On the following Sunday, when Stevens told the passengers in his usual abrupt manner that there would be Divine Service at eleven o'clock, Ramage had the impression that Sundays would be ignored if Stevens had his way, but that the Mate forced him to conform.
Certainly at the services on the previous Sundays, Mr Fred Much had read the lesson with all the fervour of a revivalist preacher and sung the hymns with a loud and surprisingly good tenor voice. Our Ned also had a good voice, but after watching the Mate's son for a few minutes at the first service, Ramage was reminded of the word unctuous.
Ramage glanced at the mirror and gave his stock an impatient twitch. It annoyed him to have to change into uniform but Southwick and Wilson made a point of it, and at least it gave the cloth an airing - the weather was still humid and warm enough to make mildew grow quickly. He clipped on his sword, picked up his hat and went on deck.
The Lady Arabella was running up to the north-east before a brisk quartering wind, an all-plain-sail breeze from the west with billowing clouds startlingly white in the early autumn sunshine. The seas rolling eastward were the deep blue of the broad ocean and stippled with just enough white horses to emphasize the irregularity of the waves.
He watched as two seamen carried up a small table and set it down just forward of the binnacle box. A short length of line hung down from the underside of the table-top and one of the men passed the end through an eyebolt in the deck, heaved down taut and made the rope fast so that as the ship rolled the table could move only a few inches. A third seaman walked up with a Union Flag which he carefully draped over the table. The altar was now ready.
Mr Much carried out a large brass-bound Bible - Ramage, standing aft by the taffrail, guessed it was the Mate's own copy - and placed it carefully on the table. He then turned and spoke to one of the seamen, who immediately went towards the Captain's cabin. He returned a few moments later, said something to the Mate, and then went on to call the ship's company aft for church. As soon as the men were grouped round the altar, freshly shaven and hair combed and tied in neat queues, Stevens appeared in white nankeen trousers and a dark grey coat, with his usual Sunday black hat perched squarely on his head. He had a weary gait which reminded Ramage of a sad prelate who had long ceased trying to placate a nagging wife.
Yorke and Southwick were waiting on the starboard side, and they were now joined by Wilson and the Lady Arabella's surgeon, Farrell, who stood a few paces apart. Bowen was conspicuously absent - there was more than a hint of the freethinker about Bowen, and in the past Ramage had often been shocked by some of the surgeon's comments. Yet if he was honest he had to admit they sometimes left him trying to find answers to disturbing questions. In fact, he thought sourly, he'd spent most of the last month trying to find answers to a different but equally bewildering variety of questions.
As he stood watching, left hand on the hilt of his sword, Ramage recalled, with a nostalgia that knotted his stomach muscles, all the many Sundays when he had conducted the service in the two ships he had commanded. The toothless John Smith, who usually stood on the capstan with his fiddle, playing some cheerful forebitter as the men heaved on the bars to weigh the anchor, would suck in his cheeks and crease his forehead in a frown of concentration as he sawed out the music of a hymn, and the ship's company would sing with gusto. When he first went to sea, Ramage suddenly remembered, his father had told him that he would find Divine Service was a ship's weather glass: if the men did not sing with their hearts in it, he should look for a defect in the captain or officers.
Stevens stopped abaft the table, clasped his hands behind his back, and slowly stared round the ship's company.
The wind hummed in the rigging; the downdraught from the mainsail curving down from high over their heads was chilly and flapped the edges of the Union Flag draped over the table. The Lady Arabella rolled with a ponderousness belying her elegant name as the seas swept up astern and passed under her: Ramage was reminded of a plump fishwife on her way to market. But for all that, it was a comfortable roll; regular enough that the men could balance without effort.
There was a heavy thump every two or three minutes as the packet's bow punched into a larger sea, showering up a sparkling spray which the sun scattered with rainbow patterns before it hit the deck and dribbled aft along the scuppers in prosaic rivulets of water. Almost without realizing he was doing it, Ramage braced back his shoulders: a bright and brisk day like this made up for a score of others when the sky was low with scudding grey clouds and wind drove rain and spray in blinding squalls.
After looking round at the ship's company - resentfully, it seemed to Ramage, as though conducting the service took him away from other more important work - Stevens removed his hat with a flourish, and everyone followed suit.
Catching sight of Southwick's flowing white hair, now fluffing out in the wind, Ramage saw the look of stern disapproval on his face: a ship's company standing round on deck as though on a quayside waiting for a ferry was obviously not the old Master's idea of the way Divine Service should be conducted.
Handing his hat to the nearest seaman, Stevens took a pair of spectacles from a pocket and put them on with great deliberation. He then took a prayer book from another pocket and, after giving a cough intended to get the men's attention, opened it.
At that moment the lookout at the bow shouted excitedly: "Sail - ho! Sail to loo'ard on the starboard bow!"
Ramage immediately watched Stevens. The man tossed the prayer book on to the table, removed his spectacles and thrust them into his pocket before taking his hat back from the seaman. But he did not do what everyone on deck but Ramage had done instinctively as soon as the lookout hailed - look over the starboard bow.
Stevens turned back to the binnacle box, opened the drawer beneath the compass, took out his telescope, and strode over to the aftermost gun on the starboard side. He climbed up to balance himself on the breech, but before looking through the telescope he turned and called, "Run up our colours, Mr Much."
He waited to see two seamen getting ready to hoist the big ensign before putting the telescope to his eye.
Puzzled at what he had seen, Ramage hurried to the main shrouds, unclipping his sword and handing it to Jackson. As he swung into the ratlines he saw Yorke perched halfway up, and as he scrambled up to join him he saw Southwick hurrying across the deck, obviously having run down to his cabin to collect his telescope.
Yorke moved to make room for Ramage, pointing without saying a word. On the horizon Ramage saw two tiny white rectangles, like visiting cards standing on end at the far side of a dark blue tablecloth. The hull of the ship was still hidden from sight below the horizon; only the masts and sails had lifted above the curvature of the earth.
But one glance told him all he needed to know. The ship was not square-rigged; she was a two-masted schooner carrying fore and aft sails. She was hard on the wind on the larboard tack, and she was steering an intercepting course. Miracles apart, there was only one thing she could be.
By now Southwick, puffing slightly, was beside him on the ratlines and turning to face outboard. He took one look at the horizon and gestured with the telescope. "I needn't have bothered to get this!"
"Our lookout must have been asleep," Yorke commented. "How many guns do you reckon she carries?"
"A dozen 4-pounders. These privateer schooners rely on boarding," Ramage said.
"She's dam' fast: we'll have a sight of her hull in a minute or two."
Ramage took Southwick's telescope, adjusted the focus - he had used it so many dozens of times he could do it automatically - and with an arm through a ratline he balanced himself against the Arabella's roll and put the telescope to his eye.
The schooner showed up with almost startling clarity in the circular lens: the lower part of her sails were dark where flying spray kept them soaking wet. Suddenly a long, low, black hull lifted for a moment under the sails like a distant whale, and then sank below the horizon again. He glanced down - they were perched about thirty feet up in the ratlines. From that height you could see the horizon at about six and a quarter miles. Again a random wave lifted the privateer's hull momentarily above the horizon, and he saw the spray slicing up from her stem. Hard to count, but half a dozen gun ports?
The privateersmen had been wide awake: from well down to leeward they had sighted the packet, estimated her track and hardened in sheets to steer an intercepting course ... all this had gone on even before Stevens had removed his hat.
Automatically Ramage began converting what he could see into a mental diagram. The Lady Arabella was running northeast before a quartering westerly wind, and the privateer was beating to windward on the larboard tack, making good a course somewhere between north-west and nor'-nor'-west. When I come to describe it later to Gianna, Ramage thought irrelevantly, the Arabella will be a coach thundering down a long straight road. The privateer will be a highwayman galloping along another road coming diagonally from the right. Unless Stevens does something about it, both coach and highwayman will meet at the crossroads.
