Orsini nodded. 'Yes, sir, including the frigates. Vice-Admiral Collingwood's blue ensign is still hoisted at the fore t'gallant masthead of the Royal Sovereign.'
It could only mean one thing, but Ramage tried to avoid thinking about it. Had Lord Nelson had a premonition about his death? Could that flag halyard have been cut by a shot?
'How long ago did you first notice the flag wasn't flying?'
'About five minutes, sir. As soon as I noticed, I started examining all the other ships, in case he had shifted his flag.'
Five minutes: time enough to reeve a new halyard or hoist the flag on another one. If not to the mainmasthead, then from a yard: from anywhere that it could be seen. But this had not been done.
The commander-in-chief's flag had been struck. It seemed that someone (presumably Captain Hardy) had waited until the fighting was finished, knowing the effect it would have on everyone in the British fleet.
Lord Nelson was dead; he must have been killed in the battle. He would never again hear that high-pitched voice with its Norfolk accent: he would never be able to listen to the stream of ideas, plans, orders: never again realize that he was in the company of the most brilliant man ever to wear a naval uniform.
Yet part of his mind rebelled. That little man who was like a coiled spring, who had played with his daughter in Clarges Street and been such a good host, who only a few days ago on board the Victory had kept more than thirty captains (and two admirals) spellbound as he had described how he was going to attack and destroy the Combined Fleet - no, that man could not be dead!
He could not be dead so that he never saw how his plan had succeeded brilliantly! He could not be dead before Britain could thank him for saving the country from Bonaparte's invasion. And Lady Hamilton and Horatia. . . Poor Lady Hamilton was only the great man's mistress, but Ramage had no doubt that Horatia was the daughter of Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, for all the admiral's careful references to 'my god-daughter'.
So Lady Hamilton - he began to accept it all now - had lost her lover and Horatia her father, and Britain her greatest admiral, and every captain in the fleet would mourn a friend, even though some of them had only just met him. And the ships' companies . . . they would mourn a father.
Orsini was watching him closely, tears in his eyes. 'Does it mean ... ?'
Ramage nodded. 'I think so,' he said. 'I can't think of any other explanation. But watch the Royal Sovereign: Admiral Collingwood may shift his flag to the mainmasthead . . . then we shall know for certain.'
'What shall I say to Mr Hill? He's officer of the deck, and I reported to him: he sent me down to you, sir.'
Rumours rushing through the ship ... No, he did not want that. Better tell the men what he knew. The more he thought about it the more certain he became. Nelson's good luck had failed him: he was dead at the moment of his greatest victory. Hardy had hauled down the flag. And with the gale blowing up there would be no chance of Admiral Collingwood being able to tell each ship.
'Ask Mr Hill to muster all the ship's company aft - all except those guarding the French prisoners and the wounded.'
As Orsini left the cabin, Ramage sighed. He had spoken scores of times to the ship's company: every Sunday at divisions, and often before some operation. But how was he to tell them news which made him want to burst into tears? Lord Nelson seemed to belong to everyone who met him or served under him, and now he had to tell the men (who had so proudly painted in the yellow strake along the Calypso's sides, 'Nelson fashion') that he was dead. Killed while all around him his plan was succeeding so brilliantly; when his attack had cut off the van from the enemy's centre and rear, just as he had intended . . .
He buckled on his sword and carefully put on his hat, making sure he did not disturb the bandage. He would go up on deck a few minutes before the men could muster, to tell Hill, Southwick and the rest of the officers of his conclusion.
In this rising wind, would Orsini be able to distinguish if any of the ships had their colours at half-mast? No, they were too far away for that. What should he do with the Calypso's colours? Well, he was only concluding that His Lordship was dead, and that was all he could tell the men. Leave the colours as they are, until he could get sight of another ship, one nearer the centre of events.
As he prepared to go on deck he listened. The wind was beginning to howl and the ship pitch and roll. Already the Calypso had reduced to reefed topsails, having had them set only for a short while, and soon it would be time for storm staysails . . .
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The gale lasted five days: the wind blew from the west as though demented, sweeping dismasted prizes before it to their destruction on Spain's beaches and reefs, while other ships under storm canvas fought to ride out wild and mountainous seas racing in across the Atlantic.
Before the gale broke, Ramage had seen Vice-Admiral Collingwood's flag (the blue ensign, since he was a vice-admiral of the blue) struck on board the Royal Sovereign and hoisted in the Euryalus, while the mainmasthead of the Victory remained bare.
That could mean only one thing, and it was stupid to keep on hoping otherwise: Collingwood's move could only mean that he was now the new commander-in- chief.
