158381.fb2 Ramage At Trafalgar - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 13

Ramage At Trafalgar - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 13

CHAPTER TEN

The Spanish and the French must wonder what the devil is going on, Ramage thought. Last night they could see more than twenty ships of the line and some frigates, menacing sentries on the western horizon. When they woke this morning the horizon to the westward was clear of ships, except for a couple of frigates close in and another five or six miles out, and in the distance, its sails from time to time dipping below the curvature of the earth, perhaps another frigate: anyway, not a ship of the line.

So where had the English fleet gone? Ramage could imagine the puzzled faces and arguments on board the Bucentaure, which was apparently the flagship of Admiral Villeneuve, who commanded the Combined Fleet, and the Argonaute, the flagship of the Spanish admiral, Gravina.

As long as they argued, they would be less likely to concern themselves about Blackwood's Euryalus, now tacking back and forth just outside the El Diamante and La Galera shoals, a couple of miles into the bay beyond the entrance to Cadiz anchorage. From there he could see Rota on the north side of the bay and all the French and Spanish ships at anchor in Cadiz; a sharp-eyed man with a telescope could watch for any undue boat activity between the ships and, more important, see immediately when particular ships began bending on sails or swaying up yards. Both the Bucentaure and Argonaute were in sight from that position, Blackwood had told Ramage when they talked on board the Victory, so that by watching the boats coming and going it was almost possible to keep both admirals' visitors' books.

While the Euryalus kept watch on the north side of Cadiz city, by noon the Calypso was hove-to south of the small city, and Ramage was sitting astride a carronade, a telescope to his eye, Orsini on his left and Southwick, clutching a slate and drawing a rough chart, on his right.

Rota, Cadiz Bay and Cadiz harbour itself formed a huge sickle: Rota was at the tip; then the bay formed the curving blade with Cadiz itself at the end, at the top of the handle.

The handle itself represented the long anchorage with Cadiz on the seaward side, the anchorage itself getting very shallow and becoming marshes and saltpans three miles from the entrance, with a narrow and deeper channel curving through it and allowing just enough room for ships of the line to anchor, though a sudden wind shift on the turn of the tide would give captains and first lieutenants a few anxious moments . . .

So there was Cadiz spread out before him at the end of a long sandspit. The spit stretched five miles northwards from the saltponds but was only a hundred feet wide for almost half its length before widening out into a bulge of land large enough for the city to be built.

Ramage started his detailed examination from the southern end.

"Saltponds and marshes," he told Southwick. "There's a windmill down there that's probably the saltworks, pumping seawater into the pans, or grinding the salt itself: how the devil does one make salt?

"Then the spit starts, and it's not thirty yards wide. Runs along to the nor'nor'west and doesn't get any wider for ... well, more than two miles. Ah, then there's a fort: that's the Fuerte de La Cortadura, the entrance to the city and which cuts off the spit.

"Have you got that, you two? Just over a couple of miles of spit and then the fort, and then the city - such as it is - begins. Oh yes, on the seaward side there are rocks with sand behind from the saltponds almost up to the fort, but then it is a wide sandy beach, a gentle slope up to it, just right for beaching a boat.

"Now . . . still going nor'nor'west from the fort, there's a castle and tower on the inshore side. Yes, that'll be the Castillo de Puntales, built to cover the entrance of the anchorage from the inside: it can't fire to seaward.

"Are you listening closely, Orsini? A mile along from the fort and almost in line from here with the Castillo, is a conspicuous church - and that's San José, the one we're interested in. Stands back three hundred yards from the beach, behind a long cemetery. A very long cemetery, with houses between it and the church. They must have a long walk to the grave after a funeral service in the church."

He handed the telescope to Orsini and pointed out the church. "Examine it: you're going to have to find your way round there in the dark. There's what looks like a bullring another three hundred yards along the shore north of the cemetery - so there's just a short journey for any bullfighter making a fatal mistake."

After five minutes Orsini said he had memorized the view and Ramage motioned to Southwick to look with the telescope. "Draw as good a chart as you can from the fort up to the bullring: show the castle, church, cemetery and some of the most conspicuous of those houses between the cemetery and the San José church."

