by Dudley Pope
"To windward, sir?"
Officially, Southwick was asking his captain a question. In fact he was making a statement. And as he spoke, Southwick knew the answer was equally predictable.
"Yes, to windward, Mr Southwick; we don't want to have her blanketing us."
She was big: Ramage could see that the Triton's deck was just about level with the Lion's lowest row of gun ports. And as she pitched she showed the overlapping plates of copper sheathing below the waterline; sheathing foul with barnacles and weed. She had obviously been drydocked before leaving England, and Ramage knew that the two days spent at anchor in Barbados - plus a few days in Cork while collecting the rest of the convoy - were the only times the ship had been at rest since then. It was a miracle how the weed and goose barnacles managed to get a grasp and flourish. He was so absorbed in the eternal problem of keeping a ship's bottom clean that he only half heard Southwick's shouted orders to bear up and bring the Triton round a point to starboard to run close alongside the flagship.
"Man the weather braces ... Another pull on the sheets there! ... Tally that aft, men, and step lively!"
A brief order to the quartermaster and an injunction to "Watch your luff, now!" then Southwick's stream of orders stopped as quickly as they started, and the Triton was thirty yards to windward of the Lion and a ship's length astern of her. She would pass clear of the great yards which towered over the Lion and extended out several feet beyond her sides, and yet close enough for Goddard to shout without effort.
Speaking trumpet! Ramage turned to call to Jackson and found the American standing just behind him, the speaking trumpet ready in his outstretched hand. Ramage took it, stepped over to the larboard side and jumped up onto the breech of the aftermost twelve-pounder carronade. He turned the trumpet in his hand: he would first be putting the mouthpiece to his ear so that it served as an ear trumpet.
The Triton was overhauling the flagship fast and as he glanced forward, checking on the trim of the sails, Ramage saw that every man on deck was standing precisely at his post. Those that could had edged over slightly to larboard, as if to hear what was shouted from the flagship and be ready to anticipate any manoeuvres and orders. The sails overhead were trimmed perfectly and drawing.
As Southwick bellowed out an order to clew up the maintop-sail, reducing the Triton's speed to that of the Lion's - and so judging it that by the time it was done and the brig began slowing down, she would be abreast of the flagship - Ramage could hear an occasional deep thump high above him as the Lion's sails lost the wind when she pitched, and then filled again suddenly. And the creaking of the gudgeons and pintles of her rudder as the Triton swept past her transom, and the sloshing of water curling along her sides and round her quarters.
Then Goddard was staring down at him, a gargoyle on the edge of a church roof, and Croucher had appeared beside him at the break in the Lion's gangway. As Croucher lifted a speaking trumpet to his mouth, Ramage held his to his ear. Croucher's was highly polished. When he put it down his fingers would smell brassy, Ramage thought inconsequentially.
"Make a complete sweep southabout round the convoy and stop any ship reducing sail unnecessarily - even if it means getting inside the convoy. Then resume your position."
Reverse speaking trumpet; jam to the lips. "Aye aye, sir."
That's all. Down from the carronade, wave to Southwick indicating he was taking the conn, speaking trumpet to lips again, clew up the foretopsail, the ship slowing down, and the Lion drawing ahead again, Goddard watching because he probably expected the Triton to clap on sail and try to cut across the Lion's bow.
Bowsprit and jibboom now clear of the Lion's stern; let fall the main and foretopsails; down with the helm as we brace round on the larboard tack.
Everything drawing nicely, the convoy coming down to him as he beat across its front, and the sun sinking fast - it always seems to speed up when there's plenty to be done before darkness.
Southwick sidled over and said quietly, careful none of the men heard him, "Wasn't as bad as I'd expected, sir."
"No, just routine. Worrying, isn't it! And the order was passed quickly."
