It wanted an hour to sunset when Ramage stood at the fore end of the quarterdeck with Aitken, Hill and Orsini. By now the wind was much stronger, with the ship pitching heavily in the swell which had come up from the south, sliding in under the wind waves. Each time the Calypso snubbed at her anchor cable she groaned as if in protest. Each jerk was felt through the whole ship: deck beams moved a fraction of an inch, bending to absorb the weight of the guns on the maindeck: each gun and its carriage meant a couple of tons pressing down on the deck planking at four points, where the four wooden wheels, or trucks, rested.
The pitching of the hull jerked the masts back and forth a distance almost imperceptible to the untrained eye but increased by the weight of the yards and the sails furled on them. However, the thick hemp rope of the standing rigging stretched naturally, giving the masts a certain amount of play. The movement of the hull and of the masts, as Paolo Orsini had learned during the first few days after joining the ship (a wide-eyed and very nervous "Johnny Newcome"), was what gave the Calypso her strength. Southwick had explained it to him quite simply: you could bend a bundle of thin sticks across your knee without breaking them, but a solid stick of the same diameter would snap.
As Paolo now watched the rigging slackening and tautening he remembered Southwick's words, and although he had sailed thousands of miles since then, he was still grateful for the old master's quiet explanation: coming when it did, it meant that a young lad yet to make his first voyage as a midshipman was never again frightened by the creaks and groans of a ship working in a seaway.
"We'll move round to the north side of the island and find a lee," Ramage told Aitken. "There's no point in waiting, and I don't want to start feeling my way round in the dark. Man the capstan, and let's have the fiddler play a few tunes: with this sea the men will need some forebitters when they set their chests to the capstan bars."
Southwick bustled up. His station was on the fo'c'sle when weighing anchor, where he could see how the cable was growing (the indication of where the anchor was lying on the sea bottom, in relation to the ship). Skilful use of topsails and the rudder meant that the ship could sail up until she was almost over the anchor, thus taking much of the weight off the cable and so making it easier for the men at the capstan, who would otherwise be hauling the ship bodily ahead.
Many captains, the master recalled, did not bother to help the men, taking the view that a seaman was a seaman, and straining at a capstan bar was part of the job.
As Southwick made his way forward to the fo'c'sle, the boatswain's mates were busy with their calls, the shrill, twittering notes interspersed with orders sending men running forward while the topmen, the most agile seamen in the ship, went to the shrouds, awaiting the orders which would send them aloft and out along the yards ready to untie the gaskets holding the sails tightly furled so that at the shouted words "Let fall" the canvas would drop like blinds.
Ramage looked up at Castello with his telescope. "Nothing," he commented to Aitken. "No one on the battlements. Still having their siesta, I expect. No hostages to guard ... sleep, eat, play cards and read the Moniteur. I wonder how many of them can actually read?"
"About the same, percentage as our seamen, I expect," Aitken said. "A few minutes' listening to someone reading from the Moniteur can't be much of an incentive to the illiterate dullards to take lessons!"
By now the men on the quarterdeck had removed the small wedge-shaped drawers which fitted into the slots round the circular top of the capstan, and which held bandages if the ship was frequently in action, or cloths for polishing brass if she was in port for any length of time. The men were now sliding the long capstan bars into the slots so that they radiated out like the spokes of the wheel of a haywain, but horizontal and at the height of a man's chest. As the last bar slid into place a boatswain's mate took a line and with it clovehitched each end to the next, as though adding the rim of the wheel to the spokes. This swifter, as it was called, made sure that none of the bars accidentally came out (an accident which could happen easily enough, without the swifter) should the men at one bar lose their footing.
Hellfire, Ramage thought to himself, the wind is coming up quickly: had it been out of a clear sky and brief, it would be called a colpo di vento, but as it is there is no doubt the captain of the Calypso has left weighing anchor so late that he is risking having to cut and run. Cutting and running to escape an enemy was all right, but telling the Board that one had to cut a cable and lose an anchor because of bad weather would bring down their wrath: not so much because of the value of the lost cable and anchor but because it revealed poor judgement and worse seamanship.
Ramage glanced at the distant stone wall partly enclosing the port, and then at the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs. "Use the topsails to get the strain off the cable as soon as you can - but you haven't much room to tack."
