At the residence of His Britannic Majesty's Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of Portugal, the two liveried and bewigged attendants in the hall were obviously expecting Lord Ramage; but equally obviously they were not expecting him to be a naval officer whose uniform had not received the loving care of a steward for many weeks and who was not wearing a sword: part of the regular dress of an officer visiting the Embassy.
When Ramage gave his name both men were too well trained to show surprise, and the elder smiled. "There has been some - er, concern, my Lord; you were expected earlier."
Ramage nodded and sat down while the younger attendant disappeared along a corridor to announce his arrival.
"His Excellency has been inquiring every half an hour, sir, to see if you had arrived."
Ramage nodded. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind to allow for small talk, though it was reassuring that Mr Hookham Frere was a conscientious Ambassador.
Damn this waiting: it was all he had done since leaving Jamaica. Waiting for weeks for the sight of a privateer; waiting to see if Kerguelen would agree to ransom the Arabella; waiting to see if the Government would agree to paying. Now, just when the ransom was about to be paid and all the waiting seemed to be over, here he was sitting in the hall of the Embassy, once again waiting.
He was too jumpy to sit still but, not wanting to fidget in front of the attendant - who had more than an inkling of why he was here - he took the letter from his pocket, unfolded it, smoothed the paper, and read it again. There were few words, carefully chosen and neatly written. They told him a lot, yet left a lot unsaid. They raised more questions than they answered and left his heart thudding.
"Hmm ... sir ... if you'll follow my colleague..."
A startled Ramage glanced up to find the older attendant looking down at him anxiously, as though he had said the same thing several times.
Folding the letter and tucking it back in his pocket, Ramage stood up. "I was daydreaming. Thank you." The attendant smiled understandingly and bowed.
Ramage found his heels jarred unpleasantly on the hard, polished mosaic of the floor: for months he had been used to the forgiving wood of a ship's deck. The corridors were cool from windows opening on to a central courtyard, but he was hot, his shirt sticking to him. Hot, nervous and puzzled; excited yet apprehensive. The story of my life for the past few weeks, he thought sourly.
He followed the attendant up a wide staircase and along another corridor. Suddenly the man stopped, knocked gently on a door and entered.
"The Lord Ramage," he announced quietly, and stepped aside to let Ramage pass.
It was a large, high-ceilinged room with pale blue walls on which hung portraits in heavy gilded frames. Several walnut chairs with caned seats and backs, and a long day-bed. Two bookcases and a matching secretaire. Thick rugs on the mosaic floor and the curtains of heavy blue velvet drawn back to let the sunlight stream in.
She was standing by one of the windows, a tiny motionless figure watching him uncertainly with large brown eyes, hand now reaching up nervously to brush back a stray strand of hair that seemed as blue-black as a raven's wing. The door clicked shut and she ran towards him without a word. Her kiss spun back the clock: the past year vanished and he had no sense of time or space - just Gianna in his arms, a dream suddenly become improbable reality in an upstairs room in a British Embassy.
"You were so long," she finally whispered, "we were afraid of treachery..."
"The Post Office Agent gave me your letter only a few minutes ago."
"Mr Frere - he was worried in case the French took the money and killed you: he is writing orders for one of the frigates to - oh Nico!" She clung to him, half laughing, half weeping. "That fool of an Agent said he would give you my letter at once."
"Well, I'm here," Ramage said lightly, trying to kiss away the tears, "and so are you. But how - I mean why..." He broke off as she kissed him again.
"I wanted to see you," she said. "So I went on board the packet at Falmouth and here I am. You" - she looked at him, suddenly alarmed - "you aren't angry with me?"
Ramage shook his head. "Of course not! But we sail for England tomorrow night." Suddenly he recalled her reference to the Ambassador. "What did you say Mr Frere was doing?"
"Oh, telling one of the frigates to rescue you all, or some such thing."
Ramage recognized the imperious ruler of the little state of Volterra: the wilful young Marchesa for ever hiding behind the golden-skinned Gianna.
"Quick," Ramage snapped, "I must see him at once! My God! This could wreck everything."
"In a moment, Nico," she protested.
"Come on," he said hurriedly, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the door. "My men could get killed because of this!"
The Ambassador had been as affable as he was efficient. By the time Ramage and Gianna had arrived in his office one messenger had already been dispatched with orders to the frigate captain cancelling his earlier instructions; a second messenger was on his way to the Post Office Agent demanding to know why the Ambassador had not been informed immediately the ransom arrangements had been concluded. And Frere had commented sourly that the Agent could be thankful the attendant in the Embassy hall had reported Ramage's arrival.
After politely refusing Frere's invitation to stay at the Embassy for a few days or, failing that, dine with him, Ramage had explained that he planned to sail for England with the Arabella in a few hours, and there was much to be done before then. Frere had nodded sympathetically and shot a questioning glance at Gianna.
Much to Ramage's surprise she had formally thanked Frere for his hospitality and told him she would be leaving the Embassy within the hour. Ramage had been about to suggest she would be more comfortable at the Embassy than waiting in a hotel for the next Falmouth packet to sail in ten days or so, but he decided against it. Gianna must have her reasons.
They walked back to the first-floor room. Gianna chattered cheerfully, giving him fond messages from his father and mother. She was so excited she did not notice Ramage's silence. Why, he wondered, isn't she going to stay here? He did not like the idea of her staying in one of the hotels without a chaperone. Without a guard, for that matter: the French had made one desperate attempt to capture her in Italy, and the moment they discovered she was alone in Lisbon they might try to kidnap her.
Ramage shut the door and pointed to a chair. "Sit down for a moment; I've some questions!"
"They can wait," she pouted. "So serioso, Nico! I came all this way ... Did you forget me in the West Indies? Don't you love-"
"I love you!" he said almost savagely. "That's why I'm worried. Love and war don't mix!"
"If that Bonaparte hadn't driven me out of Volterra, you'd never have met me," she reminded him. "So you're wrong, caro mio ..."
"Accidente! Tell me, what made you take the packet from Falmouth?"
"Nico! Shall I say I have a lover waiting in Lisbon, and I thought I'd see you at the same time?"
That smile, Ramage thought to himself; and that body, and as always he remembered Ghiberti's beautiful carving of "The Creation of Eve" on the east door of the Baptistry in Florence. Eve's bold and slim body with the small, jutting breasts; the small, finely chiselled face (Gianna's was fuller, more sensuous). He glanced at the body hidden by the white dress: the flat belly and rounded thighs, the long, slim legs.
