That would make an enormous difference: the Dido would be heavily outnumbered with a ship of the line and three frigates to deal with, especially if the frigates were skilfully handled. In that case three frigates would almost equal another ship of the line. Well, Ramage decided grimly, if that was the escort then Ramage would go at them like a wolf attacking a flock of sheep - he would try and evade the escorts and go for the merchantmen, sinking any that came within range. It would cut down on the prize money they could expect to collect, but the object was to stop the convoy getting into Fort Royal.
By now the Dido was abreast of Diamond Rock. The day when he had captured Diamond Rock and swayed up guns to the top seemed a lifetime ago. He still remembered the excitement, though - and the wild day which had ended up with the capture of a French frigate which had been renamed the Calypso. He had been very lucky: there were few young captains who managed to capture frigates and be given command of them, and certainly he had had an exciting life while commanding the Calypso. Exciting enough for him to wonder what life would be like in the comparatively enormous Dido. Well, so far it had not been too bad. But chasing a convoy was not really a job for a ship of the line, because she was big and comparatively unhandy. Yet, he realized, if there were three frigates escorting the convoy, he would have little or no success with only the Calypso.
His reverie was broken as the hands were piped to dinner and the bosun's mates went through the ship blowing their calls, which sounded like piercing bird songs.
'They'll never get her off those rocks, I don't care what anyone says,' Stafford announced, sawing away at a piece of salt beef. 'You saw how she was up by the bow, and she must have stove in several planks. Probably set back her stem a couple of feet, too.
'Even if they do get her orf,' he added, 'she'll spend a long time in the dockyard. Her stern was completely smashed in. We were going past her so slowly it was no problem aiming. Every one of my shots 'it her fair and square in the capting's sternlights.'
'It's a wonder we didn't bring her mizen down,' Jackson said. 'It must have been peppered with shot.'
'That's a very exposed reef,' Rossi said. 'A good blow making her roll might bring it down. Her mainmast too, because those shot must have torn her insides out.'
Gilbert, pushing his plate away, leaving some gristle on the side, said: 'I wonder how many men we killed.'
Jackson shook his head. 'A hundred, I shouldn't wonder. I've never seen a ship so thoroughly raked since we attacked that frigate at Capraia Island. But that was with the Calypso, and we didn't have anything like the Dido's broadside. One thing about a big ship - her broadside is something to respect.'
'It's the 32-pounders that do the damage,' Stafford said solemnly.
'You don't say,' Jackson said sarcastically. 'I thought it'd be Mr Orsini's carronades.'
'Don't underestimate those carronades: they slaughter 'em on deck: cut 'em down like 'ay before a scythe.'
'Well,' said Louis, 'we must find the convoy.'
'Ah, that might be a needle in a 'aystack,' Stafford said.
'But it has to come round the south of the island,' Gilbert protested. 'If we just wait, it will come to us.'
'It's something over twenty miles from Cabrit Island to Fort Royal,' Jackson said. 'If the convoy arrived at night, it doesn't give us much time to hunt it down.'
'Arrive at night?' exclaimed Rossi. 'They'd never dare make a landfall at night. Mamma mia, they might all end up on the beach!'
'Don't forget they've got frigates that can scout ahead,' Jackson pointed out. 'They might use them as pilots.'
'I bet they won't stop one of them French mules running slap into Diamond Rock!' commented Stafford. 'It's just put there for 'em to 'it - specially on a dark night, and we've only got the new moon for an hour.'
'This salt beef is even tougher than usual,' Jackson grumbled. 'They must've had it in pickle since the last war.'
'Antique, that's wot it is,' pronounced Stafford. 'Every piece a genuine antique. You can carve it or polish it. Just don't try to chew it: it'll stave in your gnashers.'
'Those dockyard johnnies at Portsmouth knew we were going to the West Indies, so they got rid of some of their old stuff,' Jackson said. 'It's their favourite trick. They don't issue it to any ship of the Channel Fleet because they know they'd soon hear about it. But the West Indies are far enough away.'
'There ain't many currants in this duff, either,' exclaimed Stafford. 'Who's the cook this week? You, Louis? What happened?'
'You can't have a lot of currants all the time,' Louis said defensively. 'I put plenty of currants in the last one. There weren't many left. Stop grumbling!'
'Not much to be cheerful about,' Stafford said. 'Tough meat, no guts in the duff, and where the 'ell's the convoy? I ask yer!'
'The trouble with you is you worry too much,' Jackson said ironically. 'What with the meat and the duff and the convoy, you've got too heavy a load on your head.'
'Yus,' Stafford agreed seriously, 'that's my problem: I worry too much. Mind you, I 'ave to. You lot don't give tuppence about the meat and the duff, and the convoy might as well not exist. So I worry.'
'Very kind of you,' Jackson said, keeping a straight face. 'We appreciate it, don't we lads?'
The others murmured their agreement, and Stafford was satisfied that he was appreciated.
Later in the day there were the funerals. The Reverend Benjamin Brewster read the funeral service over eight men who had been killed by the shot from the Achille. Bowen reported to Ramage that the ten men wounded were making good progress and six of them would be able to return to duty within the week.
When Bowen paused on the quarterdeck for a few minutes, Southwick teased him about his chess. Bowen was a keen and expert player who had sometimes managed to trap an unenthusiastic Southwick into playing a game with him. Now the master was relieved to find that the chaplain was a chess player and, although not as good as Bowen, only too happy to play him.
Ramage watched as the carpenter and his mates worked hard to finish the main topgallant yard, splintered by a shot from the Achille. The wreckage had been lowered to the deck and the men were working fast on the repair.
Aitken had reported that it would take them five hours: the yard would be swayed up again before darkness fell, and the sail - fortunately not badly torn and already repaired - bent on again.
On the quarterdeck Martin, who was officer of the deck, was having a very serious conversation with Paolo Orsini about playing the flute, the skill which had earned Martin his nickname of 'Blower'.
'Could you teach me how to play?' Orsini asked.
'I think so,' Martin said carefully. 'It depends on many things. How musical are you? Are your fingers nimble? And you'll have to learn to read music.'
'That won't be any harder than navigation,' Orsini said ruefully. 'Anyway, I hope not. As for being musical - well, I like it when you play Telemann. I thoroughly enjoy it. The Bach, too.'
'Very well, I'll lend you my second-best flute. First you have to learn just to blow it. That means controlling your breath. And that means controlling your breathing: you can't run out of breath in the middle of a complicated piece of music.'
'I can practise breathing on watch,' Orsini said eagerly.
'As long as Mr Aitken doesn't notice: I don't think he would approve. He'd say you aren't concentrating on your job.'
'Oh, but I would be. After all, you've got to breathe anyway.'
Martin laughed. 'Well, just be careful.'
The wind fluked round to the north-east and Martin hailed the watch to trim the sheets and brace round the yards. 'It would be nice if we sighted the convoy coming round Cabrit Point,' he said conversationally. 'I can't wait to get into the middle of them.'