Aitken nodded and gave Hill an order. In a way it was amusing, Ramage thought: he was going to walk a few feet away apparently to watch the men at work at the capstan and then join Southwick, but actually he was giving Aitken the chance of handling the ship alone under what were difficult conditions. The only way Aitken would ever be absolutely confident was knowing that he could not make mistakes because the captain was not within earshot, ready to take command again. And now in turn Aitken was trying out Hill because this was the first time that the new third lieutenant had sailed with Aitken.
Ramage found the fiddler hurriedly tuning his fiddle. "Hurry up," he said, "it'll be blowing a hurricane and we'll part the cable before you've hove a strain on that blasted catgut!"
Finally Ramage said: "Come on, better flat forebitters than no forebitters at all: up on the capstan you go!"
The man grinned, revealing three or four yellow teeth and, ducking under the swifter, squeezed past two men standing ready to start pushing on their bar and scrambled up on to the top of the capstan.
The Calypso's bow was now rising and falling a good fifteen feet as the swell waves swept in, lifting high on the crests and plunging so quickly into the troughs that Ramage knew the men there would be feeling almost weightless, hard put to stand still because as the bow dropped they would be almost forced to trot a step or two.
The fiddler stood facing outboard, his knees flexing and tensing to keep his balance. He sawed once at the fiddle and then waved the bow confidently at Ramage, who promptly ordered: "Start heaving, my lads!"
As Ramage recognized the familiar tune of one of the men's favourite forebitters, the foretopsail was let fall, the canvas flogging and almost drowning out the fiddle and the groaning of the capstan, until the yard was hoisted. Then the yard creaked as men hauled on the braces to trim it and the canvas stopped flogging as others heaved on the sheets.
"On Friday morning as we set sail . . ." the capstan men roared, pressing against the bars, each of the pawls clunking as it fell back into its slot in the barrel, preventing a sudden jerk overwhelming the men and spinning the capstan in reverse.
Further aft yet another sail began to slat, and now Ramage could hear the fiddle giving the tune, and the men bellowed the second line.
"It was not far from land . . ."
Ramage heard rather than saw the maintopsail being braced round almost overhead, the sail sheeted home and beginning to draw. Below decks forward, in the cable locker, men would be dragging the cable - as thick as a man's thigh - and coiling it down in a great circle, each ring smaller than the previous one. The nippers would be running back and forth smartly as the capstan turned the long, endless rope, the messenger, which first went round an identical drum beneath the capstan, then led two-thirds the length of the ship and round the voyol block secured right up in the bow (an enormous pulley) and finally back aft to the capstan extension.
The anchor cable itself never went round the capstan barrel extension on the deck below, midway between the mizen and mainmasts; instead it was briefly seized to the messenger by the boys using short lengths of line to nip it - hence their nickname, nippers - so that the cable was hauled along by the messenger until it reached the hatch over the cable locker, into which it slithered like an enormous serpent returning to its lair, the boys hurriedly unhitching their lines at the last moment and running forward to nip the cable again.
"Oh, there I spy'd a fair pretty maid..."
Now the men at the capstan bars were finding it easier as the frigate slowly beat up towards the anchor, one short leg before tacking, and then coming round on the other. The capstan swung fast on each leg but the men were slowed down, grunting with effort, each time the Calypso tacked and briefly the weight came back on the cable.
"With a comb and a glass in her hand . . ."
Ramage found himself beginning to hum the chorus.
"The stormy winds did blow,
And the raging seas did roar ..."
Ramage went forward to the fo'c'sle to join Southwick, who strode to the bow and looked down at the cable. He came back to report to Ramage: "At short stay, sir."
Ramage nodded: the anchor cable was now leading down into the water at the same angle as the forestay. The anchor was still holding, and Southwick signalled to Aitken, who was still standing on the quarterdeck near the capstan, speaking trumpet in his hand.
" While we poor sailors went to the top,
And the landlubbers laid below . . ."
It always surprised Ramage that men straining at the capstan bars with every ounce of strength, veins standing out like cords on their arms and necks, could spare breath for the words, but they could and seemed to gain strength, the capstan's revolutions speeding and slowing in accord with the singing and the tacking.
"Then up spoke a boy of our gallant ship,
And a well speaking boy was he . . ."
Southwick walked forward again and looked down at the cable. The Calypso swung once more as Aitken tacked her, and the capstan slowed down while the ship wheeled yet again on the cable, like a dog straining at its leash.