The privateer is not travelling along her road as fast as the Arabella, my dear, since she's beating to windward, but that doesn't matter because the French have less distance to travel to the crossroads: it is about six miles away for the Arabella, but less than three for the privateer. But how, Gianna will ask, with that quizzical wrinkling of her brow, could the Arabella escape? And I will smile reassuringly: her fastest point of sailing was with the wind on the beam, so we immediately turned northwards to put the wind on the beam - taking a turning on the left, in other words, leaving Johnny Frenchman over on our right and well down to leeward: so far to leeward he could never beat up to us before nightfall. We would have no trouble dodging him once it was dark. By making a sudden and drastic alteration of course, at daylight on Monday morning there would be nothing to see on the horizon...
Ramage was brought back to the present with a jerk as both Yorke and Southwick shouted at him, pointing down at the afterdeck, where he saw Stevens standing with a hand cupped behind his ear as if to hear the answer to a question.
"He just asked what you make of her," Yorke said sarcastically. "Apparently thinks it might be Westminster Abbey on the horizon."
Ramage handed the telescope to Southwick and cupped his hands.
"Carries no more than a dozen guns. About six miles away."
"What nationality?"
Ramage turned to Yorke in startled disbelief. "Is he joking?" When Yorke shook his head Ramage shouted: "She's a French privateer schooner on an intercepting course: you'd better turn northward a bit sharpish, Mr Stevens, or she'll be on you within the hour!"
"Are you sure, Mr Ramage?"
Was Stevens a fool or a knave? The most stupid seaman in the Post Office Packet Service - indeed, the youngest cabin boy - knew that such a schooner hard on the wind steering an intercepting course in this part of the Atlantic could only be an enemy privateer.
"I am absolutely certain, and so are Mr Yorke and Mr Southwick. It's time you bore up, Mr Stevens; you've lost a mile to leeward already!"
"Can't act hastily," Stevens called back fretfully. "We'd soon be at the North Pole if I bore up every time we sighted a strange sail."
Southwick nudged Ramage and growled: "First sail we've seen for weeks! You give the order, sir: the Tritons will make sure it's carried out."
Ramage took the telescope again without answering. The privateer was hull-up over the horizon now - an indication of how fast the two ships were converging. She was long, low, black with white masts, and sailing fast; well-heeled to the west wind but pointing high. Almost continuous sheets of spray were flying up from her stem and sweeping aft over the fore-deck. She looked sleek and graceful, her sails well cut and well trimmed. Her captain was obviously expecting the packet to turn north and was making sure his helmsmen did not lose an inch to leeward.
As he returned the telescope to Southwick, Ramage remembered Stevens' unhurried, unsurprised behaviour when the lookout hailed. Was he a completely unimaginative man who naturally acted slowly in an emergency? Was that why privateers had twice before captured his ship? Surely not - even the slowest-witted of men must have learned a lesson by now.
Ramage was puzzled, and because he was puzzled he was uncertain what to do. That black-hulled privateer and its crew of a hundred French cut-throats could represent certain capture for everyone in the Arabella and possibly death for some. The Arabella's choice of escape or capture depended on Stevens' whim, not on the orders given by the captain of the French privateer: it depended on how soon the packet bore up and escaped to the north.
Yet the capture of the Arabella might somehow reveal why many (if not all) of the previous packets had been captured. That was the only reason why the Arabella was graced with the presence of Lieutenant Ramage. The devil take it, he told himself angrily, I've talked over the possibility enough times with Yorke and Southwick in the past few weeks. Talked, yes, and there's the rub: it's the old story of looking in the cold light of dawn at an idea born in the warm and mellow glow of a late evening's conversation.
Very well, the Arabella might be captured. The privateer might be able to get up to her before night came down. Even if she did not, she might outguess the Arabella and find her in the darkness. "Might" should have been the key word, but the way Stevens was behaving it could be a certainty.
Ramage glanced down at Stevens, trying to guess what was passing through the man's mind, and saw he was talking to the Mate. Suddenly Much waved towards the privateer and made an angry gesture at the starboard side 4-pounders, his head jerking like a pigeon's from the violence of his words. Even from a distance it was clear to Ramage that Stevens' features were strained and his whole body tense, as though gripped by pain.
Then he saw the Surgeon walking aft towards the two men. A mediator - or an ally for one of them? Much saw him coming and repeated the gestures, only this time talking to Farrell, who stopped a couple of paces away as though the Mate was threatening him. For a few moments the men seemed silenced by the violence of Much's words; then all three began talking at once, their hands waving wildly. Although the wind carried away their words, their quarrel was obviously a bitter one.
"Like hucksters haggling in the market," Yorke commented.
"What's the Surgeon doing there?" Ramage murmured, thinking aloud.
"It's like watching a play without hearing the actors. My guess is that Mr Much wants to bear up, but fight if it becomes necessary; the gallant Captain can't make up his mind; and the noble sawbones wants to surrender without ceremony."
"Aye," Southwick growled, "that's my reading of it."
"It's about what one would expect," Ramage commented. "I wonder who ... Come on, it's time we joined the party: we're losing a quarter of a mile to leeward every couple of minutes ..."
With that he climbed down the ratlines and, walking towards Stevens, reminded himself that the packet captain knew nothing of the real reason why he was on board. Stevens had no inkling that the chance that brought the privateer in sight had made Ramage the key figure in a secret investigation ordered by the Cabinet. As far as Stevens and his officers were concerned, Ramage was just another anxious passenger, and for the moment he must remember to play that role.
All three men stopped talking as they saw Ramage approaching.
"Ah," Stevens said, a reassuring smile trying to struggle across his face but getting lost round his mouth. "Well, Mr Ramage, a pity one of your frigates isn't up to windward, eh?"
"The laurels are all for you to win," Ramage said cheerfully. "I'm sure you'd begrudge having to share them!"
The smile vanished completely. "Well, Lieutenant, she's a big ship..."
"Yes, but smaller than the Arabella, I fancy."
"Oh no! Why, she's pierced for eighteen guns!"
"Rubbish!" Much snapped. "Might be pierced for ten and carrying eight."
Stevens swung round angrily to face the Mate. "I'll thank you to hold your tongue, Mr Much. Just remember I'm the owner of this ship as well as the commander."
"Aye, I'm aware of that," Much said bitterly, "and I rue the day I ever signed on with you again."
The Surgeon took a step nearer. "Steady, Much, steady; I've warned you of the risk of getting too excited; overheating the blood can be fatal." He turned to Ramage. "You mustn't take too much notice of him, Mr Ramage: he's overwrought. He refuses my offers of medication."
"You hold your tongue," Much said with a quietness belying his tone. "It's caused too much trouble already."
Ramage waited, trying to discern in the bickering phrases the original causes of what were obviously long-standing and bitter differences which had come to a sudden climax when the privateer hove in sight. Was Much in fact overwrought, and Farrell and Stevens trying to calm him down? Was it some mania that had set Much apart from the rest of the Arabella's officers and crew? Although Farrell was a poor specimen when seated at a chessboard, he might well be a good doctor. Ramage was angry with himself for having been on board so long without knowing the answers. He felt a gentle pressure from Yorke's elbow.
"Well, Captain, can we offer ourselves as a gun's crew?" Yorke asked with polite enthusiasm. "Or would you prefer us to have musketoons? You'll outsail that fellow, of course, once you bear up to the north" - he waved airily towards the privateer - "but we might as well be prepared."
It was smoothly done and Ramage was grateful: Stevens had been told once again that the Lady Arabella should now be stretching off to the north, leaving the privateer down to leeward, and that his passengers took it for granted that in the unlikely event of the packet being overtaken they would fight.
"Most civil of you to offer, Mr Yorke," Stevens said quickly, "but I hope it won't come to that. I know Mr Ramage is also anxious that we should bear up, and although it won't help us much I was about to do so when I had to calm down Mr Much. Well, we mustn't waste any more time," he added, like a schoolmaster regaining control of an unruly class, "we'll turn north - see to it, Mr Much."
Even before Stevens had finished speaking the Mate was shouting the orders that sent men running to sheets and braces, ready to trim the sails as the brig altered course.
Ramage turned away with a feeling of relief: it had taken too long for Stevens to decide to turn north - they were at least a mile nearer the privateer by now, a valuable mile lost when yards might count by nightfall - but at least the damned man was at last doing something.
