By daylight next morning the Arabella was stretching northwards along the Portuguese coast in a fresh south-westerly wind, with Porto broad on the starboard beam and forty miles away and Cabo Finisterra some 130 miles ahead. The cloud was well broken and, Ramage noted thankfully, the glass was steady.
By now Gianna and the mutineers would have eaten the breakfast Ramage had arranged to be passed down to them. The Tritons had received their orders, and Jackson, after inspecting the prisoners and the hostage, reported that Harris, locked in one of the cabins, had pleaded that Maxton should not guard him again. Apparently the West Indian had reduced the man to a state of gibbering terror before being relieved by another Triton.
Although thankful that settled weather meant he did not have to keep his meagre crew busy reefing or furling sails, Ramage was far from pleased that this late in the season it was going to be a sunny day. The mutineers had only to look up the hatch or skylight to see the sun's direction and know immediately which way the Arabella was heading, so there was no chance for slowly bearing away and running up the River Douro to Porto, or turning back for Lisbon, telling the mutineers the wind had shifted. But for the sun, it would have worked, though there was the risk that running into a neutral port would make the mutineers panic when they suddenly discovered what had happened.
If those five men down on the messdeck panicked, there was no telling what would happen to Gianna: men in a panic ceased to be human. Ramage had spent a good five minutes drumming the point into the Tritons that the only hope of rescuing the Marchesa was to apply a steady but mounting pressure on the mutineers. A gradual pressure, which would lead them to surrender; not a sudden pressure that would make them behave like rats in a trap. It was only a fine distinction; one he knew he would never dare to make unless the alternative was - he forced himself to face it - the murder of Gianna.
As he paced up and down the weather side of the after-deck - after listening to Yorke conduct a brief funeral service for the dead sentry Duncan - Ramage tried to drive away the depression, doubts and fears by telling himself that if he had ever been asked to name the dozen or so men he would want with him in a situation such as this, he would have named those he had. Even Wilson, with his staccato speech and love of porter, was proving reliable, and the Tritons liked working with him.
And in the Admiralty at this moment the First Lord considered Lieutenant Ramage had made wild allegations about the Post Office packets which he would never be able to prove. Well, he thought bitterly, I may not live long enough to get the word to Lord Spencer, but there will be proof enough if just one of the Tritons or the Arabella's passengers survive.
Southwick interrupted his thoughts. "Not a sail in sight, sir. What time do you want to make a start?"
Ramage took out his watch. Three minutes to seven o'clock. The horizon is clear, the wind is steady ... There's no excuse for putting it off any longer.
"At seven o'clock, Mr Southwick. Pass the word quietly."
As the Master strode away, shoulders braced back, hat jammed square on his head and a picture of confidence, Ramage wondered if he dare call him back and cancel it all. It was a damnably desperate attempt. Yet Yorke was right: if it did not work, they were no worse off - unless the mutineers panicked.
Yorke joined him. "By now you're scared stiff."
"Does it show?" a startled Ramage demanded.
"No, on the contrary, you look your usual arrogant and assured self," Yorke said lightly, "but you'd hardly be human if you weren't scared!"
"What about you?"
"The same. Does it show?"
Ramage laughed. "No, you look your usual debonair self, the idol of-"
"Deck there! Sail ho!" came a shout from the foremast, and Ramage recognized Stafford's voice.
"Deck here - where away?" Much hailed.
"Four points on the larboard bow, sir, just on the 'orizon."
"What can you make of it?"
"Too far off, sir."
"Keep a sharp lookout."
Ramage nodded approvingly: Much was doing well.
"Pass the word for Captain Yorke!" the Mate shouted.
A seaman took up the cry at the companionway leading to the Captain's cabin.
Yorke hurried over, waited a minute, and then called, as though he had just come up the ladder, "What is it, Mr Much?"
"Strange sail, sir, on the larboard bow. Wouldn't expect to see anyone out there unless she was up to mischief."
Ramage knew that at least one of the mutineers would be crouched on the ladder, listening carefully.
"Well, send a man up with a telescope, Mr Much: we don't want to get taken by another French privateer, do we."
"Indeed not! We've enough trouble already."
