By early evening the Lady Arabella was making seven knots with a brisk quartering wind. The Os Farilhões islands, their sharp outline caught by the last of the sun's rays and giving the impression of several sails on the eastern horizon, were eight miles away on the starboard beam.
Southwick, responsible for navigation, was already grumbling about the French charts. "These packets," he muttered to Ramage. "They carry just enough charts to get them through to their usual destination. Fancy Stevens not carrying a chart for anywhere south of Brest! Supposing he ran into a week of bad weather on the way home and found himself driven on to the Spanish peninsula, or into the Bay of Biscay? Not that these damned French charts are much better than having nothing. Don't trust 'em."
"Kerguelen was going to - in fact he took us down to Lisbon with them without running ashore!" Ramage said mildly. "He probably brought the French charts on board with him because he didn't trust British ones!"
"Or he guessed that packets don't carry a proper folio of charts. And this business of measuring the prime meridian from Paris," Southwick snorted. "Why not Greenwich, like other civilized people!"
Ramage had forgotten that. "When do we come on to the British charts?"
"Just south of the latitude of Brest. Stevens has a copy made from some other chart. He's left the south-eastern section blank - probably too damned idle to finish the job."
Ramage began pacing up and down the starboard side of the deck: the strange lassitude that had threatened to overcome him in Lisbon, and which had been given a sharp nudge by Gianna's arrival, had now vanished completely. The Lady Arabella was a strange command for him - strange in every sense, from the ship's company to her actual ownership - but at least a command. Sir Pilcher Skinner was the other side of the Western Ocean; the Admiralty and Lombard Street were still a few hundred miles to the north. It was going to be a problem convincing Their Lordships about the fate of the packets, but that was all sufficiently far over the horizon to be left for a day or two so he could enjoy Gianna's company. The devil take it, she'd gone below ten minutes ago to change before the evening meal, and he was already missing her...
He had to write a full report for Their Lordships before they reached Plymouth, and it would be worth having Much write one as well. In fact, Ramage thought, I'm damned if I won't take Much to London with me; Lord Spencer can hear the Mate's story from the man's own lips if he wishes to. Yorke will probably travel to London at the same time, so he will be available too.
He looked slowly round the horizon as he walked. The wind was little more than fifteen knots, and there was the usual evening cloud to the westward, looking dark and menacing with the sun setting behind it.
As he watched several men washing down the deck to clear away the sand, he saw how easy it would be for the most unobservant landlubber to pick out the former Tritons. They were working with a will, not a sloppy eagerness as though trying to please. They had a brisk precision; their complete economy of movement made the least effort do the most work. He had noticed it before, when Stevens was in command, because that had been his first chance of comparing man-o'-war's men working side by side with packetsmen.
There had been scores of occasions when he had seen a crowd of lubberly volunteers or newly pressed men being shown how to do various tasks on board a man-o'-war, and it had taken weeks for them to get into the swing of it all. But here were packetsmen - trained seamen who had spent their life in merchant ships - who made a very poor showing when working alongside men who had spent only a few years in ships of war.
Of course, he had to make allowances for the fact that these packetsmen were sullen; there was no disguising that. They hated exercising at the guns; they would resent being roused out to go to quarters to meet the dawn; they already resented having to scrub the decks daily. Nor did they like the idea of four lookouts, one on each bow and each quarter: Stevens had been content with one at the bow. Well, Ramage thought grimly, they are going to dislike the drill I have planned for them tomorrow even more. They would probably hate him long before they sighted the English coast, but he was going to work the packetsmen until they were ready to drop. And if they did drop, he was going to be sure it was on to scrubbed decks.
Yorke sauntered over and fell into step beside him.
"Feels good, doesn't it?"
"Aye," Ramage said, motioning Yorke to follow him down to the cabin, "I was never a good passenger."
"Nor me," Yorke said ruefully.
"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that!"
"I know you didn't; it just reminded me. Anyway, you've already got her looking more like a ship."
Ramage led the way into the cabin, acknowledging the salute of the seaman on guard at the door, and waved Yorke to a seat. "By sunset tomorrow these packetsmen are going to wish they'd never been born!"
"Oho! What other little treats have you got in store?"
"Four hours' drill at the guns, for a start. And an hour's sail drill. More if they don't look lively!"
"Is it worth it? I mean," Yorke said hurriedly, "you gave them a good run at the guns today and we'll be in Plymouth before you can get a polish on them. If we sight any ships with designs on our virtue, presumably we'll make a bolt for it."
"We most certainly will. No, I'm going to work these packetsmen until they nearly drop simply because it's the only way to punish them."
"Why not leave it to the courts?" Yorke said mildly.
"Courts?" Ramage snorted. "These scoundrels will never be hauled before a court! And if they were, how can we prove what we've seen with our own eyes? Their word against ours, and a smart lawyer would probably convince a judge that we never saw anything; that we are just nasty troublemakers perjuring ourselves."
"But they'll certainly be arrested, won't they?"
Ramage shook his head. "I can't see it. The Post Office - the Government, rather - are going to handle everything very discreetly, and to a politician 'discreetly' is a polite word for 'secretly'."
"Oh come now!" Yorke chided. "I know you've said all this before, but..."
"All right, m'lad. Who has the power in the City of London? Who really has their hands on the purse strings?"
"The merchants and the bankers, I suppose."
"Exactly. And of all the merchants, the ones with the loudest voices are the-"
"The West India merchants," Yorke interrupted. "All right, I take the point."
"Very well, they're the most powerful - and they've lost the most because the West Indies packets were vanishing. In fact I'm damned certain it's only their pressure that eventually forced the Government to do something drastic.
"You see, it'd be one thing for the Post Office to report in vague terms in about three months' time that losses have stopped. But it'd be something quite different if the Postmaster-General suddenly announced in Parliament that he'd just discovered the heavy loss of packets had been caused by the treachery and greed of their commanders and crews.
"I can just imagine the overwhelming vote of confidence the Government would fail to get in Parliament! And I can see the Lord Mayor of London leading his cronies in a brisk trot to Downing Street armed with nasty threats. Consols would come down with a crash - and from what I've always heard, the moment they drop ten points or so the ministers start emptying their desk drawers, ready to hand over to their successors."
"So you think these jokers" - Yorke waved a hand to indicate the packetsmen on deck above with scrubbing brushes and buckets of water - "won't be popped on the scales of Justice?"
