Ramage and the Dido (17 page)

‘How do you do that?’

Stafford shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yellow fever can strike whether you’ve just come out or you’ve been in the islands for years – so I’m told, though I reckon the longer you’ve been out, the less chance o’ getting it. But there are a lot more fevers, and bad cuts can go gangrenous very quickly, so watch out. Mr Bowen’s been out here a lot and he’s very good – about as good a surgeon as you could wish for. He won’t make much work for that parson – leastways, I don’t ‘spect so. That parson’s got a burying sort o’ voice, I must say. He let himself go when we buried those five chaps. Still,’ he added philosophically, ‘if you’re going ter go, he gives you yer money’s worth.’

‘I must say you make it all sound very inviting,’ Gilbert said mildly. ‘If the rum doesn’t get you, the yellow fever will, and if you cut yourself there’s always gangrene!’

Stafford laughed and said: ‘Don’t get too depressed. The West Indies is the favourite station for Jacko and Rosey and me – better than the Mediterranean. You’ll like it – if you live long enough!’

Barbados came up out of the haze, long and low on the western horizon, just as Southwick had calculated. As usual the outline of the island was faint, blurred by the spray blowing inland as the rollers crashed into the rocky shore, rollers which were uninterrupted as they swept across the Atlantic from the coast of Africa.

Ramage’s clerk, Luckhurst, had made a fair copy of the captain’s report on the actions against the
Sylphe, Junon
and
Requin,
and Ramage had signed it. The weekly accounts were up to date and Ramage had inspected the midshipmen’s journals, which were supposed to be filled in daily and shown to the captain each week. As far as Ramage could see they were an indictment of the midshipmen’s literacy: only two of them had produced anything which could pass for a journal. On the other hand, one of them was almost outstanding: he had drawn in charts showing how the
Dido
had manoeuvred in the actions against the frigate and the ship of the line, and he had done a watercolour painting showing the
Junon
blowing up. It was what a journal should be. Ramage had rejected six others, telling Aitken to warn the owners that they must do better.

Gradually Barbados changed from a bluish blur to a brown curve on the horizon and then, as the
Dido
approached, slashes of green could be seen. Through the glass these showed up as stands of palm trees and fields of sugarcane. The palms were mostly along the coast with the cane spreading inland, acre upon acre. There was no doubt where Barbados’ wealth came from.

Southwick tucked his telescope under his arm and remarked to no one in particular: ‘Well, welcome back to the land of the sugar barons.’

‘Are you glad to be back?’ Ramage asked.

‘I am at the moment, but whether I stay that way depends on what the admiral has for us.’

‘It can’t be anything too bad.’

‘Don’t trust admirals,’ Southwick said darkly.

‘Well, I haven’t heard much about Rear-Admiral Samuel Cameron, so he can’t be too bad.’

Southwick shook his head and sniffed. ‘Don’t forget we’ve been in the Mediterranean. Time flies. Trafalgar was months ago, hard as it is to believe. I didn’t get a chance to talk to anyone from the West Indies convoy that came into Spithead just before we sailed.’

‘Well, we’ll soon know,’ Ramage said. ‘One thing about being in a ship of the line, it’s unlikely to be escorting a convoy!’

Slowly the
Dido
followed the coast round to the south-west, closing with the shore until they could make out the line of pale blue water, where it shallowed. Then, with a surprising suddenness, they were at Carlisle Bay, and Ramage quickly picked out Admiral Cameron’s flagship, the
Reliant,
and began the salute.

As the
Dido
anchored and the ship swung head to wind, Ramage felt the heat: until now the
Dido
had been out in the open sea, with the Trade wind blowing steadily across the deck and keeping the ship reasonably cool. Now, at anchor, the heat was coming off the land, humid and uncomfortable.

‘Get the awnings rigged as soon as you’ve finished squaring the yards,’ Ramage told Southwick. ‘I’m going across to report to the admiral.’

As he changed into his best uniform, tied his stock and put on his sword, he heard Aitken shouting orders as the boat was hoisted out ready for him.