Suddenly the whole horizon lifted and sank again as the Arabella heeled: the helmsmen had put the wheel over and aloft blocks squealed as the yards were braced round and the sheets hardened in to trim the sails with the wind just on the beam.
Slowly the privateer seemed to slide aft along the horizon as the Arabella turned, finally ending up just forward of the beam, steering an almost parallel course four or five miles to leeward. Almost parallel, Ramage thought grimly. Almost, but not quite: parallel lines never meet. But because the privateer could sail closer to the wind than the Arabella, the ship's courses were converging slightly. As he would explain later to Gianna, continuing the coach-and-highwayman analogy, the highwayman's road was four or five miles away on the right, converging gradually on the coach's road, but with luck they would not meet until after nightfall.
As he stood with Southwick's telescope watching the privateer's narrow hull, the unrelieved black glistening wetly and the foot of every sail dark from the spray, Ramage felt the worry over Stevens' behaviour slowly ebbing away. In its place the excitement and tension of action was gradually seeping in, like a fire slowly warming a room. He lowered the telescope to find Yorke standing beside him.
"Happier now?" the young shipowner asked.
"Hardly happier. Less unhappy, perhaps."
"How so?"
"I'd be happy if I was in the Triton brig so I could run down and capture that chap!"
"There's no satisfying you. Just be happy that Stevens eventually did what you wanted."
"Did what he should have done from the start," Ramage said impatiently. He glanced round to make sure no one else was within earshot and then said with a quietness that did not hide the bitterness in his voice, "I hope I never get orders like these again. It's ridiculous - I have to chase up Stevens to do the obvious thing so that the Arabella isn't captured, but it's beginning to look as if capture is the only chance I'll have of carrying out my orders. If I succeed in one thing I fail in the other."
"All very sad," Yorke said lightly, "but I can't see Their Lordships - of the Admiralty or the Post Office - thanking you for helping one of His Majesty's packet brigs get captured!"
When Ramage continued looking glumly at the distant privateer Yorke added, a more serious note in his voice, "Don't despair of capture too soon: when you've a spare moment, cast an eye aloft. Southwick's prowling round the binnacle as though he'd like to strangle the helmsmen."
A quick glance round the ship confirmed Yorke's warning - and jolted Ramage into realizing he had been so absorbed in his own problems that his seaman's ears had stopped functioning: instead of the sails being tautly flattened curves, every seam straining with the pressure of the wind, they looked like heavy curtains hanging over a draughty window, the luffs fluttering.
"What the devil is Much up to?"
"He's been exiled to the fo'c'sle," Yorke said heavily. "The Captain has the conn."
"But ... just look..."
"That's what I mean: don't despair too soon!"
"And for all that, we must be sagging off a point or more!"
"More, I suspect" Yorke said sourly.
"Have you or Southwick said anything to Stevens?"
"No. Much was just getting the sheets hardened in when Stevens began an argument with him. I couldn't hear what was said, but then Much was sent forward."
"What orders did Stevens give the helmsmen?"
"Didn't say a word while I was there: just left them to it. Much had told 'em to steer north, but when he went forward they just let her sag off. They don't seem to give a damn."
"Do we start seamanship lessons for Stevens?" Ramage growled.
"You're just a passenger, Mr Ramage," Yorke said with mock sarcasm. '"We don't want any of these smart Navy gentlemen interfering with the Post Office Packet Service!'"
"I can hear him saying it," Ramage said miserably.
"What are you going to do?"
"Join Southwick and just stare at the compass: see if Stevens can take a hint. Come on!"
He walked over to the low, wooden box that was the binnacle and, standing to one side, looked at the compass. The lubber's line representing the ship's bow was on north-by-east and the card was still swinging towards north-north-east.
Ramage turned slightly and looked directly at the two helmsmen, one standing each side of the wheel.
"She's a bit heavy on the helm, eh?" he asked sympathetically.
"Aye, she is that!" one of the men grunted. "Very tiring, sir."
Stevens had been standing aft by the taffrail and now walked up to Ramage, but before he could speak Ramage said, "These men are tired, Captain; perhaps they could be relieved?"
Stevens stared at the two men, who avoided his eyes and gave a half-hearted heave at the spokes of the wheel.
"Are you tired?" he demanded.
"Ain't complainin'," the nearest man said. "The gennelman was axing if she's 'eavy on the 'elm."
"Very kind of the Lieutenant to inquire," Stevens said heavily, "and I know you men appreciate it. But" - he turned to Ramage - " 'tis a strict rule in any ship I command that no one talks to the men at the wheel."
"So I see," Ramage said sharply. "I'd expect someone to tell them to get back on course."
"They are on course," Stevens said smoothly.
Ramage looked down at the compass.
"They're steering north-by-east."
"Well?"
"They should be steering north."
"By whose orders, pray?"
"Yours, I should hope!"
"When I want your advice I'll ask for it, Mr Ramage," Stevens said acidly. "Until then I'll continue as my own navigator."
With that he walked back to the taffrail and stood facing aft, as if absorbed by the sight of the Arabella's wake.
Ramage eyed the two helmsmen, who had an almost triumphant look in their eyes. Perhaps they were just pleased at seeing their captain snub a naval officer. He turned to Southwick and said casually, "It'd be interesting to see what sort of course they steer, eh?" The Master nodded, and Yorke followed Ramage as he walked back to the starboard side.
Yorke had lost his flippant manner; his left hand was rubbing his chin as though tugging at a goatee beard.
"When I look at that damned privateer I hear the prison gates at Verdun creaking open."
"Stop looking, then," Ramage said unsympathetically, putting the telescope to his eye. He counted five gun-ports. Four-pounders? Probably, for a schooner that size, and double-fortified too, so they can be packed with grape or canister shot without fear of bursting. But a count of guns, the Lady Arabella's single broadside against the French schooner's, hardly gives a true picture: Johnny Frenchman's strength lies in the horde of a hundred or so privateersmen who, at this very moment, are arming themselves with pistols, cutlasses, tomahawks and pikes, and waiting eagerly for the moment their schooner crashes longside the Arabella so they can swarm on board and overwhelm these Falmouth men.
Why north-by-east? Why not north? With the wind on the beam and the sails trimmed properly the Arabella would be romping along. But steering a point or more to the east of the sensible course, and with the yards braced up so the wind was spilling out of the sails - why, if Stevens had been waiting to meet a pilot cutter and wanted to waste an hour without heaving-to, he would do just what he was doing now.
"Excuse me, sir," Southwick said, "they're steering more than a couple of points off course. Never a bit above nor'-nor'-east, and often down to nor'east-by-north..."
"Very well," Ramage said, but Southwick did not return to the binnacle; instead he stood there, as if waiting for orders, and Ramage knew the old Master felt the time for action was fast approaching. It was, and Ramage knew it. But what action? And against whom? First, he had his orders from Sir Pilcher to find out how the packets were being captured. Carrying out those orders comes before anything else, he told himself yet again, and I've already decided that being on board a packet when it's actually captured might be the only way of getting the answer.
But the Arabella - unless I can do something about it - is going to be captured just because Stevens is a fool. Perhaps a knave as well. Being on board the Arabella when she's captured because her captain hasn't the wit to keep her up to windward isn't going to give me any answers. If poor seamanship is the only reason why all the other packets were captured, then I have the answer now: all I need do is seize the Arabella ~ and with the dozen Tritons and surprise that would be easy - and drive her hard. Even if Stevens has lost us too much to leeward to let me ... he dismissed the rest of the train of thought: he was confident he could avoid capture.
So by tonight, he told himself the Arabella could be safe, and I'd be able to start writing my report to the Admiralty. Just poor seamanship. "Judging by Captain Stevens' behaviour when the Arabella sighted a privateer, none of the packet commanders knows how to sail his ship with the wind on the beam, let alone close-hauled..." Their Lordships would give a derisive laugh, and because of their disbelief Lieutenant Ramage would spend the rest of his life on half pay. And no wonder. It did not sound a very plausible explanation.
So what could he do? Force Stevens to bear up? If he refused, Ramage would have to take over command of the ship. He did not give a damn about the furious complaints the Post Office would make to the Admiralty, but the problem was simple: if he did take over the Arabella it would not help him to carry out his orders. All he would know was that Stevens was not fit to command anything.