"No - but by the time I've finished with 'em I hope they'd sooner have taken their chance in a court. In my crude way I don't see why they should escape any sort of punishment."
"Bit hard on your fellows, though."
Ramage shook his head. "Oh no - they'd be doing it anyway in a ship-o'-war. You saw them just now; they simply show how fast a thing can be done, then they watch the packetsmen working at it until they can do it as quickly."
"That seems fair," Yorke conceded.
"It's not intended to be fair," Ramage said sourly. "Don't labour the point or I might keep them at it for ten hours a day. Anyway, weary men are less likely to cause trouble!"
The sentry's voice interrupted. "The Marchesa's coming, sir!"
Ramage grinned at Yorke. "The Marines would go mad if they heard that. Still, the poor fellow has been told he's to guard us - from each other, too!"
There was a knock at the door and Gianna walked in. "It's so dark in here, Nicholas. Oh, Mr Yorke - am I interrupting an important conversation?"
"No," Yorke said quickly, "but I have a very important and urgent job."
When he saw Ramage's eyebrows raised questioningly he pointed to the lantern clipped to the bulkhead over the desk. "I was going to get that lit - we can't let such beauty blossom in darkness."
"Nicholas is not as beautiful as all that," she said with a straight face. "Come, sit down again; the Captain's cabin in the twilight is so cosy. That saloon - horrible! Like some cheap inn! Now tell me what you two did in the West Indies."
"Nothing much," Yorke said warily. "Deuced hot, of course."
"Too hot to flirt with beautiful women?"
"Oh, much too hot," Yorke said emphatically.
"That is not what I hear," Gianna said. "The rustling palm trees, the perfume of frangipani, an enormous moon ... is that not romantic, Mr Yorke?"
"Indeed it is. But you can't hear the palms rustling for the buzz of mosquitoes, and you can't stand still long enough to look at the moon for the itching of their bites. Even if you could, you'd be eaten alive by sandflies - 'No-see-'ems' they're called in some of the islands - and their bites are like red-hot needles jabbed in you."
Yorke hoped she was convinced, and looking at her and listening to her talking in that delightfully accented voice that one heard with the loins rather than the ears, he suddenly remembered the many occasions back in the Caribbean when Ramage had not heard him say something. He would give a start and Yorke had guessed he'd suddenly come back from wherever his thoughts had been. For a moment he would look confused; then he'd seem embarrassed. Now Yorke realized what iron control Ramage had. In the isolation of the West Indies, it was a rare man who could have resisted the urge to ease the loneliness by talking of the woman he loved so desperately and who was nearly five thousand miles away. Yet until he met her, the only things Yorke knew about her had been the few admiring anecdotes which Southwick had related like an adoring grandfather describing his favourite grandchild.
Yorke had often heard men describing beautiful women, but when he'd eventually met the women he'd been disappointed. Sometimes a woman's beauty matched the words used to describe her, but usually she proved to be as characterless as a piece of statuary.
In a bitter way - just jealousy, if he was honest with himself - Yorke had pieced together Southwick's occasional descriptions and pictured a beautiful shrew: a young woman who used her beauty to mesmerize men and her power as the ruler of a small state to bully them. Wilful, making everyone rush round for the sake of a whim, sulky when thwarted ... The moment he had heard she was coming back with them in the Arabella, Yorke admitted to himself he half thought of moving over to the Princess Louise.
But how wrong he had been: she was all Southwick had said, and more. More because Southwick could not appreciate her love of music, the breadth of her reading, the subtlety of a patrician mind completely free of the restraints normally ingrained in women.
Would Ramage ever be able to marry her? Perhaps not. If she was ever to return to rule Volterra a foreign husband might be too much for those Tuscans to accept. Religion - would that be an obstacle? Ramage a Protestant, and Gianna presumably a Roman Catholic? Obviously they would be the main problems. Apart from that, everything was in his favour: heir to one of the oldest earldoms in the country, he spoke perfect Italian, and from all accounts understood the Italians as well as a non-Italian ever could.
Yet would she be allowed to marry the man she loved? Would she be forced - for political or dynastic reasons - to marry some dreary and corpulent ruler of a neighbouring state? If that ever happened Yorke pitied the poor fellow! How could he compete with the memories she would have of the handsome young Englishman who rescued her from Napoleon's cavalry and took her away in his ship...
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr Yorke..."
Now he was daydreaming about her!
"I was thinking about your secret admirers, ma'am."
"And who are they?" she demanded.
"All the former Tritons on board this ship who served in the Kathleen, and the worthy Captain Wilson, Much and Bowen..."
"So few?" she teased.
"I'm not including myself because I don't - with the Captain's permission - have to keep it a secret."
Ramage wagged a warning finger. "If you think flattery will get you an extra dance, you're wasting your time."
"A dance?" Gianna asked. "With whom is Mr Yorke going to dance - and when?"
"In a weak moment, when the chances of us ever getting back to England seemed very remote," Ramage explained, "I told him I would give a ball in your honour - and let him have one dance."
"Hmm, you'll be charging people soon. A guinea to dance with the crazy Italian lady," she said with a sniff. "Mr Yorke, I shall give a ball - and you can be my partner as often as you wish. But you must both excuse me now; I must see how Rossi is getting on with our dinner. He's having trouble with that wretched seaman, Nicholas."
"I'm not surprised. Two cooks in one kitchen!"
"Cook!" she exclaimed crossly. "That other man is an assassin !"
With that she left the cabin and the two men sat in almost complete darkness. It was not classical beauty, Yorke mused; it was a great deal more than that. Classical beauty tended to be cold. Her mouth was too wide and her lips too warm, if you measured her by those standards. Her eyes too large - and too lively. Her skin was golden, not the alabaster white and pink that classical beauty dictated. Yet if she walked on to the floor at one of the Prince of Wales's famous grand balls, every woman present would demand to know who she was, and hate her for being there!
"You'll have dinner with us?" Ramage asked.
"No, I'll eat in the saloon with the others. The captain of one of the King's ships dines alone - unless there is a charming passenger on board. You don't need a chaperone for your first evening together!"
The excitement of her first day at sea had left Gianna tired, and as soon as dinner was finished and Rossi had cleared the table she had smiled ruefully at Ramage and said she was going to bed. Ramage took her to her cabin and then went up on deck to have a chat with Southwick, who was on watch.
