Ramage At Trafalgar (30 page)

“She seemed to be in too much of a hurry to get up towards Cadiz,” Aitken said. “And from what I can see of the battle, I don’t blame her!”

By now Ramage was on his feet. There were twenty or thirty bodies sprawled in grotesque attitudes across the quarterdeck.

“What about the fo’c’sle and waist?”

“Hill, Kenton, Martin and Orsini are securing the prisoners.”

Ramage fought off a wave of dizziness. “Casualties?”

Aitken shook his head regretfully. “Seems we’ve lost at least eight men dead and thirteen wounded, one badly,” he said. “We’re getting the wounded across to the
Calypso
so that Bowen can get to work. The Frenchmen, too.”

Ramage, his vision still blurred, stared across at what had been the line of battle. Now it had become a ragged row of scattered groups of ships, many with masts gone by the board or topmasts canted like bent stalks. And every one of them coated with thick smoke: with some it was pouring from gunports as the breeze coming through the weather ports drove it out of the lee ones; with others, sails brought down on collapsed yards had caught fire, probably from the muzzle flash of the guns. Great ships now had less dignity than drunken men sprawled insensible in an alley outside a gin mill.

Ramage tried to put his thoughts together. Prisoners, wounded, and – he looked up at the wispy strands of clouds, mare’s-tails coming in from the west and the distant outriders of bad weather –
now secure the prize
.

Well, he was going to get no help from the other ships: each one had enough emergencies of its own. So first, prisoners – how many? Probably a couple of hundred. Very well, leave a hundred on board the
Hasard
and shift the rest over to the
Calypso
. Sergeant Ferris and half the Marines can stay on board the
Hasard
, with fifty seamen: that should deal with the prisoners.

Wounded? Well, Bowen will have started his grisly work: he and his loblolly man will have all the help they need sent down to them by Southwick.

Colours! He glanced astern hurriedly, to see that the French colours had already been hauled down. Aitken saw where he was looking and said: “Jackson’s gone back on board the
Calypso
to get British colours, sir – in fact, here he comes!”

They watched as the American hurried over to the seaman with the ensign halyard. The French Tricolour had already been taken off and was lying on the deck. Jackson tied a bowline on the hoist of the British colours and the other seaman (Ramage recognized him as Rossi) then secured the Tricolour. They shook out the flags to check that they were the right way up and then Rossi pulled down on the halyard while Jackson made sure the flags, British above French, were clear and then kept a strain on the other end of the halyard until the head of the British colours reached the block.

“Congratulations, sir,” Aitken said. “You’ll soon have a collection of this class o’ frigate!”

Ramage, his head still wanting to spin, grinned feebly. “Find Rennick,” he said. “Send word to Bowen how many wounded he can expect.”

The Marine lieutenant, grinning happily, soon reported to Ramage.

“Prisoners,” Ramage said, surprised how much effort it took him to concentrate his thoughts and enunciate the word, “what’s happening?”

“All secured, sir. Kenton’s men are guarding those on the fo’c’sle, Hill has them rounded up in the waist, and Martin has them under guard here on the quarterdeck.”

“What about those below decks?”

“Sergeant Ferris and a dozen men are working their way through the ship, sir. The corporal has just reported to me that just about every Frenchman seems to have come on deck when we boarded: didn’t want to be trapped below, I reckon.”

“You can’t repel boarders down below,” Ramage said, and immediately regretted such a long speech as the caulker’s maul battered his head.

“What about that French lieutenant?”

“He’s waiting over there, sir,” Aitken said. “Are you ready?” A Marine brought the French officer over. The man, in his twenties, was white-faced but unwounded.

“Captain Ramage,” he said in French, “this gentleman–” he gestured at Aitken, “–told me it was you. My captain is dead, so I surrender my ship.”

He proffered the sword which he was holding in front of him in its scabbard, closely watched by the Marine.

Ramage shook his head. “Keep it” he said, “you all fought bravely.”

“Your head,” the lieutenant said apologetically, “I am sorry that one of my seamen…”

“A mere cut,” Ramage said, and gestured to the Marine to take the lieutenant away. By breathing deeply, Ramage managed to ward off another wave of dizziness.