What a mess, he thought bitterly. Sir Pilcher was wiser than he knew when he kept his favourites out of range of this job.
"Well?" Yorke asked. "You've been staring at that privateer for three minutes. You've sighed five times and rubbed the scars on your brow twice. By now your plan must be ready, and Southwick and I await your orders."
Ramage shook his head miserably. "No plan, no orders ... I just wish to God I'd never lost the Triton; then I wouldn't be here."
"Now, sir," Squthwick said soothingly, "why don't we just get to windward of Stevens and put a warning shot across his bow? Just close enough to give him a shock: might do him a world of good."
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "It's about all we can do. We're just outraged passengers making a formal complaint. Remember that. Passengers, nothing more."
Even before he finished speaking, Yorke was striding aft to where Stevens still stood at the taffrail. Ramage noticed he was now wearing a cutlass. In fact several men now wore them. But Stevens had not sent the men to quarters yet ... He remembered he had not yet retrieved his sword from Jackson and saw the American waiting near by. Taking the proffered sword he did up the clips and hurried aft to join Yorke and Southwick.
Stevens was now looking apprehensive, his face creased into the worried, almost sycophantic expression of a grocer seeing his three best customers coming to complain about the quality of some of his goods, but not yet sure exactly what the complaints would be.
Passengers, Ramage reminded himself; we're just passengers. As he reached Stevens he gestured towards the privateer (startled to see how close she now was) and said, "I thought we'd have shown her a clean pair of heels!"
"Not a hope " Stevens said dolefully.
"We were six miles to windward when we sighted her. The Arabella looks a fast ship," he said contemptuously, "but whoever designed her must have used a haystack for a model."
"Aye, 'tis true," Stevens said, still in a doleful voice. "She's not as fast as she looks."
Yorke suddenly appeared at the other side of Stevens and said crisply, "If I owned this ship I'd be ashamed!"
"How so, Mr Yorke?" Stevens was not provoked. His voice was still sad, like a professional mourner's.
"I'd be ashamed at the way she's being sailed, and I intend telling Lord Auckland about it, too."
"I can't set any more canvas, Mr Yorke; I haven't the hands to furl when the privateer gets to close quarters."
"When? That's putting the cart before the horse," Yorke said, his voice taking on a distinct edge. "If you'd spent a couple of minutes sail trimming and then kept a sharp eye on the helmsmen, that privateer wouldn't have got within five miles of us, and we'd lose her once it's dark. Why, it's not too late even now."
"I wish 'twas so," Stevens said lugubriously, "I've no wish to be a prisoner again."
"Then put better men at the wheel," Yorke snapped. "Those two are steering a couple of points to leeward all the time."
"Oh, you're mistaken, Mr Yorke, indeed you are; this ship won't hold up to windward like that fellow." Stevens waved towards the privateer. "Designed for close-hauled work, those Frenchmen."
"Bah!" Yorke exclaimed. "Captain Stevens, it's my duty to remind you of your duty towards your passengers. You're not taking the proper steps to safeguard us. Why, you haven't sent the men to quarters yet. Look, every gun is still secured!"
Well spoken, thought Ramage: Yorke's protest was just the sort a passenger would make. But at that moment he heard Captain Wilson's heavy footsteps clumping along the deck behind them.
"I say, Yorke my dear fellow," Wilson said hotly, "that's demned insulting, don't you know? I've complete faith in Captain Stevens. We're ready to stand to our guns the moment the Captain gives the word. You'll see, we'll give our French friends a run for their money!"
"Nonsense!" Yorke said angrily. "You don't seem to realize that all this is like a dispatch rider not putting spurs to his horse when he's chased by a squadron of enemy cavalry."
"Oh, come!" Wilson exclaimed.
"Listen, you know as much about the sea as I do soldiering," Yorke said abruptly. "I wouldn't presume to tell you how to lead your company into battle, but you can take my word for it that this ship is being sailed badly. Because of Captain Stevens, that privateer will be alongside us inside a couple of hours. We're just drifting, not sailing. Would you hobble a racehorse? That's what's going on, Captain Wilson, among other things, and if you doubt my word, ask Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick!" /
Ramage realized that Yorke was deliberately provoking Wilson as a means of stirring up Stevens, but he didn't want Yorke to go too far: the way things were going the privateer might be trying to get alongside in less time than Yorke estimated, and Wilson's cheerful aggressiveness would be welcome. "Gentlemen," he said, "instead of bickering we ought to be listening to Captain Stevens giving us our instructions ..."
Yorke glanced at him admiringly: neatly done, the shipowner thought to himself, very neat indeed. And he noticed Ramage was again rubbing one of the scars on his right brow, a sure sign that he was concentrating hard.
Stevens coughed and straightened his back. "1 - er, well, you can see we turned away a few minutes ago..."
His voice trailed off when he realized several pairs of eyes were watching him closely.
"My orders," Stevens said lamely, a whining note in his voice, "they tell me to run from an enemy when I can, and when I can't run any longer, then to surrender - after sinking the mails."
"Forgive me," Ramage interrupted. "I probably misunderstood you. I thought the Post Office instructs its commanders first to run, then fight when they can run no longer, and sink the mails only when they can no longer fight. Then surrender."
"Of course, Lieutenant, of course! That's what I meant," Stevens said hurriedly.
"Very well," Ramage said crisply, "but so far you haven't sent the men to quarters. Your guns are still secured, the magazine locked, not a musket or pistol issued, boarding nets not triced up and the mails aren't up on deck in case you have to sink them ... What exactly have you done so far, Mr Stevens, apart from buckling on that cutlass?"
Stevens was both embarrassed and on the defensive now, as though Ramage was asking him if his wife had ever cuckolded him. "Now, now, Mr Ramage," he said chidingly, "don't let us be impetuous. Coolness in action, Mr Ramage, I'm a firm believer in it; you'll learn in time how important it is."
Ramage flushed with anger at the crudeness of Stevens' remark, and decided it was time to regain the initiative. "I agree, Captain," he said coolly. "Although I doubt if you've ever fired a shot in action, despite surrendering twice, I can assure you from experience that your theory is correct."
Ramage jumped in surprise as someone standing behind him gave a sudden bellow of bitter laughter. He turned to find Much who, looking directly at Stevens, said contemptuously, "Impetuous!"
Stevens now gave Ramage the impression of a man not only under great strain, but who had a lot to conceal, like a clerk in a counting house just before his books were checked. But to be fair, Ramage told himself, a clerk might be worrying that some arithmetical error could cost him his job, not scared that a fraud he had perpetrated would be discovered. Whether the clerk was honest or fraudulent, the symptoms could be the same. *
"Yes, Mr Mate, impetuous!" Stevens said, as if trying to reassert his authority.
"We don't have too much time," Ramage said, gesturing at the privateer. He then pointed at the boat hanging across the packet's stern. "Isn't it time we cut this adrift? It's going to interfere with the guns."
"I'm the Master of this ship, Mr Ramage."
"Yes, you mentioned that earlier," Ramage said pointedly, "but since you've let the ship sag off to leeward, we'll have to fight, and repelling an attack eventually gets down to aiming and firing guns. And I assure you" - Ramage pointed over the beam - "that she'll soon be within range, thanks to the course you've been steering."
"Get the mails on deck, Mr Much!" Stevens ordered, ignoring Ramage. "And look lively about it."
Ramage turned away, noting that Farrell had joined them but not said a word so far. As he walked to the mainmast he saw that the men at the wheel were still letting the ship sag off to leeward, and Stevens had given them no fresh orders, nor sent men to the sheets and braces. Yet perhaps he was pressing Stevens too much - or causing the pressure, anyway. The man was getting even more nervous, but left in peace for a few minutes he might possibly start making the right decisions. He might yet decide to fight.
Jackson and Stafford, as if anticipating the approaching climax, were standing where they could see any gesture Ramage made - even a raised eyebrow. Yorke and Southwick, moving a few feet away from Stevens, were watching the seamen hauling bags of mail on deck and placing them just abaft the aftermost gun on the lee side. From there it would be easy to pitch the bags out through the port.