"I know what you are thinking," she said.
"Indeed you don't," he said, flushing.
"I do!" she said furiously. "You are thinking this Gianna is a nuisance, and why didn't she stay at St Kew, out of the way, and - and -"
Ramage stood helplessly as she searched for words: they'd been together ten minutes and were already quarrelling. Why the devil couldn't she understand what he meant?
"Listen," he said, "let's get it over with-"
"There you are! You don't love me!"
"No - oh darling-"
"So you don't love me, you just said so!"
"No - I mean I was saying 'No' because you said that I said I..."
They both burst out laughing. She stood up, pushed him to a chair, and as soon as he sat she curled up on the floor at his feet, her head resting on his knee.
"Ask all the questions you want, sir!"
"Very well, signorina: tell me how you got here. From the beginning. From breakfast the day you had the idea!"
"Not breakfast," she said promptly, "Your father always complains I don't eat enough breakfast. That porridge - ough! I'd get fat like a fishwife. Well, Lord Spencair wrote-"
"Spencer," he corrected.
She sniffed. "- 'Spencair', then. He wrote to your father describing all the trouble out here, and a silly new Act of Parliament they had to pass. Your father laughed," she added as an afterthought. "He thought it very funny that you were the cause of a special Act of Parliament. He made me cross."
"Why? I hadn't thought of it like that, but it is amusing."
"Amusing? But supposing those cretins in Parliament hadn't passed it? What then, eh?"
Ramage laughed: the "eh?" and the upraised palms was so typically Italian.
"You laugh," she protested, "but if you get put in a French prison for years it is me - it is I," she corrected herself, "who has to wait at home and grow old and wrinkled and when you come back I am too ugly for you and you - oh, don't think a quick kiss on the head will silence me," she said furiously. "A shrivelled old walnut, that's how I'll look; all my youth wasted waiting for you and you are faithless -"
"Steady on," Ramage interrupted mildly, "the French haven't caught me yet and you're a long way from your twentieth birthday!"
"Now you mock me," she snapped. "If it wasn't for your father I'd forget all about you."
"My father's already married."
"Oh, cretino!" she pummelled him with her fists, her eyes blazing with anger, and he gripped her wrists and twisted her arms until she was facing him, and then he kissed her.
"Stop shaking with indignation," he said, "it makes our teeth click together."
She jerked away from him. "I don't love you. I inform you officially." She frowned, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"I'll make a note of it in the log," he said. "Anyway, what happened after Lord 'Spencair' wrote?"
"I told your father and mother that if the Act was not passed, I would go to Lisbon with the money and pay for the ship myself, and-"
"But-"
"But nothing: the law says no British subject can pay money to a Frenchman. It doesn't say anything about foreigners paying. Anyway," she said arrogantly, "it would be my own money, and am I not the Marchesa di Volterra?"
He nodded numbly, overwhelmed by both her logic and her generosity. "What ... what did Father say?"
"At first he was very angry - he has a worse temper than you," she said reproachfully. "Then your mother said it was a silly law anyway because obviously it was supposed to stop traitors paying spies and things like that, but Parliament was so stupid it didn't word it properly. That made your father change his mind. He finally agreed with her that it was the intention of the law, not the wording, that should concern us."
"And then?"
"Well, I made him angry again because I said I didn't care about intention, wording or law; that I was going to stop you being put in a French prison."
"What did he do?"
"At that moment? Well, I walked out and your mother got angry with him, but by the time I came back he'd found out when the next packet sailed for Lisbon and was arranging a guard for me."
"Guard?" Ramage exclaimed.
"Yes - one of the men on the estate. He came out as a passenger in the Princess Louise with me."
"Where is he now?"
Gianna shrugged her shoulders. "On board the ship. I do not need him in Lisbon - it was in case of trouble on board the packet."
Ramage froze for a moment. "But the Princess Louise sails at noon. It's" - he pulled out his watch - "hell, it's past noon! There's not another packet for two weeks!"
"Why are you worrying? The guard went back in the packet. He stayed on board."
"But I'm sailing tomorrow. You'll be on your own. Look, you'd better stay on here at the Embassy."
She looked puzzled. "But we both sail tomorrow. I come with you. The packet has plenty of room for passengers. A whole week with you," she said excitedly. "It'll be like the old days in the Mediterranean!"
"You can't," he said firmly. "I'm sorry. It would be wonderful, but-"
"Why not?" she interrupted angrily.
"Because the Arabella is no longer a packet. Once the French have handed her over, she comes under Admiralty orders and I'm in command."
"Alora, then all is well."
"It's not; far from it. The ship is in a dangerous state – most of the wood in the stern is rotten. She's not safe."
"Then you mustn't sail with her," Gianna said promptly. "Tell the Admiralty and wait for the next packet."
"But I can't wait that long! Anyway, I have my orders. Besides, half the crew are likely to mutiny."
"Mutiny?" She almost screamed the word. "Supposing they seize the ship and sail to France? You'll be a prisoner - Madonna! After all the trouble so far!"
"Don't worry," he said comfortingly. "I have Southwick and Jackson with me. And Stafford and Rossi - you remember them. We can hold down a mutiny."
"Well, if there's nothing to worry about, then I can come with you."
"But a King's ship can't carry passengers," he said lamely, and then remembered the phrase in his orders, written in specially by Nepean to cover people like Yorke who were passengers from Jamaica.
She sensed he was only making excuses and stood up. "I'm going to see Mr Frere. I shall tell him to order you to take me. Ah - you didn't know I knew about that, did you. But when he decided to tell that frigate to get ready, he explained to me that an ambassador can give orders to the captain of a ship. He says the task of the Navy and the Army is to carry out the policies of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Is he correct, Lieutenant?"
He was, and Ramage knew he would be wise to agree now, rather than force an issue she was bound to win.
"Darling - it will be dangerous."
She shrugged and pointed to her left shoulder. "The French shot me once - remember?"
"Of course I remember. I'll never forget the night in that damned boat. I thought you were going to die."
"Did you?" She sounded surprised. "Oh, Nico, you shouldn't have worried. Anyway, you hadn't fallen in love with me then," she said matter-of-factly.
"How do you know? I nearly went crazy. Why I-"
"When did you fall in love with me, then?" she asked curiously. "It was still dark. You saw me for the first time - oh, about midnight, and I was shot soon after."
