by Dudley Pope
'Bowen,' he said, 'I appreciate your concern, but let us keep a sense of proportion. I have a minor flesh wound and have lost some blood and feel a trifling dizziness. Spurgeon is dead. That's the very small price we have paid so far to rescue forty men, women and children hostages. We have two dozen privateersmen under guard in the four prizes we have captured. There is a fifth prize but she has no passengers - only two or three privateersmen on board as shipkeepers.'
Ramage struggled and sat up in the cot, making it swing with the effort, and holding his bandaged left arm with his right hand.
'However, all we've done up to now is grab the animal's tail. The head, with a mouthful of sharp teeth, is still there at anchor. The Lynx still has enough men and boats to recapture the prizes the moment she realizes we've taken them.'
Bowen nodded. 'I understand that, sir. We have to deal with the Lynx.'
'Exactly. And this morning. Any moment now they might discover what we've done.'
'I appreciate that, sir, but surely Wagstaffe and Southwick -'
'Bowen! Can you picture me lying here while all that's going on?'
'Well, sir ... I'm only advising...'
'For my own good. Yes, thank you. Very well, now, pass the word for Silkin!'
It took half an hour to get Ramage washed, shaved and dressed, and Bowen then spent fifteen minutes with squares of nankeen cut off from the roll kept by the purser, making a sling for the wounded arm. While an impatient and cursing Ramage tried to hurry the surgeon, Silkin bobbed between them, trying to make his captain drink hot tea and eat a softboiled egg which had been spread on a piece of ship's biscuit.
Finally Ramage sat at his desk, his arm resting on the flat surface and his face pale and wet with perspiration, his hand shaky and his knees only doubtfully reliable.
'So the survey boats and the one doing the soundings went off as usual?' he asked Wagstaffe.
'Yes, sir. One of the young seamen wore a hat and jacket of Martin's, and that painter fellow Wilkins wore one of my coats and hats today and went on shore with the surveyors.'
'Wilkins? What on earth for?'
'He mentioned something about the Lynx being so close to the beach. He took notebooks and sticks of charcoal with him.'
'Does he want to sketch the Lynx then?'
Wagstaffe looked away and said noncommittally: 'I think he had in mind that - well, he wants to do a painting of the Calypso capturing the Lynx, and he'd get the best view from the beach: the Lynx is barely a hundred yards out.'
Ramage thought for a moment and then realized that almost the last place for an artist to be would be on board the Calypso.
'How many men are we short?'
'Twenty-two are away in the prizes (Orsini, Jackson and Rossi came back with you last night, sir: Bowen needed help to hold the chair upright across the thwarts). Twenty-four in the survey and sounding boats: forty-six men, and Aitken, Kenton and Martin. I didn't send Orsini off in the soundings boat this morning.'
'Why?'
'He was rather concerned about you, sir, and until you woke . . .'
'Orsini is simply another member of the ship's company. Remember that, Mr Wagstaffe.'
'Aye aye, sir,' the second lieutenant said, thankful that it had passed off so easily. The boy was sure the captain was going to die, and that combined with the knowledge that both men were very worried about the Marchesa had made him agree that Orsini could stay on board. But the way things were going, the Calypso was not going to be the best place to spend the day . . .
'Now listen carefully,' Ramage said. 'First things first. The captain must be comfortable. I want that armchair from the Earl of Dodsworth put down on the larboard side of the binnacle box, where I can sight the compass.'
Both Southwick and Wagstaffe laughed with him, and the lieutenant said: 'I knew that chair would come in useful! The bosun was proposing to heave it overboard!'
'Now,' Ramage continued, his voice becoming serious. 'Guns on both sides loaded with grape but not run out, of course. Decks wetted and sanded, but make sure no one from the Lynx can guess what's going on by seeing water pouring out of the scuppers or spot the washdeck pump rigged ... I want the lashing on the bitter end of the anchor cable untied down in the cabletier, so that we can let it all run out: I don't want to lose time and make a noise cutting the cable with an axe -'
'Can I buoy it, sir?' asked Southwick. 'Seems a pity to lose an anchor and a new cable.'
