by Dudley Pope
Ramage turned away with a feeling of relief: it had taken too long for Stevens to decide to turn north—they were at least a mile nearer the privateer by now, a valuable mile lost when yards might count by nightfall—but at least the damned man was at last doing something.
Suddenly the whole horizon lifted and sank again as the Arabella heeled: the helmsmen had put the wheel over and aloft blocks squealed as the yards were braced round and the sheets hardened in to trim the sails with the wind just on the beam.
Slowly the privateer seemed to slide aft along the horizon as the Arabella turned, finally ending up just forward of the beam, steering an almost parallel course four or five miles to leeward. Almost parallel, Ramage thought grimly. Almost, but not quite: parallel lines never meet. But because the privateer could sail closer to the wind than the Arabella, the ship’s courses were converging slightly. As he would explain later to Gianna, continuing the coach-and-highwayman analogy, the highwayman’s road was four or five miles away on the right, converging gradually on the coach’s road, but with luck they would not meet until after nightfall.
As he stood with Southwick’s telescope watching the privateer’s narrow hull, the unrelieved black glistening wetly and the foot of every sail dark from the spray, Ramage felt the worry over Stevens’ behaviour slowly ebbing away. In its place the excitement and tension of action was gradually seeping in, like a fire slowly warming a room. He lowered the telescope to find Yorke standing beside him.
“Happier now?” the young shipowner asked.
“Hardly happier. Less unhappy, perhaps.”
“How so?”
“I’d be happy if I was in the Triton brig so I could run down and capture that chap!”
“There’s no satisfying you. Just be happy that Stevens eventually did what you wanted.”
“Did what he should have done from the start,” Ramage said impatiently. He glanced round to make sure no one else was within earshot and then said with a quietness that did not hide the bitterness in his voice. “I hope I never get orders like these again. It’s ridiculous—I have to chase up Stevens to do the obvious thing so that the Arabella isn’t captured, but it’s beginning to look as if capture is the only chance I’ll have of carrying out my orders. If I succeed in one thing I fail in the other.”
“All very sad,” Yorke said lightly, “but I can’t see Their Lordships—of the Admiralty or the Post Office—thanking you for helping one of His Majesty’s packet brigs get captured!”
When Ramage continued looking glumly at the distant privateer Yorke added, a more serious note in his voice, “Don’t despair of capture too soon: when you’ve a spare moment, cast an eye aloft. Southwick’s prowling round the binnacle as though he’d like to strangle the helmsmen.”
A quick glance round the ship confirmed Yorke’s warning—and jolted Ramage into realizing he had been so absorbed in his own problems that his seaman’s ears had stopped functioning: instead of the sails being tautly flattened curves, every seam straining with the pressure of the wind, they looked like heavy curtains hanging over a draughty window, the luffs fluttering.
“What the devil is Much up to?”
“He’s been exiled to the fo’c’s’le,” Yorke said heavily. “The Captain has the conn.”
“But … just look …”
“That’s what I mean: don’t despair too soon!”
“And for all that, we must be sagging off a point or more!”
“More, I suspect,” Yorke said sourly.
“Have you or Southwick said anything to Stevens?”
“No. Much was just getting the sheets hardened in when Stevens began an argument with him. I couldn’t hear what was said, but then Much was sent forward.”
“What orders did Stevens give the helmsmen?”
“Didn’t say a word while I was there: just left them to it. Much had told ‘em to steer north, but when he went forward they just let her sag off. They don’t seem to give a damn.”
“Do we start seamanship lessons for Stevens?” Ramage growled.
“You’re just a passenger, Mr Ramage,” Yorke said with mock sarcasm. “‘We don’t want any of these smart Navy gentlemen interfering with the Post Office Packet Service!’”
“I can hear him saying it,” Ramage said miserably.
“What are you going to do?”
“Join Southwick and just stare at the compass: see if Stevens can take a hint. Come on!”
He walked over to the low, wooden box that was the binnacle and, standing to one side, looked at the compass. The lubber’s line representing the ship’s bow was on north-by-east and the card was still swinging towards north-north-east.