"What does it matter?" Ramage snapped, thoroughly exasperated.
"Oh! You say you love me and grumble because you worried about me one night - one night," she repeated, her voice rising, "when I worry about you every night of the year. How can you love me when you can't even remember when it happened?"
"I'll look it up in the ship's log," Ramage said angrily. "Now, get packed and let's go on board, otherwise you can wait for the next packet."
"Ha, listen to him," she said furiously. "You bully - oh, to think I wanted to rescue you! I wish they hadn't passed the Act. I'd have stayed in England and you'd have rotted in a French prison for years and years-"
He put his arms round her and kissed her. "And you'd have slowly turned into an old walnut..."
The two burly boatmen groaned and swore as they lowered Gianna's trunk so that it rested on the centre thwarts. "You told me you had very little luggage," Ramage said mildly. "I don't think these two fellows would believe you."
"It's only one trunk," Gianna protested crossly. "I'd have had more if your mother hadn't interfered."
Knowing that his mother did not believe in travelling with the minimum of luggage, Ramage shuddered at the thought of what Gianna had intended to bring.
Finally the trunk was lashed down and the boatmen looked at each other in bewilderment. There was now little room left for two passengers in the small boat, which made up with brightly coloured paintwork what it now lacked in stability.
Ramage pointed to the forward thwart, and when the men protested that Gianna would get splashed by spray he held up his boat cloak.
Five minutes later, with the two of them wrapped in the cloak, the lugsail hoisted and drawing, and the two men aft, one handling the sheet and the other at the tiller, the boat was heading for the Arabella.
The French mate is going to be puzzled, Ramage thought: instead of Kerguelen and the two Britons returning, there's only one Briton with a strange lady and an enormous trunk...
As the boat tacked for the last board that would bring her down to the Arabella, Ramage noticed that the packet's boat was secured astern by its painter. Perhaps Kerguelen had sent it back, with orders to the crew to return later when he and Yorke had sampled enough of what Lisbon had to offer.
Ramage pictured Southwick's face when he looked down into the boat ... The Master's attitude towards Gianna was a curious mixture of awe, respect and affection: Ramage had the feeling the old man had never quite reconciled the ruler of Volterra with the tomboy of the voyage from Corsica to Gibraltar; the occasionally cold and imperious Marchesa with the laughing girl he hoped his captain would marry. The attitude of Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and the other Tritons who had helped rescue her a couple of years ago was both simple and straightforward: they worshipped her. Every letter Ramage had ever received from her always mentioned their names, and when he told them that the Marchesa was inquiring about them their delight was both spontaneous and genuine.
The privateersmen weren't keeping a very good lookout: not a man in sight on deck. Well, once the boatmen hooked on he would be able to rouse out a couple of seamen to help with the trunk.
The Arabella was a pretty ship: nice sheer, graceful yet powerful. Sad to think of all that rot aft, hidden under the paint. I hope that damned rudder holds, he thought to himself...
Forty yards to go. He turned to Gianna and grinned. "Soon be home!" She squeezed his hand and smoothed her hair.
Suddenly there was a deep bellow: "What ship?"
"Triton!" A startled Ramage shouted in an automatic answer to the time-honoured challenge from a King's ship; a reply indicating the captain was in the boat. He realized his mistake just as Gianna nudged him and as he shouted, "Belay that - Lady Arabella!" a couple of dozen faces suddenly appeared along the bulwark: grinning and freshly shaven faces topped by hats carefully squared and hair neatly combed: the faces of Tritons - and Frenchmen. And Southwick, Kerguelen, Yorke, Bowen and Wilson looking down at them from the gangway ...
As he helped Gianna on board, whispering that Yorke and Kerguelen must have hurried back to prepare a surprise, a bosun's call trilled and a moment later Kerguelen stepped forward, sweeping off his hat in a graceful bow: "M'selle - welcome on board the Lady Arabella!”
Ramage introduced the Frenchman, and then Yorke, Bowen, Much and Wilson, and Gianna was very much the cool Marchesa. When she saw there were no more strangers to meet she turned to Southwick and as the Master stood awkwardly, obviously uncertain whether or not to salute, she stepped up to him, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
The privateersmen, delighted onlookers, cheered heartily and a moment later the Tritons joined in.
"Mr Souswick," she said, and Ramage remembered she always had trouble pronouncing the name, "you look five years younger!"
"Thrive on trouble, ma'am, and I want to say how glad we are to see you."
"Because I am more trouble, eh, Mr Souswick?" The Master went red as Gianna laughed, and she cut short his explanation. "I don't believe a word you say - Nicholas has spent half the morning telling me what a nuisance women are on board a ship."
She looked round. "Jackson! Stafford! And you Rossi! Sta bene? Piu grasso - you eat too well in the Royal Navy!"
Within a minute or two Gianna's tiny figure was hidden by a throng of former Tritons, all eager to add their quota to the welcome she received, and as Ramage turned to speak to Kerguelen he was startled to see three burly Frenchmen hoisting the trunk on board, cheerfully cursing and speculating in their broad Breton accents how many yards of smuggled French lace had gone into making the gowns inside.
Kerguelen slapped him on the shoulder. "You never expected to see a crowd of French cut-throats acting as Cupid's assistants, eh?"
"And you never pictured yourself as Cupid," Ramage said with a grin, "but thanks. Whose idea was the reception committee?"
Kerguelen shrugged his shoulders. "Yorke and I decided to come back early and have a cabin tidied up ready. I freed all your men, incidentally. Then-"
"How did you know she would be sailing with us?"
"Even an Englishman couldn't be so unromantic as to let her return in the Princess Louise" Kerguelen said sarcastically. "Anyway, by the time the cabin was ready, Southwick and that American were so excited they started holystoning the decks, and then my men asked what was going on. When I explained that your - ah, fiancée - was coming on board, they joined in, and as soon as the ship looked tidy they all vanished below, and half an hour later they were shaven, hair tidied and rigged in clean shirts and trousers."
Kerguelen moved closer and lowered his voice. "All except the original packetsmen. You've noticed they're not on deck?" When Ramage nodded, the Frenchman said, "Keep your eye on them, my friend; I saw more than you give me credit for when we captured this ship..."
With that he went down to his cabin, saying he had to get ready to return to Chamberlain's house to collect the money.
Ramage saw Yorke, Bowen and Much watching him.