The Portuguese coast was now a thin black line low and vague on the dark eastern horizon. Ramage had decided quite deliberately not to beat far out into the Atlantic; instead he planned to clear Cabo Finisterra by only a few miles, even though the Spanish bases of Coruña and Ferrol were just a short distance round the Cape to the eastward. British frigates - if not a sizeable squadron - were keeping a close watch on them even as the Arabella stretched along the coast, and the packet would probably be safer close in.
After a glance at the slate recording the Arabella's recent courses and speeds, Ramage looked at the two helmsmen, their faces lit faintly by the light in the binnacle box, nodded to Southwick and went below to his cabin again. The Master had been given his night orders, which he would later pass on to Much: orders which covered any likely eventuality. A major wind shift or change in its strength, sighting another vessel, doubt concerning the ship's position - any of these circumstances and many more would result in the captain being called.
In the meantime Ramage was now feeling sleepy and decided he might well spend an hour or two beginning a draft of his report to the Admiralty. He took the lantern from the centre of the cabin's forward bulkhead, where it lit up the table, and hooked it on the bracket on the starboard side of the bulkhead, so that he would see to work at the desk.
For the next hour he wrote and crossed out, tore up complete pages and started again. The Arabella was rolling; not heavily, just enough to make it necessary to wedge the inkwell. He was thankful the desk had been built athwartships against the bulkhead, so that he faced forward: it made it less tiring than if he had to face outboard.
The sentry tapped on the door and said quietly, to avoid rousing the occupants of the other cabins, "Mr Yorke, sir."
Ramage glanced up as the door to his left opened in response to his reply.
"Want a game of chess?" he asked mockingly.
"Don't you start," Yorke said wearily. "I've been fighting off Bowen for hours. He seems to think that Southwick standing a watch is a deliberate plot on your part to keep him away from the chessboard."
"I doubt if Southwick minds," Ramage said, getting up from the desk and going to sit in a chair by the table on the other side of the cabin.
"Don't be too sure," Yorke said sitting in a chair beyond. "Your Master is getting the disease. He beat Bowen in three consecutive games just before we left Lisbon."
"Oh? I didn't hear about that!"
"I'm not surprised: Bowen was too startled, and Southwick couldn't believe it himself. I think Bowen was getting careless."
"If you'd like a drink..." Ramage gestured to the locker in which bottles sat in racks.
Yorke shook his head. "No, I want to sleep lightly tonight."
When Ramage raised his eyebrows questioningly, Yorke said: "The packetsmen ... I don't trust that Bosun an inch."
"I imagine he's borne that cross since he was a baby and first reached out of the crib to pick his father's pocket," Ramage said dryly.
Yorke glanced at Ramage's desk, on which there were several sheets of paper, and the open inkwell. "I shouldn't be interrupting you."
"Plenty of time for that: I was starting a draft of my report to the First Lord."
"I saw Much tickling his chin with a quill."
"I've told him to write a report to me, so that I can enclose it."
"He seems to have as much enthusiasm for quill-pushing as you," Yorke commented, picking up one of the two pistols lying on the settee. "I see you don't follow your own instructions, Captain. This isn't loaded! Mine are loaded and ready!"
Ramage pointed to the box on the settee. "There's powder, wads and shot..."
"Armourer - that's the only job I haven't had since I've been with you," Yorke said caustically. "I'd make a good armourer, you know," he confided. "I love guns. Not as instruments to kill" - he snapped the lock a couple of times to check the spark from the flint - "but just for good craftsmanship. Not one of these Sea Service pistols, of course; but a pair of good duelling pistols by someone like Henry Nock."
He took the powder flask, slid back the rammer and methodically loaded the gun.
"I feel the same way," Ramage said. "A gun is inert; just a piece of metal with a flint and some wood attached to it. By itself it can't move or kill anything: it can't do a damned thing unless someone picks it up."
"Ah - an interesting point," Yorke commented, beginning to load the second pistol. "Who is the killer - the gun that fires the shot or the man who squeezes the trigger?"
Ramage sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "That's a fatuous point which isn't worth mentioning, my friend, let alone discussing. No-" He stopped and listened for a moment. The rudder still creaked as the wheel turned a spoke or two this way or that, keeping the ship on course: he could picture the quartermaster checking by the dim light at the compass and muttering something to the men at the wheel. The lookouts were watching in the darkness, and Southwick would be strolling up and down. He had heard the sentry outside the cabin cough once or twice. A sail occasionally flapped as the packet pitched and momentarily spilled the wind. The hull creaked as all hulls did. He was not sure what he had heard: perhaps only a distant seagull giving a squawk of alarm as it sighted the ship.
"No," he continued, idly taking one of the pistols, while the light from the lantern threw the shadow across the cabin, "just take this as an example. Old ladies and parsons regard them as inventions of the Devil: evil contrivances which kill men. Yet it's the man that's evil, not the gun. A gun is no-"
That noise again, and a slight thump which could have been a piece of wreckage bumping the hull, and from the way Yorke glanced towards the door Ramage knew he'd heard it too. When he raised his eyebrows questioningly Yorke turned down the corners of his mouth, shrugging his shoulders. Then a plank creaked.
There were many beams and planks, lodging knees and hanging knees, frames and stringers creaking in the ship at this very moment, but only one particular plank creaked like that.
A butt in one of the planks in the corridor had sprung close to Ramage's door - he remembered stubbing his toe on it and cursing violently, startling the sentry. And as he stood there, his toes tingling with pain, he had pushed down on the plank and it had creaked: a high-pitched creak - more like the squeak of a loose plank in a staircase than the usual deeper creaking made by the ship, which by comparison was a series of groans. He had intended to have the carpenter's mate put in a couple of fastenings to secure it.
Surely the plank would creak like that only if someone stood on it? But the sentry would see anyone there, unless he was leaning with his right shoulder against the bulkhead, facing to starboard. Still, it could be the sentry himself, or Bowen or Wilson going on deck for some fresh air. Ramage knew he was getting jumpy and leaned over to put the pistol back on the settee. At that moment he heard a soft grunt and a gentle thud.
Without realizing it he continued moving upward so that he was on his feet and heading silently for the door, pistol in his hand, almost before registering that the grunt came from a man's throat. Yorke followed him a couple of seconds later.
Ramage gestured to him to stand to the left of the door, where he would be hidden if it was opened, and himself stood the other side, flat against the bulkhead. He watched the handle.