'Yes, by all means. Men to have arms listed for them in the Watch, Station and Quarters bill, but again, make sure no one is seen from the Lynx marching round wearing a cutlass. Leave the grindstone down below! But make sure the topmen have sharp knives - I want those gaskets cut: don't waste time untying them. The sails must be let fall and sheeted home and the yards braced in moments, not minutes.'
He paused as a wave of dizziness made the cabin tilt, and for a few moments he could not understand why both Wagstaffe and Southwick were sitting horizontally, but after a few deep breaths it passed.
Southwick then took a deep breath, as though he was going to dive over the side. 'That chair, sir. Supposing we put it right aft, on the larboard side against the taffrail, then you'd -'
'- be out of the way of the quartermaster and not such a target for sharpshooters in the Lynx,' Ramage said.
'Well, sir, that's quite true; a sitting target, if there ever was one,' the master said, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was offended.
'What time do we start, sir?' Wagstaffe asked tactfully.
'We can start as though we intend airing sails. Send four or five topmen aloft to let fall the foretopsail, untying the gaskets; but make sure the maintopsail and mizentopsail gaskets are cut. That'll save us a few minutes.'
'The Marines, sir?'
'Is Renwick on board?'
'Yes, sir: I stopped him going on shore with the surveyors. All the Marines are on board.'
'Very well, they will be sharpshooters, but must dress as seamen. That man Hart will suspect something if he sees groups of Marines in uniform.'
'And the prisoners we take, sir: there may be several British. I suppose they'd be different from prisoners of war?'
'There's no war,' Ramage said deliberately. 'All the Lynxes are pirates. The British - well, that'll be for the Crown lawyers to decide, but they're probably traitors as well. The matter won't arise unless we have prisoners, of course.'
'No, sir,' Wagstaffe answered, and then stared at Ramage as he realized the real significance of what his captain had just said. The lieutenant leaned forward as Ramage said quietly: 'Those brave fellows were prepared to murder women and children, and I'm afraid that if we take them to England some clever man of law may charm a judge...'
'Aye, charm, bribe, call it what you will,' Southwick said. 'No matter what happens, no one in England is going to believe what we've seen and heard out here. Pity we can't try 'em on board.'
'Well, we'll see,' Ramage said judicially. 'Let's see how many prisoners we take.'
Sarah stood on the afterdeck of the Earl of Dodsworth with the other women, the six Calypsos still pretending to guard them. Since the rescue, Mrs Donaldson seemed rarely to be more than a yard away, prattling, questioning or grumbling.
'This Lord Ramage,' she said. 'Why doesn't he take his ship and sink these wretched pirates? After all, his ship is bigger.'
'He was far from well last night,' Sarah said mildly.
'Oh, a mere cut on the arm, so my husband said, and he saw him when he carried a chair up. What they wanted a chair for, I don't know. With arms, too!'
Sarah could see that the Calypso was built for speed and for fighting: she had never before compared a frigate with a merchant ship, but the Heliotrope, for example, was a positive box while the Calypso was lean, seeming to contain power, like a coiled spring. Like Nicholas, she thought, like Nicholas when he was not wounded.
'You saw that Lord Ramage last night,' Mrs Donaldson said.' Was he badly wounded? They fetched the surgeon fro
m that frigate, so my husband said.'
'No, a mere cut on the arm, just as your husband said.'
'Then why all the fuss? Why isn't he doing something? After all, his father's an admiral and a peer of the realm, so you'd think the young fellow would have - well, some sort of tradition.'
'It isn't tradition he needs,' Sarah said quietly. 'It's blood.'
'Blood? My dear, do you mean he lacks breeding? Isn't he really the Earl's son? So the Countess was faithless, eh? Well, one can never be sure, my husband always says.'
'Blood,' Sarah said, even more quietly, 'that flows through the body. He lost most of it in the sea between here and the Heliotrope. He might have died and then,' she added, hating the woman's vulgar and crude mind, 'the pirates would have come back and probably taken you to the Lynx.'