That, Ramage thought, is the Machiavelli touch: to raise the mutineers' hopes of rescue with the idea that a French ship was on the horizon.
While Much ordered one of the Tritons to take up a telescope, Stafford called again. "May be fairly big, sir, an' I think she's steering east."
Two minutes later the man with the telescope hailed, "Deck there! She's bigger than a privateer an' - oh, there she goes: she's letting fall her royals, sir."
"Very well," Yorke shouted, "let me know the moment you have an idea what she is."
Much had walked forward to the foremast, as though to be nearer the lookouts overhead, and called back to Yorke nervously, "I don't like it, Captain; seems to me anyone out there and on that course must be a ship-o'-war or a privateer."
"Let's hope she's one of ours, then."
"Aye - but could be French or Spanish, hovering off the coast to pick up someone like us."
"You think I ought to send the men to quarters?"
" 'Taint for me to say," Much answered, though the tone of his voice belied the words.
There was an excited yell from the lookout with the telescope. "Deck there! Reckon she's a frigate, an' she looks like a Frenchman."
"Can't you make out her colours?" Yorke demanded anxiously.
"No, sir, she's almost bows-on; but her sheer don't look English."
"You hear that, Mr Much?" Yorke called.
"Course I do, sir," Much said crossly.
"Well then - well, I think we must send the men to quarters! Where the deuce is Mr Southwick? He's supposed to know all about this sort of thing. Hey, you men; pass the word for the Master!"
Yorke turned and winked at Ramage and gave Much a reassuring wave.
Southwick came up the companionway. "You sent for me, sir."
"Of course I did! Are you deaf? Didn't you hear the lookouts hailing?"
"Yes, sir, but you're the Captain," Southwick said sulkily, "and I'm off watch."
"Well, send the men to quarters! Aloft there - what can you see?"
"She's a frigate all right, sir."
"French or British, blast you?"
"Can't rightly say yet, sir."
Southwick began bellowing at the men to go to quarters, and Ramage pictured the mutineers grinning to themselves. And Gianna - if she had followed the instructions passed by Rossi she should be weeping by now...
"I say, Mr Southwick," Yorke said loudly, "I think we should bear away for Porto, you know."
"Never a chance, Mr Yorke. Forty miles to go. Yon frigate will be up with us in half an hour, probably less."
"But we can't fight a frigate!"
"Nor can we run from this one, Mr Yorke." Southwick said sarcastically.
"But if we can't fight and we can't run, what shall we do?"
"Haul down our colours in good time! Won't be the first time for this ship!"
"Oh dear me! Then we'll all be taken prisoner."
"Aye, we'll be prisoners, and our prisoners will become free men, guzzling red wine and pretending they're all heroes."
By now the Tritons had cast the lashings from the guns, tubs of water were in place and Jackson reported to Yorke from abaft the foremast, asking loudly whether the guns should be loaded with roundshot or grape. Yorke told him roundshot, then changed his mind twice before the lookout interrupted by hailing, "Deck there! - the frigate's hauling her wind."
Yorke glanced over the weather side. "We can just see her from the deck now. Send down that blasted telescope!"
Yorke had just the right amount of petulance in his voice, Ramage noted; the uncertain impatience of a badly frightened man who was being overwhelmed by events.
Yorke called to Much, who was still by the foremast. "What do you make of her?"
"She's a frigate right enough."
"French or British?"
"Wouldn't rightly know. But she's coming round to the north a bit so we should make out her colours soon."
"But she's closing fast!"
"We can't do any more'n we're doing, sir, so it don't matter what flag she's flying until we're in range of her guns!"
"I expect a more helpful attitude, Mr Much," Yorke said sharply.
The Tritons had broad grins on their faces: they were enjoying the various exchanges. Ramage looked at his watch, tapped Yorke on the shoulder and waved to Much, who promptly shouted to the lookout above him, "You sure she's French? From the cut of these topsails she looks British to me!"
"The other chap's just gorn down wiv the telescope," Stafford's Cockney voice complained. "I never said nuthing right from the time I got up 'ere about 'er being French. It was 'im. Took the telescope, he did; never let me 'ave a look, he didn't, and now you -"
"Belay it!" Much shouted angrily. "You think she's British?"