The last sentence was tactfully acknowledging that Croucher could have kept the Triton close by for twenty minutes or more, delaying passing orders on various pretexts. In that way he could force Ramage to juggle with the helm and sails to stay in position and avoid a collision. He could see himself eventually making a mistake which would result in the Triton's jibboom poking through one of the stern-lights in the captain's cabin - now of course occupied by the Admiral.
"We won't get far round a'fore it's dark," Southwick grumbled. "Weaving our way through the columns just to crack a whip across the backs of these mules - so help me, one o' them is bound to hit us, or mistake us for a privateer in the darkness and sheer off and collide with someone else."
Ramage laughed at the dejection in the Master's voice. "Well, tell the carpenter's mate to stand by with a boat's crew; we might need him to patch up one of your mules."
Ramage walked to the binnacle and bent over the compass bowl. Then he glanced at the leading ship in the first column. They'd pass well clear of her. Then he looked along the columns of ships as the Triton reached fast across the front of the convoy.
"We'll get all the first column into position, Mr Southwick. Maybe the rest will take the hint."
"A hint's a shot fired across their bow," Southwick said miserably.
Chapter Six
It was dark before the merchantmen were finally cajoled, bluffed and threatened into position. The Lark and the two frigates had helped by chasing up the ones at the rear, a task they had taken on themselves without orders from the Lion, who could not see them. Ramage had the feeling the frigates helped because they thought the signal must have been made to them as well and they'd missed seeing it.
As they finally passed the last ships in the northernmost column, led by the Topaz, Southwick took off his hat and ran a hand through his flowing white hair.
"It's not quite what their lordships have in mind," he said admiringly, "but it's the best way of getting mules back into position I've seen."
"It could be expensive on jibbooms," Ramage said.
"Worth it, though. Still, we mustn't do it too often, or else the element of surprise will be lost."
Ramage felt embarrassed at Southwick's praise; he'd done the right thing for completely the wrong reason. Exasperated by one particularly stubborn captain who flatly refused to shake out reefs or stop his men furling topsails, though the ships astern of him were having to bear away to pass because he was down to little more than the steerage way he intended to maintain all night, Ramage had finally lost his temper. He too had ordered his men to clew up sails until the Triton, which had been almost alongside the merchantman - with Ramage standing on the quarterdeck, speaking trumpet in his hand, throat sore from shouting at the Master, almost trembling with rage and frustration - began dropping back.
Eventually the merchantman had drawn ahead, and Ramage had conned the brig into a position directly astern of her. Then he had given the order to let fall the maintopsail, and the Triton had begun to pick up speed again. Gradually the distance between the merchantman's transom and the Triton's jibboom end narrowed: fifty yards, thirty, twenty-five and twenty.
Jackson had been sent out on the bowsprit and passed the word back through a chain of seamen how many feet were left - Ramage did not want any shouting. The gunner's mate was ordered to fire one of the forward guns with a blank charge in it, and then Ramage had looked up at the clewed-up foretop-sail, crossed his fingers and given the orders to let fall and sheet it home.
He could see the merchantman clearly, and knew her captain could see the Triton - and the foretopsail, now beginning to belly out as the men tallied aft the sheets. And because the merchantman's taffrail was a good deal lower than the outer end of the brig's jibboom, he knew the warship would give the impression of being much bigger than she was, an impression that she was
towering over the merchantman.
And with Southwick thoroughly enjoying himself and standing by the men at the wheel, an eye on the compass and on the luffs of the sail, and looking as if he was standing on tiptoe to make sure he did not miss a word of any order Ramage might give, Ramage watched the black shape ahead and listened to the message relayed back from Jackson.
"Forty feet, sir, Jackson says, and dead ahead."
"Very well. Watch your luff, Mr Southwick."
"Jackson says thirty feet, and four feet to larboard of the middle of his taffrail."
"Very well." Nice of Jackson to be so precise.
Southwick said nervously: "That spare jibboom of ours ain't much of a spar, sir."
"Too late to worry now. Maybe you won't need it."
"Didn't really mean it like that, sir."
"Twenty feet, sir, and right on course, so Jackson says."