Three men came up with several pigs of iron, and Much took the neck of the nearest bag, cut off the lead seal and untied the knot of the line holding the bag closed. He put in two of the iron weights and retied the line, then took the next bag. There were twenty-three bags, Ramage noticed, and painted on the canvas were the large numbers that Smith had so carefully checked in Kingston. Finally all the bags were weighted with iron bars and, after ordering a seaman to guard them, Much walked over to Stevens and said loudly, "Your mails are ready to go!"
Stevens ignored the emphasis on "Your" and said quietly, "Thank you, Mr Much, and I see you've put a sentry over them. Excellent!"
Yorke caught Ramage's eye and joined him by the mainmast. "What's he going to do? Fight or surrender?"
"Who knows?" Ramage said. "It's like trying to shovel smoke. I wish we knew more about the Mate."
"A very religious man, obviously," Yorke said. "Probably one of Mr Wesley's followers - they're pretty numerous in Falmouth. He might regard Stevens as a sinful man."
"Or a villain," Ramage said.
"And all the time he might be just a fool. But" - Yorke looked round, and lowered his voice - "I think he's mightily influenced by that crafty surgeon."
"Yes, it's a pity Bowen hasn't been able to get much out of the fellow."
"Chess isn't a talkative game."
Ramage pointed over the starboard quarter. The privateer, well heeled under a press of canvas, was now almost bows-on, her hull gently seesawing as she drove up and over the swell waves in a graceful but powerful movement reminding Ramage of the ridge and furrow flight of the woodpecker. With sheets eased and a flowing white moustache of bubbling water at her bow, she must be near her maximum speed.
Half an hour ago the Arabella and the black-hulled privateer had been well separated, although steering courses that slowly converged. But now the privateer, racing along under a skilled captain, had seen the Arabella gradually sagging down to leeward so she would soon be in the privateer's path and perhaps a mile ahead. After that, Ramage noted grimly, unless Stevens can be forced to act, it will be only a matter of minutes before she ranges up alongside to windward with the Arabella at her mercy.
"Come on," he said to Yorke, "she looks very nice but she reminds me of the gates of Verdun prison. It's time we gave Stevens some more encouragement."
Stevens was watching the privateer with all the horrified fascination Ramage had once seen in a rabbit stalked by a weasel.
"She'll soon be within gunshot," Ramage said cheerfully.
"Ah, Mr Ramage. Gunshot eh? These guns won't do any good. You're thinking of those 12-pounders you have in frigates."
Ramage decided it was time for frankness.
"Mr Stevens, quite apart from the fact that none of your passengers wishes to be captured, are you going to continue disobeying your orders?"
"What orders, Mr Ramage?" Stevens said in the same doleful voice he used earlier.
"To fight when you can no longer run."
"But we're still running, Mr Ramage."
"With your sails badly trimmed, Mr Stevens."
"Oh, so the Royal Navy is teaching me my business, eh?"
"If you think the sails are trimmed properly, then you need some lessons," Ramage said abruptly. "Now, can we be told why you haven't sent the men to quarters?"
"No point, Mr Ramage; our shot would never reach her!"
"We can but try."
Stevens shrugged his shoulders and then said, as though placating a child who was scared of the dark, "Very well, I'll send the men to quarters if it'll make you feel any better Mr Ramage. Much" - he turned forward and shouted to the Mate - "send the men to quarters!"
Ramage began rubbing one of the scars on his brow, struggling to control his anger, and a moment later felt Yorke's hand on his other arm, gently pulling him away.
"Steady," Yorke murmured when they were out of earshot. "Just listen a moment: this fellow's acting out a play!"
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, so far we've thought he hasn't known what the devil to do next, but now I'm dam' sure that not only has he done exactly what he wanted so far, but he knows exactly what else he wants to do."
Ramage turned and stared at him. "You realize the significance of what you're saying?"
"Yes," Yorke said soberly, "and I've a fancy the same thought has crossed your mind, too."
Ramage nodded as he looked around the Arabella's deck. "They all seem to know the routine..."
The men were obeying Much's order, but judging by the almost lethargic way they were moving about preparing for action, the prospect of a few score screaming French privateersmen leaping on board was not filling the packetsmen with the spirit of butchers; indeed, Ramage noted, they looked more like complacent grocers. But was he misjudging the men because he was more used to the cheerful bustle and controlled excitement of a man-o'-war preparing for battle?
Mr Much now had the men casting the lashings from the guns, overhauling train tackles, removing tompions and scattering sand on the deck to prevent men's feet slipping. Just enough spray was coming over the weather bow and washing aft along the deck to make it unnecessary for men to sprinkle water on the planking to douse any stray grains of powder and to stop the sand blowing away. Other men were opening a large wooden chest and taking out heavy, bell-mouthed musketoons as well as regular muskets. An opened case of pistols stood near by and two seamen, each with an armful of cutlasses, were going round the guns, calling to the men to collect their weapons.
There was little disciplined movement about the men at the guns - obviously they were rarely if ever exercised at quarters. And while there was no sign of excitement, there was no sign of fear, either. Surely there should be one or the other?
Yorke nudged him. "Come on, let's collect our musketoons, and a brace of pistols too!"
As they walked towards the arms chest Ramage once again looked at the privateer over on the starboard quarter, heeled over as her captain tried every trick he knew to work his ship up to windward. He pictured him watching the luffs of the great fore and aft sails and keeping his men working at the sheets, taking advantage of every gust to steer a few degrees closer to the wind - the old trick of "luffing in the puffs" - like a conductor determined to get the best out of his orchestra. By contrast, the Arabella now seemed to have even less life in her. He glanced up at the set of the sails, and then at the helmsmen, who avoided his eyes.
"Stop daydreaming," Yorke said. "Just look at our soldier friend!"
Wilson was standing at the arms chest with Bowen,- busily loading musketoons. A dozen or more muskets, obviously already loaded, rested against the side of the chest.
Ramage said nothing. Instead he looked at the privateer for a good half a minute. Now he could make out the details of her rigging, which meant she was a mile away, perhaps less, and closing fast. The combination of the packet sagging to leeward and the privateer working her way up to windward meant she was almost sailing in the Arabella's wake. And at a guess she's sailing a couple of knots faster. In half an hour or less, she'll be alongside...
To carry out my orders, Ramage told himself once again, I should do nothing. The complete answer to the Admiralty's question is hidden somewhere on board this damned packet. And I'm pretty sure I have half the answer already. Not neatly worked out, admittedly, because there's no time to sort out the significance of everything that's happened since the privateer lifted over the horizon. Between now and the time she catches us and makes us all prisoners, something must happen that provides me with the other half of the answer.
But what the devil can happen that I can't predict now? She'll range alongside, send over a swarm of boarders, and that will be that. As a prisoner, how can I get the information to the Admiralty? What about the next year or two - or three or four - in a French prison? I've gone over all this dozens of times since we left Jamaica, and I decided what to do. I decided I would let myself be taken prisoner if necessary. Lying comfortably in my bunk at night or sitting in an armchair talking with Yorke, the decision was easy and seemed to be the right one.
Now, staring at the privateer - which previously was only an abstract idea - it's damned obvious I'm wrong: utterly and completely wrong.
I am wrong for three reasons - all of them blindingly obvious now that black hull is slicing along in our wake. First, even the most obsessive gambler would not bet tuppence that I'll be alive a moment after those privateersmen swarm on board, so the chances are Their Lordships will never hear what I have found out so far - albeit a mixture of observation, conjecture and suspicion. Second, even if I am taken alive I will not be able to get the word to the Admiralty from a French prison. And third, what more can I find out in the time it will take that privateer to get alongside - half an hour, perhaps - that I don't know now?
All that thinking while lying in my bunk did not allow for one thing. It was the only mistake I made - but it was enough. I never suspected Stevens would behave like this. He has, and so have the rest of the packetsmen. That is half of the answer to the Admiralty's question. And half a loaf is better than no bread - providing the half gets to the Admiralty.
By the time he turned back to Yorke and Southwick his mind was made up. There was no time to get Sir Pilcher's letter and wave it under Stevens' nose: words weren't going to help now, whether written by a commander-in-chief or the First Lord of the Admiralty. Speed was the only thing that might save the Arabella - speed and surprise.