"Haven't seen you look so happy for months," Yorke said.
"Wouldn't you?" Bowen exclaimed. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!"
"All of that," Much said. "Acts like a real queen," he added. "Is it true she's a queen, sir?"
"Not exactly," Ramage said. "She's the ruler of Volterra - that's a small state in Italy. Or she was, until the French invaded. She escaped just in time."
"Southwick was telling us about that," Bowen said. "You had a romantic meeting!"
"She was pointing a pistol at him," Yorke commented for Much's benefit, remembering Ramage's reference a few days earlier.
"Nothing would frighten that lass," Much said emphatically.
She finally left the group of Tritons. "Ah, it's like old times! I hope we have some excitement on the way back!"
"Let me show you your cabin," Ramage said hurriedly. "Oh, leave the trunk to the French fellows, Jackson; they hoisted it up and I think they'd like to finish the job!"
Gianna's arrival made the Lady Arabella's last few hours in Lisbon a bizarre and festive occasion. It began with Yorke's suggestion that they invite Kerguelen to dinner, whereupon Gianna demanded that Rossi be allowed to help her prepare the meal. While the two of them were busy in the galley, Kerguelen returned from his visit to Chamberlain, but his privateersmen seemed far more interested in the barrels he brought with him than the canvas bag which obviously held the money. The Frenchman explained that he had brought some wine for his men to celebrate with, and a case of champagne as a present for Ramage.
By midnight, when the Arabella was officially handed over, former Tritons and privateersmen were toasting each other with mugs of wine and singing raucous songs on the foredeck while Ramage and Kerguelen toasted each other with champagne on the quarterdeck, watched by Gianna, Yorke, Southwick, Bowen, Wilson and Much.
"A speech, a speech!" Wilson insisted drunkenly. "Got to have a speech!"
"Let's hear the Marchesa," Yorke said enthusiastically. "I'm so tipsy I can see three of her, an' I don't know which one's the loveliest!"
Kerguelen took out his watch and held it close to the lantern. "Two minutes past midnight," he said solemnly, "and the Lady Arabella begins a new life. What more appropriate than a few words from you, Mademoiselle?"
Gianna nodded and put her glass on the binnacle. "Yes, I will make a speech. The last time I saw a Frenchman, he shot me in the shoulder. I had hoped never to see another one until long after this hateful war ends. But I was curious to meet the Frenchman that Nicholas respected, and pleased to find when I met him that he respected Nicholas. I shall pray," she lowered her voice and spoke slowly, so that they should not miss the significance of what she was saying, "that you will never meet again until after the war is over..."
Then she looked round and said gaily, "But I am jealous of all you men: you have had Nicholas's company for so long, while I have been waiting for him in England."
"You haven't missed anything, ma'am," Southwick said unexpectedly. "Very snappish he's been most of the time, an' all because he missed you."
"Well spoken," Yorke said. "I wasn't going to say anything, but..."
At that moment they heard the bells of Lisbon's churches as they struck midnight. Kerguelen took out his watch and looked at it ruefully. "Well, now I can afford to buy a new one!" He stood still for a moment, his stance indicating a change of mood. "Everything is yours, Lieutenant," he said softly. "Will you all wait a moment?" With that he went below.
Yorke glanced at Ramage, who shrugged his shoulders. There was little Kerguelen could do: most of his men were drunk on the foredeck. The Frenchman returned in a minute or two with three swords under his arm. "A ceremony," he said, glancing round to make sure Southwick and Captain Wilson were present.
"Lieutenant Ramage - it gives me great pleasure to return your sword!"
With a flourish he extracted Ramage's and presented it to him. "Mr Southwick - I believe this is yours. And Captain Wilson..."
It was a gracious gesture, and Ramage felt he ought to say something.
"On behalf of your former prisoners, Captain, I want to thank you for being such an amiable captor, and..." Ramage broke off: Kerguelen knew what he was trying to say, and the two men shook hands.
By dawn, with the last of the privateersmen taken on shore, the Arabella's boat was hoisted up and Ramage, having moved into the captain's cabin, sent for Much and Southwick to discuss the merits of the various packetsmen before Southwick drew up a quarters, watch and station bill. Ramage's first surprise was Much's warning that no trust should be put in his own son, Our Ned.
"No father would like to admit it," the Mate said apologetically, "but though Our Ned's a smart seaman he's a bad lad. I'm going to warn him, Mr Ramage, just as soon as you give me the word; but he's not to be trusted, no more than the Bosun, nor any of the Arabella's men!"
Ramage stared at him. "Any of them?"
"Mebbe one or two, but ignore 'em. Best rely on the Navy men. Your own men."
"But I can't keep the packetsmen prisoners!"
"No, but if 'twas me, I'd make sure each Navy man was told to keep an eye on a particular packetsman. Just in case."
Ramage felt his elation at the prospect of commanding the Lady Arabella slowly vanishing like sugar dissolving in warm water. Would anything in his life ever be straightforward? With Stevens out of the way and the packet back in British hands was it asking too much that the voyage home would be free of complications?
"As bad as that, Mr Much?" he asked.
"As bad as that, Mr Ramage."
"Will you work with Southwick to draw up a new quarters, watch and station bill?"
The Mate nodded. "What about your men, sir?"
"Jackson could have been rated Bosun, but that'd cause more trouble with the present one. For the rest - my men are all steady and handpicked: I've taken them into action several times."
The answer seemed to satisfy Much, who said, "What is my position now, sir?"
"Well, now the Lady Arabella is a King's ship - or she will be within the hour - I shall be in command, Mr Southwick the Master, and Bowen the Surgeon. You, Mr Yorke and Captain Wilson will be passengers - along with the Marchesa, of course - but I'd appreciate any help you can give. The packetsmen will be mustered as part of the ship's company: their Protections are withdrawn."
After Much and Southwick left to draw up the watch bill, Ramage relaxed for a few minutes to finish a cup of lukewarm coffee. Well, the packet was almost ready to sail. Kerguelen had kept his men busy during the last few days filling water casks, and according to Much there were enough provisions. Damn, there was the rot in the transom to be examined. As soon as Southwick and Much had finished their present task, they could survey it and draw up a detailed report. It wouldn't affect the Arabella leaving Lisbon as soon as possible; but it might be important later, since the Admiralty was taking over the ship.