The light was so dim from the lantern over his desk that it was hard to see the wooden latch. Yes! It was lifting slightly ... and anyone wanting to see if he was lying in the cot at the after-end of the cabin or sitting at the desk on the starboard side would have to open the door at least a foot. And men entering a room or cabin tended to look first at the level of their own eyes.
Gently he lowered himself until he was crouching.
A black crack began to show as someone slowly opened the door, careful to do it gently for fear of a creaking hinge. The crack widened ... an inch, two inches ... four ... five ... Whoever it was could see part of the cabin but not the cot or the desk. Eight inches ... nine ... he could probably see the empty chair by the desk now ... eleven ... twelve ... he could see the whole of the desk and must guess the Captain was lying in the cot.
Suddenly the door flung open wide and the Bosun jumped into the cabin, a pistol in each hand, shouting at the cot, "Don't move!"
It took him a few moments to realize that there was no one in the heavily shadowed cot, and as he began to look round Ramage shot him in the leg. The flash of the gun blinded him for a second and the noise boomed in the tiny cabin, but as the Bosun pitched forward another man with a pistol took his place, saw Ramage crouching with an empty gun smoking in his hand, and sneered, "Now it's your turn, Mister Captain! We need your help to capture this ship!"
Ramage stood up slowly and glanced down at the Bosun. The man was lying on his face and had let go of both pistols as he tried to clutch the wound just above his knee.
Ramage knew that if he wanted to live he needed time. "Do you, indeed?" he said icily, recognizing the seaman as a man called Harris. "Do you want me to give the officer of the watch a written order? Or would you prefer me to ask the Admiralty?"
"None o' that smooth talk," Harris said harshly. "The shot will have roused that bloody slave-driver Southwick. I'm warning you, if he tries any nonsense, you get yourself shot. You're our second hostage, Mister Captain - sir," he added derisively.
Suddenly Ramage realized that there were only two of them: the Bosun and this man Harris. They must have crept from their hammocks - or sneaked from their stations - without the Tritons spotting them, clubbed the sentry at the door and been planning to seize Ramage as a hostage.
By marching him on deck with a pistol at his back, they guessed they could force Southwick to surrender the ship as the price of saving Ramage's life. Then they would head for a Spanish or French port to hand over the ship and get what they expected would be freedom. They had probably - what a terrible irony - thought the gibbet awaited them at home in England, never for a moment... all at once he realized that Harris had just referred to a "second hostage". Who was the first?
"Come on, Mister Captain, let's get on with the business a'fore the Bosun bleeds to death. Remember, one false step and you're a dead man."
Hoping Yorke would continue to play a waiting game, Ramage decided to try and find out as much as he could. "You're a brave fellow - you and the Bosun. Just two of you taking a ship, eh?"
"Not difficult for packetsmen," Harris sneered. "No, not just two of us: the rest of the lads are ready, waiting for me to pass the word. Then we'll show Mister Bloody Southwick some sail handling - aye, and navigation too. Ever been to Coruña, Mister Captain Ramage? Ever been in a Spanish prison?"
"No. But I imagine you've been in an English one."
"Never - an' there'll never be no risk o' that again; I'll take my oath on it!"
"I'll take my oath that you're wrong," Ramage said conversationally. "Do you know Mr Yorke, by the way?"
"What, the passenger? No, why?"
"I just wondered. You are Harris, aren't you, Bosun's mate?"
"Aye, that's me. Now, let's-"
"Don't turn round, Harris; otherwise you'll be shot dead," Ramage said conversationally. "Mr Yorke is standing right behind you with a loaded pistol in his hand."
The man froze, the white showing all round his eyes. Then he relaxed. "That's a silly trick. You can't catch a packetsman like that. And we've got the Marchesa as well - didn't know that, did you. Got the pair of you, we have!"
At that moment the muzzle of Yorke's pistol pressed into the back of his neck.
"We can catch a packetsman, you know," Yorke said jauntily, and cocked the pistol so that Harris felt the metallic click travel down his spine.
Again the man froze and Ramage saw his eyes straining to look behind him. In a swift movement Ramage stepped to one side and seized the man's gun. Outside the door he heard the plank squeak several times and as he turned he saw Southwick peering cautiously through the door, holding a musketoon whose muzzle in the shadows seemed to bell out as large as a cavalryman's trumpet and which a moment later was jammed into Harris's stomach.
Still trying desperately to think what the mutineers could be doing to Gianna, it took him a few moments to snap, "Come in, Southwick! Is the wheel secure? What about the packetsmen on watch?"
"All attended to, sir," the Master said calmly. "All three of 'em lying in a row by the binnacle. We knocked 'em out the moment we heard the shot. The Mate's at the wheel."
"Very well. Don't make any move against the rest of them yet: they've got the Marchesa as a hostage. Secure Harris and get Bowen to look at the Bosun."
"Come on," Southwick called to the men behind him, "Rossi, Maxton - this man's under arrest. Put him in irons and guard him well."
"Accidente!" the Italian seaman exclaimed, and in a moment he was in the cabin, a knife in each hand and crouching behind Harris while Maxton stood in front, a cutlass pressing against the man's stomach. "Follow me," Maxton hissed, backing to the door, "and just trip once, eh?"
Ramage, rubbing the scar over his brow, saw the Surgeon at the door, with Wilson behind him. "Ah, Bowen, we have a patient fer you: a turbulent Bosun."
"The sentry is dead," Bowen said quietly. "Skull crushed in."
The sentry dead and Gianna a hostage. Ramage felt a chill spreading through his body; time was slowing down and the colours in the dimly lit cabin were growing brighter. He knew the symptoms and knew that for the moment his greatest enemy was himself: this cold rage occurred rarely, but when it did there was no fear and no mercy for whoever caused it.
Cursing himself for letting Rossi and Maxton take Harris away before he could force answers out of him, Ramage pushed Bowen aside as the surgeon went to kneel by the Bosun, who was now beginning to groan, apparently having fainted when he fell.
Ramage paused for a moment and asked Bowen, "Who was the sentry?"
"Duncan, sir."
Duncan ... the young Scot who had been with him in every action from the Mediterranean onwards, and now murdered by one of his own countrymen. Murdered because he was looking the other way and did not know the significance of that squeaking plank. Ramage began rubbing the scar over his brow again and knelt beside the Bosun, who was conscious now and groaning softly. He pulled the man's shoulder, rolling him over on his back. The face was grey: he had lost a lot of blood - it was soaking across the deck, seemingly black in the faint light from the lantern.
