"What did Mr Ramage say?" Stafford demanded of Jackson as soon as the sentry had herded them below again after their morning exercise.
"Said he hoped to have some news for us when the packet arrived from England in about four weeks' time."
Stafford sniffed. " 'Ave to be patient, don't we."
"Perhaps you'd sooner wait in a French prison," Jackson said unsympathetically. "For a year or two."
"I'd sooner be on shore wiv the señoritas."
"Italy," Rossi said, "that would be better. In fact Genova: there the women understand."
"Understand what?" Stafford asked innocently.
"Understand what to do with young and innocent sailors like you when they come on shore with much money in their pockets."
"What do they do?"
"Oh, take them by the hand for a walk along the street and feed them sweet cakes!"
Jackson waved them to be quiet as he turned round to face the rest of the Arabella's crew.
"Listen, all of you: a message from Mr Ramage. No cheering or yelling after I've told you because we don't want to alarm the Frog guards. Now, Mr Ramage has made some sort of bargain with the French prizemaster to pay a ransom, so there's a chance we'll all be freed. And the Arabella, too. It'll be a month before he hears from London whether the Admiralty agree to paying."
Suddenly Jackson realized that only eleven men - the former Tritons - were grinning; the packetsmen had long faces. Not only long faces: he thought they were suddenly suspicious and hostile. The Tritons had worked hard to restore good relations after the packetsmen had been killed as a result of Captain Stevens' order to cut the sheets and braces, but obviously that had all gone by the board.
The Bosun pushed his way through the crowd of men and stood in front of Jackson.
"How does a Jonathan come to be in the Navy, eh?" he demanded aggressively.
Jackson laughed cheerfully. "Thought I'd give you chaps a hand!"
"That's a damned Yankee sort of answer," the Bosun sneered. "And what's this Mister Ramage mean to all you people anyway?"
Jackson thought for a moment. "We served with him once."
"Where?"
"At sea," Jackson said, "and what's it mean to you!" He thought quickly. These men would never be friendly: there was some gulf that he didn't understand. But the Tritons had to have the upper hand. His eyes narrowed. "You're the fellow that tried to kill Mr Ramage. We're the fellows that'd die for him. Just remember that - you and your shipmates."
Suddenly the Bosun, a swarthy and heavily built man, stepped forward and grabbed the front of Jackson's shirt with both hands.
"What's going on?" he bellowed, shaking Jackson. "What are you and that meddling lieutenant planning with-"
He broke off with a yelp of pain, hurriedly pushing Jackson away, and the American saw Rossi's grinning face over the Bosun's shoulder.
"Not to move, Bosun," he said, "otherwise..."
"You damned dago, you'll cut open my back!"
A moment later Rossi's hand, holding a knife, came round the Bosun to hold the point against the man's stomach. "And the front too, if you make the move."
Jackson waited a full minute, watching the Bosun's face beading with perspiration, the eyes flickering fearfully from side to side, trying to see Rossi but not daring to move.
"All right, Rosey," Jackson said, waving the Italian away. "I think he understands now."
The Bosun stepped nimbly to one side, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Where the hell did you get that knife? The Frogs searched us!"
"Si, they make the search," Rossi said calmly and, putting his left hand into his pocket, took out another knife which he handed to Jackson. The Bosun watched fascinated as the Italian put his hand back into the pocket and took out two more knives, giving one to Stafford and the other to Maxton.
"Is magic," Rossi said nonchalantly fetching out four watches, several gold rings and a small medallion. He gave the rings and watches to Jackson. "You can give them back to Mr Ramage when you see him."
Jackson took them without a word. He had hidden them with the knives in the packet's belfry just before the privateersmen boarded, and had been trying to retrieve them ever since the ship anchored in the Tagus. Yet he had not noticed Rossi anywhere near the belfry when they were on deck exercising.
Their silence showed the packetsmen were impressed, but Jackson tried to guess why the mention of freedom had made them surly. He had expected cheers, but instead...
"What's bothering you all?" he asked the Bosun. "You seem upset at the idea of getting freed!"
"Did you mean the Frogs take money and give us back the ship?"
"Yes. We'll be able to sail her back to Falmouth."
"So the insurance won't pay out?"
"For the ship?"
"For everything."
"Damned if I know," Jackson admitted, "but I can't see anyone paying out for the ship if she hasn't been lost."
"Our ventures," the Bosun said. "What about them?"