"Very well."
And Ramage hoped the Triton would not suddenly pitch in a particularly heavy sea and catch the merchantman's mizen boom with her jibboom end.
The seaman muttered a stifled oath of surprise.
"Fifteen feet, Jackson says, sir! An' he's out on the end of the boom and says should he drop on board o' 'er and deliver a message."
"Tell him not to be impatient," Ramage snapped.
Jackson would know it was a joke but the rest of the crew wouldn't; it wouldn't do any harm to let them think their captain was a cool chap. Southwick nearly spoiled it by laughing.
Suddenly there was a bellowing from ahead. Ramage turned sideways, jamming the speaking trumpet to his ear. It was the merchantman's captain shouting plaintively.
"Are you trying to ram me?"
Ramage grabbed the seaman's arm. "Quick - get forward: Jackson's to tell - no, belay that."
Ramage couldn't resist it and didn't want to spoil the joke. Telling Southwick to take the conn, he ran forward, speaking trumpet in hand, until he was standing by the forebitts.
As he lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips he was appalled at the sight of the merchantman: in the darkness her transom seemed like the side of a house. But even before he could speak he heard an agitated hail.
"Triton! Triton! Watch out, you crazy fool! You'll be aboard us in a moment!"
"What ship's that?" Ramage asked, keeping his voice to a conversational tone.
"The William and Mary. Bear up for pity's sake, you'll sweep us clean in a moment."
"The William and Mary, you say? By jove, it can't be; her position's five cables or more ahead of where you are!"
"We're the William and Mary, for God's sake, let fall the foretopsail - no, not you sir, I mean - No! Let fall the main-topsail as well - Let fall, you bloody ape! Not you sir! My mate," the agitated voice tried to explain. "My mate seems to be paralysed - get for'ard, y'gibbering psalm-singer! Oh, not you, sir! The Devil's got into everything! Let fall! Let fall or we'll be skewered. Sheet home! Get them drawing, y'fool!"
A seaman tapped Ramage's arm respectfully: he had been whispering for several seconds without his captain hearing him.
"Jackson says 'Minus two feet', sir. I think he mean's he's hanging over her taffrail."
"He does, eh?" Ramage said shortly. "Very well."
There was a bang from ahead as the merchantman's foretopsail flopped down like a great blind and suddenly filled, and almost at once the merchantman began to increase speed. The maintopsail followed, and Ramage could see the gap between the ships opening up. When there was a good twenty yards between them, he called forward into the darkness.
"All right, Jackson; you can come home now."
Ramage walked back to the quarterdeck and a moment later Jackson joined him, proffering a bundle which Ramage took, saying: "Most unexpected, Jackson, and thank you. What is it?"
"A souvenir, sir, that ship's ensign. They didn't lower it at sunset and it kept flapping in my face, so I cut the halyard."
Southwick, who had heard the exchange, commented dryly: "Better stow it somewhere safe, sir; any trouble tomorrow night and we can use it as an excuse for another visit: send Jackson on board to return it with a rude message."
There were low cloud banks on the western horizon as they sailed along the northern edge of the convoy, heading back to the Triton's original position. The ships ahead were no longer silhouetted against the stars.
"It's like playing chess in the dark," Southwick grumbled as he took another bearing of the lights being shown by the Lion. "Wish the Admiral's lamp trimmers were up to the mark."
As the Triton passed the last ship in the windward column led by the Topaz, Ramage automatically began counting and inspecting them with his night glass which, with its inverted image, showed them as if they were sailing upside down.
Soon the count of ships they had passed reached eight, and they were abreast their original position; back where they should be in the convoy screen. The lights on the flagship seemed brighter against the darker western horizon and were just forward of the larboard beam.
Ramage swung the glass the length of the column before going below, leaving the conn to Southwick, and unconcernedly counted the ships again. Seven?