But at least, after all these weary days, the storm was blowing itself out. The fleet had not anchored as Nelson had signalled because it was in deep water too far offshore, and whoever was in command (Ramage assumed Admiral Collingwood) had made no effort to get them close inshore, into shallower water. In normal circumstances, ships were better off riding out bad weather in the open sea under sail; but with so many lost masts and torn sails and rigging, not to mention the battered prizes . . .
Ramage went up on deck and found the wind had dropped considerably. The low clouds still scudded across but they had lost some of the menacing blackness: there was a hint that above the greyness there might be a blue sky.
Orsini suddenly pulled open the binnacle box drawer and snatched out a telescope.
'Euryalus, sir: our pendant numbers . . . 213, for captain to come to the admiral ...'
Ramage looked across the grey, wave-swept gap between the two frigates. 'Hoist out the cutter,' he told Martin, who was officer of the deck. 'Double-bank the oars. I'm going below to put on my oilskins.'
There were eight other ships in sight, apart from the Hasard, all rolling and pitching under storm canvas, little more than black clumps on the grey surface of the sea with masts scribing circles in the sky. There was no sign of the other French frigates; those ships in sight were all British, and all had either survived the battle without damage to masts or made jury rigs.
'Not much of a day to go visiting,' Southwick commented. 'I wonder what he wants?'
Ramage had a shrewd idea: the Calypso had attacked an enemy frigate without orders. He had not actually disobeyed any orders from Blackwood in the Euryalus but had ignored the possibility there might have been any and, more important, he had broken the tradition that frigates did not get involved in battles between ships of the line. Yes, one could argue that it was the sort of thing that Nelson might have done when he was a junior post-captain, but that was not the sort of argument with which Vice-Admiral Collingwood was likely to agree.
Why did you do it, Mr Ramage? He could hear Collingwood's chilly voice. Well, sir, I'm so pleased with the way the French shipbuilders designed the Calypso that I thought the Royal Navy should have another one like her, so I ...
Collingwood would (quite reasonably) scoff at that, since it was not true. Very well, tell him the truth: I set out to capture her because my fellows wanted a fight, but the 74s were too big for me.
That way, Ramage knew, would lead straight to a court-martial . . .
Up and down, the bow plicing off spray and sending it hissing across the open boat to run down his oilskins, the cutter rolling and pitching so badly that the men could not help catching a crab with the oars which, the next moment, would be caught in a rogue wave and snatched viciously so that the looms slammed them in the chest.
Every stroke seemed to hold the cutter midway between the Calypso and the Euryalus, even though the Calypso had hove-to to windward, so that the cutter would be rowing to leeward. Ramage held his hat on to stop the spray soaking the bandage round his head. Bowen had promised to take out the stitches later in the day. When he had inspected the wound this morning, as usual sniffing for smells of gangrene, he had declared that there was no sign of trouble: the wound was healing cleanly.
Ah, the Euryalus was at last getting closer. In fact he could see a small group of officers waiting at the entryport, and sideboys were waiting to scramble down and hold out the manropes . . .
It was all a lot of trouble, in this vile weather, just to administer a reprimand to a post-captain so junior that his name was still among the last twenty or thirty on the Post List. Nelson would have waited, but Collingwood was a colder sort of man.
Ramage began cursing to himself. He had left London full of enthusiasm and hope: he had said goodbye to Sarah and his parents thinking (he admitted it honestly) that with any luck he would be returning in something approaching triumph.
But now he would be going back in disgrace: when he arrived in Palace Street and they asked him what had happened (expecting a cheery reply) he would answer that he was due back in Chatham (or Portsmouth or Plymouth) to face a court-martial. Perhaps, he thought idly, Admiral Collingwood would instead send him down to Gibraltar to face a trial: there it should not be difficult to muster the five post-captains necessary to convene a court-martial.
And now Jackson was rounding up the cutter: the bowman hooked on and Ramage made a lunge for the manropes, jumping on to a batten as the cutter lifted on the top of a swell wave and paused a second. Many an officer arrived on the quarterdeck with his boots full of water because he jumped in the trough and was caught by the next crest.
Up, up, up ... he climbed the battens, hauling on the manropes, and suddenly he was at the entryport, with a smiling Blackwood and another man, presumably his first lieutenant.
'My dear Ramage,' Blackwood said, 'a lot has happened since I last saw you! Congratulations on wrecking that 74!'
Ramage mustered a modest grin and thought: why mention Le Brave and ignore the frigate? A hint of what was in store?
'Yes,' Ramage said, 'he just followed us without looking at his chart. Forgot he drew several feet more!'
'You didn't, though,' Blackwood said heartily and waited while the first lieutenant helped Ramage take off his oilskins. 'Oh, what happened to you?' Blackwood asked, seeing the bandage.