"I've a father and mother in Portsmouth town,
And this night they weep for me . . ."
Southwick came back. "Up and down, sir; we're swinging on it," he reported as he waved to Aitken. The next few minutes - almost moments - were going to be critical: with the cable now vertical, Aitken had to time the Calypso's moves so that she was tacking offshore at the moment the anchor lifted off the bottom.
"Then up spake a man of our gallant ship,
And a well speaking man was he . . ."
If the Calypso was tacking inshore, towards the cliffs, as the anchor came off the bottom, releasing the ship, there would not be room enough for her to go about because the anchor would not give that tug to bring the bow round. Even worse for Aitken, the sheer size of the anchor, swinging like an enormous pendulum in the water, would slow her down, dragging at her bow like a brake and preventing it swinging across to complete the tack.
"I've married a wife in fair London town,
And this night she a widow will be . . ."
Damnation, the frigate was pitching! This was when Ramage hated command: at a time like this he had no job to keep his mind occupied. Southwick was watching the cable and would soon be stowing the anchor; Aitken was judging his tacks. Hill, Martin and Kenton, and young Paolo, were down there on deck, busy with their allotted jobs. But Captain Ramage, having once given his orders, just had to keep out of the way, his most important tasks being to ensure his hat did not blow off, and nod when Southwick (out of politeness, not duty, because he had to report to whoever had the conn, Aitken in this case) made a report. The capstan men roared into the chorus once again.
"The stormy winds did blow, and the raging seas did roar . . ."
As they paused a moment before launching into the third line Ramage thought he heard a wild shout. Yes, it was coming from above. The only man left aloft was the masthead lookout and Ramage held on to the breech of a gun as he craned his head upwards.
Yes, there was the figure of the lookout. He was shouting - that much was obvious because his mouth was opening and closing, but the wind was whipping away the words. Frantically the man pointed to the south just as Southwick reported "Anchor apeak ... anchor aweigh, sir" and signalled to Aitken.
The frigate began to forge ahead slowly while turning to larboard, away from the land, and the men fairly ran round the capstan, cheerfully bawling out the rest of the chorus:
"While we poor sailors went to the top,
And the landlubbers laid below."
From that, Ramage thought inconsequentially, other landlubbers would assume that the poor fellows were lying down below, victims of seasickness or terror, but to a seaman "lay" meant something quite different. "Lay aft here!" meant come aft, and in the forebitter the wretched landlubbers had simply gone below.
Now the blasted ship had swung round so that the forward lookout was hidden by the yard, and Ramage walked across the fo'c'sle, braced himself and looked aloft again, trying to balance against the pitching. Now the man was gesticulating over the starboard beam.
Ramage looked to the south. Running down towards them under reefed topsails was a French frigate, identical in shape to the Calypso, but signal flags were streaming out from the halyards. "What ship?" she was probably asking - the normal procedure when ships o' war met. And normally not a problem - unless the ship challenged was an enemy which would not know the correct reply. Ramage had half expected to meet the frigate one day: no doubt she was the French national ship that had carried the hostages from Santo Stefano to Giglio. But to meet her at the beginning of a scirocco while weighing anchor to move to a more sheltered place . . .
For a few moments he listened to the next verse: nothing could be done until the anchor was out of the water and the men began to cat it: the curious order, catting the anchor, which saw it hoisted on the cat davit, a thick wooden beam projecting from the side of the ship forward, often with a cat's head carved on the end. The purchase, or pulleys, were inset and took the tackle (which had a hook on the end) and hauled the anchor close up against the ship's side.
"Then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship,
And a valiant man was he,
'For want of a boat we shall be drown'd'
For she sank to the bottom of the sea."
Just as Ramage turned to hurry aft, Southwick reported that he had sighted the anchor. Ramage nodded and then pointed towards the approaching French frigate.
"Pity we don't know the answer to that challenge," the master bellowed, "then we could lead 'em a dance!"
Lead them a dance, yes, in normal times, Ramage thought to himself, but these were not normal times: the Calypso had on board the handful of Britons that Bonaparte regarded as his most valuable hostages. The fact that they had just been rescued would not help much if they were now killed in battle. Or (which was more likely) recaptured.