"Keep close to me," he told the two men, and walked over to the binnacle. He glanced down at the compass and then at the luffs of the sails. "Steer north," he snapped at the helmsmen, "and God help you if you let her get half a point off course."
Before the startled men could say a word he turned to Southwick. "You have pistols? Good - watch these men. If they don't obey you, shoot them."
He looked round for the Mate and saw him standing by the mainmast.
"Mr Much," he called, "As a King's officer I'm relieving Captain Stevens of his command. Get those sails trimmed properly!"
Motioning Yorke to cover Stevens, he bellowed, "Tritons! Stand by Mr Much!"
As he turned to go to Stevens at the taffrail he saw the man glancing round wildly. Suddenly Stevens snatched the cutlass at his side and, holding it high over his shoulder, ran to the starboard main brace to try to slash through the heavy rope so that the main yard would swing round out of control.
Ramage leapt towards him and a moment before Stevens could wield the cutlass, managed to trip him. As the Captain toppled forward his head banged the bulwark and he crumbled to the deck.
Ramage tugged his sword from the scabbard and, not sure whether or not Stevens was still conscious, stood over him.
"Captain Stevens, you are charged with treason. I am assuming command of this -"
An urgent warning yell from Yorke made Ramage turn in time to see the Bosun only a couple of yards away, eyes bulging, and leaping at him with a cutlass held high in the air and already beginning a great downward chopping movement aimed at Ramage's head.
A blur of impressions: perspiration beading the man's upper lip and forehead, knuckles white as he gripped the cutlass handle, the absolute silence except for the pad of his bare feet and hoarse breathing.
The parry of quinte, Ramage thought almost irrelevantly as automatically he swung his sword blade up almost horizontally just above the level of his head, bending his left knee slightly, and thanking God the man had never been to a fencing master.
A moment later the cutlass blade hit Ramage's sword blade with an arm-jarring clang and slid sideways until it caught the guard and glanced off clear of his body.
The heavily built Bosun had put all his strength into the blow and the cutlass, deflecting off Ramage's sword like an axe blade glancing from a tree trunk, made him swing round to his left and stagger two or three paces.
It took him only a couple of seconds to recover. Ramage just had time to see Southwick and Yorke coming to his help and shout to them to keep clear before the Bosun, with a bellow of rage, was coming at him again, cutlass upraised for another chopping attack.
Again Ramage's blade flashed up almost horizontally, covering his head in the classic parry of quinte, but with the guard slightly lower than the point. Again the Bosun's cutlass clanged down, slid along the blade, hit the guard and glanced off. And yet again the Bosun spun to his left, off balance from the force of the blow.
As the man staggered Ramage put out his right foot and tripped him. The Bosun fell on his face and a moment later Ramage slapped him across the buttocks with the flat of his sword.
"Let go of that cutlass and get up," Ramage snapped. "This isn't a nursery."
With that he deliberately turned his back on the man. The packetsmen might put him down as a cool fellow; the former Tritons might think it bravado; but the fact was that slapping the fellow across the backside was so ludicrous he was afraid he would burst out laughing, and Southwick's pistols covered him.
"Very neat," Yorke said quietly. "I thought he'd got you."
"He learned swordsmanship by chopping logs," Ramage said. He looked round the ship. "The Captain and the Bosun have had their turns with cutlasses. Anyone else?"
Southwick waved a pistol in each hand. "Let 'em try," he rumbled. "I'd have winged that fellow but you were both in line from where I stood."
Ramage signalled to Jackson. "See to Captain Stevens. You'd better fetch the surgeon - oh, there you are, Farrell. Why the devil aren't you attending to Mr Stevens?"
He gestured to Jackson. "Leave the Captain: get these stern-chasers loaded and run out."
"Boarding nets?" Yorke asked.
One look at the privateer provided the answer. "No time for that now. I want you to take charge of the mails. I don't want to dump them unless I have to, but use your own judgement: don't risk leaving it too late."
By now Jackson had half a dozen Tritons casting off the lashings securing the stern-chase guns and he came up to Ramage.
"Magazine's locked up, sir."
"What?" Ramage exploded. "Are you sure?"
"Bosun's just told me the Captain still has the key."
"But Captain Wilson had powder for the muskets and pistols."
"Aye, sir," Jackson said patiently, "but the magazine was locked again. Captain's orders."
"Very well," Ramage said, and looked round for the Mate, noting the sails were now setting perfectly and Southwick had resumed his watch at the wheel. The Mate was nowhere to be seen.
"Pass the word for Mr Much," Ramage told Jackson, and walked to where Farrell was bending over Stevens, who had recovered consciousness and was sitting on the deck with his back against the carriage of a gun and clutching his black hat, whose crushed brim revealed the force with which his head had hit the bulwark.
Stevens looked up and said weakly, "It's mutiny; you've taken my ship. You'll pay for today's work, Mr Ramage."
"Give me your word you'll take the proper steps to avoid capture, Stevens, and you can have her back."
Farrell straightened his back. His eyes were hard and full of hate; words came like the sharp strokes of a scalpel.
"A King's officer, eh? A Frenchman's bullet doesn't care whether it lodges in the head of a King's officer or a cabin boy."
"Or a surgeon's," Ramage said coldly. "But attend to your bandages, Farrell. Get below to the saloon, where you belong. Take Stevens with you if he wants to go. But get below: if I see you on deck again I'll have you put in irons."
Ramage was still holding his sword in his right hand and tapping the deck with the point. Farrell held his eyes for a moment and quickly looked away. He glanced down at Stevens: "I'll be at my post in the saloon if you want me."
As soon as he left, Ramage said to Stevens, "Give me the key to the magazine."
"I don't have it."
"Where is it, than?"
"I don't know."
"It's in one of your pockets," Ramage said contemptuously. "I'll have a couple of men tear every shred of clothing off you unless you hand it over now."
Stevens knew he meant it and wriggled until he could get his hands into a coat pocket. He reached up with a heavy bronze key. Ramage took it and found Much waiting.
"You sent for me, sir?"
"Yes - I want a steady man for the magazine. Then stand by for some smart sail handling. I'm going to use the stern-chase guns until they try to range up alongside. Then we'll give them a broadside and wear round smartly. After that we'll see how things stand."
Ramage saw tension in both Much and Stevens. Oh no, he thought, don't say I've misjudged Much; don't say he is one of Stevens' creatures after all...
Much pointed at Jackson and his crew preparing the stern-chasers. "You can't use those, sir: you'll have to rely on the 4-pounders."
Ramage's eyebrows rose. "Why not, pray?"
"Well, you see the-"
"Much!" Stevens interrupted sharply, "watch your tongue! There'll be a day o' reckoning in Falmouth..."
Ramage glared down at the Captain. "You tell me, then, and be quick about it!"
"The eyebolts won't hold the breechings when they recoil," Stevens said hurriedly, his eyes on Ramage's sword. "There's a bit o' rot there. Just dig into the wood with that sword o' yours if you don't believe me."
"He's right, sir," Much said, "When the guns recoil they'll run wild and kill your fellows. Here, I'll show you."
"Don't bother," Ramage said, knowing the two men would not lie about something that could be disproved by walking a couple of paces, and suddenly remembering that Stevens had long ago mentioned trouble with the builder over some green wood. "Well, carry on, Mr Much: get every fraction of a knot out of this ship. Where were you, by the way?"
Much took two long-barrelled pistols from his belt: ornate guns which looked well cared for. "I went to fetch these. Had to load 'em."
Ramage nodded and Much went to join Southwick at the binnacle.
The privateer was half a mile away: perfect range for the stern-chasers. And, Ramage thought ruefully, apart from being a good target, she was a beautiful sight, with her black hull glistening. He could just distinguish the muzzles of her guns on the lee side: the way she was thrashing along, the starboard scuppers must be running deep with water.
So much for my idea of wearing round after firing a broadside: she'll attack from to leeward because her larboard side guns are dry: there'll be no risk of priming powder being wet in the pans...