Ramage turned slightly and looked directly at the two helmsmen, one standing each side of the wheel.
“She’s a bit heavy on the helm, eh?” he asked sympathetically.
“Aye, she is that!” one of the men grunted. “Very tiring, sir.”
Stevens had been standing aft by the taffrail and now walked up to Ramage, but before he could speak Ramage said, “These men are tired, Captain; perhaps they could be relieved?”
Stevens stared at the two men, who avoided his eyes and gave a half-hearted heave at the spokes of the wheel.
“Are you tired?” he demanded.
“Ain’t complainin’,” the nearest man said. “The gennelman was axing if she’s ‘eavy on the ‘elm.”
“Very kind of the Lieutenant to inquire,” Stevens said heavily, “and I know you men appreciate it. But”—he turned to Ramage—”‘tis a strict rule in any ship I command that no one talks to the men at the wheel.”
“So I see,” Ramage said sharply. “I’d expect someone to tell them to get back on course.”
“They are on course,” Stevens said smoothly.
Ramage looked down at the compass.
“They’re steering north-by-east.”
“Well?”
“They should be steering north.”
“By whose orders, pray?”
“Yours, I should hope!”
“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it, Mr Ramage,” Stevens said acidly. “Until then I’ll continue as my own navigator.”
With that he walked back to the taffrail and stood facing aft, as if absorbed by the sight of the Arabella’s wake.
Ramage eyed the two helmsmen, who had an almost triumphant look in their eyes. Perhaps they were just pleased at seeing their Captain snub a naval officer. He turned to Southwick and said casually, “It’d be interesting to see what sort of course they steer, eh?” The Master nodded, and Yorke followed Ramage as he walked back to the starboard side.
Yorke had lost his flippant manner; his left hand was rubbing his chin as though tugging at a goatee beard.
“When I look at that damned privateer I hear the prison gates at Verdun creaking open.”
“Stop looking, then,” Ramage said unsympathetically, putting the telescope to his eye. He counted five gun ports. Four-pounders? Probably, for a schooner that size, and double-fortified too, so they can be packed with grape or canister shot without fear of bursting. But a count of guns, the Lady Arabella’s single broadside against the French schooner’s, hardly gives a true picture: Johnny Frenchman’s strength lies in the horde of a hundred or so privateersmen who, at this very moment, are arming themselves with pistols, cutlasses, tomahawks and pikes, and waiting eagerly for the moment their schooner crashes longside the Arabella so they can swarm on board and overwhelm these Falmouth men.
Why north-by-east? Why not north? With the wind on the beam and the sails trimmed properly the Arabella would be romping along. But steering a point or more to the east of the sensible course, and with the yards braced up so the wind was spilling out of the sails—why, if Stevens had been waiting to meet a pilot cutter and wanted to waste an hour without heaving-to, he would do just what he was doing now.
“Excuse me, sir,” Southwick said, “they’re steering more than a couple of points off course. Never a bit above no
r’-nor’-east, and often down to nor’east-by-north …”
“Very well,” Ramage said, but Southwick did not return to the binnacle; instead he stood there, as if waiting for orders, and Ramage knew the old Master felt the time for action was fast approaching. It was, and Ramage knew it. But what action? And against whom? First, he had his orders from Sir Pilcher to find out how the packets were being captured. Carrying out those orders comes before anything else, he told himself yet again, and I’ve already decided that being on board a packet when it’s actually captured might be the only way of getting the answer.
But the Arabella—unless I can do something about it—is going to be captured just because Stevens is a fool. Perhaps a knave as well. Being on board the Arabella when she’s captured because her Captain hasn’t the wit to keep her up to windward isn’t going to give me any answers. If poor seamanship is the only reason why all the other packets were captured, then I have the answer now: all I need do is seize the Arabella—and with the dozen Tritons and surprise that would be easy—and drive her hard. Even if Stevens has lost us too much to leeward to let me … he dismissed the rest of the train of thought: he was confident he could avoid capture.