While the master scratched away with his slate, Ramage continued looking north, towards the end of the spit. A mile along the shore was a tower and very close to it a dignified building with a dome which was obviously the cathedral: the weak sun reflected off the dome and, beyond it, on the other side of the spit, Ramage caught sight of masts and yards - part of the Combined Fleet, those ships anchored near the entrance on the other side of the spit.

The spit curved slightly to seaward where it widened, and Ramage counted three more churches in the last half a mile, the nearest being only three hundred yards from the cathedral. Towards the end of the spit, amid strong fortifications, was a big watch tower - that must be the Torre de Taviras, with half a dozen towers close by. The Spanish always loved building towers: he remembered the dozens lining the coast all the way from the Portuguese border down to Gibraltar, and then along the Mediterranean coast, and as though they still had plenty of stone and energy, the scores built in Italy, to protect Spanish possessions in Tuscany.

"Not very promising, sir," Southwick said with a disapproving sniff, giving Ramage back the telescope. "Nice smooth sandy beach to land from a boat - with all the sentries in that fort watching you. Then you have to get through the gate attached to the fort, and the sentries will want passes. Probably a curfew, too, with all these ships in port. Dusk till dawn. So why're you out, eh? They'll pop you both in a cell and slap your hands."

"We could always wade through the marshes and avoid the fort."

"Then you'd stink so much a sentry would smell you a mile off, the dogs will follow barking in protest, and this Spanish gentleman will hold his nose and tell you to go away."

"Quite right, too," Ramage said gravely, "nothing worse on a hot night than the stink of a ripe marsh ..."

"So what are we going to do, sir?" asked an alarmed Orsini.

"Avoid making a stink by landing on the city side of the fort, of course," Ramage said. "Now fetch Jackson and my boat's crew: they have a lot to do."

Nodding at Southwick's promise that he would go below at once and draw a fair copy of the chartlet, Ramage sat for a while on the carronade while the Calypso's sails slatted as she sat hove-to. From the shore it would seem natural enough for a frigate watching a place to be hove-to: watchers, whether soldiers or sailors, would imagine those English officers staring through telescopes, and could appreciate that this was more easily done from a stationary ship than one forging up and down the coast, pitching and rolling in the Atlantic swell which almost always thundered on the beach in a wind with any west in it.

Of course the west wind, he reflected, was the wind in which the French and Spanish seamen (even if not Villeneuve, who might well be impatient to carry out whatever orders he had received) could relax: they could not sail out in a west wind, and the English had to keep well out in case a sudden gale made the whole coast a dangerous lee shore.

An east wind . . . that was what Lord Nelson (and probably the French Admiral Villeneuve) dreamed about: an east wind (or, if they were determined enough, any wind with a bit of east in it) was the wind that would let the Combined Fleet of France and Spain, thirty-three ships of the line, sail from Cadiz.

At the same time, it put Lord Nelson and the English fleet fifty miles to leeward . . . The west wind that could bring Nelson to Cadiz at the rush was the very wind that prevented the enemy sailing: the east wind that let them out put the British fleet to leeward. English, British ... it was difficult to be consistent when the French, Spanish and Italian always referred to "les Anglais", "los Ingles" and "gli Inglesi", and the English themselves (quite fairly, of course, because of the Scots, Welsh and Irish) referred to "the British".

Anyway, once having got out of Cadiz on an east wind, where would the Combined Fleet go? If north-westward for the English Channel, then (if they managed to evade Nelson) they had a soldier's wind and a calm sea. If they were bound for the Mediterranean, though, the Gut was only fifty miles down the coast to the south - five hours' sailing in a brisk breeze. But if the Combined Fleet was bound for the Mediterranean - for Malta, to try to intercept General Craig's convoy, or for some operation against Italy - as soon as they turned into the Strait that east wind would be foul for them . . .

Neither the cat (Lord Nelson) nor the mouse (Villeneuve) had an easy task - unless Villeneuve was bound for the English Channel. But there was usually some warning of an east wind, and sails had to be bent on ... It would take the Combined Fleet many hours to get sails hoisted and anchors weighed, but using flag signals and Popham's new code, His Lordship should have the news in half an hour . . .

