Ramage's Diamond (14 page)

Ramage looked at his watch. Three or four hours to go. Well, it was time to start the routine for going into harbour. “Mr Aitken,” he said quietly, “I'll have the sea gaskets off the yards and harbour gaskets on, if you please.” It was a small thing; many ships as small as frigates did not bother, but well-scrubbed harbour gaskets looked smarter; they added a flourish to sails given a “harbour furl.”

The studding-sails had been taken in so that the ends of the booms could be blacked, and he had decided not to set them again, but he noticed that the booms on the fore-topsail yard had not been run out to their marks, and he pointed it out to Aitken.

He passed the word for the gunner. The sea was comparatively calm and the ship was not rolling, nor would she when she altered course. When the gunner reported, Ramage said: “Make sure the guns are unshotted, Mr Johnson, get the half-ports off, and make ready for the salute.”

Southwick came up from below, still holding his quadrant, and when he gave the new course to the quartermaster Aitken shouted the orders to trim the yards round.

“What depth are we likely to be anchoring in, Mr Southwick?” Ramage asked.

“Eight fathoms, sir.”

Ramage turned to the First Lieutenant. “Have the cables ranged, Mr Aitken, if you please, and we'll be needing anchor buoy ropes for ten fathoms.”

He looked around for his coxswain. “Jackson! Bend on our pendant numbers and hoist them. Those fellows in the watch-tower will be having their glasses on us soon.”

The three flags would tell the men in the watchtower that the frigate's number was 367, and reference to the List of the Navy would show she was the
Juno
frigate, 32 guns. Ramage pictured the word being passed along the coast to Bridgetown, at the western end of Carlisle Bay, and no doubt Rear-Admiral Davis would wonder if the
Juno
was bringing him orders before going on to Jamaica, or whether she was another ship for his command. For sure he would have the name of her Captain wrong: his Navy List would still give the old commanding officer, and the name “Ramage, Nicholas” would be buried among five thousand other lieutenants.

Ramage watched as the yards were trimmed to keep the sails full on the new course. As soon as the
Juno
anchored in Carlisle Bay two boats would be needed—one to take him to the flag-ship, or wherever Rear-Admiral Davis had his headquarters, if he was living on shore, and another for Southwick to be rowed round the ship to make sure the yards were square. The lifts were marked but ropes stretched. Ramage wanted both boats hoisted out the moment the
Juno
was at anchor with her sails furled.

“Mr Aitken,” Ramage told the harassed First Lieutenant, “have both cutters ready for hoisting out, and see that the stay tackles are prepared.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Aitken said cheerfully, and Ramage was thankful his days as a first lieutenant were over: it was a thankless job. If everything went well, no one, least of all the captain, gave you credit for careful planning; if anything went wrong, you received all the blame and the fact that some order you had given had not been carried out was no excuse.

The word would soon get round Bridgetown that a frigate was coming in from England and people would be expecting to hear the latest gossip from London, see the latest newspapers (Ramage had remembered to buy several copies before he left for Portsmouth), and receive any mail she might be bringing. There would be invitations for the officers to dine on shore, unless Admiral Davis wanted the ship to sail immediately. Soldiers would want to hear news of the war; the ladies would be waiting avidly to hear news of the latest fashions, the latest scandals …

For the moment Ramage was more concerned with getting the
Juno
into Carlisle Bay in a smart and seamanlike manner. Half the problem was that there were no regulations for many of the manoeuvres. Firing a salute, for instance: it was not laid down whether a ship began firing the salute when the flagship came in sight—in which case there was a good chance that in a high wind it would not be heard, and puffs of smoke through the ports would be all that told the officer of the deck on board the flagship that a salute was being fired. Or did one wait until the salute could be heard on board the flagship—which could mean that it would not be completed until the ship was at anchor. Most admirals had their preferences, but one only discovered them after the salute had been fired.