Was taking over? Had taken over at midnight, to be exact, and it was high time he read himself in: at the moment he had no legal authority in the ship, and although Southwick and Much would not appreciate being interrupted while doing the watch bill, it was high time he completed that formality.
He stood up, more than conscious he had a nasty headache, and went out to tap on Southwick's door. "Muster the ship's company aft, if you please, Mr Southwick."
Back in his cabin he washed his face again in the hope that it would freshen him up, and as soon as he heard the men assembling on deck, put on his sword, set his hat square on his head and picked up the Commission he had received from Nepean.
By the time he emerged on deck the ship's company was drawn up fore and aft, a dozen on each side of the binnacle, with Southwick, Bowen, Yorke, Much and Wilson by the taffrail. He was thankful Gianna was probably still asleep: her presence at the moment would be an unnecessary distraction. Yet, he noted grimly, just about everyone - particularly Wilson - looked so bleary-eyed that they might well not notice if a pasha marched on board with a dozen dancing girls. Well, what he had to tell them would soon wake the packetsmen...
Automatically he noted the wind was light from the north-east, the ship was beginning to swing as the tide turned, the sun was weak but had some warmth in it and the clouds told of fairly settled weather - for a day or two, anyway. Patches of smoke over the city showed its inhabitants were awake and lighting fires while wives were probably filling pots to prepare their husbands' favourite food. For a moment he envied those husbands; they knew what would be happening to them tomorrow, and next week, and next month ... There would be no sudden alarms and dangers for them...
He looked round at the men. His new command. The first had been the Kathleen cutter, and he had lost her as she was smashed under the forefoot of a Spanish ship of the line at the Battle of Cape St Vincent; then he had been given the Triton brig, now wrecked on a reef east of Puerto Rico, pounded by the waves and slowly rotting, her battered bulwarks a perch for pelicans. Now the Lady Arabella ... He hoped he would hand her over to the Commander-in-Chief at Plymouth without the need for writing anything in the log and his journal apart from the usual navigational and weather entries and such descriptions of the regular daily routine as "ship's company employed as the service required".
The packetsmen, standing sloppily (or was it insolently?) were watching him curiously, not knowing what was going to happen. The dozen Tritons were standing to attention; all but one of them had gone through this ritual with him twice before, and would have seen it many times in other ships. For any captain it was a memorable day, no matter how often it was repeated. Few captains - and Ramage knew he was not one of them - cared to hurry it. And today there was a particular reason for giving the ritual as much drama as possible.
Southwick marched up, head erect, left hand clasping the scabbard of his sword.
"Ship's company all present and correct, sir."
"Very well, Mr Southwick!"
The Master marched back to rejoin the group of passengers.
Blast! The Colours! In all the flurry of Kerguelen leaving the ship, the Ensign had not been hoisted. Well, let us add it to the ritual - the packetsmen would not know any better.
"Have the Colours hoisted, if you please Mr Southwick."
Just a slight stiffening - which Ramage knew only he had noticed - betrayed the Master's annoyance at not having noticed the omission.
Jackson suddenly took one pace forward, turned aft and marched to the halyard. Ramage saw he had a large bundle under his arm. That damned American, he thought to himself, he doesn't miss a thing! Jackson had also realized the need for ritual. He secured the upper toggle of the Ensign to the halyard, then the lower. Then he stood to attention, facing Southwick.
"Hoist away!" The Master bellowed.
The flag caught the breeze and Ramage wished there had been a drummer on board to strike up a ruffle or two. With the halyard secured Jackson marched back to his place.
To anyone unfamiliar with naval routine, it appeared the correct procedure. And, Ramage thought wryly, there is no routine laid down anyway since the circumstances are unusual. He took the Commission from his pocket, unfolded it and, after glancing at the two ranks of men, began reading in a loud and firm voice.
"By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom and Ireland ... to Lieutenant the Lord Ramage ... His Majesty's packet brig Lady Arabella ... willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly..."
Ramage paused for a full minute. The wording of the commission was archaic and unfamiliar to the packetsmen and he wanted the full significance of it to sink in: that the ship was now under the command of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy; that the ship was now controlled by the Admiralty, instead of being under charter to the Post Office.
Although looking directly in front of him, Ramage could see out of the corner of his eye that the packetsmen were glancing at each other, and he wished he could also see the expressions on their faces - but he would know about that soon enough since Southwick, Yorke and Bowen would be watching like hawks.
He glanced down at the Commission again and continued reading:
"... strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said packet brig to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective appointments, with all due respect to you, their said Captain..."
Again he paused long enough for the men to absorb the words, and he detected some shuffling of feet, as though uneasiness caused movement.
"... you will carry out the General Printed Instructions and any orders and instructions you may receive..."
Again he paused. The next phrase was the one he wanted to ram home. He looked slowly and deliberately from man to man along the file to his left, and then did the same on his right. He had their attention all right! He held up the Commission.
"... hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril..."
He finished reading the remaining sentences and then folded the Commission slowly and deliberately. The Regulations and Instructions had been obeyed; by reading aloud to the officers of the ship the Commission appointing him captain, he had "read himself in". Now he was lawfully established as the captain of the ship, responsible for everything about her, from the behaviour of the crew in battle to the chafe on a sail in a gale of wind.
He had more power over the men, he mused in the silence that followed, than the King: he could order a seaman to be flogged - but the King could not. He could order them aloft in a storm, and punish any man that refused. He could order them into a battle from which none would return alive. And, if he was a good captain, he was also now the father of a large family. Although the Articles of War allowed him to have a wrongdoer flogged until he screamed for mercy, the obligations of leadership also meant a man could - and should - come to him for help and advice.
It was usual for a new captain to make a brief speech: apart from giving the men a chance to size him up, it allowed him to sound a keynote.
"Several of you men," he said, "have never heard a Commission read before. So that there'll be no misunderstanding, I'll explain that the Post Office and the Admiralty have jointly decided that I take command of the packet and take her back to England. You are all under naval discipline. All Protections have been withdrawn, and you are subject to the Articles of War. Those of you who don't know what that means can find out from those who do.
"Since this ship left Jamaica, we have all shared some strange adventures. The First Lord of the Admiralty and the Postmaster-General have read my report about it - and indeed it was a very full report." He decided exaggeration was pardonable; it should convince the packetsmen - particularly that villainous Bosun - that it was too late to silence him. But he must be careful not to scare them too much: he daren't risk them refusing to sail the ship back for fear of being arrested. A little bit of reassurance, then.