"Tell me," Ramage said, almost whispering, "what have you done with the Marchesa?"
"Oh, the pain," the Bosun groaned. "For pity's sake, sir, the Surgeon. I'm bleeding to death..."
"Where is the Marchesa?"
"I'm bleeding badly, sir; my leg, it's smashed - ach..." The man's eyes closed as his body moved when the ship gave a more violent roll.
Ramage stood up and, deliberately winking at the Surgeon, said harshly, "Look at him, Bowen, and tell me how bad the bleeding is. I want to know when he'll die."
The Surgeon gestured towards the lantern, and Yorke unhooked it, holding it so light shone on the man's leg.
Quickly Bowen slit the seam of the trousers and rolled back the material. Ramage could see the wound was painful but not dangerous.
"The bleeding," Bowen said with a wink, "I've got to stop it or he'll die."
"Hear that, Bosun?" Ramage said. "You're quite right; you are bleeding to death. Five minutes, from the look of it."
The man groaned again and Ramage said crisply, "Stand back, Bowen. Now, what's happened to the Marchesa?"
"Oh God, I'm dying - the pain, sir ... I've got a wife and two children..."
"The sentry had three children. Who hit him?"
But Bowen was a surgeon with scruples, and he said emphatically, "Sir, I can't be responsible for what happens if -"
"You're not responsible," Ramage snarled as he knelt beside the Bosun again, turning the man's face so he could not avoid Ramage's eyes. "If I'm not mistaken you now have about three minutes before you go. What's happened to the Marchesa?"
"You're murdering me ... If I tell ... oh, the pain ... if I tell, will you let the Surgeon..."
"Yes," Ramage said, and added bitterly, "I'll save you for the hangman's noose."
"T'was Harris," the man whispered. "He gagged her and dragged her out and passed her over to the rest of them. They were supposed to take her forward."
"Who killed the sentry?"
"Harris, sir. I just caught him as he fell."
Ramage picked up the two pistols the Bosun had been carrying, checked that they were loaded, and gestured to Bowen. "Carry on."
He waved to Yorke. "I'm going to find out what's happening on deck. Are you coming?"
Yorke picked up Harris's pistol, which Ramage had pitched on to the settee. "Delighted," he said. Captain Wilson, still in his nightshirt and with his moustache drooping, waited cheerfully at the door, a pistol in each hand, and followed them.
At the top of the companionway Ramage paused for a few moments while his eyes adapted to the darkness; then he saw Much and Southwick standing beside a man at the wheel, with another - was it Stafford? - holding a pair of pistols aimed at three bodies sprawled by the binnacle. A group of men waiting at the taffrail were presumably the rest of the Tritons.
Suddenly Jackson was at his elbow. "Mr Southwick said to wait before we winkle out the packetsmen, sir. Says they've kidnapped the Marchesa."
He was speaking in the dull monotone which Ramage had heard only once or twice before but knew was the warning that the American was sufficiently roused to kill without compunction. We are a pair, Ramage thought sourly; maybe it is the quietness that misleads people.
"Stand by me a moment," he said, and did a quick sum. The Bosun, Harris and three men by the binnacle: five accounted for. One of the packetsmen had been killed when the privateer arrived. That left six packetsmen below, and a couple of boys.
One Triton was dead, one was there at the wheel, two were guarding Harris and one guarding the three packetsmen. Two more were needed as lookouts. That left five Tritons plus Yorke and Wilson. He needed Southwick to handle the ship, and Much would have to act as quartermaster and help at the wheel if it became too much for one man.
Seven men against six packetsmen holding Gianna as a hostage. Think, he told himself savagely: a few moments of clear thought now may save her life; the slightest mistake will kill her. He gripped the pistol butts as though trying to crush them.
Very well, try to guess what the packetsmen - the mutineers, rather - planned. Obviously they intended to use Gianna and me as hostages to force Southwick to hand over the ship. Or perhaps, since they could not be sure they could make prisoners of the Tritons, force him to sail the Arabella to a Spanish port - only a few hours' sailing from here. Right, now they have lost the Bosun and Harris. Does that leave them without a leader? Probably: with such a small group of comparatively unintelligent men, the leader would carry out the most difficult part of a plan, taking the most reliable man with him. That pointed to Harris, because the Bosun was genuinely terrified of him.
Right, six mutineers are down below holding Gianna. Presumably Harris handed Gianna to them before coming to my cabin. Those six men heard a shot. They still don't know who fired it: all they do know is that Harris and the Bosun haven't returned, and the ship is still under our control.
Their only offensive weapon is Gianna, and Gianna alive. And their only defence, too. If they kill her they know they'll never get control of the ship: we will simply guard the hatch and sail the ship into Plymouth with six mutineers trapped down on the messdeck.
The six of them are probably arguing about that now. Even the most stupid of them must know Gianna has to stay alive to be of any use. Can I be sure of that? I have to be; it's a risk I must take because Harris is the man with the answers and I need ten minutes to make him talk. If I try to loosen the Bosun's tongue, I will have Bowen protesting. Yet the Bosun's tongue will be easier to loosen than Harris's. So I'm going to start with the Bosun, and if Bowen wants to get soft-hearted about it he can go and sit by the belfry for an hour or two: my questions and the Bosun's answers may be the only things that will save Gianna's life.
Have I forgotten anything? Gianna's face keeps getting in the way of the thoughts.
Ramage walked over to the binnacle and gestured to Southwick, Yorke, Much and Wilson to gather round. Quickly he told them what little he guessed and then gave his orders.
"Southwick, you have the conn and keep Much with you and one man at the wheel. I want two lookouts, one forward and one aft. These men" - he motioned to the three packetsmen lying by the binnacle, covered by a Triton with pistols -"put them in irons: we can't spare a man to guard them. I'm taking Jackson and Stafford with me and I want Rossi. Maxton can guard Harris. Pick two men to help Captain Wilson. Keep the rest with you.
"Now, Wilson: I want you to cover the forehatch with a couple of men. Take musketoons but be careful: I don't want any shooting. They may send up someone to talk with us, but don't let more than one man on deck at a time. Is all that clear? Very well, carry on."
He tapped Jackson on the arm. "Fetch Rossi and tell Maxton to keep a close watch on Harris. If he gives any trouble, he can knock him out, but I want that man kept alive..."
