Of course the west wind, he reflected, was the wind in which the French and Spanish seamen (even if not Villeneuve, who might well be impatient to carry out whatever orders he had received) could relax: they could not sail out in a west wind, and the English had to keep well out in case a sudden gale made the whole coast a dangerous lee shore.
An east wind . . . that was what Lord Nelson (and probably the French Admiral Villeneuve) dreamed about: an east wind (or, if they were determined enough, any wind with a bit of east in it) was the wind that would let the Combined Fleet of France and Spain, thirty-three ships of the line, sail from Cadiz.
At the same time, it put Lord Nelson and the English fleet fifty miles to leeward . . . The west wind that could bring Nelson to Cadiz at the rush was the very wind that prevented the enemy sailing: the east wind that let them out put the British fleet to leeward. English, British ... it was difficult to be consistent when the French, Spanish and Italian always referred to "les Anglais", "los Ingles" and "gli Inglesi", and the English themselves (quite fairly, of course, because of the Scots, Welsh and Irish) referred to "the British".
Anyway, once having got out of Cadiz on an east wind, where would the Combined Fleet go? If north-westward for the English Channel, then (if they managed to evade Nelson) they had a soldier's wind and a calm sea. If they were bound for the Mediterranean, though, the Gut was only fifty miles down the coast to the south - five hours' sailing in a brisk breeze. But if the Combined Fleet was bound for the Mediterranean - for Malta, to try to intercept General Craig's convoy, or for some operation against Italy - as soon as they turned into the Strait that east wind would be foul for them . . .
Neither the cat (Lord Nelson) nor the mouse (Villeneuve) had an easy task - unless Villeneuve was bound for the English Channel. But there was usually some warning of an east wind, and sails had to be bent on ... It would take the Combined Fleet many hours to get sails hoisted and anchors weighed, but using flag signals and Popham's new code, His Lordship should have the news in half an hour . . .
Cadiz and this coast, Ramage mused, was scattered with history: that mountain to the south-east, as Southwick had told Orsini, was named after the family one of whose dukes led the Spanish Armada; fifteen miles northwards from Cadiz was the mouth of the Guadalquivir and Sanlúcar de Barrameda, from where Magellan sailed in 1519 to go round the world. Thirty-five miles north of there, from Palos on the Rio Tinto, Columbus sailed in 1492 to discover the New World . . . Columbus's discovery, Magellan's circumnavigation and the Spanish Armada sailing from Cadiz just about covered all that mattered at sea in the last few centuries, and it all began along fifty or sixty miles of this coast. . .
The forthcoming battle (if it was forthcoming) might add a footnote, since if Nelson lost it (or the Combined Fleet evaded him) then there would be nothing to stop Bonaparte invading England (and Scotland and Wales!).
And whether or not the Combined Fleet evaded Lord Nelson or was brought to battle by him might well depend on the intelligence to be passed tonight by this Spaniard, who lived in the lee of the San José church.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Jackson and the boat's crew. Jackson was an American, Rossi an Italian, Louis, Albert, Auguste and Gilbert were French, Orsini was Italian, but could pass for Spanish, and he himself could pass for Spanish. A cosmopolitan crew.
So an inquisitive sentry answered in the dark in perfect Spanish or French might be satisfied . . .
Quickly Ramage explained to the men what their task for that night was to be. The thole pins of the cutter, as well as the looms of the oars, were to be bound with cloth to cut down the creaking and squeaking; the sail was to be painted black; they were to check that there were a couple of grapnels on board, each with at least ten fathoms of line: they were to have a cutlass each and tomahawks if they wished, but no pistols or muskets. They were to wear dark clothes - if any of them owned only light shirts, they were to draw dark cloth from the purser - there was plenty of time to stitch up another shirt.
"Might we ask where we're going sir?" Jackson asked.
Ramage pointed towards Cadiz city. "I have to meet a man over there, and I'll be taking Mr Orsini on shore with me."
"No chance of any of us having a run on shore to keep you company, sir?"
"Not this time," Ramage said. "And by the way, if anyone has to speak it must be in Spanish or French or Italian. That means you and Stafford keep your mouths shut. So you can all get busy and prepare the boat. Oh yes, Jackson: you'll need to keep a check on the time. Arrange to borrow a watch from one of the lieutenants, and keep a lanthorn under a piece of canvas. Make sure you pick a good candle and trim the wick ..."
"Lentement, lentement," Louis hissed as Gilbert eased away on the halyard and the black-painted dipping lug of the cutter was lowered into the boat, the men stifling the thick canvas. As soon as it was bundled up with a couple of gaskets tied round it, the men at the oars resumed rowing.
Ramage, at the tiller, could distinguish the beach: a darker band of black with a thin white moustache where the small waves curled and broke on the sand. If they had sailed a good compass course from the ship and there had been no unexpected current running parallel with the shore, then the cemetery should be just at the back of the beach.
He listened, trying to cut out the muffled groan of the oars as the looms strained against the padded thole pins. There was the monotonous "quark" of a nightjar and now the buzzing of mosquitoes, showing just how close they were to the beach. No voices. In the distance he heard the thud of a galloping horse, but going away, down towards the fort and the town gate. Very few towns had a single gate, but being built on the end of a spit (like Port Royal, Jamaica, he realized) it was the only entrance by land.
And now came the smells as they approached the line of wavelets and he eased over the metal tiller under his right arm. Was that eucalyptus? Did cork oak have a smell, because he could not identify it. And the cemetery, the curious musty smell of stonework mottled with lichen. And of course rotting seaweed. Or seaweed, anyway, whether or not it was rotting; thrown up on the beach by the waves; it provided a home for flying and jumping insects, all of which seemed to bite with an irritating sting.
No challenge: no shout of alarm in Spanish or French. No shadowy figures running down the sloping beach towards them, shouting or shooting. Which meant that his gamble might work: he had guessed that the commander of the Cadiz garrison, or whoever was responsible for posting sentries, would never expect the English would dare send a party to land in the middle of the town. Beyond the fort or among the saltpans, yes; but beside the cemetery, a short stroll from the cathedral, no!
"Stand by," Ramage whispered to Jackson, who hissed at the oarsmen. In a second the oars were tossed up, ready to be stowed flat along the thwarts, and Ramage had pushed the tiller hard over, turning the boat broadside-on to the small wavelets. While Jackson pulled up the rudder to avoid it being damaged, the boat grounded with a gentle scrubbing of the keel scraping on the sand. In a moment Ramage and Orsini had leapt over the gunwale, landed on the sand, and run forward to get their shoulders under the cutter's bow, to shove it seaward while the boat still had some buoyancy. As soon as the boat was clear of the beach, helped by oars pushing into the sand, Ramage and Orsini sat down and undid the laces securing their boots round their necks.