Cadiz and this coast, Ramage mused, was scattered with history: that mountain to the south-east, as Southwick had told Orsini, was named after the family one of whose dukes led the Spanish Armada; fifteen miles northwards from Cadiz was the mouth of the Guadalquivir and Sanlúcar de Barrameda, from where Magellan sailed in 1519 to go round the world. Thirty-five miles north of there, from Palos on the Rio Tinto, Columbus sailed in 1492 to discover the New World . . . Columbus's discovery, Magellan's circumnavigation and the Spanish Armada sailing from Cadiz just about covered all that mattered at sea in the last few centuries, and it all began along fifty or sixty miles of this coast. . .

The forthcoming battle (if it was forthcoming) might add a footnote, since if Nelson lost it (or the Combined Fleet evaded him) then there would be nothing to stop Bonaparte invading England (and Scotland and Wales!).

And whether or not the Combined Fleet evaded Lord Nelson or was brought to battle by him might well depend on the intelligence to be passed tonight by this Spaniard, who lived in the lee of the San José church.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Jackson and the boat's crew. Jackson was an American, Rossi an Italian, Louis, Albert, Auguste and Gilbert were French, Orsini was Italian, but could pass for Spanish, and he himself could pass for Spanish. A cosmopolitan crew.

So an inquisitive sentry answered in the dark in perfect Spanish or French might be satisfied . . .

Quickly Ramage explained to the men what their task for that night was to be. The thole pins of the cutter, as well as the looms of the oars, were to be bound with cloth to cut down the creaking and squeaking; the sail was to be painted black; they were to check that there were a couple of grapnels on board, each with at least ten fathoms of line: they were to have a cutlass each and tomahawks if they wished, but no pistols or muskets. They were to wear dark clothes - if any of them owned only light shirts, they were to draw dark cloth from the purser - there was plenty of time to stitch up another shirt.

"Might we ask where we're going sir?" Jackson asked.

Ramage pointed towards Cadiz city. "I have to meet a man over there, and I'll be taking Mr Orsini on shore with me."

"No chance of any of us having a run on shore to keep you company, sir?"

"Not this time," Ramage said. "And by the way, if anyone has to speak it must be in Spanish or French or Italian. That means you and Stafford keep your mouths shut. So you can all get busy and prepare the boat. Oh yes, Jackson: you'll need to keep a check on the time. Arrange to borrow a watch from one of the lieutenants, and keep a lanthorn under a piece of canvas. Make sure you pick a good candle and trim the wick ..."

"Lentement, lentement," Louis hissed as Gilbert eased away on the halyard and the black-painted dipping lug of the cutter was lowered into the boat, the men stifling the thick canvas. As soon as it was bundled up with a couple of gaskets tied round it, the men at the oars resumed rowing.

Ramage, at the tiller, could distinguish the beach: a darker band of black with a thin white moustache where the small waves curled and broke on the sand. If they had sailed a good compass course from the ship and there had been no unexpected current running parallel with the shore, then the cemetery should be just at the back of the beach.

He listened, trying to cut out the muffled groan of the oars as the looms strained against the padded thole pins. There was the monotonous "quark" of a nightjar and now the buzzing of mosquitoes, showing just how close they were to the beach. No voices. In the distance he heard the thud of a galloping horse, but going away, down towards the fort and the town gate. Very few towns had a single gate, but being built on the end of a spit (like Port Royal, Jamaica, he realized) it was the only entrance by land.

And now came the smells as they approached the line of wavelets and he eased over the metal tiller under his right arm. Was that eucalyptus? Did cork oak have a smell, because he could not identify it. And the cemetery, the curious musty smell of stonework mottled with lichen. And of course rotting seaweed. Or seaweed, anyway, whether or not it was rotting; thrown up on the beach by the waves; it provided a home for flying and jumping insects, all of which seemed to bite with an irritating sting.

No challenge: no shout of alarm in Spanish or French. No shadowy figures running down the sloping beach towards them, shouting or shooting. Which meant that his gamble might work: he had guessed that the commander of the Cadiz garrison, or whoever was responsible for posting sentries, would never expect the English would dare send a party to land in the middle of the town. Beyond the fort or among the saltpans, yes; but beside the cemetery, a short stroll from the cathedral, no!