"Secure both those guns," Ramage said to Jackson. "We can't use 'em. I want the broadside guns loaded with grape and canister, and spread the Tritons among the guns' crews. At least one per gun. Jump to it; we've only minutes left."
Captain Wilson was talking to Yorke, and when Ramage walked to the taffrail to look once again at the privateer the soldier came over to him.
"Owe you an apology, Ramage," he said abruptly.
"Accepted, Wilson; you weren't to know."
"Feel a fool. Yorke's been telling me about-"
"Quite!" Ramage said hastily, knowing Stevens could probably hear. "All your barkers are ready?"
"All loaded and issued to the men," he said cheerfully. "And a barrel full of extra ones" - he pointed to an up-ended cask forward of the mainmast from which the muzzles of several more muskets protruded.
"Good - you stand by them: there'll be some hot work in a few minutes."
"We'll show 'em!" Wilson declared as he marched forward.
"Sorry," Yorke said quietly, "I had to tell him some of it because he was just about to point one of his musketoons at you and force you to hand the ship back to Stevens."
The prospect was so ludicrous that Ramage burst out laughing. "Can all this get any more complicated?"
"We might end up with the French on our side," Yorke said lightly. "At least they haven't tried to kill you yet."
"They'll be a bit more skilful than the Bosun, once they get a chance!"
"It's a blow about the stern-chasers. Much was speaking the truth. I believed him anyway but checked and the wood is ripe all round the bolts."
"I saw you prodding. Just look at Johnny Frenchman," Ramage said with sudden savageness. "Perfect target - dammit, we're hardly pitching. It'd be shooting at a sitting bird, and with a bit of luck we might have fetched one of her masts down."
"I wonder why she hasn't given us a round or two from her bow-chasers - she must have 'em."
"Why bother? Her captain can see how fast he has been overtaking us. He's probably puzzled why we've suddenly come up a couple of points and done some overdue sail trimming, but he's not going to risk damaging our masts. He's certain he can catch us, and he wants to be sure his prize crew can sail the Arabella to France."
"What do you-" Yorke began and broke off, looking over Ramage's shoulder. Ramage turned to find Stevens standing there, white-faced and a hand on the taffrail for support.
"I ... I'm sorry," Stevens said, his voice low, and his tone contrite. "I'm afraid I... er, gave way to panic."
"Eventually gave way to panic," Ramage said coldly, "hence the bruise on your head. It's the previous hour that you'll have difficulty explaining away to the Post Office."
"I'm ashamed," he said in his familiar doleful voice. "I was weighed in the balance and found wanting, but I hope the good Lord in his wisdom will forgive me."
"Speaking for myself," Yorke said sourly, "I'm damned if I do. Thanks to you we all stand a good chance of marching into Verdun prison in a couple of weeks' time."
"But Mr Ramage is in command now," Stevens sneered. "It's up to him whether we escape or surrender."
Yorke took a step towards him and said, his voice hard, "Quite true, Stevens. But just you remember that with the privateer less than a mile away, the first thing Mr Ramage did on taking command was to get the sails trimmed and the ship on a proper course. The second was to stop you cutting the main brace. And the third was to send the ship's company to quarters. There are plenty of witnesses, Stevens, and that evidence alone would be more than enough to see you hanged at Tyburn for treason."
"Ah, how right you are," Stevens said contritely, but obviously not alarmed at the thought. "Mr Ramage, in the few minutes we have left please tell me what I can do to help save ourselves."
"Keep out of my way," Ramage said uncompromisingly, and turned back to Yorke. "We haven't gained much. If we'd had the ship going like this at the start we'd have kept to windward until after nightfall. As it is, we've put off the attack by a quarter of an hour."
"So what do you propose doing?"
"Not much choice. Our French friend is all ready to board us. That means dozens of men on his deck waiting with cutlasses and pistols, and many of them probably half drunk by now..."
"And all getting in each other's way!"
"Exactly! We can take advantage of that by making her tack and wear a few times. Force her on to the starboard tack, for instance, so all the larboard side guns get drenched. Do a few unexpected things so all those boarders are thoroughly confused."
"You make it sound easy," Yorke said gloomily, "but what unexpected things?"
Ramage could see that Jackson now had all the Arabella's 4-pounders loaded, and from the positions the men were standing, he had made a former Triton the captain of each gun. Much was marching up and down the deck, watching the luffs of the sails, and Southwick stood four-square at the binnacle, a pistol in each hand and, from the way the helmsmen were holding the wheel, ensuring both men steered better than they had ever believed they could.
"Just look at her," Ramage said. "She's heeling so much she can only use her weather-side guns. That means she's got to attack us from to leeward. Very well, the moment she begins to draw up alongside to starboard - just as her first gun will bear - we suddenly tack. Our turn away to larboard should take her completely by surprise so we're off on the other tack before her captain can sort out sail-trimmers from boarders."
"If we don't, he'll rake us. This transom" - Yorke gestured the width of the Arabella's stern - "will look like a torn fishnet."
"And so will you and I," Ramage said.
"Supposing we do take him by surprise," Yorke said doubtfully. "Then what? Eventually he tacks and draws alongside again. You won't catch him twice with that trick."
"After that we make it up as we go along. Dangerous to have a rigid plan in a situation like this; you have to keep your mind flexible."
"I'll be thankful to keep a flexible head on my shoulders," Yorke said, the light tone in his voice showing he agreed with Ramage's plan. "Just look at her thundering along! Her skipper knows his job, blast him."
"Let's hope he's shipped the usual bunch of murderous landlubbers who are handier at waving a cutlass than hauling on a sheet. Anyway, keep an eye on things here: I'm going to give Southwick and Much their orders."
Walking forward to join Southwick at the binnacle, Ramage saw that the Bosun was working again, his cutlass back in its scabbard, obeying Much's orders. But it was risky relying on him: Jackson had better take over his functions.
It took only three minutes to give Southwick, Much and Jackson their instructions. Both Much and Southwick assured him the helmsmen were converted to the idea of steering an exact course, so he was able to use the combination that had always worked so well in the past; he remained free to watch the enemy and exploit every tactical opportunity, simply giving Southwick the briefest orders. Southwick would remain at the conn, giving orders to the helmsmen and passing sail orders to Much. Jackson's job would be to supervise the guns, making sure the guns' crews worked fast, and shifting men around if there were casualties. Ramage gave him strict instructions to fire at the privateer's rigging in the hope of sending a mast by the board. Yorke would deal with the mailbags. That left Wilson. It took only a minute to tell the soldier he was free to open fire with his musketoons as soon as the enemy was in range, using Bowen and any men Jackson could spare temporarily from the larboard guns.
As Ramage walked aft to rejoin Yorke, Southwick said quietly: "Do you want a man to keep an eye on Stevens, sir?"
"No - I can't trust a packetsman and can't spare a Triton. I'll tell Yorke to watch him."
At the taffrail Yorke was watching the privateer, which had by now closed the gap to four or five hundred yards, sailing in the Arabella's wake as though the packet was towing her. Stevens, standing by himself on the larboard side between the taffrail and the aftermost gun, occasionally gave the privateer a disinterested glance and looked round the Arabella's deck with a curious detachment, as though aloof from all the activity.
Now, Ramage told himself, we just wait. There's Stafford acting as captain of the aftermost 4-pounder on the starboard side, and Rossi at the forward one. Maxton looked cheerful enough in command of the forward gun on the larboard side, and a young Scot named Duncan had the after one.
Yorke saw Ramage looking at the four guns and commented, "They seem to get smaller every time I look at them!"
"As long as they don't get fewer! But," he added ruefully, lowering his voice, "I don't think I'd have taken over from Stevens if I'd known these stern-chasers were unusable. I was betting on them to chip off some of the Frenchman's paint..."
"Rubbish!" Yorke said. "You're like a wild Irishman: you couldn't stay out of a fight whatever the odds!"
"We haven't much choice, anyway. About five minutes to go."
"If that."
"I think you'd better send those bags of mail to Father Neptune. Use this larboard after gun's crew. Duncan!" he called, "You and your men are under Mr Yorke's orders for a few minutes."
Stevens began walking forward, unhurried but obviously recovered, and carrying his battered hat. He had picked up his cutlass and it hung from the wide leather belt slung over his right shoulder.