Ramage, like many captains, liked to begin the salute as he approached the anchorage, timing the approach so that the last few guns were fired as the fore-topsail was backed, the anchor splashed down and the rest of the sails were furled. It was difficult because the guns had to be fired at regular intervals. Again, no interval was laid down, although most captains used five seconds, which was timed by the gunner chanting to himself: “If I wasn't a gunner I shouldn't be here, number one gun fire! If I wasn't a gunner …”

As the frigate turned away to the south-east, converging slightly on the coast as it trended away, the grey of the land slowly took shape, becoming low, rolling hills covered with sugar cane, which began to have colour the closer they approached. As the rest of the island came over the curvature of the earth they could see first the heads of palm trees along the beach and then the long line of the sand, glaring white with the sun almost overhead, the sea pale green as the water shallowed.

Finally, past South Point and with Needham Point fine on the starboard bow, Carlisle Bay still hidden by trending inland just beyond it, Ramage took one last look over the
Juno.
The crew of his cutter were rigged out in white trousers and blue shirts, their round sennet hats shiny with new black paint. There was no need to inspect them; Jackson would have checked over every man, and they would be freshly shaven and their queues newly-tied. Pendant numbers were streaming and the new ensign rippled in the brisk wind. Already Ramage felt the heat of the land, although they were still a mile offshore, and he could smell—was it hay? Hardly. More likely the smell from the sugar cane.

The four lieutenants were wearing their best uniforms; young Orsini was standing aft with Benson waiting for orders, and both the youngsters, wearing their dirks, were trying not to stare at the coastline—Ramage had heard Aitken reprimand them for climbing up on a gun for their first real sight of Barbados.

Captain Ramage was bringing the
Juno
frigate into Barbados. He had dreamed of commanding a frigate and the dream had come true. He had dreamed of taking his own frigate to the West Indies, and the dream had come true. Yet even as he looked around, felt the heat of the deck soaking through the soles of his shoes, looked around again to check for the tenth time that not a rope was out of place, not the tiniest grease spot on the deck, that the anchors were bent on to the cables, that the topmen were waiting for the order to swarm aloft and furl the sails, knowing that the Admiral would probably be watching with a critical eye glued to a telescope, even now it seemed unreal. He caught Southwick's eye and wondered if the old Master could read his thoughts. Southwick glanced round, saw no one watching, and gave Ramage a broad wink, his face remaining impassive. Still holding his quadrant in his right hand, the Master bent over the binnacle and then looked ahead. “I don't know how many ships there'll be in Carlisle Bay, sir, but it'll be opening in a moment—you can see Charles Fort and Beckwith Battery. Ah, there! One frigate … that's a brig just west of her. The flagship must be just—ah! I can just see the ends of her yards!”

Ramage glanced across at Aitken, but the First Lieutenant was already calling Benson and Orsini. “Have you got a bring-'em-near, Benson?” The midshipman snatched up a telescope. “Orsini, signal book?” The boy waved the slim volume.

Aitken looked at them sternly. “Benson, you'd better read the signals faster than the flagship makes 'em!”

The boy ran to the starboard side and climbed up on the aftermost gun, standing there with the telescope to his eye, Orsini standing on the deck beside him, ready to flick open the book at whatever page told him the meaning of the numbers that would be signalled.

Then the flagship was in sight, a long crescent of sandy beach beyond her, and Southwick was looking through his quadrant. He knew the height of her maintruck from her waterline and had already set on the quadrant the angle it would make at the distance off Ramage wanted to be when he began the salute.

“Another hundred yards, sir.”

“Gunner, stand by for the salute!” Ramage called down to the main-deck.

But there was no signal from the flagship telling him where to anchor. Another case of being damned if you waited and damned if you did not. Some admirals would flay a captain who just sailed in and anchored without being told exactly where, usually on a certain bearing and at a particular distance from the flagship. What did Admiral Davis favour? He shrugged his shoulders. The two frigates—no, three, because another one was just showing clear of the point—seemed to be anchored “where convenient.”

Southwick took the quadrant from his eyes. “That's the distance, sir,” he said, and he added quietly, “Either the watchtower hasn't passed the word or—judging from where the others are—we just anchor …”

Ramage nodded; there was no point in waiting. “Gunner,” he called, “begin the salute!” He turned to Southwick and added quietly, “It might wake 'em up!”