"Stand by," Ramage whispered to Jackson, who hissed at the oarsmen. In a second the oars were tossed up, ready to be stowed flat along the thwarts, and Ramage had pushed the tiller hard over, turning the boat broadside-on to the small wavelets. While Jackson pulled up the rudder to avoid it being damaged, the boat grounded with a gentle scrubbing of the keel scraping on the sand. In a moment Ramage and Orsini had leapt over the gunwale, landed on the sand, and run forward to get their shoulders under the cutter's bow, to shove it seaward while the boat still had some buoyancy. As soon as the boat was clear of the beach, helped by oars pushing into the sand, Ramage and Orsini sat down and undid the laces securing their boots round their necks.

"The sand sticks to the skin like glue," Orsini commented in Spanish, brushing it off his feet. "And the mosquitoes!"

The high-pitched whining of the insects reminded Ramage that they had little time: trying to persuade an unsuspecting Spaniard of one's credentials while he had been in a room burning citronella candles and one's own face was puffy and gross-looking from stings, was making the job harder than necessary.

The two men walked to the back of the beach, stepped across a line of what Ramage knew only by their Italian name of Fico dei Ottentotti, and then found themselves walking on coarse grass. Almost immediately Ramage spotted the elaborate marble angels, Virgins and crucifixes surmounting the tombs of the cemetery about twenty yards away on their right.

Together they struck out for the far side, where they had to climb a low wall and almost immediately sighted a house.

Ramage touched Orsini as a warning and then said in a conversational tone, his accent rough Castilian: "San José should be just the other side."

A dog gave a disheartened bark and was promptly sworn at by someone in the house.

Ramage stopped. "Might as well ask here," he said. "There's the door."

As they walked along a short path the dog started barking despite the threats, and then yelped as it was obviously kicked. Ramage knocked on the door.

A man's querulous voice answered: "Who's there?"

"Visitors for Señor Perez."

"Not here," the voice said abruptly, without opening the door. "The house on the north side of the church."

"Thank you," Ramage said politely.

"I wish I had a pistol," Orsini muttered as soon as they had gone on a few yards.

"Oh yes," Ramage said sarcastically. "We need a few pistol shots to rouse out all the dogs in the neighbourhood, not to mention soldiery. What about a set of handbells?"

Orsini was still trying to think of an answer which combined wit and brevity without being insubordinate when they reached the church.

Ramage groaned, because the main square was on the north side of the church, with half a dozen large houses built round it.

"Our fellow is probably one of the leading citizens of Cadiz if he owns one of those houses," Orsini muttered.

Ramage stepped out towards the square, making no attempt to keep quiet. If there was a curfew - which he was beginning to doubt: the man in the house did not seem surprised, nor had he assumed that they were soldiers - then any patrol was probably on horseback.

Now there were town smells. Horse and donkey droppings ripened by hot sun, rotting cabbage, stale urine ... a scurry told of rats interrupted at supper . . . and which house to choose first?

He picked the third of the five forming the north side of the square. The house itself stood back behind a high-walled garden, and when he paused to see if another would be more convenient, he saw in the darkness that they all had walls and gates.

He rattled the wrought iron a few times. A dog in the house started barking and a moment later a woman's voice demanded: "Who is that at the gate?"

"Visitors for Señor Perez."

"Who are you?"

Was this - by an extraordinary piece of luck - the right house?

"Is this the house of Señor Perez?" Orsini inquired.

"It is," a man's voice answered, and Ramage guessed from his accent that he was a manservant.

"Tell Señor Perez he has visitors."

"What name shall I give, señor?"

"Lieutenant Leblond," Ramage said on the spur of the moment, giving both words a pronounced French accent.

"Please wait, Lieutenant," the voice said politely, "I will inform Señor Perez."

Did custom demand that one stamped a foot and demanded the gate be opened at once, in the name of the Emperor, and was this the way to treat the representative of Spain's ally - or did one wait quietly?

Ramage decided to wait quietly: he wanted to be face to face with Perez as soon as possible.

He saw a lantern at the door and then in its light a man walked along the path towards the gate. In one hand he held the lantern, in the other a large key.

The man - yes, he was dressed as a manservant: that much was clear in the light of the lantern - turned the key and pushed back the gate with his shoulder. "This way, if you please."

Galicia? Yes, Ramage was sure of the accent: thick, as though spoken through cloth. He followed the man, with Orsini strolling along beside him.

What would the man be thinking? Neither visitor was wearing a uniform - which ruled out an official call. While both men were young, and spoke perfect Spanish, at least one of them was French, from the way he spoke his name. French officers out of uniform, obviously . . .