So by tonight, he told himself the Arabella could be safe, and I’d be able to start writing my report to the Admiralty. Just poor seamanship. “Judging by Captain Stevens’ behaviour when the Arabella sighted a privateer, none of the packet commanders knows how to sail his ship with the wind on the beam, let alone close-hauled …” Their Lordships would give a derisive laugh, and because of their disbelief Lieutenant Ramage would spend the rest of his life on half pay. And no wonder. It did not sound a very plausible explanation.
So what could he do? Force Stevens to bear up? If he refused, Ramage would have to take over command of the ship. He did not give a damn about the furious complaints the Post Office would make to the Admiralty, but the problem was simple: if he did take over the Arabella it would not help him to carry out his orders. All he would know was that Stevens was not fit to command anything.
What a mess, he thought bitterly. Sir Pilcher was wiser than he knew when he kept his favourites out of range of this job.
“Well?” Yorke asked. “You’ve been staring at that privateer for three minutes. You’ve sighed five times and rubbed the scars on your brow twice. By now your plan must be ready, and Southwick and I await your orders.”
Ramage shook his head miserably. “No plan, no orders … I just wish to God I’d never lost the Triton; then I wouldn’t be here.”
“Now, sir,” Southwick said soothingly, “why don’t we just get to windward of Stevens and put a warning shot across his bow? Just close enough to give him a shock: might do him a world of good.”
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “It’s about all we can do. We’re just outraged passengers making a formal complaint. Remember that. Passengers, nothing more.”
Even before he finished speaking, Yorke was striding aft to where Stevens still stood at the taffrail. Ramage noticed he was now wearing a cutlass. In fact several men now wore them. But Stevens had not sent the men to quarters yet … He remembered he had not yet retrieved his sword from Jackson and saw the American waiting near by. Taking the proffered sword he did up the clips and hurried aft to join Yorke and Southwick.
Stevens was now looking apprehensive, his face creased into the worried, almost sycophantic expression of a grocer seeing his three best customers coming to complain about the quality of some of his goods, but not yet sure exactly what the complaints would be.
Passengers, Ramage reminded himself, we’re just passengers. As he reached Stevens he gestured towards the privateer (startled to see how close she now was) and said, “I thought we’d have shown her a clean pair of heels!”
“Not a hope,” Stevens said dolefully.
“We were six miles to windward when we sighted her. The Arabella looks a fast ship,” he said contemptuously, “but whoever designed her must have used a haystack for a model.”
“Aye, ‘tis true,” Stevens said, still in a doleful voice. “She’s not as fast as she looks.”
Yorke suddenly appeared at the other side of Stevens and said crisply, “If I owned this ship I’d be ashamed!”
“How so, Mr Yorke?” Stevens was not provoked. His voice was still sad, like a professional mourner’s.
“I’d be ashamed at the way she’s being sailed, and I intend telling Lord Auckland about it, too.”
“I can’t set any more canvas, Mr Yorke; I haven’t the hands to furl when the privateer gets to close quarters.”
“When? That’s putting the cart before the horse,” Yorke said, his voice taking on a distinct edge. “If you’d spent a couple of minutes sail trimming and then kept a sharp eye on the helmsmen, that privateer wouldn’t have got within five miles of us, and we’d lose her once it’s dark. Why, it’s not too late even now.”
“I wish ‘twas so,” Stevens said lugubriously, “I’ve no wish to be a prisoner again.”
“Then put better men at the wheel,” Yorke snapped. “Those two are steering a couple of points to leeward all the time.”
“Oh, you’re mistaken, Mr Yorke, indeed you are; this ship won’t hold up to windward like that fellow.” Stevens waved towards the privateer. “Designed for close-hauled work, those Frenchmen.”
“Bah!” Yorke exclaimed. “Captain Stevens, it’s my duty to remind you of your duty towards your passengers. You’re not taking the proper steps to safeguard us. Why, you haven’t sent the men to quarters yet. Look, every gun is still secured!”
Well spoken, thought Ramage: Yorke’s protest was just the sort a passenger would make. But at that moment he heard Captain Wilson’s heavy footsteps clumping along the deck behind them.