"Yus, an' if I 'ad the bring-'em-near I could say for sure."
At that moment Southwick's voice boomed along the deck. "She's British all right: I can't make out her colours yet, but I recognize her."
"Very well," Yorke said loudly, "now what do we do? We don't want her rushing down and shooting at us! Supposing she doesn't see our colours? What then, Mr Southwick, what then, eh?"
"Hoist the private signal."
"What private signal?"
"Mr Ramage had the list in his desk: special one for each day of the month, the challenge and reply."
"Well, go and find it - here are the keys to the desk."
Ramage could imagine the mutineers, at first elated at the thought of a French frigate rescuing them, now terrified at the picture of a British frigate hove-to to windward ... a picture which included them eventually hanging by the neck from a noose at the yardarm. The grim warning contained in the Commission that Ramage read aloud at Lisbon might come to mind, and the reference to the Articles of War. Now the pressure was being slowly applied; pressure that - if everyone kept to the plan - would increase steadily over the next fifteen minutes...
The private signal was hoisted; a few Tritons near the fore-hatch speculated in bloodcurdling detail about the imminent fate of the mutineers below.
Ramage saw one of the Tritons suddenly go to the hatch, listen a few moments and then wave urgently to Much, who was standing a few feet away. The Mate called something down to the mutineers, listened, then hurried aft.
"The mutineers, sir," he reported to Ramage. "They're asking to see the Captain: they say it's urgent!"
"Tell them the Captain is coming, but their spokesman is to stay at the bottom of the ladder, If he got a chance to look round the horizon..."
Much went forward as Yorke came over to Ramage and asked, "They want to bargain?"
"Perhaps. They might offer to free Gianna now in return for their freedom and immunity from arrest. That's their best plan."
"And we accept?"
Ramage nodded. "We accept anything that gets Gianna out of there safely."
"Anything?"
"Look, we argued about the ethics of all this last night," Ramage said quietly. "So go and hear what they have to say."
Ramage followed Yorke and crouched down behind the gun, where he could hear one side of the dialogue. Yorke stood close to the hatch to make sure the mutineers' spokesman stayed at the foot of the ladder.
"Well, what d'you want?" he demanded in an uncompromising voice. "Bargain? You think I'm going to bargain with a bunch of mutineers when there's one of our frigates up to windward?"
.Ramage peered round the breech of the gun. From the beginning he had known there was only one move the mutineers might make that would wreck his plan. He had tried to increase the odds against them thinking of it by pretending a French frigate was closing in, but he dared not keep that up for too long because of the danger that they would panic if the frigate's identity changed at the very last moment. Had he applied the pressure too soon? Given them a few extra minutes to recognize that they still had a weapon?
Yorke was tense as he stood listening; then he took a step forward, as though angry enough to want to seize the man at the foot of the ladder. He spoke slowly and distinctly, as though determined the mutineers should not misunderstand him.
"You are threatening cold-blooded murder. A completely pointless murder. A murder that can gain you nothing. The moment you committed such a foul act we would be down there and I swear that within thirty seconds not one of you would be left alive."
And as Yorke listened to the mutineer's reply, Ramage knew he had lost the gamble: it had been a ten to one chance that they would think of it. Reasonable odds. But when you gambled you needed luck or a big purse, and his purse contained only Gianna's life. Yet perhaps he was wrong: perhaps they were demanding something else. Yorke's reply would -
"I can't stop that frigate coming down to us!" Yorke said angrily. "What do you expect me to do? Shout a couple of miles? For all I know the Admiralty has sent her out to escort us to England. What do I do then? Tell her captain we don't need him? He'll want to know where Mr Ramage is. What do I say? How do I explain why I'm in command? Dammit," Yorke exploded, "he'll probably think I'm a mutineer!"
He paused as the mutineer said something, then declared abruptly, "I'm going to talk it over with Mr Southwick. Stay there; the sentry up here has orders to shoot anyone who sticks his head over the coaming."
Ramage got up and hurried aft, where Yorke joined him and asked wrathfully, "You heard all that?"
"Only your side of it."
"They say they'll kill the Marchesa if I let the frigate approach."
"What good to they think that'll do them?" Ramage asked quietly.