Back on the quarterdeck after pointing out the approaching French frigate to Aitken, who had not heard the hail and still looked tense from the concentration needed to get the Calypso away on the correct tack instead of heading out of control for the rocks at the foot of the cliffs, Ramage listened as the drummer boy marched up and down the maindeck beating to quarters.
Sir Henry was on the quarterdeck but tactfully walking back and forth at the taffrail, well behind Ramage and obviously intent on leaving the Calypso's captain a free hand to do what was necessary.
Aitken gave the quartermaster a course to steer: north-east, roughly the same as the approaching French frigate but also one which gained time: although Ramage had been able to guess that the signal flags were obviously the challenge for the day, the Frenchman would not in turn be able to read flags hoisted in the Calypso as the British frigate began running dead before the wind: it would be like looking at a page on edge and trying to read the printing.
The scirocco and the frigate: Ramage cursed his luck. By and large he did not believe in luck: bad luck was usually the alibi used by those nincompoops whose plans went awry, although they never credited good luck when their plans succeeded. Yet now was hardly the time for such thoughts.
The French frigate had been approaching fast, the thickening scirocco haze and failing light making her seem a grey phantom surging towards them low in the water, rising and dipping over the ridge-and-furrow of the swell waves. But Ramage saw that the distance was now remaining almost constant as the Calypso came clear of the island and began setting more sail.
"Fore and maincourses, if you please Mr Aitken," Ramage said, looking towards the west. Twilight. How long before darkness would help hide the Calypso in its mantle?
Running away from a French frigate! Still, it was not often that a French ship saw the Calypso's transom . . . But now she had to be a plover. He looked forward, startled for a moment as the forecourse, the largest and lowest of the sails on the foremast, was let fall and Aitken, speaking trumpet to his lips, shouted orders for the afterguard to brace the yard and sheet home the sail. A moment later the maincourse tumbled, and Ramage could imagine the maintopmen cursing that the foretopmen had beaten them by a few seconds.
The Calypso surged forward as the brisk wind bellied out thousands of square feet of extra canvas to bring the ship alive, and Ramage saw men running across the maindeck like ants suddenly disturbed. Yet every apparently aimless movement was carefully controlled, sending each available man to the guns to cast off the lashings which prevented the carriages moving when the ship pitched and rolled, and heaving a strain on the train tackles.
Powder boys (the nippers of ten minutes earlier) would any moment be scurrying up from the magazine, each carrying a cylindrical wooden cartridge box containing a shaped bag of powder. Then the gun captains would arrive to bolt on the flintlocks (which because of their vulnerability to rust were stowed below when not in use) and the rest of their gear: prickers for preparing the cartridges, long lanyards which attached to the triggers of the locks, allowing them to fire the guns beyond the recoil, and horns of priming powder.
All you need do - all you have done, Ramage corrected himself - is give the orders: there is no need to stand here ensuring they are being carried out properly: that is why you have a first lieutenant like Aitken, and other officers like Kenton, and Hill (getting ready for action for the first time in the Calypso), and Martin, Paolo and, of course, Southwick.
Down below, Bowen would be laying out surgical instruments and bandages, spreading a tarpaulin over a small section of the deck in case there were a number of wounded; the carpenter would be sounding the well, and he would be doing it regularly if they went into action, his sounding rod sliding down the long tube to the bottom of the bilge, revealing if any water was leaking in through hidden shotholes.
If you have given all the necessary orders, Ramage told himself, it is time you started thinking about what this damned French frigate's appearance means. Well, it means your original idea of sheltering in the lee of Giglio until the scirocco blows itself out, and then going over to Port' Ercole, has gone by the board.
So now you have to keep out of this wretched frigate's way for the next two or three days, so that the garrison commander on Giglio does not realize he was hoodwinked. Also it is vital that no alarm is raised by the French on the mainland so that extra guards will be watching the second group of hostages.
But just consider being chased for three days by this frigate, which is identical with the Calypso, and therefore of the same strength in terms of guns and, since there is no reason to suppose otherwise, as fast and weatherly . . .
So the Calypso has first to be a plover, protecting her chicks or the eggs she is hatching in the shallow depression on the ground that passes for her nest. On the approach of an enemy, be it stoat, fox or human, the plover runs away, one wing dragging as though she is hurt, trying to lure the threat away from the nest. Her shrill cries of distress and injured appearance usually work.
