Now was the time to plan his own move. It was - to begin with - fairly simple: he would run down between the Heron and the Frenchman, firing his starboard broadside into the enemy - providing the Frenchman did not do the sensible thing, which would be to turn and run back to the protection of the seventy-four. Then the Dido would run on and give the second frigate a broadside, and then leaving both frigates to the Heron, he would go on to attack the seventy-four. She was, he knew, the main threat - both to the Heron and any ships on their way to the West Indies. If she got loose in a convoy, for instance - most outward-bound convoys had small escorts - the effect would be devastating.
The north-east wind was still little more than a fresh breeze; not enough to stir up whitecaps. The sky was still mottled with thunder clouds but the waterspouts seemed to have gone elsewhere. It was rather close, as though a thunderstorm was imminent. Today he had seen his first shoal of flying fish, and he had felt the usual excitement of returning to the Tropics. He freely admitted he hated the northern climate: it always seemed to be damp and cold, with usually a depressing drizzle. If he was free to live where he wanted he would buy a plantation somewhere like the island of Nevis. Not Barbados, which was too crowded and anyway too flat, nor Antigua, because he did not like the people who had settled there. Grenada, perhaps: it was a beautiful island.
But what the devil was he thinking about, considering the islands, when he had two enemy frigates ahead of him and a seventy-four? At least he had the weather gauge. Being to windward of them all gave him a considerable tactical advantage because he could run down to attack them while they had to beat to windward to get up to him.
That went a part of the way to making up for the fact that he and the Heron were outnumbered by a frigate. And he was pleased to see that the captain of the Heron was a man with spirit, as shown by his attempt to rake his pursuer.
Now they were about to go into action for the first time. Jackson was the quartermaster - he always liked to have the American there when they were in a battle. Southwick and Aitken were with him on the quarterdeck, Aitken ready to take command if a random shot knocked his head off.
What would Sarah be doing now? Perhaps on her way down to Aldington. He was pleased that she so liked the estate he had inherited from his uncle. Given that he could not retire to the Tropics, Aldington was the next best place, sitting among the hills overlooking Romney Marsh, giving him a view extending to Dungeness.
'A point to starboard,' he called to Jackson, who relayed the order to the four men at the wheel. It did not take four men to handle the wheel in this weather, but at general quarters two extra men joined the normal two, just in case any of them were killed. The two on the windward side were the ones that did the work.
That alteration of course would put the Heron fine on his larboard bow and kept the Frenchman to starboard. It should be clear to the Heron what he intended to do.
The Dido had barely turned when Southwick gave another of his prodigious sniffs as they saw the French frigate suddenly turn out to starboard and tack, turning south towards the seventy-four.
'Shows he's got some sense,' Southwick commented. 'I was wondering how he'd stand up to our broadside!'
But Ramage now had a decision to make. The Dido was sailing along with her great courses furled: under reduced canvas she would never catch up with the frigate, and presumably the second one would turn away too. The question was, would the seventy-four stay and fight, or would she too make a bolt for it with the frigates?
There was no reason why she should bolt, since the French had the advantage; but, Ramage thought, there was also no reason why the French should stay and fight. There was a considerable difference between snapping up a single frigate and finding yourself unexpectedly in action with a British seventy-four as well.
He made up his mind and said to Aitken: 'Let fall the courses.'
The sails had hardly tumbled down and been sheeted home before the Dido had reached the Heron, and as she swept down past her the frigate turned out to starboard and tacked, so that she came round on to the same course as the Dido.
'He's understood what you meant by number twenty-nine,' Southwick commented.
It took two or three minutes for the courses to start drawing properly, then as they added their thrust to the other sails the 2,800 tons of the Dido began to surge in pursuit of the French frigates.
The nearest one was now less than half a mile away, and with his glass Ramage could just make out the name Sylphe painted on her transom. She was fine on the starboard bow and steering directly for the French seventy-four, like the chick running to the mother hen, but the Dido was overhauling her. Would she range up alongside before the frigate reached her consort?
And the second frigate: she was now swinging out and tacking before turning south, following the Sylphe's manoeuvre. She was perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of the Sylphe, busy trimming her sheets and braces after tacking.
Yes, the Dido was catching up on the Sylphe; he wanted to shout at the big seventy-four to pick up her skirts. That was the difference between a frigate and a ship of the line: a seventy-four was so much slower to answer - whether to the helm or random puffs of wind. Fortunately the wind was steady now so, with all her canvas drawing, the Dido surged ahead. She had all the advantage of a clean bottom, while the French ships were probably foul: at least he could hope so. That should knock a knot or two off their speed.
Now the Sylphe was close enough for him to be able to pick out details with the naked eye: she had a big patch on the larboard side of her main topsail, and her topmasts were painted black, which was unusual. Her name was picked out in red on a white background with blue scrollwork. There was a puff of smoke as she opened fire on the Dido with her two sternchase guns, but Ramage had decided not to use the Dido's two bowchasers: better to wait for the full broadside.