Turning to Yorke, Ramage said quietly, "Have I forgotten anything?"
"Not that I've spotted. I reckon you've got half an hour before those mutineers make up their minds what to do next. Shall we go down and have a chat with the Bosun?"
As Ramage hesitated, Yorke thought: he's a cool one. The Marchesa is down on the messdeck, probably with a mutineer's pistol stuck in her ribs, and he's as calm as if she was still in Cornwall. But he's changed in the last few minutes: now he's as cold and supple as a rapier blade.
Then Ramage looked straight at him and said, "I'm taking Rossi and Stafford down with me. Either the Bosun or Harris are going to talk. It might be-"
"A trifle messy," Yorke interrupted. "I should hope so!"
They found the wounded Bosun lying on the table in the saloon, secured by lines across his chest and hips against the rolling of the ship. The big gimballed lamp swung with the roll of the ship and weird shadows slipped back and forth across the saloon. Bowen was standing over the man's leg, the table holding him against the lee roll.
He glanced up as they came in and Ramage saw his face was dripping with perspiration. "Ah - just too late to lend me a hand. I'm about finished. Then perhaps I can have a couple of men to lift him into a cot; he'll be more comfortable swinging; the rolling makes the leg jerk on this table."
" 'Swinging' is the right word," Ramage said sourly. "Have you stitched him up?"
"Yes, both sides."
"Both sides?"
"Yes, sir; the shot went right through, of course. Missed the bone and the femoral artery: if that had been severed, he'd have been dead in a few minutes. At first I feared it was - the light is bad in your cabin, sir," he explained.
The Bosun groaned, looking up at Ramage. "A drop o' rum, sir, to take the pain away?"
Yorke sniffed. "I can't see you offering the Captain a tot of rum if you'd fired first."
"Oh, I would, sir," the Bosun protested. "And you too, sir."
"Thanks," Yorke said dryly. "But as far as you're concerned, dead men tell no tales, and they don't drink either."
"But I'm not dead, sir."
"Not yet," Yorke said ominously, "and neither are we."
Ramage grinned to himself: he would have given the Bosun a tot, and he realized Yorke had guessed that. But Yorke was right; giving a murderous mutineer a tot made little sense, and from what Bowen said it was only a flesh wound. At that moment there was a knock on the door and Jackson came in with Rossi and Stafford.
Ramage moved to stand over the Bosun. "Some more questions," he said. "You might as well answer them now."
The Bosun gave a heart-rending groan. "I'm not in a fit state..."
"You're alive," Ramage said. "That's enough, and be thankful. Now, whose idea was the mutiny?"
The man's eyes darted from side to side of the saloon; his hands gripped the edge of the table. Then he watched the lantern as it swung with the ship's roll. He swallowed several times but said nothing.
Ramage said, "The mutiny has failed. There's nothing to stop you talking."
"I ... I daren't, sir, an' that's the honest truth."
"Why not?"
"They'd do for me!"
Ramage was certain that the man was both terrified and telling the truth. But terrified of whom? Certainly not the ship's officers, since with them he felt safe enough to ask for a tot. Ramage made a quick guess. "Harris is in irons."
"He'll find a way, though," the Bosun muttered. "I know he will."
Ramage nodded significantly to Yorke: they had a definite answer to one question.
"What did Harris intend to do once he had the Marchesa and me as hostages?"
The Bosun just watched the swinging lamp. Perspiration was pouring down his face and he blinked rapidly as some of it ran into his eyes.
Ramage touched him on the shoulder. "Don't forget you're not a packetsman now: you are in the Navy. You're subject to the Articles of War. They lay down the death penalty for threatening a superior officer. They lay down the death penalty for mutiny. They lay down the death penalty for murder. Just think, Bosun: murder, mutiny, attacking a superior officer. You're guilty of all three, Bosun."
He paused for several moments, fighting back the driving sense of urgency as he thought of Gianna in the mutineers' hands. Then, speaking slowly and quietly he went on, "You'll hang, Bosun; you'll be run up at the fore yardarm of one of the King's ships. As far as the Articles of War are concerned, Bosun, you're already a dead man. There's only one thing that might possibly keep your neck out of the noose, Bosun, and that's if the court let you turn King's evidence. That means you tell the court all you know. Do you understand?"
The man said nothing.
"I think you do," Ramage said. "But you don't understand me. The rest of your mutineers have kidnapped the Marchesa. She's your hostage. Let me tell you something about her. You see Jackson, Rossi and Stafford here? They were with me when we rescued the Marchesa from French cavalry in Italy. All my men on board - except Maxton, who joined me later - have sailed with the Marchesa in the Mediterranean. I don't think I'm exaggerating Bosun, when I say that every one of them - and that includes Mr Southwick and me - would give his life for her."
The three seamen growled their agreement, and Ramage's voice dropped to little more than a whisper when he said, "So as a mutineer, you're already dead as far as the Navy's concerned. If you don't tell me what the mutineers intended to do, you'll be dead as far as you are concerned, and within the next couple of minutes..."
"You'd never kill a wounded man," the Bosun muttered.
"Accidente!" Rossi hissed, leaping forward with a knife in his hand. "If the Marchesa is hurt, I killing you even if it make me a mutineer!"
Ramage's startled reaction and hurried, "Steady, Rossi!" was not lost on the Bosun, whose eyes were fixed on the knife blade.
"Let me have him, sir," Rossi pleaded. "Two minutes and he say everything!"
The Bosun's mouth was slack and trembling; the flesh of his face sagged as though every muscle had let go. A faint smell of urine told them the man had almost completely lost control of himself.
Ramage pressed his foot against Rossi's. "I think I will, Rossi: tell me, how will you start?"
"Testicles!" Rossi said eagerly. "First one, then the other. I show him them, sir. Then 1 cut the ligaments, so he can't move the legs or the arms. Then -"
"I'll tell you, sir," the Bosun said hoarsely, "only just keep that madman away from me!"
"He's not mad," Ramage said viciously, "he's just unimaginative. What I planned would have had you screaming for an hour. Now, talk!"
"T'was Harris's idea, sir. Seize you an' the Marchesa and get you both forward before Southwick realized what was happening. Then we'd hold you both and force Southwick to sail the ship to a Spanish port. Coruña or Ferrol. Just before we got there he was going to shoot the lot of you."
The man paused for breath. "That's about all, sir, so help me."