Could the Calypso be as effective as a plover? The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she could not: by the time the scirocco blew itself out, the two frigates would have had to fight each other, and one would have been destroyed or captured.
Very well, he must make sure it was not the Calypso, and if the French were not to raise the alarm, then the fight had to take place out of sight of lookouts on the mainland. Or at least the French on shore must not be able to connect the sea fight with the Port' Ercole hostages.
Come to think of it, as long as the Giglio commandant did not connect the frigate with his former hostages, there was nothing to fear. More important, there was no reason why the commandant should, so long as that frigate to the south did not open fire on the Calypso while still in sight of Castello.
At that moment Ramage saw General Cargill coming up the quarterdeck ladder, buckling on a sword. "What's all the commotion about, eh?" he demanded.
Ramage shrugged and pointed at the small grey shadow now astern. "A French frigate."
"Ha, and how are you going to engage her, eh?"
"We're not," Ramage said calmly. "We're trying to avoid her - it will be dark in an hour."
"Avoid her! You mean you're running away?" Cargill shouted, banging the hilt of his sword. "Why, that's cowardice!"
Ramage walked to within a foot of the man, not wanting everyone to hear the conversation. "You will answer for that remark later," he said coldly. "In the meantime I must ask you to leave the quarterdeck."
"I'll be damned if I will!" Cargill exclaimed. "If there's going to be fighting, my post is here."
"You've already decided there's not going to be any fighting, and I must remind you that I am in command of this ship. If you do not go below I shall place you under an arrest and two Marines will take you below."
Cargill, eyes shifty, suddenly realized that he had just called Ramage a coward on his own quarterdeck and that Ramage had challenged him to a duel. Perhaps he had been a little hasty, Cargill admitted to himself, but dammit the fellow was running away. And anyway, who was he to threaten to arrest a field officer? A pipsqueak of a captain threatening to arrest a general!
He felt a tap on the shoulder and whirled to find Sir Henry standing there; it was obvious the admiral had heard the entire conversation.
"General Cargill, I suggest you go down to your cabin."
"But this fellow Ramage is -"
"Go down to your cabin and wait for Captain Ramage's seconds to call on your seconds," Sir Henry said. "No gentleman can be called a coward without demanding satisfaction. And, if I might express a personal opinion, no gentleman would call the captain of one of the King's ships a coward on his own quarterdeck unless that person fully understood what was happening."
"But Sir Henry, I can see with my own eyes what's afoot!" Cargill protested.
"In that case," Sir Henry said quietly, "I should tell you that Captain Ramage has every right to arrest you if you refuse to obey his orders. Me, too, if I did the same."
Cargill swung round, staggering as the Calypso rolled, and then made his way to the ladder. Sir Henry, without a word to Ramage, returned to the taffrail.
Ramage sighed: if one had to fight only the French ... He took the telescope from the binnacle drawer and balanced himself to inspect the French frigate. Yes, she was following precisely in the Calypso's wake. Her guns were not run out - but because she was not suspicious or because she was rolling so violently? Topsails and courses set, the same as the Calypso. If there was an urgent need to overtake the Calypso, surely she would let fall her topgallants? Ramage looked aloft at the Calypso's straining topsails and then decided only a gambler would set topgallants: a sudden extra gust in this uncertain weather could easily carry away a mast. . .
So what was that French captain doing and thinking? At first, no doubt, interested (and surprised) to see a ship of his own class off Giglio and obviously weighing anchor. A sensible captain would conclude that the ship was being prudent, shifting berth in the scirocco to the lee side of the island. So far so good.
Then the ship bears away and sets more sail without apparently answering the challenge. How important would the Frenchman judge that? His reaction would not be as rigid as a British post-captain, for at least four reasons. First, there were so few British ships in the Mediterranean that the Frenchman would not be expecting to see one - certainly not at anchor off Giglio.
Second, the French captain would notice at once that the ship was the same class as his own, and it was unlikely anyone would see in this wind that the sails had a British cut. Third, the captain of a French frigate in the Mediterranean was unlikely to have heard (or would have since forgotten) that a French frigate of this type had been captured by the British some years ago in the West Indies.
Fourth, the French were very casual about signalling, and this captain might not - since he would assume that any other ship would be French - be very concerned that his challenge was not answered.