Now Ramage could see a crowd of men perched on the privateer's bowsprit. Something glinted in the sun - a cutlass being waved, and he imagined the stream of threats and insults its owner was hurling at the Arabella.
Yet there's something odd about all this, he told himself. No privateer captain in his right mind would sail along the wake of a potential prize which he knew had two 9-pounder stern-chase guns. The Arabella's pair may be useless, because of rotten wood round some ring bolts, but the captain of the privateer doesn't know that. All he knows is that his bowsprit is pointing down their barrels and they haven't fired at him. It's as though he knows they will not. Is that the reputation the Post Office packets have among the privateers? It seems the only possible explanation. But not every damned packet captured up to now could have had rot round the ring bolts of the breechings!
Having so much to think about has at least stopped me from getting frightened ... Not frightened of being killed, anyway, but this weird ship of fools leaves me feeling as though I've spent a long and chilly night in a haunted church.
The Arabella's jogging along nicely: plenty of way on her to carry her round when I give the word to tack. If anyone makes a mistake and we get caught in stays...
Here she comes ... bearing away half a point to get out of our wake and ready to range up alongside. Those men perched along the bowsprit like vultures on a branch must be soaking wet from the spray. God, what a crowd - cutlasses, boarding pikes, tomahawks, not one of them has shaved for a month. One of them is bending over being seasick - or vomiting up an overdose of brandy.
Sudden puffs of smoke from her weather bow: the wind whipping the smoke away. Faint popping. They'll be lucky if a musket ball hits the Arabella's mainsail! Plenty of heads showing along the weather bulwark now and some enthusiastic fellows climbing up the ratlines ready to drop on board as soon as that black hull crashes alongside.
"Mailbags have all gone."
"Thanks. Duplicates and triplicates of all Sir Pilcher's dispatches - just think of it!"
She's going to come on to a parallel course - now! Forty yards to leeward. Just the range for 4-pounders. Her bowsprit will begin to overlap us in a couple of minutes. Just time to let Stafford and Rossi have a crack at her with their 4-pounders before we tack.
"Jackson! I'm going to bear away for a few seconds so you can use the starboard side guns. Stafford, Rossi - stand by! Get those guns trained as far aft as possible. Aim for the masts and don't fire until your guns bear!"
A three-point turn should do it. Bear away, fire, up with the helm and then tack. That should surprise the beggars!
"Stand by for a three-point turn to starboard, Mr Southwick. No sail trimming: bear away, and then bear up the moment the second gun's fired."
There are Wilson and Bowen tucking themselves in by the main shrouds. Those musketoons won't hurt the French but they'll keep the lads' spirits up: nothing like the banging of one's own powder to induce bravery...
Thirty men perched on that bowsprit and one of them still being sick. Aye, wave those cutlasses and cuss and swear, but you're going to get a shock in a moment ... Tip of the bowsprit has another twenty yards to go. Neat patches in that mainsail. The gaff jaws are chafing the mast badly. Bottom clean - just some weed on the copper sheathing. One sheet ripped off near the stem - probably hit a floating log.
Ten yards ... plenty of new rope up there: she must have had some successful cruises. Fifty or more heads along the bulwark. Is that the captain standing up on the bulwark right aft? No wonder that fellow is sick - the bowsprit's rising and falling twenty feet. Five yards. That might be your last retch, mon ami. What's Gianna doing now? My right shoulder aches – the muscles probably jarred by the Bosun's cutlass.
"Bear away, Mr Southwick; three points to starboard! Steady, Stafford - give 'em one for the Lord Mayor of London! Rossi, I'd like to tell the Marchesa you brought the foremast down!"
And the Tritons shouting their heads off! Bow beginning to swing - round she comes - don't overdo it, Southwick old chap. Damn, we're going to shave that bowsprit off! Wilson's musketoon - and a man's fallen off! Southwick's steadying her up...
The aftermost gun gave a bronchitic cough, followed a moment later by the forward one. The carriages rumbled back in recoil as smoke swirled away in a thick oily cloud.
"Helm up, Mr Southwick!"
But the Master had anticipated the order while Stafford and Rossi bellowed at their men to hurry with the reloading. And now the Arabella is turning fast, away from the privateer. In a few moments her stern will be pointing at the row of 4-pounders.
Ramage found himself staring at the muzzles: for many moments, until the Arabella's bow swung across the eye of the wind, and the yards were hauled and the sheets trimmed on the other tack, he had nothing to do but wait.
Suddenly the muzzle of the privateer's aftermost gun winked red and smoke streamed along the afterdeck and curled over her taffrail. A sharp twang showed that one of the grapeshot had hit something metallic on board the Arabella; solid thuds told of hits on wood. But there were no shouts and screams of wounded men; no whiplashing of parted rigging.
Then the privateer had passed, still thrashing her way northwards while Southwick and Much took the Arabella away to the south-west.
Ramage turned to Yorke, who was staring over the starboard quarter at the privateer's stern and saying, "You did it! It worked!"
"We were lucky," Ramage said, "but-"
He broke off as he saw Stevens gesticulating. Suddenly half a dozen or more packetsmen left the guns, cutlasses in their hands, and ran to the sheets and braces.
Much grabbed Stevens by the throat and both men toppled over, struggling violently. Southwick shouted something at the helmsmen and, as the one bolted away from the wheel, pointed his pistol at the other.
"Stop them," Ramage bellowed at the top of his voice and, drawing his sword, ran at the man chopping into the main brace. Within seconds individual fights between packetsmen and Tritons were going on all over the Arabella's deck, but before Ramage reached his man the main brace parted with a bang and the huge yard began to swing. Forward Ramage could see the forecourse flapping and the fore yard swinging with no brace to control it.
As the Arabella lost way and her bow paid off, the whole ship out of control, Ramage saw the privateer had tacked and was steering straight for them, dropping her mainsail at the same time. And that is that, he thought bitterly; Stevens has won: he must have whispered his orders to the Bosun while they were aft here with Farrell, and the Bosun passed them on to the rest of the packetsmen.
It would take half an hour or more to get the slashed rigging repaired, and-
He jumped sideways, sword raised, startled by something overhead; something large which fluttered down out of the sky. Then he saw Farrell standing by the ensign halyard, cutlass in hand, watching the flag settling on the deck in an untidy heap in the classic signal of surrender.
There was a stream of hoarse Italian and a moment later Rossi had flung Farrell to the deck, jumping on his stomach before pouncing on him with his hands round the surgeon's throat.
"Tritons, Tritons, lay aft all you Tritons," Ramage shouted, but Yorke was shaking his arm.
"Wait a minute or two," Yorke hissed, "let our chaps settle their accounts."
"I don't want unnecessary bloodshed," Ramage snapped, "we've enough trouble as it is." Southwick came aft, driving a stumbling Stevens before him, followed by Jackson and Much. The Captain was holding his throat and breathing in hoarse, convulsive gasps; the Mate was dusting the wet sand from his clothes. Ramage noticed that as the Tritons came aft, the packetsmen were grouping round the Boatswain on the foredeck. A bloodcurdling yell from just behind him made Ramage spin round. Rossi, sitting astride the surgeon, had the blade of a knife pressed down on the surgeon's throat, and from the jumble of Italian Ramage realized the Surgeon was being given a few seconds to say his prayers before the blade cut down.
"Rossi! Don't kill him!" Ramage seized the seaman's shoulder. "Leave him - he'll swing from a gibbet before long."
As he stood up Ramage knew it was improbable. The privateer was now lying hove-to a hundred yards to windward of the crippled packet.
"Any casualties?" he asked Southwick.
"A packetsman lying dead by one of the guns, and one or two cut. Stevens here has a sore throat, sir, and-"
"He's lucky to be alive to enjoy it," Much said angrily. "That man" - he pointed at Jackson - "stopped me finishing my job."
"There are a lot of unfinished jobs," Ramage said, looking at Stevens and down at Farrell, "but we'll all be prisoners in a few minutes." He turned to the group of Tritons and gestured to include Much, Yorke and Wilson. "Thanks - but for our friends we'd have beaten our enemies!"