Puzzled, he began again at the head of the column and counted carefully. Still only seven. Since the Peacock had joined the convoy that column should have held eight. And anyway he had counted eight as the Triton sailed past to get back into position. It must be the angle ... He counted a third time but there were still only seven.
He called to Southwick, who picked up the other night glass.
"I can make out only seven, sir. That's odd - we passed eight just now because I counted 'em. That's the Topaz just abaft the beam - yes, I can see right across the front of the convoy: the leading ships of all the columns are just open now. Aye, and that's the Topaz there, all right. But why only seven?"
Ramage rubbed the scar over his brow and leaned against the breech of the nearest carronade. This was absurd; there must be a logical explanation.
"We passed eight - you're sure of that?"
"Counted 'em off on my fingers."
"I counted them too, and had a good look at each one as we went by. But now I can see only seven with the glass. So one has vanished."
"But it can't just vanish!" exclaimed Southwick. "Not in a matter of minutes!"
"It can't," Ramage said dryly, "but it has. Check with the lookouts: one of them may have kept a tally."
Muttering to himself, the Master began walking down the larboard side, pausing beside each of the three lookouts.
A ship missing ... it was absurd. The Lark had been out there since long before darkness fell and she would not have missed a laggard. He swung the glass up to windward - yes, the Greyhound was in position. It didn't really matter all that much if a ship was missing - there would be plenty more out of position by dawn - it was just absurd that they'd sailed past eight ships in a column and a few minutes later he could only see seven. In that few minutes no ship afloat could have sailed out of sight...
"Eight, sir," Southwick said. "All three of the lookouts on the larboard side confirm eight, and the starboard for'ard lookout, too. He could see quite well. Apparently he was helping the man on the larboard side."
"Eight - and yet one has vanished like a puff of smoke. Pass the word for my coxswain."
Three minutes later Jackson was standing in front of him.
"Believe in ghosts, Jackson?"
"Not when I'm sober, sir."
Ramage laughed, knowing that Jackson rarely drank.
"Very well then, take the night glass and get up the mast. There should be eight ships in the nearest column-"
"But there are, sir, beggin' your pardon: I counted them as we passed."
"So did I and so did Mr Southwick and the lookouts. Now get up the mast and count again."
"How many d'you expect me to see, sir?" Jackson asked warily.
"You count 'em and report."
Jackson took the glass and ran to the main shrouds; a moment later R
amage saw him jump lightly into the ratlines and disappear upwards into the darkness.
Every bloody thing seems to be disappearing upwards into the darkness, Ramage grumbled to himself and almost giggled as he pictured Admiral Goddard reading: "Sir, I have the honour to report that on the night of July 17th one of the merchantmen in the seventh column of the convoy under your command disappeared upwards into the darkness..." It'd make a change from sinking and disappearing downward, anyway.
"Deck there! Eight ships, but..."
"Belay it!" Ramage interrupted. "Come down and report - unless there's any reason why you've got to stay up there."
"None, sir; coming down."
Ramage muttered to Southwick: "No need for everyone in the ship..."
"Quite, sir. But the scuttlebutt..."
Southwick was right. The day that the ships of a fleet could pass messages to each other as quickly as gossip passed round a vessel, an admiral's task would be easy.
Jackson was standing there and as he went to speak Southwick suddenly snapped at the men at the wheel and the quartermaster near them: "Watch your luff, blast you!"
There wasn't an ear in the ship that wasn't trying to listen to Jackson's report.
"Eight ships, sir; but from on deck it must look like seven."
"Explain, Jackson; explain for people with little intelligence, like Mr Southwick and myself."
Ramage regretted the sarcasm as soon as he'd spoken; Jackson had a difficult report to make.
"Sorry, sir, I was going to. From aloft I can see that the seventh and eighth ships are alongside each other. That's the one that joined us last, the Peacock, and her next ahead."
"How do you know it's the eighth ship?"
"I can make out the seventh ship in each of the next two columns. This column's the only one with an eighth ship. Seems to me she's got out of position and gone aboard her next ahead, sir."