So far so good, he thought: there were no strings of signal flags from the flagship telling him where to anchor, so Cameron was not one of the fussy sort of admirals who did not trust a captain to anchor properly. Perhaps he guessed that Ramage had anchored in Carlisle Bay a dozen or more times. Perhaps he did not care, Ramage thought.

He put his papers into the leather case, picked up his hat and, acknowledging the sentry’s salute as he went out of the door, made his way to the entryport. There the red cutter was alongside and sideboys were holding out the sideropes for him to hold as he climbed down.

As he went down he could smell the weed which had grown on the
Dido
’s
hull as she crossed the Atlantic, and as he sat in the sternsheets he glanced along the waterline and could see dozens of goose barnacles growing like toadstools. It always amazed him how they could attach themselves to the ship and grow when she was ploughing through the water at a rate of knots, but they not only could but did in their hundreds, not deterred by the copper sheathing: in fact it almost seemed they had an appetite for copper.

Ten minutes later he was climbing on board the
Reliant
to the shrilling of bosun’s pipes, and on deck a man in a post-captain’s uniform with epaulets on both sides, denoting more than three years’ seniority and showing he was probably the captain of the
Reliant,
came up with outstretched hand. ‘I’m Simpson, welcome on board.’

‘Ramage. Thank you: I’m reporting to Admiral Cameron.’

‘Yes, indeed, come this way.’ Then Simpson said: ‘Been in command long? We don’t have an up-to-date Navy List, and mine shows the
Dido
out of commission.’

‘I’ve only had her a few weeks. Commissioned her in Portsmouth and sailed at once for here.’

‘The admiral will be glad to see you: we’re very short of seventy-fours and he’s grumbled to their Lordships. I expect you’re their response.’

Ramage found Rear-Admiral Samuel Cameron a burly, red-faced Scot with mutton-chop whiskers, who greeted Ramage cheerfully and seemed very glad to see him.

‘Did ye have a good trip m’lad?’

‘Yes, sir. We ran into a French seventy-four and a couple of frigates, but that was the only excitement.’

‘I hope you saw them off?’

‘We blew up the seventy-four and one frigate sank. The other was captured by a British frigate that happened to be on the scene.’

‘Splendid, m’lad, splendid,’ Cameron said enthusiastically. ‘You’ve written me a full report? Now, can I offer you a rum punch, or would you prefer a glass of wine?’

Ramage declined politely, and Cameron said: ‘Let me see your report on the action. I hope you haven’t brought me a lot of French prisoners.’

Ramage explained they were on their way to England in the frigates. He handed over his despatch and sat back comfortably in an armchair while the admiral started reading. The cabin was well furnished: obviously Cameron was a wealthy man – probably the Windward Island station brought him a good share of prize money. The admiral would have frigates cruising along the Main, and they would make a good number of captures.

Finally Cameron finished reading, and he grunted as he refolded the despatch. ‘Very creditable,’ he said, ‘and I shall say so in my letter to their Lordships. The
Heron
was fortunate to meet you. It would have been all up with her otherwise.’

Ramage nodded. ‘A frigate doesn’t stand much chance against a seventy-four.’

‘As you showed,’ Cameron said. ‘Well, I don’t know that we can offer you that sort of excitement out here. But the fact is I am very short of seventy-fours. At the moment I have only two – one refitting at English Harbour, and the other down off Surinam. It was in anticipation of the one having to go into Antigua for a refit – long overdue – that I wrote to the Admiralty asking for a replacement and that’s why you were sent out.’

Ramage nearly sighed: so it was going to be a boring old routine: no excitement, nothing out of the way. Simply, in all probability, just patrolling among the islands. Well, at least he knew his way around, which was something. And it was better than patrolling up and down the English Channel, with its abominable weather and the constant battle against southwesterly gales which blew their way through with monotonous regularity. All he had to do was to keep his ship’s company fit: make sure that they were not hit with yellow fever.

‘You know your way round out here, I believe,’ the admiral said. ‘You were out here with a frigate, I hear.’

‘Yes, sir, the
Calypso.’

‘Ah yes, I remember: the Diamond Rock affair, when you captured the island. It was sheer carelessness on our part that we lost it again after you had returned to Europe. Well, I’m proposing sending you up to Martinique again.’