"They say if the frigate sends a boarding party they'll be shot or hanged anyway, so they've nothing more to lose if they kill the Marchesa as well. The scoundrel reminded me they couldn't be killed twice."
Ramage nodded. "I hoped they'd be too scared to think of forcing us to keep the frigate away. Or if they did, they'd decide it would be impossible."
He rubbed the scars over his brow and saw Southwick shaking his head, occupied in his own thoughts. Then the old Master came over to him and said quietly, "Don't chance anything, sir; they're desperate men. I'd sooner go into Coruña and hand myself over to the Spanish than risk the Marchesa being harmed."
"Me too," Yorke said, "and the Devil take the report to the First Lord. Anyway, even if this horse won't start, you've still got another in the stable."
"Aye," Southwick said, "we can pretend the frigate is satisfied with the private signal and goes about her business. It gives us a bit more time. We can't risk calling their bluff, sir..."
And Ramage knew both men were right; his gamble had failed but, as Yorke had said, there was still one more chance. "Very well," he told Yorke, "tell them you and Southwick will try to reassure the frigate. Say you can't make any promises - and remind 'em we have the Bosun and some mutineers up here in irons..."
"They've thought about that," Yorke said. "The fellow said they were all in the same position, whether they were down on the messdeck or in irons. He's right, too," he added ruefully.
Twenty minutes later, with the imaginary frigate dropping astern on its way to Lisbon, apparently reassured by the Arabella's private signal, Yorke came back after reporting the fact to the mutineers.
"They say that someone can talk to the Marchesa this afternoon," he told Ramage. "They refused to agree to Rossi at first, but I said she might want some woman's things that she'd be too embarrassed to shout about in front of a lot of strangers, whereas speaking in her own language to Rossi..."
"Thanks," Ramage said. "Let's go down to my cabin; I'm so damned depressed."
Sitting in the same chairs, with the carpet still damp where a couple of seamen had tried to scrub away the stains of the Bosun's blood, Yorke said, "It looks as though we've no choice but to head for Coruña."
"You don't think the second plan will work?"
"I'm afraid not. They're really desperate down there. If you'd seen that bloody man's eyes..." He shuddered at the thought.
"But you realize that now we can't risk going into Coruña, don't you?" Ramage asked quietly.
"It's our only chance of saving the Marchesa's life," Yorke said bluntly.
Ramage shook his head. "On the contrary, it's a sure way of having them kill her. Their reaction to our 'frigate' shows that. Why do you suppose I said I was depressed? Look, the Navy's blockading both Coruña and Ferrol. There's probably a squadron of our 74-gun ships in the offing; certainly two or three of our frigates within a few miles. Their job is to prevent any vessel getting in or out, whether a ship of the line or a fishing boat. They'll see us trying to get in and we'll be boarded. There's no way we can prevent it. And we know the mutineers will kill Gianna the moment a British ship gets within hail. Signal to our hearts' content, send a boat over with a letter of explanation ... the fact is no frigate captain would believe our story and certainly wouldn't let us go in to surrender the ship to the Dons."
"Supposing you went over and spoke to him?"
"He'd probably put me under arrest because he'd think I was deserting to the enemy. Wouldn't you, in his position?"
"He could come on board and see for himself."
Ramage stared at him. "That's the point! If you were one of those mutineers, what would you do the moment you knew the frigate captain had come on board?"
Yorke held his hands out, palms upwards, in a gesture of despair.
"What in God's name can we do then? They'll kill her if we don't go to Coruña; yet they'll kill her if we do and get intercepted. Are you absolutely sure our blockade is as close as that?" he asked.
"Certain. Ask Southwick. No," he said when Yorke shook his head, "I'd be glad if you did, because I will if you don't. I want to be certain."
"Very well," Yorke said, and left the cabin, to return almost immediately. "He agrees with you. Close blockade, summer and winter. Says he hadn't realized the position we are in now. The old fellow is almost in tears. He worships her, you know."
"I know," Ramage said soberly.
"What the devil are we to do? We'll be off Cabo Finisterra by tomorrow. We daren't go into Coruña and we daren't stay out. It's almost unbelievable."