They reached the front door up half a dozen steps, and entered the house. Yes, the bittersweet smell of citronella, and Ramage felt his face beginning to itch: the mosquitoes had not wasted their time but with luck the swelling would be delayed.

Marble floors, plenty of furniture in the hall (unusual in a Latin house), a dog growling from the room in which he had been shut, two open doors ... the room to which they were going was at the far end of the corridor, and the thump, thump of his and Orsini's boots contrasted with the shuffle of the manservant's slippers.

They reached a door which the manservant opened, standing back and saying in slightly more than a conversational tone: "Lieutenant Leblond and companion, sir." He gestured them to go into the room.

It was a large, high-ceilinged room with a tiled floor. On the far side a white-haired man sat at a table, a quill in his hand and obviously interrupted while writing, and a woman perhaps ten years younger but well dressed sat at a stool, embroidering. Two lamps in the room showed a man and wife spending a quiet evening, even if the harbour was filled with the ships of the Combined Fleet of France and Spain, and the British fleet was just over the horizon.

"Lieutenant Leblond?" the white-haired man inquired, and the woman looked up curiously.

Ramage bowed and said: "May I introduce my assistant, Lieutenant Poulain?"

Ramage listened for the door to close behind him as the white-haired man said politely, but obviously puzzled. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, gentlemen? Do you come on the Emperor's business?"

Ramage heard the door shut behind him, and it was quite natural to continue walking into the room approaching the man sitting at the table.

"Not the Emperor's business," Ramage said in a quiet voice. "Can we talk alone?"

"I have no secrets from my wife," the man said calmly. "If not from the Emperor then, pray, from whom?"

Ramage gave him the message.

At the mention - with an unmistakable English accent - of the name of His Britannic Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, the white-haired man sprang to his feet.

"Should I know that name?" he asked in Spanish. "What makes you think that, Lieutenant Leblond?"

"Forgive me," Ramage said in English. "In fact my name is Ramage, Captain Ramage, and I command a frigate in Lord Nelson's fleet. The Secretary of State saw Lord Nelson in London recently. As a result, Lord Nelson gave me orders to seek out a Señor Perez near the church of San José, and mention the name you know."

"Tell me more: mistakes could put the garotte round my neck," Perez said, speaking quietly and in good English.

"About the minister? I know little about him. His title is fairly new - a barony ten or fifteen years ago. A man of middle height - I've seen him a few times in the House of Lords. Hair grey now, bald on the top, does not wear a wig . . . that's about all."

"What were you doing in the House of Lords, Captain?"

"My father is Admiral the Earl of Blazey, and I bear one of his titles (although I do not use it in the service for obvious reasons)."

"Obvious? Not to me, my dear sir."

"When I was a midshipman - and even now - it is not very tactful to have a title when your senior officers have none! As it is, I have a title senior to and much older than that of the minister!"

The man held out his hand. "Yes, I think you are whom you claim to be." They shook hands, and Perez said gracefully: "Please introduce your assistant."

Ramage introduced Orsini, and then Perez sat down, giving a quiet laugh. "Captain Ramage, indeed. Yes, I know that name well. It would not be true to say you are a popular figure among the French: Le Moniteur frequently refers to you as a cross between a pirate and a sorcerer! You have had considerable success against the French Navy over the years."

Ramage shrugged. "Over the years one is bound to be in action many times . . ."

"True, but you are more successful than most. Well, tell me what Lord Nelson wishes to know - I think I can guess."

Ramage smiled and said: "I imagine you can. First, he wants to know the size and condition of the Combined Fleet in Cadiz."

Perez made a face as though tasting something very sour. "The French - the condition of their ships fairly good but there is no spare canvas, cordage or spars available for them. They could get no replacements either when they visited Ferrol or Coruña.

"The Spanish ships are in far worse condition. They have not been to sea for months (at least Villeneuve crossed the Atlantic twice with the French fleet). Sails and cordage have rotted on the masts; those ships that put their sails below have had much of the canvas eaten by rats. Thanks to your blockade no replacements are available. Many have rotted spars."

Perez, now sitting down, sighed. "This is not easy for me, Captain Ramage. I am describing my country, even if those in control are my enemies."