He tugged at his mutton-chop whiskers, as if trying to decide how he was going to explain to Ramage. ‘The fact of the matter is, our blockade o’ Martinique has more holes in it than a boarding net, and the French now have a seventy-four in Fort Royal which they are using to escort their convoys for the run into the island – the time when our frigates used to be able to capture a few ships and disrupt a convoy.

‘I can’t spare the seventy-four that is patrolling off Surinam, and as I mentioned, my other seventy-four is refitting in Antigua, and if I know anything about English Harbour the work is going to take an age and be badly done. Which leaves you and the
Dido
to do the business for me.’

‘The business of stopping the convoys?’ Ramage asked.

‘Aye. How ye’ll set about it I don’t know. You might intercept one of the convoys and deal with the seventy-four – which means finding them several days out, I have no doubt. Or, ye can settle with the seventy-four before she gets far away from Fort Royal. It’ll be up to you, depending on how you find things at Fort Royal.’

Ramage nodded. ‘I understand, sir. It rather depends on how the French react to a seventy-four cruising up and down outside. They might sail their own seventy-four to drive it off – or they might keep her in harbour…’

‘I wouldn’t try and guess which it’d be,’ Cameron said. ‘You’re lucky that the convoys have to come round the south end of the island – that’s about the only advantage you’ve got.’

For an admiral giving orders to a newly joined captain, Ramage thought Cameron was surprisingly frank: in his experience, admirals never pointed out, or made any allowances for, any slight advantage there might be. But Cameron was remarkably friendly. Or was it that as one became older and more experienced, and commanded bigger ships, then admirals became more confiding? He was far from sure, but whatever the reason it made a pleasant change.

Cameron’s comment that the convoys had to come round the south end of the island was a sensible one for him to make, because a captain who did not know the island probably would not know that peculiarity, caused by currents and calms.

Martinique’s size and her mountains meant that the island blocked off the usual north-east and easterly winds, creating a calm area stretching several miles to the westward. In addition, the northgoing current was strong along the west side of the island, through the calm area. All this meant that any ship – especially a heavily laden merchantman, which would in any case be a dull sailer – approaching round the north end of the island and bound for Fort Royal, which was also on the western side, would run into the area of calms, and lying becalmed she would find herself swept to the northwards by the current, away from Fort Royal. If she managed to find a whiffle of wind, it was unlikely to be strong enough to let her make any headway against the current. So ships made sure they approached round the south end of the island where, because of the lie of the mountains, the calms started further north and anyway the current swept a ship along the way she wanted to go, up to Fort Royal.

Fort Royal itself was on the north-west corner of a large bight which was in turn the wide entrance to a river. At first glance it seemed to be an open anchorage, but the chart showed that Fort Royal was set well back into the river entrance so that it could be protected by a fort and batteries, which could also cover any ships anchoring in the roads.

Cameron said: ‘I’ve just had to send a couple of frigates off to England with a convoy, and two more are cruising off the Main for another three or four weeks. The only ship I have off Martinique at the moment is a brig, which is keeping a watch on Fort Royal with orders to report back here at the first sign that a convoy is due. Not,’ he admitted ruefully, ‘that I could do much about it until you arrived. I’d take the
Reliant
out, of course, but she’s a damnably dull sailer: about all she’s fit for is being anchored here in Carlisle Bay as the flagship.’

He tugged his whiskers again, and said: ‘I suppose every commander-in-chief complains he doesn’t have enough frigates, whether he’s commanding a fleet or a station, but I’m supposed to keep a watch on the Windward Islands – including blockading Martinique – and assemble and sail convoys to England, providing the escorts, as well as covering the whole of the Main. All this with four or five frigates, a couple of seventy-fours, and a brig or two. Their Lordships ignore my requests for frigates – in fact I often have to sail convoys with the same escorts that brought them out, which isn’t really fair on the frigates, which are doomed to sail back and forth across the Atlantic escorting convoys and never getting a penn’orth of prize money.’

He paused for a minute or two and then said briskly: ‘Well, my problems don’t concern you. I’ll have your orders ready for you by tomorrow morning. You’ve got to water and provision, so I hope you’ll be on your way to Martinique in a couple of days.’