“I say, Yorke my dear fellow,” Wilson said hotly, “that’s demned insulting, don’t you know? I’ve complete faith in Captain Stevens. We’re ready to stand to our guns the moment the Captain gives the word. You’ll see, we’ll give our French friends a run for their money!”
“Nonsense!” Yorke said angrily. “You don’t seem to realize that all this is like a despatch rider not putting spurs to his horse when he’s chased by a squadron of enemy cavalry.”
“Oh, come!” Wilson exclaimed.
“Listen, you know as much about the sea as I do soldiering,” Yorke said abruptly. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to lead your company into battle, but you can take my word for it that this ship is being sailed badly. Because of Captain Stevens, that privateer will be alongside us inside a couple of hours. We’re just drifting, not sailing. Would you hobble a racehorse? That’s what’s going on, Captain Wilson, among other things, and if you doubt my word, ask Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick!”
Ramage realized that Yorke was deliberately provoking Wilson as a means of stirring up Stevens, but he didn’t want Yorke to go too far: the way things were going the privateer might be trying to get alongside in less time than Yorke estimated, and Wilson’s cheerful aggressiveness would be welcome. “Gentlemen,” he said, “instead of bickering we ought to be listening to Captain Stevens giving us our instructions …”
Yorke glanced at him admiringly: neatly done, the shipowner thought to himself, very neat indeed. And he noticed Ramage was again rubbing one of the scars on his right brow, a sure sign that he was concentrating hard.
Stevens coughed and straightened his back. “I—er, well, you can see we turned away a few minutes ago …”
His voice trailed off when he realized several pairs of eyes were watching him closely.
“My orders,” Stevens said lamely, a whining note in his voice, “they tell me to run from an enemy when I can, and when I can’t run any longer, then to surrender—after sinking the mails.”
“Forgive me,” Ramage interrupted. “I probably misunderstood you. I thought the Post Office instructs its commanders first to run, then fight when they can run no longer, and sink the mails only when they can no longer fight. Then surrender.”
“Of course, Lieutenant, of course! That’s what I meant,” Stevens said hurriedly.
“Very well,” Ramage said crisply, “but so far you haven’t sent the men to quarters. Your guns are still secured, the magazine locked, not a musket or pistol issued, boarding nets not triced up and the mails aren’t up on deck in case you have to sink them … What exactly have you done so far, Mr Stevens, apart from buckling on that cutlass?”
Stevens was both embarrassed and on the defensive now, as though Ramage was asking him if his wife had ever cuckolded him. “Now, now, Mr Ramage,” he said chidingly, “don’t let us be impetuous. Coolness in action, Mr Ramage, I’m a firm believer in it; you’ll learn in time how important it is.”
Ramage flushed with anger at the crudeness of Stevens’ remark, and decided it was time to regain the initiative. “I agree, Captain,” he said coolly. “Although I doubt if you’ve ever fired a shot in action, despite surrendering twice, I can assure you from experience that your theory is correct.”
Ramage jumped in surprise as someone standing behind him gave a sudden bellow of bitter laughter. He turned to find Much who, looking directly at Stevens, said contemptuously, “Impetuous!”
Stevens now gave Ramage the impression of a man not only under great strain, but who had a lot to conceal, like a clerk in a counting house just before his books were checked. But to be fair, Ramage told himself, a clerk might be worrying that some arithmetical error could cost him his job, not scared that a fraud he had perpetrated would be discovered. Whether the clerk was honest or fraudulent, the symptoms could be the same.
“Yes, Mr Mate, impetuous!” Stevens said, as if trying to reassert his authority.
“We don’t have too much time,” Ramage said, gesturing at the privateer. He then pointed at the boat hanging across the packet’s stern. “Isn’t it time we cut this adrift? It’s going to interfere with the guns.”
“I’m the master of this ship, Mr Ramage.”
“Yes, you mentioned that earlier,” Ramage said pointedly, “but since you’ve let the ship sag off to leeward, we’ll have to fight, and repelling an attack eventually gets down to aiming and firing guns. And I assure you”—Ramage pointed over the beam—“that she’ll soon be within range, thanks to the course you’ve been steering.”