The first gun thundered across the small peninsula forming Needham Point and as the smoke drifted away Ramage saw a flock of pelicans wheeling up in alarm. The second gun boomed and then the third. Aitken was watching the flagship with his telescope and said suddenly, “Three, no four, officers are watching. One's a captain, and—yes, one's an admiral. Definitely an admiral, sir.”

“Her flag halyards!” Ramage snapped. “Are men bending on flags?”

“No, sir,” Aitken said firmly.

Ramage picked up the speaking-trumpet, noting that the fourth gun of the salute had just fired. “The outermost frigate,” he said to Aitken and Southwick. “We'll anchor a hundred yards on his larboard quarter. Are there still eight fathoms that far out, Southwick?”

“Aye, eight fathoms, sir,” the Master answered. “I'll go to the fo'c's'le.”

Not having to anchor in a particular spot made it easier. Several more guns to go; with luck the last of the salute should fire just before the anchor hit the water, but it would be close …

He took a deep breath, lifted the speaking-trumpet to his lips and shouted the orders that sent the topmen swarming aloft. On the deck other men were standing by, ready to haul or let go. The quartermaster leaned forward slightly waiting for the order that would bring the
Juno
up into the wind.

Then he gave a stream of orders. As the
Juno
began to turn, the courses, topsails, and topgallants lost their swelling shapes as clew-lines pulled the corners upwards and diagonally inwards towards the masts. Only the fore-topsail remained, rippling as the wind came round on the frigate's beam.

Ramage was watching the other frigate, now on the
Juno
's starboard bow. A quiet order to the quartermaster and the
Juno
turned into the wind, so that the fore-topsail was pressed against the mast, slowing the ship down. The other frigate was dead ahead and the backed fore-topsail had almost stopped the
Juno.

From the fo'c's'le Southwick signalled that all was ready; the bower anchor was hanging clear, the stock clear and below the bowsprit shrouds. The last gun of the salute fired and the smoke streamed aft. Jackson, perched by the main chains, called that the way was off the ship and Ramage gave his prearranged signal to Southwick. A moment later the anchor splashed into the water and the cable thundered out through the hawse, the smell of singeing rope drifting back to the quarterdeck as friction scorched the thick manila cable. Now the back topsail was beginning to push the
Juno
astern, putting a strain on the cable and digging in the anchor. In the meantime the rest of the sails were being neatly furled. Then the fore-topsail, its work done, was clewed and furled.

As Aitken went forward to start hoisting out the cutters he reported to Ramage: “No signals yet from the flagship, sir, but there are five telescopes watching us!”

Ramage looked at the other frigate and then walked to the forward end of the quarterdeck. He could just see the anchor buoy bobbing in the water. The
Juno,
more by luck than judgement, was where he wanted her. Aloft the sails were furled so tightly that the yards looked bare. Five telescopes, eh?

There was an excited squeak from Orsini, who came rushing to Ramage, signal book in hand. “Signal from the flagship, sir.
The Captain of the ship signified to report on board the flagship.
” He paused, as though making sure that Ramage had grasped it, and then added: “The ship signified is 637, and that's us, sir.”

Ramage suppressed a grin at the enormous importance Paolo placed on every word. “Very well, acknowledge—and keep a sharp eye open for more signals.”

Southwick came aft to report the amount of cable veered, and he took some bearings which he noted on the slate kept hooked on the binnacle box: they would show whether or not the anchor was dragging. Leaving the Master as officer of the deck, Ramage went down to his cabin and glanced in the mirror to make sure his stock had not creased in the hour since he had put on a fresh one. He put on his sword, wiped his face with a towel and picked up the canvas bag containing the despatches for the Admiral, a copy of his own orders, the
Juno
's log and the rest of the forms he had been busy filling in for the past few days. He took a second canvas bag, even bulkier: that was for Aitken to give to Wagstaffe. After Ramage was on board the flagship and reporting to the Admiral, Wagstaffe could take over the rest of the letters, newspapers and small packets. There were times, he thought crossly, when one of the King's ships seemed to carry more private mail than a Post Office packet ship.