He sighed again, and then continued. "So much for the ships. Far worse is the condition of the captains and officers, particularly the Spanish. As far as the French are concerned, the problem is mainly with Admiral Villeneuve. My informant - and he is in a position to know, although obviously I dare not reveal who he is - tells me that Admiral Villeneuve is out of favour with Bonaparte and will probably be replaced very soon by Admiral Decrès."

"But Admiral Decrès is the Minister of Marine!" Ramage exclaimed.

Perez nodded. "Yes, but presumably Bonaparte knows that everything depends on this fleet, and he must get it to sea. I don't think he believes Villeneuve is the man to do the job."

"When is this change expected?"

"I gather Villeneuve is afraid that Decrès will arrive any day, and he regards it as a dishonour."

"You mentioned the Spanish captains."

"Ah, yes. You are a practical man, Captain Ramage. Would you care to command a ship of the line and sail under the command of someone like this Villeneuve - and with your ship equipped with rotten rope, rotten sails, and short of provisions, those you have being rotten?"

Ramage grinned and shook his head. "Not even a rowing boat, let alone a ship of the line!"

"Exactly, so you can imagine in what a dreadful position the Spanish Admiral Gravina finds himself: his most senior captains come to him daily, begging for equipment he cannot supply; they beg him to tell the French it is suicide to sail with the English fleet waiting for them."

Perez shook his head, as though saddened by what he was going to say. "I'm afraid some of the captains are meeting among themselves and their talk is close to treason."

"But is the city of Cadiz so short of food and supplies?"

"The people are starving," Perez said frankly. "Every able-bodied man has been taken up for the ships, so women and children starve because they have lost the - how do you say, 'the breadwinner'.

"As you can see, this is not a fertile part of the country. No grain can get in because of your blockade - nor, of course, anything that can be used to fit out the ships."

Perez now looked haggard in the dim lamplight: telling such a tale of disaster seemed to be emphasizing it for him. Probably, Ramage thought, he thrusts it away at the back of his mind whenever he can, unless he can pass the word to the British in Gibraltar.

"Lord Nelson was concerned about the position of other French ships," Ramage said. "How many, in which ports, and so on."

"Well now, let me see. Brest - yes, Admiral Gantaume is there with twenty-one Iine-of-battle ships, and from what I hear you people are blockading him so that he can't get out.

"Then Admiral Allemand is at sea - I don't know where - with four ships of the line. Difficult for him to break in and join either Gantaume at Brest or Villeneuve here. He could make for Ferrol or Coruña, I suppose. That's all the ships I know about. And, of course, Villeneuve commands thirty-four French and Spanish ships here. A very large fleet - on paper."

"You have no hint when Villeneuve is likely to sail, I suppose?"

Perez shook his head, his white hair flowing. "No - but I'm sure he will sail as soon as he gets a fair wind. Not so much because he wants to fight your Nelson, but he feels deeply the dishonour there would be if he is replaced by Decrès."

"So we can expect the Combined Fleet to sail the minute there is an east wind. Heading for the English Channel?"

Perez held up a hand as though restraining Ramage. "I hear reports that Villeneuve has received new orders. Reports? Rumours, more likely, and you must emphasize that to Lord Nelson. You came to me for information, but I must ask you a question - and please feel free not to answer. Is there a big British convoy at sea somewhere carrying troops into the Mediterranean?"

Ramage thought for several moments, and then decided that the French knew it was at sea and its destination - that was hardly a secret even before General Craig's ships left England bound for Italy.

Ramage nodded. "Yes, I believe there is such a convoy at sea."

"Ah, that might explain it!" Perez exclaimed. "You see, I know that until very recently Admiral Villeneuve's orders from Bonaparte were to leave Cadiz and sail north to the English Channel, and guard his flotillas waiting at Calais and Boulogne as they crossed to invade England.

"But this rumour I heard - or, rather, my informant heard - was to the effect that Villeneuve had just received entirely new orders: he was to break out of Cadiz and sail into the Mediterranean, to find and destroy this English convoy or, if it had already gone through and landed its men in Italy to help the Russians, to land troops - this city is full of them, eating what little food is left - and drive the English into the sea."

Ramage felt himself tensing as he thought about the rumour. If it was true, then Bonaparte was no longer threatening England. Had he lost his nerve? Had the difficulties and dangers of getting his boats and barges across the Channel frightened him? Or (more likely) had he lost faith in Villeneuve's ability to get the fleet up to the Channel and therefore abandoned the invasion? But what about Decrès - did Bonaparte not trust him either?