"Have the Frogs taken 'em?"
"Yes, but they're still on board."
"Then you haven't lost them, have you?"
"So the insurance won't pay out?"
Jackson stared at the man. Was he being deliberately stupid? "I don't know what you're driving at, but you know dam' well that insurers don't pay unless something's lost."
The packetsmen began muttering among themselves and Rossi had moved closer to hear what they were saying. Stafford looked at Jackson questioningly and Maxton moved so he stood with his back against the bulkhead.
As the tension in the cabin increased, Jackson realized that the packetsmen were becoming the enemy; that he and the eleven Tritons - and Mr Ramage of course - were slowly being pushed over on to the side of the French privateersmen. A glance at Rossi, Stafford, Maxton and several of the more perceptive Tritons showed that they too were conscious of strange currents. And almost at once Jackson sniffed danger. Should they make a show of strength right now, in the hope of deterring the packetsmen from trying anything silly?
The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that for some strange reason the packetsmen had expected the insurance underwriters to pay out for a total loss. Now they knew that Mr Ramage had arranged something that could free both ship and crew, they were angry. And, Jackson thought, that means they will probably try to do something to wreck Mr Ramage's negotiations; something that would force the French prizemaster to take the ship to a French port...
By now the packetsmen were grouped round the Bosun at the far end of the cabin, and Jackson waved to the Tritons. "Here, lads!"
They grouped round him, all muttering the same question: "What are they up to, Jacko?"/
"What are they up to?" Jackson repeated loudly. "I don't know for sure, lads, but it smells to me like treachery!"
The Bosun turned to listen and the packetsmen stopped talking.
"Their captain didn't want to escape from the privateer - you all saw that," Jackson continued. "You saw the two men at the wheel dropping the ship off to leeward. And you saw the Bosun try to kill Mr Ramage. Well, lads, in London they'd call that treason, and they'd march 'em off to Tyburn and string 'em up. At first I thought it was just those four - and maybe the Surgeon as well - but perhaps the rest of them can be bought for a guinea as well.
"But," he said, speaking very clearly, "they don't stand a chance, whatever they're up to. The French prizemaster wants to sell the ship to Mr Ramage, instead of risking being recaptured on the way back to France. So he won't take too kindly to anyone trying to interfere. Nor will the privateersmen, since they'll share the ransom money. And none of us wants to end up in a French prison. So that leaves these packetsmen on their own."
"What are you going to do about it?" one of the packetsmen jeered.
Jackson turned to face them. "Do?" he asked quietly. "Why, everyone knows what to do about treason and treachery, don't they? And apart from that, although the French exchange packetsmen in a few weeks, there are plenty of Navy seamen captured at the beginning of the war who are still in French prison camps. Five years, some of them. Five years," Jackson repeated, "not five weeks, like a packetsman, but five years. And maybe another five years before they're freed. Ten years. A baby is grown up in ten years. A woman's forgotten she had a husband in ten years. I'm not going into a French prison for ten years because of treachery..."
The Bosun banged his hand against the bulkhead and bellowed: "You listen to-"
He broke off, his head jerking to one side and his eyes wide open with fear. Rossi had barely moved, but a knife was now vibrating in the bulkhead only a couple of inches from where the Bosun's hand was pressed against the woodwork.
In the complete silence that followed, Rossi sauntered over and pulled out the knife. He put out his left hand, the index finger extended, and tickled the Bosun's stomach. The white-faced Bosun stood stock-still, pressed against the bulkhead, afraid that even the slightest movement might be dangerous. Rossi, still smiling, once again tickled his stomach before turning to rejoin Jackson.
The American, left hand on his hip, looked contemptuously at the packetsmen.
"I hope you can all take a hint," he said. "Most of us can do that trick."
His right arm moved suddenly and a knife thudded into the bulkhead on the other side of the Bosun, and a moment later Stafford and Maxwell made slight movements and two more knives vibrated a few inches above the Bosun's head.
Rossi sauntered back, collected the knives and returned them. "You move your arm too much," he chided the Cockney. "And not to throw so hard. The blade doesn't have to go right through the man: three or four inches into the flesh is enough."
As the days passed, Kerguelen made a habit of visiting Ramage's cabin in the late afternoon and staying for an hour or more. Sometimes the five men had an animated discussion about a diversity of subjects; sometimes the Frenchman sat watching Bowen playing chess with one or other of them.