"They have approved my negotiations to secure the release of the ship. The result is that instead of ending up in a French prison, we'll all be back with our families in England in a few days.
"While I am in command of the ship, Mr Southwick will be the Master. The Surgeon is Mr Bowen. Mr Much will have a well-earned rest, but will stand watch if needed, as will Mr Yorke."
He looked round again. He had every packetsman's attention, that much was sure. Whether he had their loyalty was a different matter.
Ventures! He suddenly realized that was what the packetsmen wanted to hear about. Hellfire, ventures were forbidden by the Post Office, so he could hardly mention them as such. But there was an easy way out of it.
"If any of you men had any of your property taken and kept by the privateersmen, give me a written list before we arrive in England. Apart from that, keep your possessions stowed away tidily, just as you would on a normal voyage."
"We are sailing within an hour. There'll be a guinea for the first man to sight the English coast."
He turned and with a curt "Carry on, Mr Southwick!" strode to his cabin, where Yorke joined him, after politely knocking on the door in a tacit acknowledgement that, now Ramage commanded the ship, their official relationship had changed.
"I wouldn't bet on it," he said, "but I think you've got 'em!"
"I thought I heard some shuffling of feet and sucking of teeth," Ramage said doubtfully.
"There was at the beginning, but the 'at your peril" stopped that: I saw at least two men glance up at the fore yardarm, as though they already saw a noose hanging there..."
Ramage laughed grimly. "Well, the sooner we get 'em to sea the better: a month at anchor rots any but the best of men."
He unbuckled his sword and put it in the rack, then took his Commission and locked it in a drawer. He was - from force of habit - just going to call to the Marine sentry to pass the word for Southwick when he realized that he was commanding little more than a cosmopolitan bumboat: no Marine, no steward ... Well, until he knew more about the mood of the packetsmen, there would have to be an armed Triton at his own cabin door and also Southwick's. A thought struck him and he said to Yorke, "Would you mind continuing to share a cabin with Southwick?"
"No, of course not. Hadn't occurred to me I wouldn't, though now I think of it we do have plenty of accommodation."
"Sentries," Ramage explained tersely. "The same man can guard you and Southwick in one cabin, and Bowen and Wilson in the next, and the Marchesa too."
"Don't forget Much: doubt if he's very popular among the packetsmen..."
"I had forgotten him," Ramage admitted. "But yes, the same sentry could see that fourth cabin - Much had better move in there."
"Nasty feeling, isn't it, when you aren't sure of all the men."
Ramage nodded. "We have the Tritons," he said simply.
He walked to the door and called for Southwick and Much, and when they arrived he quickly gave them their instructions concerning accommodation and sentries. Then he added, "You should all sleep with a brace of loaded pistols close at hand - warn Wilson and Bowen, too. And only packetsmen at the wheel."
The Mate looked puzzled.
"Men at the wheel are helpless, Mr Much, and it's easy to keep an eye on them!"
Much grinned, "Yes, indeed, sir; the Devil makes work for idle hands!"
Ramage looked at Southwick. "Very well, we'll get under way as soon as you've finished the watch bill. I don't want to lose the ebb."
An hour later the anchor had been weighed and catted, and the Lady Arabella was reaching down the Tagus towards the open sea, Southwick giving occasional orders to the men at the wheel to avoid fregatas beating up against the ebb. The clouds were clearing and as they approached the bar the wind veered slightly.
Gianna had come up on deck as soon as the ship was under way, walking aft and standing at the taffrail, out of the way of the bustling seamen yet in a position to see everything that was going on. She caught Ramage's eye and he knew she was happy; content to be left on her own until he had time to be with her. She had his big boatcloak over her shoulders, the hem nearly touching the deck; a silk scarf of blue and gold - Ramage recalled they were the national colours of Volterra - held her hair against the tug of the wind and the downdraught of the sails.
Yorke walked up to him and said quietly, "I don't think I've ever seen such a beautiful picture."
And Ramage did not have to turn to look: Gianna was standing against a background of the pale blue sky and the city of Lisbon spread over rounded hills, the hard vertical lines of its monastery and church towers softened and tinted oyster pink by the early sun. He was taking her back again - to his home, not hers. A home she had left without hesitation because she thought she might be able.to help him in Lisbon. It was a humbling thought that a woman such as this would coldbloodedly risk her life for him.
Yorke, as if reading his thoughts, said softly, "She took a fearful risk coming out here." When Ramage nodded he added, "What would the French do if they got their hands on her?"
"Murder her, I imagine. While she's alive she's a threat to them. She could rouse three-quarters of Tuscany if the people knew she was in the hills waiting to lead them."
"It'd be a massacre, though," Yorke said. "Peasants with pitchforks against Bonaparte's Army of Italy."
"A massacre now," Ramage said. "But maybe not in a few years' time. The French fighting troops being used elsewhere, and the garrison troops grown soft and slack by inactivity ... Curious place, Italy: it rots the weak and inspires the strong."
The familiar thumping footsteps warned them Wilson was approaching. "Morning, Captain," he said almost shyly, as though unsure how he should treat Ramage in his new role. "Just going to take my exercise. Wondered if the Marchesa might care to join me. Permission to ask her, as it were?"
Ramage stared at him blankly for a moment, and then grinned. "Of course. She probably heard you," he said with gentle irony, since the soldier's confidential whisper was probably audible on the foredeck.
Gianna gathered up the folds of the boatcloak. "How thoughtful of you, Captain Wilson: I was feeling cold and the exercise will do us good."
"A mile before dinner, Ma'am," Wilson said as he fell in step beside her. "Have to you know; it's the porter. Drink too much of it and it makes..."
Yorke winked at Ramage. "Seems half a lifetime ago we first heard him say that. I say," he said suddenly, "how long is it really?"
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Seven or eight weeks, I suppose, but it isn't the sort of time you can measure with a calendar."
"I wonder what's happened to Stevens and Farrell?"
"I was thinking about them last night. Probably in a French prison by now. I expect the Rossignol put them on board her next prize."
Yorke gave a bitter laugh. "While we were prisoners in Lisbon, the French may have exchanged the pair of them by now..."
"I've thought of that too," Ramage said firmly, "and in case your imagination is sluggish this morning, I've thought of them making an official protest against me to the Inspector of Packets, and I've tried to guess what Lord Auckland says to the First Lord of the Admiralty when he reads their version."