And, of course, it was late in the year. Who would dare guarantee even a day and night's decent weather in the Channel (let alone an easterly wind, which the invasion fleet had to have) in October? - and it would be late October even if Villeneuve broke out now. Even if he escaped Lord Nelson and even if he had fair winds, and even if he could control his mixed fleet - more ifs than hopes - he could not be off Calais and Dover before the last week in October.

Ramage found himself feeling sorry for Villeneuve: the poor man's Emperor had, it seemed, given him the choice of defeat or dishonour . . .

Perez looked at Ramage. "Yes, I understand the importance of that rumour, because if Villeneuve sails for the Mediterranean there can be no invasion of England. But I beg you, Captain Ramage, do emphasize to Lord Nelson that it is only a rumour. My informant has tried to get more information but as you can imagine, even if he has received such orders, Admiral Villeneuve will guard them carefully. After all, his success will depend on surprising Lord Nelson by breaking out and turning south for the Strait rather than north for England ..."

"Yes," Ramage said as casually as possible, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. "A rumour, I shall emphasize that. Now señor," he said, taking out his watch, "is there anything else? My boat will be waiting for me in about five minutes' time."

Perez shook his head. "No. I think that is all I have to offer. Is it of help?"

"Yes, His Lordship will be very grateful. Now, I suggest we leave by the front door, with you bidding us farewell, as though we have been paying you a normal visit. By the way, there is no curfew?"

Perez shook his head. "There was for a short while, but the people are too frightened to go out - because of the troops! So the garrison commander lifted the curfew."

As the gate shut behind them Ramage and Orsini, blinking to get accustomed to the darkness, began walking across the plaza to the cemetery. Both sighed at the same moment and laughed at the coincidence.

"What is troubling you?" Ramage asked in Spanish.

"A most interesting visit," Orsini said carefully, wary that he might be overheard.

"Yes," Ramage said, "we must pass the message to our master."

"He will be pleased!"

Will he? Ramage thought not. It was one thing to cover the Combined Fleet against the chance of escaping north to the English Channel, but it was quite something else (while staying out of sight, not risking deterring them from sailing) to guard against them escaping southwards to the Mediterranean. It was, indeed, a toss-up.

By now they were passing through the cemetery and they could hear the lazy slapping of wavelets on the beach. Ramage suddenly held Orsini's shoulder: "Listen!"

There were angry voices shouting in Spanish. Two voices. And equally vociferous replies in French. Ramage stared across the beach and gradually made out the shape of two horsemen at the water's edge and, just beyond them, the cutter. Spanish mounted guards, challenging the boat, and Gilbert and Louis shouting back in French, pretending to be indignant but not understanding whatever the Spanish sentries were asking.

Ramage crouched down and made his way across the sand, followed by Orsini. The Spaniards were getting more excited; they were clearly asking questions and demanding answers - why a boat full of men should be at this beach - but were not satisfied with the shouts in French.

Very soon Ramage could distinguish what the Spaniards were saying. They were very nervous, very jumpy and very angry at being answered in French: they reckoned that only Spanish boats should be out at night.

Ramage and Orsini were only five yards from the two horsemen when Ramage heard one of them bellow angrily: "Get out of the boat! Out! If you don't get out I shoot the nearest man!"

Surprise, thought Ramage. And noise. He whispered to Orsini. A moment later both men ran screaming and shouting at the horses, slapping each on the rump and starting them rearing. Without waiting to see what had happened to the equally startled horsemen, Ramage continued running, grabbed the side of the cutter and, making sure that Orsini was scrambling on board, snapped at Jackson: "Quick, shove off! Those two won't be able to aim pistols properly while their horses are dancing!"

The men on the beach side of the boat thrust down and away with their oars, levering the boat round, and the moment the bow was heading seaward all the oars dipped in the water and the men began rowing vigorously.

Ramage scrambled into the boat, sprawling across a thwart. He twisted round to look at the horsemen and saw they were ten yards further along the beach, fighting the horses which were rearing and neighing: horses frightened by the screams and slaps of the two men approaching from the rear, and spurred and kicked by the startled riders they had nearly thrown. The yanking at the bits and the raking of the spurs had frightened the horses even more and they continued rearing and walking sideways along the beach, their riders concerned only with staying in the saddles, the boat for the time being forgotten.