Ramage noticed that the Frenchman followed every move without ever making a comment. Occasionally, after some move by Bowen, Ramage saw Kerguelen's eyes move across the board and invariably it showed he had spotted a trap being set by the Surgeon: sometimes a trap that would not be sprung until a few moves later.
Slowly they came to know him. He was a curious mixture, and at heart probably a royalist. He was contemptuous of many aspects of the Revolution and also contemptuous of his men, and he cared little for their welfare. To him each seemed simply a machine, like the lock of a gun. You offered them money, and they fought. Money, Kerguelen had once commented bitterly, was their fuel: with enough fuel, they gave you heat or light; without fuel, they were nothing.
Although he did not say it, Kerguelen's attitude provided a corollary: without money, there was no loyalty. It was obvious that, as the Lady Arabella swung at anchor in the Tagus, Kerguelen was more concerned with the possibility of treachery among his own men than the prisoners. Ramage realized that the Frenchman's contempt for his men was based on a cold assessment of their worth, rather than a lack of leadership.
It was equally obvious that Kerguelen and his brother came from an old family: one that might well have had trouble keeping the guillotine at a distance during the early days of the Revolution. That might explain how a cultured man - and Ramage assumed the brother was the same - was involved in privateering.
Bowen had finally provided a key to the visits. After Kerguelen left the cabin one day, the Surgeon commented, "It's ironic to think a man can be so desperately lonely that he seeks the company of his enemies."
"Enemies?" Yorke echoed.
"We're hardly his allies," Bowen said ironically. "You forget we're his prisoners."
"I fancy he forgets it, too."
"He does: he's becoming more and more worried about his own men."
Ramage nodded. "I've noticed that; as if he's their prisoner in a way - at least until the money arrives."
"He's their prisoner," Yorke said, "and we're his guests."
Southwick grunted and ruffled his hair. "I still don't trust any of 'em," he said stolidly. "No good ever came out of trusting a foreigner."
Bowen laughed, moving one of the pawns on the chessboard. "I don't entirely agree, but the idea of this ship anchored in the Tagus with the captors as captive as the captives intrigues me!"
Southwick asked Ramage, "Any more news from Jackson, sir?"
"Nothing. There's still a sort of armed truce between the Tritons and the packetsmen. Apparently Rossi's knives continue to scare the packetsmen."
"Those knives! Well, I'm glad to have my watch back," Southwick said.
"Just be sure these damned privateersmen don't see it," Ramage said. "They'll search again and strip us of everything."
"Aye, Kerguelen has no control."
"He wouldn't do anything, even if he had," Ramage said soberly. "He's a privateersman, not a philanthropist. Don't forget his men signed on for 'share of the profits'. He has a duty to them."
Yorke yawned noisily. "Oh for the delights of Lisbon ... I'd welcome an evening on shore, even if I had to spend it listening to those miserable fado singers and watching an elegant lady drive her cicisbeo to distraction by staring at a handsome fellow like me!"
Fado, Ramage thought to himself; the Portuguese were a far from sad people, but those sad, sad songs ... always about the broken-hearted woman left at home while her loved one departed, whether for some distant shore or the gates of Heaven. If one judged the country by the song, the nation comprised only women who'd been spurned, jilted, widowed or whose lover had disappeared over the horizon, and every dam' one of them wailing about it to the accompaniment of musical instruments obviously invented by gloomy men for use at funerals.
Was Gianna singing fado as she walked or drove around St Kew? Ramage almost laughed at the idea. She might slash at nettles with a stick, she might get angry with her horse, she might lose her temper with her maid, and all because her Nicholas was away at sea (was he being conceited? He thought not), but wailing fado in any language: no, Gianna was pure Tuscan in that respect!
Here at anchor in the Tagus, with the hills rolling beyond the city of Lisbon, it was easy to think of Tuscany: of Gianna's Tuscany, and her little hilltop kingdom of Volterra, now overrun by the French. Would she ever be able to go back there to resume her rule? Would this war ever end? He found it hard to remember peacetime. Had he been fifteen or sixteen when the war began? It didn't matter; he could only remember war. Naval service in peacetime must be very boring: going into foreign ports to fire salutes to governors and leave visiting cards, instead of sending in armed boats to cut out prizes from under the nose of the batteries.
Yorke broke into his thoughts. "You look wistful, my friend: your mind was over the hills and far away!"
Ramage nodded. "In Tuscany!"