"Stranger things have happened," Yorke commented. "But the Rossignol may have been caught by one of our frigates, and a British roundshot may have knocked both their heads off."
Southwick came up. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to get on with that survey of the stern. If I could have Much to help me, too."
"Carry on," Ramage said. "Make it detailed!"
The Arabella was making good time: the village of Estoril had dropped out of sight behind Punta de Salmodo, and the Citadel at Cascais, with Fort Santa Marta on the point, would soon be hidden by Cabo Raso as he headed the packet north for the long slog almost the length of the Peninsula. For once the wind was being helpful, veering as the Arabella rounded each headland so that it stayed just abaft the beam.
By mid-afternoon Much took the conn to allow Southwick an opportunity to give Ramage his written survey. As the Master sat down in the Captain's cabin, groaning and complaining of aching muscles after crawling round down below and reaching into almost inaccessible places to test the hardness of the wood, he was shaking his head. He held out several sheets of paper. "My written report, sir."
Ramage took it. "Just tell me the worst of it."
Southwick sniffed. "If we were in England, the dockyard people wouldn't have let us sail. The sternson knee, wing transom knee on the starboard side, several cant frames and the deck transom are all spongy. The sternpost - where I could get at it - was soft. Like cheese in some places. It's all in the report, sir," he said miserably. "Unsettles me to talk about it, specially since we can't do anything about it."
Ramage reached over and patted the old Master's knee."Cheer up; if it was action damage you wouldn't let it worry you!"
"That's true," he admitted cautiously. "But roundshot just breaks the wood up: you can see the extent of the damage. Rot - it's insidious: you can't measure how far it goes or how much the ship's weakened."
"As long as she'll get us to Falmouth..."
"Aye - well, as long as the sternpost holds, the rudder will hang on. Just remember we can't fire the stern-chasers - not that we're likely to forget that."
"Forget about the rot, then," Ramage said cheerfully. "I've just remembered I forgot to clear Customs in Lisbon. That damned Agent will think that's far more serious!"
Immediately after the mid-day meal, Ramage told Gianna to stay in her cabin and had the whole ship's company mustered aft. As he looked around at the men he could see that the resentment was there all right: the packetsmen's sullen stance was emphasized by the cheerful bearing of the former Tritons.
"The decks look a little better," he said harshly, "but in the time you've taken you could have sanded half an inch off the planks. Well, now you have a meal inside you, we'll have some exercises at the guns - I trust you packetsmen can remember the drill. Just to refresh your memories, you'll be shown how it should be done."
He took the key of the magazine from his pocket, and his watch.
"I want the packetsmen over there, by the mainmast: the former Tritons stand fast."
As soon as the ship's company was divided into two groups, Ramage called for the two ship's boys. "Do you two lads know what powder monkeys are?"
Crimson with shyness and embarrassment, the two boys said they did.
"Very well, you're going to have to take those charges and run twice as fast as you ever thought possible. Mr Much!" The Mate stepped forward and Ramage handed him the key to the magazine. "Will you stand by to take over below?"
Ramage turned to the former Tritons. "Jackson, Rossi, Stafford and Maxton. You will be the crew of number one gun on the starboard side. You're captain, Jackson; Stafford you'd better be second captain. Rossi, you are sponger and Maxton rammer. But leave the gun secure and you four men and the boys stand fast. The rest of you Tritons hoist up the tubs, fill them with water and get the decks wetted and sanded."
Quickly two small, low tubs were brought up from below, put one each side of the gun, and filled with water. Half a dozen buckets of water were swilled across the deck round the gun and between it and the hatch from which the boys would emerge with the powder charges, so there would be no chance of stray grains of gunpowder igniting as the wide wooden wheels of the carriage spun back with the recoil. A man then hurried across sprinkling sand so that feet should not slip on the wet planking.
With the gun still secured to the ship's side, the tackles were tight and seized so that it could not move no matter how much the ship rolled in heavy weather. The sponge - in effect a large mop fitted to a short wooden handle - and the rammer, a similar handle with a round wooden plug at one end only slightly smaller than the bore of the gun, were still lashed along the bulwark. Two handspikes - long wooden levers with wedge-shaped iron tips, used for levering the gun round to train it - were lashed near them.
Half a dozen roundshot nested like black oranges in semicircular depressions cut in a piece of timber bolted to the bulwark on each side of the gunport. Ramage had inspected the shot earlier. They had been painted within the past few months, but he had wondered idly when they had last been passed through a shot gauge to check whether several coats of paint over small bulges of rust meant they were no longer spherical, so they would jam in the bore of the gun or, when fired, would not fly true. There was no shot gauge on board, so he could do nothing about it.
He looked at his watch and held up a hand. Much and Jackson watched him closely. Suddenly he snapped, "Load and run out number one gun, starboard side. Roundshot!"
It was not an order from the drill books - such as they were - but it was a good exercise. Much, after almost diving down the hatch, followed by the two boys, would now be unlocking the magazine and unrolling the fire-screens, the rolls of heavy material which hung down like curtains to ensure that neither flash nor flame could enter the magazine to ignite the powder stored inside.
Much would have kicked off his shoes by now and be fishing around in the darkness down there. He would be cursing the fact that he had forgotten (as Ramage guessed he would) a fighting lanthorn to put in the V-shaped double window which ensured a light shining into the magazine from the outside without an actual flame anywhere near the powder. And he would be trying to find a pair of felt slippers that anyone working in the magazine was supposed to wear - again as a precaution against accidents from grains of powder.
If he had any sense he would work in his bare feet. He'd grab some empty cartridge boxes and pass them out to the boys, who would slide up the lids on the cylindrical boxes. Then he would pass out a powder charge, a boy would grab it and put it in his box, slide the lid down on the rope handle and head for the ladder clutching the box.
Now the men working under Jackson had cast off the lashings, overhauled the train tackles, thrown the lashings off the sponge, rammer and handspikes and run the gun in. Maxton was just removing the tompion from the muzzle of the gun when a boy arrived breathless with the charge.
Ramage wondered how long it would be before Jackson realized his two - no, three - mistakes so far.
They snatched the charge from the boy and eased it into the muzzle. Maxton slid the rammer in to push it right home, then gave it two smart thumps. Suddenly one of the former Tritons was standing by Jackson and passing several things to him. And Ramage knew he had underestimated the American - Rossi had slipped below unnoticed and brought up wads, pricker and powder horn, all of which were kept in the magazine. Rossi grabbed a wad and that was rammed home; a shot followed a moment later.