Ramage suddenly stood up, thumping his forehead with the back of his hand. "We're damn fools!" he exclaimed. "We can go into a Spanish port that isn't blockaded. Some fishing village, or even an open anchorage." He began walking up and down the cabin, picturing the coastline to the northwards. "Yes, there's Corcubion, right in the lee of Cabo Finisterra. Difficult entrance without a chart, though. Camarinas Bay - that's it! Ten miles or so beyond the Cape, and we can get in easily. No patrolling frigates - it's our one hope!"
Yorke looked doubtful. "Don't risk it without the mutineers agreeing," he advised.
"Why?"
"Because these men don't know the Spanish coast. They've picked on Coruña because they've heard of it. If you go in somewhere else they might suspect a trick."
"Go and talk to them," Ramage said impatiently. "Point out Camarinas is nearer and - hellfire, what difference does it make to them? It's Spanish - they get what they want and we're made prisoner!"
Yorke got up. "I'll try it," he said, leaving the cabin. "I'll tell 'em about the blockade, eh?"
"Yes, warn them we're certain to be intercepted and boarded. A squadron of seventy-fours, frigate patrols - even Spanish ships."
"You stay here," Yorke said. "You make me nervous, crouching behind that damned gun, listening to every word I say."
But when he returned to the cabin five minutes later Ramage knew as he came through the door that he had failed to persuade them.
"They won't hear of it. Coruña or Ferrol, or else..."
"You explained about the blockade?"
"Of course I did," Yorke said impatiently. "They say it's up to me to keep frigates away. They said I did it once less than an hour ago, and I can do it again."
"But why not Camarinas?"
Yorke shook his head wearily. "They've a good enough reason, and I suppose we should have thought of it. They say how are they to know I won't take the Arabella into a Portuguese port and tell them it's Spanish. They know Cabo Finisterra isn't far north of the border between Portugal and Spain."
"How will they know it is Coruña or Ferrol, then?"
"I asked them that. Apparently one of the men has been to both: says he'll recognize them at once."
Ramage sprawled on the settee, drained of all energy and hope. "So we've no choice," he said, almost to himself. "We have to try the second plan."
"It puts the very devil of a responsibility on the Marchesa," Yorke protested.
"Of course it does," Ramage said harshly, "and if she'd gone home in the other packet as I asked her this would never have happened."
He buried his head in his hands. "I suppose I don't really mean it like that."
"It's true, but you tried to persuade her," Yorke said sympathetically. "It's helping no one to blame yourself, though. It's happened, and we've got to sort it out."
Ramage sat up straight in the chair and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "I'll give Rossi his orders. He can give Gianna her new instructions this afternoon. We'll time it for breakfast tomorrow - when the food is passed down the hatch. It'll mean a couple of the mutineers are at the foot of the ladder, and we have a good reason why a couple of our fellows are at the top."
Yorke nodded slowly. "It's going to be a damned long night."
"If only they'd got me as a hostage, instead of Gianna," Ramage said miserably.
"Don't be absurd," Yorke snapped. "It wasn't your fault the frigate business failed. I'd never have thought of anything as ingenious. Better they'd taken me, or Bowen, or Wilson. Or all three of us. Stop blaming yourself, for God's sake!"
He paused for a moment and then said savagely, "I blame myself for one thing, though."
When Ramage raised his eyebrows, Yorke said, "Harris thought of all this. I should have ignored you and shot him dead as he stood here. I'll regret that for the rest of my days."
That evening Ramage sat at his desk and wrote up his journal. He had never before filled it in with so much detail. Although he knew there was a chance it would never be sent on to the Admiralty, just putting all the events on paper helped pass the time.
As he described how he - as the future commanding officer of the Lady Arabella - met the Marchesa di Volterra at the British Embassy in Lisbon, and how she had subsequently taken passage for England in the packet brig, he thought bitterly how the bare words, true as they were, bore no resemblance to what actually happened. Not, he admitted, that he was anxious to try to explain it in detail! But fortunately captains' journals were by tradition written in a sparse, impersonal style. Courses, speeds, distances, positions, wind strengths and direction when at sea; when in port a notation of official visitors and official visits made, weather, anchorage position, the way the ship's company was employed...