"Ah - the fair Gianna; I look forward to meeting her."
"You will," Ramage said. "If we ever get to London I'll give an enormous ball and you'll be allowed one dance with her."
"You're not very generous."
"She's very beautiful!"
Southwick slapped his knee. "She is that, Mr Yorke, and I know Mr Ramage won't mind me saying she's a little wild, too. Headstrong, really."
"Uses a pistol instead of a bell to summon a servant, eh?" Yorke said banteringly.
Southwick and Ramage looked at each other and burst out laughing. Yorke said, "Come on, what have I said?"
"Nothing," Ramage said. "It's just that the first time I met her, she was aiming a pistol at me. It was like staring into the muzzle of a 32-pounder!"
"She wouldn't be flattered at the comparison," Yorke said, deliberately misunderstanding Ramage. "I know you can be irritating, but what drove her to such extremes? I mean, a pistol at your first meeting!"
"I was supposed to be rescuing her. She and her family bolted from Volterra as the French troops arrived. I was picking them up at dead of night from a small lookout tower along the coast. It was all very mysterious - or romantic, or obvious, depending on how much romance you have in your soul - and she feared a trap because the French were close. So she suddenly arrived in a black cloak that hid her face and kept her pistol aimed at my stomach until she was sure I wasn't a Frenchman."
"Mysterious perhaps," Yorke said, "but hardly romantic as far as I'm concerned."
Bowen, sitting at the table with a chess problem set out in front of him, began clearing the pieces from the board. "What do you propose doing if the Government won't allow us to pay Kerguelen the money, sir?" he asked.
Ramage had been expecting one of them to ask the question eventually. "There's not much choice: withdraw our parole and brush up our French. If the packetsmen come to their senses, we'd stand a chance of retaking the ship. Or we might meet a British frigate..."
"Those two frigates anchored here," Yorke said. "They've done nothing..."
"Nor will they," Ramage said. "The French Government is probably just waiting for a chance to invade Portugal. The British seizing a French ship - for that's what the Arabella is now as far as the French are concerned - right in front of Lisbon might be just the excuse they need."
Yorke shrugged his shoulders. "Surely you'd have expected some word from them, though?"
"No. Chamberlain might have told one of the captains that we're prisoners, but he hasn't told them what I'm doing because he doesn't know himself. You can't expect a frigate captain to get excited over some lieutenant held prisoner on board an enemy ship in a neutral port."
"I can," Yorke said, "but it wouldn't be justified! Let's hope the Government pays up!"
From the time his report to the First Lord had been taken on shore to the Agent, Ramage had tried - without much success - to shut his mind to the question. It was easy enough during the day, but at night it always sneaked in, nagging and probing and swirling like spasms of toothache. He would deliberately contrive erotic thoughts of Gianna, but they would be jostled out...
To pay or not to pay ... The answers he gave himself never varied. Having just passed an Act of Parliament, the Government certainly would not allow the bargain to be carried out ... Yet, knowing what was at stake the First Lord and the Joint Postmasters-General would persuade the Cabinet... No, because the First Lord will not be persuaded that Lieutenant Ramage has really discovered what happens to the packets ... Yes, because the First Lord will guess from the bizarre situation outlined in his report that Lieutenant Ramage has been forced to take unusual steps ... No, because the First Lord is away in Dorset, confined to bed with gout and a high fever, and another one of their Lordships dealt with his report (a dam' dull dog) - and refused the request without bothering to refer to either of the Postmasters-General.
Perhaps the Lisbon packet had been captured before it reached Falmouth and sank the bags of mail. Or failed to sink them, so that the French, having slowly read their way through the captured mail, had found his secret report and knew that the meddling Lieutenant Ramage was prisoner on board a French prize in Lisbon ... Word would soon reach the French Consul, or the French agents in Lisbon - the city must be teeming with them - that a throat needed cutting. Perhaps even Kerguelen's as well, if he had a royalist background...
Yorke was repeating the question: "Do you think they will?"
And Southwick and Bowen were staring at him as if he was a stranger. Why? What had happened? Were they...
"You need a rest, sir," Bowen said, getting up and walking over to him. Ramage suddenly felt unutterably weary; a weariness no sleep could ever satisfy. Weary and full of a sense of futility, that even if something was worth doing - which was so unlikely - he hadn't the energy to do it anyway. Neither the energy nor the wish. The three men seemed to be floating ... Bowen's face was enormous and peering down at him.