Seeing the captain leaning on the bulwark looking at the Fleet, Southwick knew they both faced a tiring night: keeping station was going to be difficult. Even before turning in he'd felt fog in the air: his right wrist ached and that was a sure sign. A couple of years earlier a blow from his sword had gone clean through a Frenchman's arm and the blade brought up so hard on the barrel of a gun that the shock had broken the bone. Although painful enough at the time, Southwick had since regarded it as a blessing in disguise - when forecasting the weather he put more stock in his wrist and an old piece of dried seaweed hanging in his cabin than all the mercury glasses he'd ever seen. Men laughed when he said he felt a night's fog aching in his wrist and damp on the seaweed. But he always laughed last later when he found them huddled on deck, the fog so thick it dripped off their noses.
Ah well, he thought, a fleet action at last. He'd served at sea all these years and never been within five hundred miles of one. He no longer feared death - that was one of the pleasant sides of growing old. Going over the standing part of the foresheet was inevitable one day - he'd lost count of how many times he'd stood by as the body of a shipmate, an old and valued friend sewn up in his hammock, had been launched over the gangway just above where the standing part of the foresheet was secured to the ship's side.
His thoughts were interrupted by Ramage, who walked over and said, 'Well, Mr. Southwick, the Dons will have fog to help them. I saw a few patches to the south-east just before it began to get dark, and now the wind's falling light and it seems warm and damp...'
'Aye, sir, and I can feel it in my wrist: it'll be a thick night and plenty of bang bang - p'raps I ought to get some of the shot drawn from the forward guns?'
Ramage agreed: it was certain they'd have to be fired for fog signals during the night, and it would be better to have the shot removed now, in case it was forgotten later, and the fog signal ended up as a round shot through the Commodore's sternlights.
Half an hour later it was too dark to distinguish the big ships and Ramage had settled down to the tiring task of keeping in position using the shaded lanterns on the poop of the Namur, the ship next ahead of the Captain, when he noticed that occasionally they vanished for a few minutes as thin patches of fog drifted past. Each time he called to the men at the helm 'Watch your heading!' and the quartermaster standing at the binnacle peered down at the dimly lit compass.
But the Namur's lanterns had been out of sight for three or four minutes when suddenly he heard Commodore Nelson's reedy voice shouting urgently from dead ahead, 'Ramage, you dam'd dunderhead, wear ship or you'll end up in Cowley's tap-room!'
Surprise paralysed Ramage for a moment; then fearing a collision was imminent, he leapt to the larboard bulwark and peered ahead for some sign of the Captain, but he could see nothing. Cowley's - that was the well-known inn at Plymouth Dock!
He was about to hail the forward lookouts when the Commodore shouted again: 'D'ye hear me Ramage? Are you dreaming or dragging your anchors for the next world? Put y'helm hard up for Poverty Bay - let fly the sheets an' let's square the yards of those dam' Dons.
Ramage jumped back with a curse as a bellow of rage from Southwick resounded through a speaking trumpet.
'Come aft, you drunken scoundrel!' the Master roared. 'Poverty Bay indeed! You wait until I've finished with you!'
At last Ramage realized what was happening - a drunken seaman sitting out on the end of the Kathleen's bowsprit was giving a passable imitation of the Commodore's voice...
Ordering Southwick to stay aft and keep a watch for the Namur's lights, Ramage walked forward, still feeling shaky and foolish, only too aware of stifled chuckles from the other seamen on deck. Just as he reached the windlass a dark figure said, 'Captain, sir?'
'Yes, what is it?'
'Beg to report the lookout at the starboard cathead's drunk, sir.'
Ramage recognized Stafford's voice.
'Who's the lookout at the starboard cathead?'
'I am, sir,' Stafford said, giving a prodigious belch.
'Get yourself aft,' snapped Ramage, 'I'll give you Cowley's!'
He said it quickly in case he began laughing. Where the devil had Stafford heard the Commodore speaking? He hadn't realized the Cockney was such a good mimic and followed his unsteady walk aft until the man stood swaying slightly in the faint glow of the binnacle light.
'Why are you drunk?' Ramage demanded harshly.
'Dunno, sir - I only 'ad one nor'wester, and that don't do no 'arm normalally -1 mean normalilly.'
He paused and, still swaying, made a tremendous effort to correct himself. 'I mean usuallilly, like I said, sir.'
'One nor'wester be damned,' snapped Ramage. 'More likely four due north. Mr. Southwick, man the head pump - Stafford can refresh himself by drinking a couple of mugs of Cowley's special Cadiz Bay sea water and then stand under the pump for fifteen minutes until he knows whether he's a lilly or a lally!'
'Fetch me a mug!' growled Southwick, seizing Stafford by the shoulder and giving him a push forward. 'Man the starboard head pump,' he bellowed, in a sudden burst of anger, 'our Mr. Stafford's going to dance more than one jig at Cowley's tonight!'
Ramage heard the pump gurgling as it began to draw, then its regular splashing. A few minutes later Stafford was violently sick, and Southwick came back to the binnacle still holding the mug. 'Can't understand him, sir. Been hoarding his tot, but I don't think it's because he's scared. One nor'wester, though!'
Ramage remembered the cool way Stafford had burgled Admiral Cordoba's house.
'No - he's not scared. Send another man forward as a lookout.'
Southwick's reaction was amusing: clearly he was more disgusted that Stafford should be drunk after only one nor'wester than of his actually getting drunk. But Stafford was being modest: in sailor's jargon, 'north' meant raw spirit and 'west' meant water, while a 'nor'wester' was a mug of half water and half spirit, which was clearly insufficient to provide the Cockney with enough inspiration for tonight's antics.
Just after nine o'clock - by which time a sobered Stafford, shivering with cold and thoroughly ashamed of himself, had come aft and apologized, and been sent below to change his clothes - they heard the boom of one signal gun and then another: the signal from the Victory for the Fleet to tack in succession, and the other flag officers repeating it.
'Belike the Captain’llrun into a patch of fog now,' growled Southwick.
'If she does,' said Ramage, 'it'll be the real Commodore, not Stafford shouting at us!
The follow-my-leader turn after the order to tack in succession meant the Fleet was steering south-east. Unless they met the enemy or there was a sudden change of wind, it would stay on this course for the rest of the night. Somewhere ahead another fleet of nearly twice as many sail of the line was also under way, trying to make its way to Cadiz and being humbugged by variable winds and fog. The Spaniards would probably be uncertain of their position, desperately anxious to make a good landfall at daylight and, if they knew there was a British fleet near by, scared of their own shadows.
In three hours or so it would be St. Valentine's Day. Ramage thought of his parents. They'd be in Cornwall, at St. Kew, and by now would have dined and probably enjoying a game of cards. But for that damnable trial, he realized with bitterness, his father's flag might have been hoisted in the Victory, instead of Sir John's. The devil take such thoughts. It was now Southwick's watch and he decided to get some sleep.