However, Ramage decided, any French captain might be curious if the frigate he was following stayed on this course, which led to nowhere in particular. North-east could only mean somewhere on the Tuscan coast, fishing villages between Castiglione della Pescaia and Talamone . . . Turning to the northwest, though, would show clearly that the destination was Elba, which in turn meant Porto Ferraio. And of course Porto Ferraio, one of the safest harbours in the whole Mediterranean, was on the north side of Elba and well sheltered in a scirocco.
Ramage acknowledged Aitken's report that the Calypso was now at general quarters and nodded in agreement when the first lieutenant said he presumed Ramage did not want the guns run out yet. Ramage noted that Southwick had now joined Aitken. It was a deuced nuisance that Sir Henry had installed himself at the taffrail: Ramage wanted to pace the weather side between the quarterdeck rail and the taffrail, but if he did that now it would be obvious (and unnecessarily rude) to Sir Henry that he was avoiding conversation.
It was curious about plovers. In Kent they were called peewits, which was a fair approximation of their cry. But how did they learn that trick of shamming injury to a wing to lure intruders away from the nest? Or did it come to them naturally, like swimming to ducklings and baby moorhens? Hmm, night was falling fast: darkness was getting a helping hand from the haze, which was almost thick enough to log as a faint mist.
Time to reassure the French frigate. He called a new course of north-north-west to Aitken. This would be radical enough to be immediately noticed by the ship astern, and within moments Aitken was shouting orders which braced the yards and trimmed the sheets as the wind came round on to the larboard quarter.
Peewits. Curious how his mind kept returning to those black and white, crested birds! They were not even sea birds. If you walked across a field they wheeled overhead, with their irritating "peewit" cry, warning everything else, from partridges to hares. Some people liked plovers' eggs to eat but as far as Ramage was concerned they were small and fiddling; he suspected that to the gourmets the fact that they were seasonal and hard to find rather than their delicacy accounted for their popularity.
Southwick now came up to him. "Glad you came round six points to larboard, sir: I was about to remind you about those 'ants' - we were steering straight for them."
"Ah, yes: they'd be hard to spot in this visibility, especially if our course had taken us through the middle."
"Aye, we'd have lost the light by the time we got there," Southwick commented.
Peewits scratching at the top of anthills: again the black and white birds with the paddle-shaped wing tips came to mind. Yes, he could just imagine them pecking away at anthills, searching for a meal - providing, of course, that they liked ants. Perhaps they preferred mole burrows and molehills, new ones, a happy hunting ground yielding fresh worms.
He looked astern at the French frigate, now becoming a blur. Yes, she had altered course too. Perhaps she too was bound for Porto Ferraio, or her captain had just decided to shelter there for a couple of days, and visit the sister ship. The island of Giglio was now out of sight - and Argentario, too. No, perhaps there was just a hint of a heavier greyness in the distance - Monte Argentario was big. From memory, though, in a scirocco the upper half of the mountain was usually hidden in cloud streaming to leeward, so it was probably his imagination.
He now looked over the starboard bow and let his eyes run slowly aft. No sign of the mainland of Tuscany. Punta Ala had mountains to the south, and Talamone some to the north, while in between (with the Bocca d'Ombrone in the middle) it was flat. The Calypso and the frigate astern could both be in the middle of the Atlantic as far as landmarks were concerned. The nearest land, if you wanted to flatter it with that description, was the Formiche di Grosseto, the ants. With peewits pecking at them.
Ramage suddenly saw it all clearly, and he turned to Southwick. "Do you think you can give me a fairly exact course to the Formiche di Grosseto?" he asked. "No, that's asking too much. No, first give me a course to meet the coast south of the Ombrone river: then we can check our position exactly once we spot those forts at the mouth of the river."
"But it'll be dark long before we get within miles!" Southwick protested.
"The moon, remember the moon," Ramage chided. "It'll be up very soon. It's nearly full and it'll penetrate the clouds just enough to be as useful as an ostler's lantern."
"We could just as easily run up on the coast!" Southwick grumbled crossly. "If you'll forgive me saying so, sir, it's just madness to try and dodge Johnny Frenchman astern by going inshore like that!"
Ramage grinned. "You know I always go slightly mad with a full moon!"
"Slightly!" Southwick sniffed, and made for the quarterdeck ladder and the rolls of charts in Ramage's cabin.