For the tenth time that night he took out his watch: an hour past midnight. He wished he was standing a watch, but both Yorke and Southwick had been insistent that the risk was too great. A sudden squall or an unexpected emergency needing shouted commands would immediately reveal to the mutineers that he was alive.
Yet even the idea of pretending to be dead had misfired: the mutineers had not relaxed into a false sense of security after finding they were (apparently, anyway) dealing not with the ruthless Lieutenant Ramage but with a passenger about whom they knew nothing. They hadn't made one mistake, blast them. Yorke reckoned their leader - after they lost Harris - had been the first spokesman, the man who agreed to be a hostage, but Ramage now doubted that. Someone down there on the mess-deck was shrewd and cool. Was it Our Ned? The Mate's son had the brains, and probably the cunning. It made sense: Harris and the Bosun led the kidnapping party; Our Ned stayed behind ready to secure and guard them. Or maybe Our Ned had been with Harris, one of the men who somehow bundled Gianna forward in the darkness without Southwick or any of the Tritons spotting them. Perhaps the three mutineers who were on watch did something to divert the Master's attention at the critical moment.
That was more like it: Our Ned and one or two others took Gianna; Harris and the Bosun were supposed to lead the merciless Lieutenant Ramage on deck at pistol point, or - at last he was feeling sleepy, and the details blurred. Thankfully he stood up and walked aft to the cot, trying not to rouse himself. He pulled off his coat, loosened the stock, kicked off his shoes and lowered himself into the cot. Almost immediately he drifted into a deep sleep.
He began dreaming wild dreams of what he wished would happen. That in the dim light of the lantern a shadowy Gianna was bending over him, whispering urgently. In the dream he could neither understand her words nor say anything in reply. He wanted desperately to tell her he loved her, and if anything happened to her he did not want to go on living, but the words would not come.
A sudden slap on his face woke him with a convulsive jerk, his head ringing.
"Mama mia, will you never wake up?"
He lay in the cot rubbing his eyes, trying to focus them on the shadowy figure.
"Nicholas," the figure said crossly, "I've escaped! While you've been sleeping like a pig, I've been getting myself free!"
He leapt from the cot in a completely reflex movement, grabbed the two pistols from the settee and cocked them; then, watching the door swinging to and fro on its hinges with the ship's roll and expecting mutineers to burst in any moment, he snapped, "What happened?"
Gianna, startled by his unexpected leap, said furiously. "You aren't at all pleased to see me!"
"Of course I am!" he hissed. "What happened to the damned sentry?" He went to the door to find a seaman standing there with a musket. "What the hell are you grinning at?" he demanded angrily. "Pass the word for Mr Southwick - and Mr Yorke, too!"
"Oh, Nicholas," Gianna was complaining. "What's wrong with you?"
"Oh shut up, woman!"
She slapped his face so hard his eyes watered.
"Senta," she said angrily. "Our Ned and the two ship's boys are waiting out there in the corridor. Don't let your clumsy sailors shoot them!"
Ramage had to hold both pistols in one hand as he used the other to wipe his watering eyes. Two slaps in two minutes, he thought irrelevantly, were not his idea of a happy reunion.
"All right, now tell me what happened," he said with as much patience as he could muster. "I want to make sure those blasted mutineers up forward are secured: they'll go crazy when they find you've gone."
"It's all taken care of," Gianna said with a chilly dignity spoiled at the last moment by an uncontrollable giggle. "Stafford and Rossi are guarding the top of the hatch with those big muskets. Musketoons. They were the sentries. I whispered to them as we crept up the ladder."
"We?"
"Oh, you don't listen. We - Our Ned, the two boys and me."
At that moment Yorke hurried into the cabin, saw Gianna, said, "My God!" weakly, and sank into a chair. He was followed by Southwick holding a pistol. The Master stopped suddenly as if he had walked into a wall.
Gianna went up to him and kissed his cheek. "Have you missed me, Mr Souswick? No one else seems very pleased to see me. Nicholas told me to shut up and Mr Yorke just said 'My God' and flopped into the chair."
"Can't blame 'em, ma'am," a confused Southwick mumbled. "Bit of a shock, you know. A very nice shock," he added hurriedly, "but you vanished in the middle of the night and now you've -"
"Vanished in the middle of the night again, only this time from that horrible place forward!"