He looked round the
Hasard
’s decks. Yes, the French seamen were standing in groups, guarded by the
Calypso
’s seamen and Marines. Wounded men were still being carried over to Bowen.

“Furl,” he said to Aitken, pointing up to the
Hasard
’s topsails. “Pass the word to Southwick. Furl, we’ll just drift off to leeward.”

Drifting off to leeward: that was what he was doing, too, and what he would continue doing until his head cleared.

“There’s nothing more for you to do here if you’d like to get back to the
Calypso
, sir,” Aitken said. “Perhaps you’d let Jackson put a bandage on your head. It’s bleeding badly.”

Bleeding? Ramage put his hand up to his head. The hair was wet – but they had doused him with a bucket of water. He looked at his hand, which was covered in blood. He put his hand back at the place where the caulker’s maul seemed to be hammering hardest and felt the gash. Several inches long. Already the blood was clotting, drying in tangled hair.

“That Frenchman was really whirling that musket, sir,” Aitken said. “You ought to get it cleaned up, sir: it’s worrying the men.”

“Worrying the men?” a puzzled Ramage repeated.

“The blood’s running thick down the back of your neck and over your coat, sir. Some of the men think you’ve been badly wounded.”

“Just a bit dizzy,” Ramage mumbled. “But I’ll leave you in command here. You’re prizemaster.”

“Thank-you, sir,” Aitken said, standing more upright. “The French dead – we’ll bury them here?”

“Have that French lieutenant read a service.”

“Ours I’ll send over to the
Calypso
?”

Ramage nodded and nearly fell as his head spun again. “I’ll read the service for them. Now I’ll…” He almost fainted and found himself held up by Stafford and Jackson. “Tell Southwick to furl everything: just lie a’hull.”

“Yes, sir, but I’m sending you back to the
Calypso
,” Aitken said firmly. “You’re in no state to be on deck.”

Jackson half-carried, half-dragged Ramage back on board the
Calypso
, and as they manoeuvred him through the gunport they were met by an agitated Southwick.

“Is that the captain?”

“Yes, sir, he’s–”

“Wait, I’ll get Bowen!”

“Sir,” Jackson said firmly, “it’s just a head wound. I don’t think he’ll approve of–”

“No Bowen,” Ramage muttered, “my cabin.”

Southwick bent down and inspected the wound. “Oh, not as bad as it looks. So much blood, though. Down the back, where he can’t see it.”

“Yes,” Jackson said patiently, “now can we shift him, sir?”

They helped Ramage down the companionway, kicked open the door to the cabin – for once there was no Marine sentry – and finally lowered him on to the settee.

“I’ll get a bowl of water and some cloth, sir,” Jackson said. “Soon have you cleaned up.”

Ramage fainted twice more before Jackson and Stafford had the wound washed clean. Stafford went up on deck to get a bandage from one of the drawers in the capstan head.

After he and Jackson argued how the bandage should be tied, Ramage ended up looking like a pale milkmaid with a scarf tied round her head.

Stafford took a small bottle from a pocket. “I asked Mr Bowen about the cut and he said to give you a drop of this, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Brandy, sir.”

“Hate brandy,” Ramage said, a note of firmness coming back to his voice. “Give me a drink of water and then help me up on deck.”

“I don’t think–” Jackson started saying hastily.

“For God’s sake, this is only a cut!” Ramage said crossly.

On the quarterdeck, in a refreshing breeze, Ramage began to feel better. Southwick had furled the courses, topsails and topgallants but now, with no sails to steady them, the heavy swell waves were making the two frigates grind together.

“Get Hill and Martin back over here, and pass the word to Aitken that as soon as all the wounded and prisoners are across, we are going to cast him off. Oh yes, you’ll have about a hundred prisoners. You’ll need guards. Tell Aitken to send back fifty men.”

“Easier if I go across myself, sir,” Southwick said, and bustled down the quarterdeck ladder.

The master was back in less than ten minutes. “I’ve told Orsini he can come back on board,” he reported. “When the poor lad saw you being carried off dripping blood, he thought you were dying, if not dead.”

“I’d come back to haunt him,” Ramage growled. “Now, is Aitken ready? Right, unhitch those grapnels. Cut them adrift, if you have to; we won’t be boarding anyone else today.”

