Governor Ramage R. N. (10 page)

Bowsprit and jib-boom 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
jib-boom 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.

I
T 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 jib-booms,” 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
jib-boom 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 fore-topsail, 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 fore-topsail, 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 jib-boom, 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 jib-boom 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 jib-boom 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 fore-topsail—no, not you sir, I mean—
No!
Let fall the maintopsail 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 fore-topsail 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 Ramage 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 …”