"What will the mutineers do now, with Harris in irons and only the Marchesa?"
"Dunno, sir. Probably carry on with the plan. Don't make no difference that I'm wounded and Harris in irons," he said. "They've still got the Marchesa. And don't make any mistake, sir," he added, his voice becoming ingratiating, as if the idea of turning King's evidence had at last sunk in, "they're desperate men. They'll kill her if you don't do what they say."
"If they do, they'll all hang."
"If you won't take the ship to a Spanish port, they're dead men anyway," the Bosun muttered, "so they've nothing to lose by killing the Marchesa."
"Nothing to gain, either," Ramage pointed out.
"Revenge, sir. They'll have settled their score with you. They hate you: you've ruined their lives."
Ramage looked across at Bowen. "You'd better be ready for more casualties. Don't waste too much time on this one."
Gesturing to Yorke and the seamen he strode out of the saloon and went to his own cabin. "You three go and join Captain Wilson," he told Jackson. "You'll be hearing from the mutineers soon: they don't know whether I'm alive or dead, and don't tell 'em. Pretend you have to report to Mr Yorke, but pass the word to me. Warn Captain Wilson about that."
"Supposing they try to rush me, sir?"
"I'm certain they won't, but if they do, don't open fire. Use belaying pins or handspikes. We've got to safeguard the Marchesa. The sound of shots might panic any of them left below..."
As Jackson left, Ramage sank into a chair. The large bloodstain on the deck was black in the lantern light, as though a caulker had spilled hot tar.
"Want a drink?" Yorke asked.
Ramage shook his head. "I've got to think clearly, and spirits won't help."
Yorke sat down. "This is where we were when it all started," he said miserably.
Ramage grunted. "I should have made her take the next regular packet."
"Don't talk nonsense. No one could have made her do that," Yorke said severely. "Stop blaming yourself: keep your mind clear to work on how to free her."
"Any ideas?" Ramage asked bitterly.
"Why not go and shout down the hatch - she may answer. That'll set your mind at rest that she's not been harmed."
"Why the devil do you think I'm sitting here?" Ramage demanded angrily. "I'm here just to make damned sure I don't shout to her. Those bloody mutineers would probably knock her out to stop her answering."
Yorke nodded, slowly realizing that Ramage was right and knowing the strain had sharpened his tongue. "We just wait," he said. "The next move is up to the mutineers."
"I know damned well what they'll do: the Bosun confirmed that. They'll demand we go to Coruña, and if we don't-" He broke off, as if unwilling to put the rest into words. "It's getting her out..." He paused and jumped to his feet as he heard Jackson calling as he came down the companionway.
"They're asking for the Captain, sir," Jackson reported grimly. "Mr Wilson told 'em he'll pass the word. They didn't ask for you by name."
Yorke turned to Ramage and said slowly, as though thinking aloud, "Let me talk to them. Better they think you're dead - or wounded, maybe, so the Marchesa isn't upset and doesn't do anything rash. I can tell 'em I'm in command. They won't think about Southwick."
Ramage thought for a moment. "That's a good idea. But even if she thinks I'm only wounded, Gianna might..."
"She will sir," Jackson said anxiously. "Perhaps Rossi..."
"Right, belay the talk and listen," Ramage said crisply, and quickly gave Yorke and Jackson their instructions. The three men then hurried up the companionway, Yorke and Jackson going forward while Ramage went aft to tell Southwick what was happening. The Master was sceptical at first but admitted, after a few moments' thought, that there was little choice.
Ramage hurried forward, where he could see the hatchway lit up by a lantern. Yorke was standing a yard or so to one side, the thick coaming shielding him in case a shot was fired from below. Wilson had placed his men forward of the hatch, so that any mutineers coming up the ladder would have to step into the ring of light from the lantern and be a perfect target. Jackson was whispering to Rossi, who was nodding vigorously.
After glancing round the deck for a place to hide out of sight but within earshot, Ramage finally ducked down on the after-side of the forward 4-pounder gun on the lee side.
Rossi went over to join Yorke while Jackson walked to the breech of the gun and whispered, "Everything's ready, sir. Do you think you'll be able to hear what's said?"
"I think so, but you can repeat it if necessary."
Then he heard Yorke call, "Send up your spokesman. One man, unarmed."
There was a pause as the mutineer replied.
Jackson whispered, "Didn't hear that, sir."
"This is Mr Yorke: I'm in command of the Arabella now, thanks to the Bosun and Harris."
Again Jackson could not hear the mutineers' reply.
Yorke called down the hatch, "You've no guarantee we won't seize your spokesman, but you're holding the Marchesa: she's enough security ... Very well, one man, and he stops at the top of the ladder."
A minute later Yorke said, "Right, stand there. Now, why did you want to see the Captain?"
"To give our orders!" said the mutineer.
"Go on, then," Yorke said mildly.
"You alter course immediately for Coruña. That's the first order."
"We are already on course for Coruña. The course for Falmouth and Coruña is the same until we get to Cabo Finisterra. Then we turn east to Coruña."
"Very well, see you do that."
"I didn't say we would," Yorke said sharply.
"We'll see about that in a minute," the mutineer sneered. "The second order is that you don't try to interfere with us."
"Go on."
"The third is you release Harris and the Bosun."
For a moment Ramage cursed himself: he hadn't anticipated that demand. What would Yorke do?
"You can have the Bosun this minute," Yorke said quietly.
"Right, send him here."
"He'll have to be carried. He'll be dead before you get him to the bottom of the ladder, though."
"How so?" the mutineer demanded.
"The surgeon's working hard this very moment to save his life."
"Wait," the mutineer said, and Jackson whispered to Ramage that he'd gone down the ladder. For a moment Ramage wondered whether to risk having Jackson pass a message to Yorke about Harris, then decided against it: Yorke was capable of dealing with that.
"Mutineer's back," Jackson whispered.
"Well, Mr Yorke, your orders from the mutineers are that the Bosun's life must be saved."
"I'm no surgeon and I can't perform miracles. Mr Bowen's doing his best, so don't be absurd."
"What about Harris, then?"
"Harris!" Yorke said with a sniff. "No surgeon can do anything for him!"
"Oh Gawd," the mutineer exclaimed. "We heard only one shot..."
"It only needs one," Yorke said crisply. "Now, you mutineers are trapped down on the messdeck; why the devil do you think I'm going to take any notice of so-called orders from you?"