In the meantime Jackson, who had earlier checked the spark from the flint in the lock, jammed the long, thin metal pricker into the touch hole and made sure it had penetrated the covering of the powder charge, then shook powder from the powder horn into the pan and made sure it filled the touch hole. The long trigger lanyard to the lock was already coiled up on the breech.
At a word from Jackson, the gun was run out and Maxton and Rossi leapt back, each grabbing a handspike, ready to train the gun. Jackson stepped back smartly, uncoiling the lanyard and Stafford stood with his hand over the lock, ready to cock it. Jackson gave the word and the Cockney cocked it and jumped sideways out of the way.
Jackson dropped to his right knee, his left leg outstretched to the side, and called "Number one gun ready, sir!"
Ramage glanced at his watch and said: "Fire!"
Jackson took the strain on the lanyard. Suddenly the gun gave a sharp, almost bronchitic cough, and leapt back in recoil, the trucks rumbling until brought to a stop by the thick rope breeching secured to the bulwark each side and passing through the big ring on the breech.
One and three-quarter minutes from the moment he had given them the word. Not bad, not particularly good.
"Secure the gun and return equipment to the magazine," Ramage ordered.
Southwick walked across and muttered crossly, "They've got rusty ... this soft life they've been leading for the last month or so. If you'll give me half an hour with them, sir..."
"Just wait," Ramage grinned. "If you think that's slow, we'll see what the packetsmen do."
The sponge, rammer and handspikes had been lashed against the bulwark, and the little canvas bonnet protecting the lock mechanism and flint against spray had been tied in position when Ramage turned to the packetsmen. He had no wish to humiliate them; he just wanted them to demonstrate themselves.
"Bosun - pick your four best men for that gun's crew. Pick a fifth man to collect wads, pricker and powder horn from the magazine."
Four packetsmen shambled up to the gun. A fifth man stood by the hatch and the two boys joined him. Ramage glanced round and held up his hand.
"Is everyone ready?"
The men muttered and Ramage said loudly, "Load and run out number one gun, starboard side. Roundshot!"
As the fifth man and the boys ran below, the four packetsmen began casting off the gun, but Ramage noticed they did not overhaul the tackles. That meant the ropes would almost certainly kink and curl and jam in the blocks. They undid the lashings holding the rammer and sponge and tossed both down on the same side of the gun - that would waste time because the rammer worked on one side and the sponger on the other. The two handspikes followed, and were kicked out of the way as a man grabbed a roundshot and in his haste dropped it.
Southwick raised an eyebrow - there was no need for anyone to touch a shot at that point since the first boy had not yet arrived with powder. The fifth man appeared with wads, pricker and powder horn, but as the gun captain snatched the powder horn the fifth man in his excitement dropped the wads, which rolled aft. He was so flustered that he scampered round picking them all up, instead of grabbing the nearest and passing it to one of the two men at the muzzle of the gun.
By then a boy had arrived with the cartridge, which a seaman snatched and thrust into the muzzle. Then he looked round hurriedly for the rammer - and realized that it was on the other side of the gun.
Ramage looked at his watch. Two and a quarter minutes.
They all had to wait while the man with the wads came back in response to the gun captain's shouts. In went the wad and was rammed home. The sponger had a shot ready in his hands and tried to cram it in the muzzle. He was so clumsy that it dropped and rolled aft along the deck. Finally a shot was in and rammed home, priming powder was in the pan, and the gun ready to run out for firing. The men were hauling on the tackles to run it out before Ramage realized that the gun captain was holding the trigger lanyard taut and, even as he watched, the second captain cocked the lock without waiting for an order. If the gua moved a few more inches its own travel would tighten the lanyard and fire it - and probably kill the gun captain as it recoiled.
"Belay!" bellowed Ramage at the top of his voice, and fortunately the men froze.
Even as he strode across to the gun he saw the gun captain had not realized what he was doing. Ramage stopped right beside him and took the lanyard from his hand.
"You fool!" he said coldly. "The lock is cocked - if they'd run out another couple of inches the gun would have fired and you'd have been killed by the recoil - and some of the others too. And you" - he turned to the second captain - "don't you ever touch a lock until the gun captain gives the order. Now, carry on!"
He walked back aft, seething, and looked at his watch. Nearly four and a half minutes. Finally the gun captain called, "Number one gun ready, sir."
"Fire!"
And he looked at his watch yet again.
As the smoke drifted way he looked at the packetsmen. "Bosun!" he snapped. "The first crew took one and three-quarter minutes. Guess how long yours took."
"Three minutes, sir?" the man asked nervously.
"I wish they had. Six and a quarter minutes. They are your best men, but you saw how they nearly killed themselves. Right, secure the gun. You and your men," he told the Bosun harshly, "are going to exercise at the guns until you wish gunpowder had never been invented."
He turned to the Master, who commented gloomily, "And that was the leeward side..."
The fact the packet was heeled to leeward meant that when running the gun out ready to fire, its own weight helped the men at the tackles. If they had been using a gun on the other side they would have had to haul it up the inclined deck.
"Exercises start now," Ramage told Southwick angrily, "and continue for two hours. No live firing, but the men will ram and sponge as though there was."
He knew he was in a fury, although that was not going to make the men any faster.
"Jackson!" he called. When the American coxswain came running aft, Ramage said, "As soon as the Bosun divides his men into fours, I want you, Stafford, Rossi and Maxton to go through the drill with each crew one by one. Make sure they know what they're trying to do. When you're satisfied they all know the drill, report to me."
An hour had passed before Jackson made his report, and Ramage ordered the three crews to three of the 4-pounder guns. For the remaining hour he had the crews competing against each other, loading, running out, pretending to fire, sponging, ramming and running out again until sweat was pouring from their bodies. At each gun stood Rossi, Stafford or Maxton, bellowing encouragement, instructions and occasionally abuse while Jackson strode from one gun to another, like the conductor of a wayward orchestra.
Every ten minutes Ramage timed a different crew, and to begin with there was a gradual improvement, measured in seconds rather than minutes. But after that the improvement stopped as the men wearied. Very well, he thought to himself, from now on it's punishment, not training.
At five o'clock he ordered the guns secured and the magazine locked. He glanced up at the sails, impatient for the next day, so that he could start exercising the packetsmen aloft.