Ten yards off the shore, twenty and increasing speed, thirty and Jackson cursing as he tried to fit the metal tiller on to the wooden rudderhead. Thirty yards and they were out of sight of the horsemen; fifty yards and they could no longer see the thin white ribbons of the wavelets breaking.

"Back to the Calypso, sir?" Jackson asked politely once he had the tiller fitted and tucked under his arm.

Ramage thought a moment. He had to sail at once for the Victory, but Blackwood commanded the little inshore squadron of which the Calypso was part.

"No, the Euryalus, first."

Blackwood would be patrolling between the El Diamante and La Galera shoals: a five-mile sail from here, and then another three miles or so to find the Calypso.

With the Calypso hove-to half a mile to windward of the flagship, Ramage boarded the Victory at exactly nine o'clock next morning, tired but shaven, wearing a frock-coat that Silkin had insisted on pressing, and a neatly tied stock.

At the last moment a whimsical thought that the news he was taking to Lord Nelson could mean that England was safe from any invasion threat led Ramage to wear his Lloyd's sword. A puzzled Silkin had mumbled: "But you didn't wear it when all the other captains were there," and Ramage had laughed. "It's an old Spanish custom," he said.

Hardy greeted him at the entryport, anxious but trying to hide it. "His Lordship is worried - couldn't you carry out his orders?"

"His orders?" a puzzled Ramage repeated. "But he only gave me one set of orders."

"Yes, about landing in Cadiz."

"Ah yes," Ramage said, "that's why I'm here." And, he thought, you may be the admiral's flag captain, but if you think I'm going to make a report to you standing at the entryport with your first lieutenant and a couple of seamen, not to mention sideboys, all straining their ears, you are wrong.

With that he hurried to the great cabin, had the Marine sentry announce him after saluting in a cloud of pipeclay, and at Lord Nelson's call went in to find the admiral again sitting in his special armchair.

"Well, Ramage, what happened, eh? Problems?"

Ramage was almost alarmed at the admiral's concern - he had jumped up out of the chair, good eye glinting, the single arm clutching a handful of papers which he had been reading.

"No, sir: I carried out your orders and hurried out to make my report."

"What a stout fellow!" Nelson exclaimed, slapping him on the back with the handful of papers. "As soon as you hove in sight and were identified, Hardy and I decided you hadn't had time to land in Cadiz and get out here! I'm only too delighted to learn we were wrong! Well, what news have you got for me? Did you find our friend?"

Ramage nodded. "Yes, sir, we found his house in the lee of that church and paid him a call. We convinced him we were friends and he told us all he knew."

"You had no trouble with the Spanish getting on shore?"

"No, sir. We had to drive off a couple of mounted sentries to get back on board the cutter, but there was no difficulty."

"We? Who did you take with you?"

"Midshipman Orsini, sir, the nephew of the Marchesa di Volterra."

"Ah yes, you told me: he speaks fluent Spanish."

"As well as being a very resourceful young officer, sir."

"Yes, I'll keep an eye on him," the admiral said. "Has he passed for lieutenant yet?"

Ramage shook his head. "He won't be twenty for another couple of years."

"Well, we'll do something about him later. Now, what had Señor Perez to tell you?"

Ramage repeated the Spaniard's words as near verbatim as his memory allowed, so that he was near the end of his report when he came to the rumour - he carefully repeated Perez's warning about it - that Villeneuve might have new orders directing him to the Mediterranean.

The chance that his quarry might bolt either to the north or the south did not seem to bother Nelson. "Twenty ships, Ramage, I shan't be satisfied with less than twenty ships!"

"Leave one for me, sir," Ramage said jokingly.

"There'll be enough for everyone," Nelson said, sitting down in his armchair, "but no frigates in the line of battle, Ramage; one broadside from a 74 will turn your ship into floating wreckage . . .

"Signals - I want you frigates to repeat my signals quickly: if you do that, you'll have done your job. That's what frigates are for, when serving with a fleet. On detached service - which you are used to - well, that's a different matter. But with a fleet, keeping a sharp lookout and quick signals!"

"Yes, sir," Ramage said.