And that would not be long in coming: the Sylphe was barely a couple of ship's lengths ahead, now: Ramage could distinguish men standing on her poop and looking astern. And well they might: being chased by a lumbering seventy-four was, he knew from bitter experience, an intimidating spectacle, and they must be cursing that the Dido would overhaul them before they could reach their own seventy-four.
'I'll have the guns run out, Mr Aitken.'
Two of the midshipmen who had been standing aft on the quarterdeck were sent running down to the guns, and Aitken hailed up to Orsini on the poop. A moment later Ramage heard the heavy carronades being hauled out on their slides.
Ramage saw that the Dido would pass about fifty yards from the Sylphe's larboard side: just the right distance for the Dido's gunners to be able to see their target clearly and to be able to fire without haste. Passing too close meant that the target flashed past the gunports without giving the gun captains time to adjust their aim.
Ramage knew the value of the first broadside: fired without haste there was no smoke to obscure the target, and the men were not too excited. It should be calmly destructive.
Now the Dido's bowsprit was abreast the Sylphe's taffrail and Ramage could picture the second captains cocking the locks and springing back to clear the recoil. Then the bowsprit was abreast the mizen and suddenly there was a heavy drumroll as the forward 32-pounders and the 24-pounders began firing. Gradually the heavy booming moved aft as more guns came to bear, and as Ramage watched the side of the Sylphe he saw the red flashes of her 12-pounders firing back.
He was not absolutely sure of his feelings: the Sylphe was the enemy, and with her consort might well have pounded the Heron to matchwood if the Dido had not hove in sight, but she was a frigate with puny 12-pounders while the Dido was a ship of the line with 32-pounders: it seemed desperately unfair. Then he shook his head: it was only a few weeks ago in the Mediterranean that the Calypso had found herself caught between two French seventy-fours, and he was sure that neither captain had much sympathy with him.
The Dido's guns were firing quite slowly because she was not overtaking the Sylphe very quickly, and he was able to watch their effect. They were slowly dismantling the ship. Already the bulwarks aft had been smashed in and the starboard side of the taffrail had been battered down, as though the frigate's quarter had hit a dock. The boats stowed on the booms were smashed in and the wreckage hurled across the deck. Half a dozen gun portlids hung down, ripped off their hinges by shot which had ploughed on to kill men serving the guns.
Now Ramage saw dust rising from amidships as more roundshot hammered into the frigate's side, and Ramage could imagine the lethal showers of splinters cutting down the men at the guns. There was no doubt that the Dido's men were obeying instructions and firing into the hull: there was very little damage to masts and yards - that he could see, anyway.
'Keep alongside her!' he snapped at Aitken and the first lieutenant shouted the orders that clewed up the courses, reducing their area, and under just topsails and topgallants the Dido slowed down, staying abreast of the Sylphe.
Now the guns were being reloaded and, while the smoke from the first broadside drifted across the quarterdeck, starting everyone coughing, the first of them fired again. Between the thunder of the guns Ramage thought he could hear screams from the French ship, but he was not sure: as well as the booming of the guns there was the rumble of the trucks on the deck as the guns hurled back in recoil, and some of the trucks squeaked. Squeaks and screams, it was all part of a devil's chorus.
'She won't be able to take much of this,' Southwick said, and swore as a 12-pounder shot from the Sylphe ricocheted across the quarterdeck and struck down one of the men at the wheel.
'She's hauling down her colours!' Aitken shouted.
Ramage swung his telescope and looked in case a stray shot had cut the halyard, but no, there were two men - one of them looked like an officer - busy hauling on the rope.
'Cease fire!' Ramage shouted to Aitken. 'Quick, send word round the guns.'
He knew how difficult it was to pass orders to excited men deafened by the guns and half blinded by the smoke. Usually it was a question of sending men round to each gun, pounding the captain on the back and gesticulating. Now what? Leave the second frigate to the Heron and go for the seventy-four, or attack the frigate and risk being interrupted (and put at a disadvantage) by the seventy-four?
There was nothing more to be done with the Sylphe: she had surrendered, and apart from that she was almost destroyed. She could sail because her masts and yards were still standing, but her hull was little more than a shell, her vitals ripped out by the Dido's punishing broadsides.
The most important target was the seventy-four; he must not forget that. And that meant not wasting any time on the second frigate: she was the Heron's affair. The seventy-four was beating up towards them fast, obviously hoping she would arrive in time to save the two frigates. Her captain must have been watching the smoke of the Dido's broadsides and known as soon as her guns stopped spurting smoke that the Sylphe had been forced to surrender.
'That other frigate is Le Requin, I've just been able to read her name,' Aitken said. 'Are you going to tackle her next, sir?'
Ramage shook his head. 'No, we'd better attack the seventy-four: she'll be up with us before we can deal with the frigate.'
But how to deal with the seventy-four? Both ships were approaching each other bow to bow. Ultimately it would be reduced to a pounding match, broadside against broadside, with a big butcher's bill on both sides.
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. That was war, and now he commanded a bigger ship, the butcher's bill was likely to be larger. He tried not to think how many