Ramage sat down on the breech of one of the carronades. Southwick gave him his telescope and he swept it along the former line of battle. Complete sections were still blotted out by banks of smoke, but British colours above French flew from several of the French 74s. All of Nelson’s ships, even the slow sailers, had arrived in the battle, picked their opponents and gone into action. And so had Collingwood’s column: there were no British ships to windward of the line.

God, what a battle! He could see that the French admiral’s flagship, the
Bucentaure
, was dismasted and her hull badly damaged: masts and yards were spread across the deck as though thrown there by a wilful hand. The gigantic
Santissima Trinidad
was also dismasted, and so was the
Redoutable
, which with the
Bucentaure
had engaged the
Victory
. Nor had Nelson’s flagship escaped: she had lost her mizenmast. Many other ships had lost masts, but it was impossible to identify them.

He looked to the northward. Yes, three or four of the leading French ships had turned back as though intending at last to help the centre and rear, but Ramage guessed their hearts were not in it: they were working their way out to windward of the line, while a dozen other ships, both French and Spanish, were making off to leeward, obviously bolting for Cadiz.

Twenty ships? He reckoned that by the time all the smoke had cleared and the gale of which the mare’s-tails were warning actually arrived, twenty French and Spanish ships would have been captured or destroyed.

By now the
Hasard
had drifted clear; the heart-stopping grinding of the two hulls had ended, although, with no sails set to steady her, the
Calypso
was rolling so badly that Ramage was having to brace himself on the carronade.

Southwick lurched over, hard put to balance himself against the irregular movement.

“All the prisoners are now safely under guard: I’ve four men with musketoons watching ’em, too. Bowen says none of our wounded are in a dangerous condition. One o’ those Frenchmen you brought out of Brest with Lady Sarah, the one called Louis, had a couple of nasty cutlass slashes, but Bowen’s sewn him up. Bowen’s starting on the Frenchmen now. Says he has time to put a few stitches in that cut o’ yours, sir.”

Ramage waved away the idea.

“Sir,” Southwick said firmly, “it’s a nasty cut and it’ll scar badly if you don’t have it stitched. It’ll scare the life out of Lady Sarah if she sees it…”

Southwick turned away, having played his trump card, and a few minutes later a shaky Ramage came across to the quarterdeck rail. “All right, keep an eye on things while I go down and see Bowen. I’ll only be a few minutes…”

Why were his knees so weak, more like the leather hinge on a flail? Nor was it easy to balance himself. He cursed as his sword scabbard caught between his legs. His sword? He remembered slashing at some Frenchman with it, and he was holding it when that fellow hit him with the musket. Well, Aitken or Jackson must have picked it up and put it back in the scabbard. It seemed silly going down to get your head sewn up with a sword slung round your waist.

Twenty minutes later, five painful stitches in his scalp and both stitches and gash hidden by a neatly tied bandage, Ramage sat in the chair at his desk and cursed the weather: already it was becoming gusty, the cloud thickening from the west. Just what Lord Nelson had anticipated in his signal that the fleet was to prepare to anchor at the close of day.

But all those prizes – could they be anchored? With the Spanish coast less than thirty miles to leeward, if the gale lasted more than a few hours most of the prizes would end up wrecked on the beaches…

Aitken had enough men to sail the
Hasard
thank goodness, although none of the admirals would care much about a prize frigate…not with the largest ship in the world, the
Santissima Trinidad
, drifting with no masts…

He listened carefully. The rumble of gunfire was dying down now. The previous summer thunder of massed broadsides had changed to occasional broadsides, like a dreaming dog fitfully growling in its sleep.

There was nothing more for him to do apart from making sure the
Calypso
and the
Hasard
were ready for the gale that would reach them at nightfall. He clasped his head before calling to the sentry: “Pass the word for Mr Southwick.”

Before the master could be called, the sentry was announcing: “Mr Orsini, sir, says it’s urgent.”

The young midshipman was excited. “The commander-in-chiefs flag, sir: it’s been hauled down!”

Ramage fingered the bandage round his head. “What do you mean by that?”

“Lord Nelson’s flag, sir: it was flying from the mainmasthead of the
Victory
but it’s been hauled down. There’s just her ensign and the Union Flag that His Lordship ordered all the ships to fly during the battle.”