'Oh la!' Mrs Donaldson squealed, and fainted like a tent collapsing, and Sarah walked away to the taffrail, angry that she had let herself be provoked by the woman.
She looked across at the Calypso again. Which was Nicholas's cabin? She could picture Bowen with his medicine chest, and Southwick, too: they would have seen him already this morning; might even be with him now. He could have had her cabin, then she could have sat with him, and helped Bowen.
Obviously nothing was being done about the Lynx today, which was hardly surprising, except to a woman like Mrs Donaldson. The important thing was that all the hostages had been freed, the privateersmen guarding them locked up, and their place taken by British seamen. This pretence that they were all still hostages had to be kept up until Nicholas was ready to deal with the Lynx, but today all the Calypsos deserved a rest, and as soon as he was strong enough Nicholas would be giving orders to his officers. In the meantime the Calypso's boats were going about their usual business, two taking the surveyors to the shore, and one finding out the depths in the bay by dropping a lead weight on a rope into the water. Nicholas had been droll when describing that, but she could not now remember which was correct, 'swinging the lead' or 'heaving the lead'. One meant malingering, and she thought it was 'swinging', but she noticed that the sailor in the boat swung it before he let it go. Yet that was 'heaving' too. It was very puzzling.
He commanded more than two hundred men in the Calypso: the sailor who told her that said there were four lieutenants and the master - that was the white-haired old man she had seen last night. It was a good thing the sailor had explained, because the man who commanded the Earl of Dodsworth was called 'the master' although referred to as 'the captain'. It was very different in the Royal Navy, apparently, where the man commanding the ship was a lieutenant or a captain, depending on the size, but, like the Earl of Dodsworth's master, was referred to as 'the captain'. And a master in the Royal Navy by no means commanded the ship (unless he was something called 'master and commander' but she did not understand that and it applied only to small ships). Indeed, 'the master' was not even a commission officer like the lieutenants; he was only a warrant officer, like a sergeant major in the army.
The waiting and the not knowing... On the one hand she was relieved that he was not attacking the Lynx today; on the other it meant another day and night - of worrying without being able to say a word to anyone, without confiding: just having this secret which she could share with no one. Hardly a secret, even; more the type of thing - so she imagined - that a young Catholic girl might confess to her priest. Yet it was all so hopeless (and so innocent, really) that it was doubtful if a young girl would find it worth mentioning, and certainly a priest would not be interested.
So hopeless and so innocent - yet it was tearing her apart: she could not sleep because of it; she wondered how she was going to get through a day - let alone every day from now on - without screaming or having hysterics. She went down the companionway to her cabin: tears were very close, and if that Donaldson woman continued prattling after her friends had helped her over this latest attack of the vapours, Sarah knew she would scream at her.
Love you could not admit to, love that was not returned, love for a person already in love with someone else - was there any worse instrument of torture? The rack? The ducking stool? The garotte? Childish toys, mere irritants. She shut her cabin door and sat on the bed. Nicholas Ramage. He had returned her kiss when she said goodbye. But was that because he knew that once the Lynx was captured all the ships would sail from Trinidade, a farewell as the ball came to an end, or... she forced herself to think of it, although she squeezed her eyes tight shut, as though at the same time trying to keep it out. Or did he know, or have a presentiment, that he would be killed while capturing the Lynx?
The more she thought about it the more certain she became: he knew he was going to die. He loved another woman, so this farewell kiss was in the nature of a thank you to 'Miss for now' for cleaning his wound. If he knew he would survive the attack on the Lynx, why the farewell kiss? If he lived he would meet her again before the ships sailed; he must know, too, that now Papa had retired as Governor General of Bengal and was returning to England, they were bound to meet again in London society. It was curious how angry he had become over wearing the military uniform.
'Miss . . . miss!' Someone was banging on her door. 'Miss, quick, on deck, the Calypso's getting under way!'
'I'm coming - thank you.. .' She wanted to stay in her cabin and pretend nothing was happening, but instead she would have to go on deck and watch the Calypso carrying Nicholas to his death, and listen to people like Mrs Donaldson cheering, and repeating some banal remark of her husband's.