Ramage said suddenly, "Where are Our Ned and the boys?"
"With the sentry," Southwick said. "The minute I saw Our Ned I got worried about you, sir. The sentry has him covered."
"Very well," Ramage said. "You'd better get back on deck."
"Jackson went to rouse Much," Southwick said. "He'll be all right. But I'd better get more men covering that forehatch."
"Don't worry," Ramage said heavily, "the Marchesa has already arranged that."
He took her arm and led her to the settee. "Sit down and tell us what happened. You're not cold?" he asked anxiously. "We're not singing songs of joy simply because - well," he said lamely, "it's such a shock; we hadn't much hope of saving your life..."
She looked up at Ramage wide-eyed and smiling. "You haven't kissed me yet!"
As he bent to kiss her he said shakily, "I'm having trouble getting things in the right order. You still seem part of a dream."
Gianna brushed back her hair, arranged her skirt and said, "Let's have Our Ned and the boys in here. It's their story more than mine. I'd never have escaped without their help."
"No, tell us your story first," Ramage said firmly. "We can hear what they have to say afterwards."
"Oh, don't be so irritating, Nicholas. I don't know what Our Ned was thinking. I've only whispered to him."
Reluctantly Ramage nodded to Southwick, who went to the door and called Our Ned.
Unshaven, his thin face haggard from weariness and his usually furtive eyes now constantly flickering from side to side to reveal nervousness, Our Ned looked like an unsuccessful poacher just hauled before a magistrate with a ferret still in his pocket.
"Evenin', gentlemen."
Ramage nodded. "The Marchesa says you helped her escape. I want to thank you." He held out his hand and Our Ned stared at it for a moment, and then grasped it in a surge of embarrassment.
"We all helped each other, sir," he muttered.
Turning to Gianna, Ramage said, "Now - at long last - please tell us what happened."
"Our Ned had better start," she said, smiling impishly. "He can probably tell you how it began."
"Can you?" Ramage asked. "Will you, rather?"
"Aye, sir. I'll incrimulate meself, or whatever you call it, but I'll have to take me chance on it. Where shall I begin?"
"From the time I took command of the ship?" Ramage suggested. "I can guess what happened before that."
"Yes, well, sir, we packetsmen got scared when you read your Commission and found we were under naval discipline, like we was pressed. The Tritons told us what the Articles of War said, and we guessed you knew all about ventures, and Captain Stevens surrendering the Arabella for the insurance money.
"Well, sir, Harris reckoned you were taking us home to have us all court-martialled and hanged. You might still be, for all I know..." He paused and wiped his mouth with the back of bis hand. "That's why I said about incrimulating myself.
"Anyway, Harris got this idea of seizing the ship and taking her to Coruña and handing her over to the Spanish. He reckoned we'd escape being hanged, get a big reward from the Dons, and would have plenty of money to live on after the war ends. The Bosun said Harris was right and we all agreed.
"There weren't enough of us to seize the Arabella openly, as you might say, so Harris suggested we took the Marchesa and you as hostages: seize the lady and get her for'ard, and take you up on deck and threaten to shoot you unless Mr Southwick and the Tritons did as we said. The Marchesa was to be a sort of insurance in case Mr Southwick wouldn't cooperate."
He wiped his mouth again. "Well, I didn't want the Marchesa touched. I agreed with what Harris was saying about going to Coruña, mind you; just that it was wrong to lay hands on a foreign lady who had nothing to do with the Post Office or the Navy. Harris and me had a bit of a falling out over it, and he and the Bosun decided I couldn't be trusted. The two boys - they was scared and whimpering, so Harris and the rest of them kept us out of it. Out of the planning, I mean: made us stay the other end of the messdeck while they talked.
"I found out later the plan was that with all the Tritons on watch, Harris and the Bosun went aft, knocked out the sentry and seized you, sir, and a couple of the other lads took the Marchesa. The two packetsmen at the wheel were to keep a sharp eye open and when the third one on watch - he was to keep an eye on the companionway - reckoned the lads were ready to bring the Marchesa up, he'd give a signal and the helmsmen would get off course. Harris reckoned that'd keep Mr Southwick busy cussing and distract the Tritons on watch and they could sneak her forward. She was to be gagged, of course."
