. They'd be in Cornwall, at St. Kew, and by now would have dined and probably enjoying a game of cards. But for that damnable trial, he realized with bitterness, his father's flag might have been hoisted in the Victory, instead of Sir John's. The devil take such thoughts. It was now Southwick's watch and he decided to get some sleep.