"Because if you don't, we'll cut the Marchesa's throat."
"Whose idea is it to threaten to murder a helpless woman?" Yorke asked casually.
"Twas Harris's, God rest his soul; he was the one what planned to get us our liberty."
"Very well, what guarantee can you give that if I sail the ship to Coruña you'll free the Marchesa unharmed when we get there?"
The mutineer was silent for several moments, then went below again to consult with his shipmates.
"That was smart of Mr Yorke," Jackson whispered. "Everything he said was true but the fellow believes Harris is dead. Pity he isn't."
Two minutes passed before they heard Yorke ask, "Well? What have you got to offer."
"You've got our word of honour."
Yorke roared with laughter. "Do you think anyone in the world would accept the word of men who are guilty of murder, mutiny, kidnapping and blackmail? Are you drunk?" he asked suspiciously.
"But ... but we didn't do no murdering!"
"Oh yes you did! Eleven of you - I'll ignore the two boys - planned mutiny and kidnapping. If people get murdered in the process you're all equally guilty. Ask any judge."
Once again the mutineer was silent, and Yorke said, "You've got the Marchesa as a hostage. Very well, if I sail this ship to Coruña I want hostages from you. You hand over the Marchesa to me unharmed in Coruña, and I'll hand over my hostages unharmed."
"I'll have to ask my mates."
"Two hostages," Yorke said as the man went below.
Ramage knew the next two or three minutes were critical. If the six mutineers agreed, it would leave only four of them and the two cabin boys down on the messdeck: four men and the boys to guard both the hatch and Gianna. They might insist on one, and Yorke would have to agree, but it still left them weaker - and even one mutineer as a hostage for Gianna's safety was better than nothing. Would they insist on the release of the three packetsmen he had in irons?
Then Yorke was speaking to the mutineer again.
"One hostage, you say? One of you murderers as security for the life of the Marchesa? Don't be absurd," he said contemptuously.
"But what about the three of our mates who were on watch?" the mutineer asked lamely.
"In irons and lucky to be alive."
"Well, sir, you've got four hostages, then..."
"Four? Those three are prisoners, not hostages!"
"Well, if anything happens to them," the mutineer said stubbornly, "it'll be too bad for the Marchesa. My shipmates say one more is enough."
"Very well, send him up."
"I'm the one."
"Step out on deck, then, and let's have a look at you," Yorke said, moving clear of the hatch and at the same time clearing the field of fire for Wilson.
As soon as the man emerged from the hatch Yorke said sharply, "Now, I want proof that the Marchesa is safe."
"You can't go down there," the mutineer said doggedly.
"If you've harmed her -"
"No, no, she's safe," the man said hurriedly. "One of the Tritons can call down to her."
Ramage just managed to stop himself giving an audible sigh of relief.
Yorke signalled to Rossi, who promptly shouted a stream of Italian down the hatch. Before the startled mutineer could intervene, Ramage heard Gianna replying. He could not distinguish what she said, but her tone of voice told him she was not only alive but in good spirits.
Rossi shouted back and as the mutineer stepped forward, protesting that he'd not given permission for a long conversation, Yorke was laughing. "My dear fellow, you know Italians; they couldn't say anything briefly if they tried. He asked her if she wants her toilet things and clothes - you surely don't expect her to stay in her nightdress all the way to Coruña!"
"Well, no," the mutineer said uncomfortably as he heard Gianna answering again, "but-"
"Hairbrush, comb, shoes. You really don't expect the Marchesa to wear a sailor's shirt and tie her hair in a queue?"
"No, but-"
"Well then, just be patient and give Rossi time to find out what she wants."
"But that's the third-"
"Are you married? Have you ever met a woman who could decide in a minute what she needs when she goes away for a week?"
"Well-"
"Have you?" Yorke insisted, hoping Rossi would hurry. "Come on, yes or no!"
"But-"
"Goes away for a week, I said. But the Marchesa has just been kidnapped, so obviously she needs more time. Anyway, your mates down there can stop the conversation whenever they want."
"Yes, but they'll think I've given permission for-"
"And so you have," Yorke said heartily, noting the man had revealed his role among them, "and very civil of you, too. I'm sure the Marchesa appreciates it-" He broke off, seeing Rossi turning away from the hatch. "Is she all right?" he asked the Italian.
"Yes, sir; is bruised in the arms by these banditi, but..."
"Very well," Yorke turned and waved to Jackson. "This man is our hostage. Take him away and secure him."
"But you're not going to put me in irons -"
"What do you expect? You've got the Marchesa locked up below-"
"In irons, sir," Rossi interjected.
"In irons? Well, I'm damned if I'm going to dress you up as Father Neptune and let you strut around the ship," he told the mutineer.
Jackson and Stafford led the man away, and as Yorke walked aft Ramage joined him.
"How was that?" Yorke muttered.
"Masterly! I liked the touch about Harris. But let's get hold of Rossi; I couldn't hear what Gianna said."
Yorke called the Italian seaman and followed Ramage down to the Captain's cabin. Rossi reported that apart from bruises the Marchesa was all right. She had a leg-iron round one ankle, with the other part secured to an eye-bolt, but her hands were not tied.
The mutineers were nervous of her tongue, Rossi said proudly, and all of them were very frightened of what Harris had done. When they presumed from what Mr Yorke said that Harris was dead, one of them wanted to surrender and would have persuaded the others had the man who was now the hostage not come down and argued against it. Yes, he said in reply to the question from Ramage, he had passed both sets of instructions to the Marchesa, and by now she should be weeping and wailing and accusing the mutineers of killing the Arabella's Captain. "She said to tell you, sir," Rossi added with a grin, "that you make the trouble for her every time she goes to sea."
Rossi had no sooner left the cabin than Southwick arrived, reporting that Much had the conn, and asking if the Marchesa was safe. Ramage brought him up to date, and then the old Master ran a hand through his white hair. "Now what, sir?"
"We wait for daylight. Get some sleep. Early breakfast..."
"I'll stand a watch if you like," Yorke said. "Otherwise neither of you is going to get much rest."
Ramage nodded. "Much, too. Highly irregular, of course; the Admiralty would not approve. But we seem to be in a highly irregular ship!"
"Aye," Southwick said heavily, "this ship is one of the bad ones. People can laugh at the idea, but some ships are just bad: they get bad men on board, and bad things happen to them. I felt it the moment I came on board in Kingston."