"And I was, too!" Gianna said crossly.
"Yes, Ma'am. Well, off they went, and the next thing I heard was a shot, and a minute later the two men bundled the Marchesa down the hatch. After that, we heard you'd been killed, sir," he said, turning to Ramage, "and that Harris was dead too and the Bosun badly wounded. I got a shock just now when the Marchesa came into the cabin and I heard your voice."
Gianna explained, "I didn't tell him that Rossi said yesterday you were safe."
"Now we get to the incrimulating bit, sir. With Harris dead, the Bosun wounded, the three men who'd been on watch made prisoner, and one man gone as hostage, there weren't many of us left on the messdeck, so everyone had to take it in turns to guard the Marchesa.
"Things were looking bad, sir, and the lads were scared. I was afraid they'd do me in if they decided they couldn't trust me, so I helped them. Then the frigate was sighted. We knew if she was French we were safe, but when she turned out to be one of ours we knew we'd be caught. One of the lads said we'd hang and swore he'd kill the Marchesa first."
"He was horrible," Gianna shuddered. "He meant it."
Our Ned nodded in agreement. "When they told Mr Yorke they'd kill her if the frigate came close I - well, I ain't trying to save my neck, sir, but murdering a lady in cold blood was more than I can stomach-"
"What did you do?" Ramage asked.
"I argued with them, sir, but it didn't do no good. Then the frigate didn't board us anyway. Then Mr Yorkc came along and said about Coruña being blockaded, and us not being able to get in without being intercepted. Seemed to me we couldn't avoid a frigate catching us and that meant the Marchesa would be murdered and we'd still be taken prisoner.
"I tried to persuade them to agree to Mr Yorke's proposal for a smaller port that wasn't blockaded, but they wouldn't have none of it; they'd set their hearts on Coruña. One of 'em had been there and said he could recognize it. Well, that was a sort of turning point for me. I thought about it all over again and decided I wanted none of it - murdering the Marchesa or handing the ship over to the Dons. So when it was my spell to guard the Marchesa tonight I waited until the man I relieved was asleep and freed her, and we all crept out."
Gianna was shaking her head as he concluded. "Nicholas - it was much more dangerous for him than that. And the boys - they were terrified, but Our Ned reassured them - all in a whisper so the rest of the men didn't wake up, and then they were really brave."
"How did you get the key to the leg-irons holding the Marchesa?" Yorke asked the seaman.
"It was kept on a hook, sir."
Ramage held the man's arm. "Will the mutineers bear out your story that you didn't help?"
Our Ned grimaced. "They'll kill me if they get the chance."
"They won't," Ramage said. "Don't worry about a court-martial. If you've told the truth you'll be safe enough, I guarantee that. This night's work more than makes up for the past. Now, we'll have those two boys in here and thank them; then you'd all better get some sleep."
He turned to Southwick. "We'll leave sentries on the forehatch for the rest of the night. We don't want to risk any more bloodshed. By the way," he said to Our Ned, "Harris isn't dead: he's in irons, along with the Bosun, who was only slightly wounded."
Our Ned's jaw dropped. "Phew, I hope you've got some good men guarding him, sir!"
"Don't worry; Maxton has turned him into a lamb."
Our Ned shuddered and for a moment his eyes remained fixed, as if staring at some terrifying picture. "Yes," he muttered, "Maxton could do that..."
Gianna stood up and put her arms round Ramage. "Darling, I'm glad we didn't have to try out your other plan!"
"Would it have worked?"
"I don't think so," she said soberly. "I was going to try it, but that crazy man Our Ned told you about - I think he would have killed me, and you'd have never known."
Our Ned looked puzzled, and Ramage was curious to know if the man agreed with Gianna.
"When Rossi spoke to the Marchesa this afternoon - yesterday afternoon, I mean - he told her to pretend she had gone off her head and start screaming. I hoped that -"
But Our Ned was shaking his head. He drew a finger across his throat in an unmistakable gesture.
"It was our only hope," Ramage said lamely, "we'll be off Cabo Finisterra in a few hours."
"I know that, sir; that's why I got the Marchesa out tonight."