The sunlight sparkling off the sea was dazzling; the sky was an unbelievable blue and cloudless, the island seemed utterly peaceful, holding the bay in its arms. Even the Lynx seemed small and innocent. Then she turned to look at the Calypso.
She knew she would never forget the sight: the wind was making the sails curve, pressing out the creases in the canvas, and the Calypso moved through the water slowly but with infinite grace, a swan borne across a lake by a breeze.
Suddenly she saw the smooth black sides, with the white stripe (was that what they called a strake?) seem to move and grow red rectangles, and she realized that the portlids were being raised. A moment later she saw the guns themselves protruding like black fingers. But why was she stopping now, the sails flat and flapping?
Southwick did not often disagree with what the captain did, but he considered now was such a time. To be honest, it was what he thought the captain was going to do, since Mr Ramage had not said anything. It looked as if he was going to take the Calypso up to the Lynx, lay the frigate alongside the privateer and board. And the trouble with privateers was that they always had enormous crews. They did not need many men to handle the ship - the Lynx with her schooner rig could make do with fifteen men - but they needed plenty of seamen to send away in the prizes they took. Now was a good example: one privateer had five prizes, and would eventually need five prize crews, although admittedly in the case of the East Indiaman they would probably force some of the original ship's company to work at gunpoint. And the privateersmen would be desperate: they would realize that unless they escaped the Calypso they would end up on the gallows, and to them the sword would be preferable to the noose.
The old master looked ahead. The Calypso was at last gathering way, picking up a breeze after running into an unexpected almost windless patch in the lee of some hills. A windless patch like that, had it continued, could have wrecked everything.
After successfully letting the anchor cable run, bracing the foretopsail hard up after leaving it for half an hour 'to air' and letting fall the remaining topsails, sheeting them home and bracing them sharp up, the Calypso had moved off to windward like an old warhorse hearing gunfire in the distance. Then the wind had died.
Looking at Mr Ramage sitting in his armchair, the white cloth of the sling making it seem he was wearing some strange new uniform, one had to admire his calm: he glanced at the sails and at the windvanes and simply told the quartermaster to bear up a point. Sure enough the Calypso had enough way on to k
eep moving through the windless area, and when the wind picked up again it had backed a point, to north by west.
The course to the Lynx meant the Calypso would pass close to the stern of the Amethyst, with the Friesland also on the starboard side farther over towards the southern headland, and then even closer to the Heliotrope, while the Earl of Dodsworth was already on the larboard beam with the Commerce ahead of her.
The wind was settling down to north by west although the bows of all the ships headed more to the east, particularly the Lynx and Commerce, closer inshore. With a lighter wind they were more affected by the current sweeping round the headland and up into the bay, so they were partly wind rode and partly current rode.
Steering for the Lynx and slapping the Calypso alongside, though, seemed unnecessarily risky to Southwick for another reason: getting alongside with the privateer to windward or leeward and hooking on to her with grappling irons risked the Lynx cutting her cable so that both ships drifted as they fought, probably fouling the Heliotrope and ending up on shore.
Admittedly the captain must be worried about the chance of the Lynx escaping him: she might be able to cut her cable and set enough canvas to slip round between the Calypso and the shore - that was the main reason why the Calypso suddenly let fall her sails and cut her cable, to give the Lynx as little time as possible. But the privateer's fore and aft rig gave her an enormous advantage. The Calypso was like a bull trying to trap a calf in a corner of a field: not so much from the point of view of relative strength, but from size and clumsiness.
Still, the hinges of the Calypso's portlids squeaked as they swung up and Southwick felt more confident as he saw the men haul on the tackles that sent the guns rumbling out. The powder monkeys were already lined up along the centreline, each behind a pair of guns, and squatting on the wooden cylinder in which he carried the next flannel cartridge, the one needed for the second round.
The decks glistened wet in the sunshine; the sand sprinkled unevenly on the planking and soaking up the water made light patches and dark, and already the heat of the sun was drying it. Southwick felt the hilt of his sword. The captain always referred to it as his 'meat cleaver', and he hoped he would get a chance to use it in the next few minutes: they were fast approaching the Lynx.