by Pope, Dudley
‘Quite right,’ Southwick rumbled. ‘Quite right – hate to see it myself. What about another game – and you leave the queen and both bishops in the box.’
Bowen hesitated and looked up at Ramage, who guessed he was thinking it was perhaps unwise to beat his captain too often.
‘And a knight and a rook too!’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ the surgeon said, reassured. ‘After all, I’ve been playing the game for…’
He broke off, embarrassed, but Southwick grinned, ‘…more years than the captain’s been born…’
‘Well, yes, but I didn’t–’
Ramage said, ‘That gives me an excellent excuse for losing every game. Your first move, Bowen. Now, Southwick, keep a sharp lookout! If I ever become an admiral and command my own squadron, I’m getting more and more doubtful about letting you command a frigate!’
In nine moves Bowen looked up at Ramage, who said, ruefully, ‘Don’t bother to say it – checkmate!’
The third game lasted several more moves and Ramage was able to watch the surgeon. The hands still trembled but the eyes were clearer. The greyness of the skin had not quite gone but the face muscles had tightened up and the mouth did not hang open slackly. Clean linen, stock neatly tied… And Bowen was alert; in fact a new man. It sounded a cliché but Ramage could think of no other description. Alert, decisive, and completely in control of both himself and the situation. His eyes would move across the board three or four times, then his hand would reach out and without a moment’s hesitation move a piece with thumb and index finger (all too often lifting off one of Ramage’s pieces with the ring and little finger at the same time) and he’d wait without fidgeting while Ramage tried to think up a counter-move, often aided by Southwick. When the game ended, Bowen, at Ramage’s request, explained some of their worst mistakes. They seemed obvious enough – afterwards.
Finally the Master said: ‘I’d better go and relieve the master’s mate – he’s had his watch stretched out. If you’ll excuse me…’
Ramage nodded, but the surgeon made no move to leave.
Instead he put the chessmen back in the box and folded the board. For a moment Ramage wondered if he should make some remark, but Bowen, looking at the table top, said: ‘This is the first day for more than three years…’
Ramage still said nothing, deciding it was best for Bowen to unburden himself if he wished, or keep silent.
‘…I’ve wanted it, God knows – but perhaps God has also given me the strength not to go to Southwick’s cabin and beg…’
It took Ramage several moments to realize the significance of that single word ‘beg’. Bowen had at last fully recovered his pride: to him, getting a drink now meant ‘begging’ one from the Master, whom he’d roundly beaten at chess and who–
‘…Not just God, though… I think the last few days must have been just as bad for you and Southwick as for me…’
He was silent for a minute or two and Ramage said: ‘Perhaps not in the way you are thinking. We were only afraid we’d fail.’
‘You mean that I would fail,’ Bowen corrected gently.
‘No, I think the first three days were up to us. After that it was up to you.’
‘I only pray I can keep it up. But I’m not going to make you any promises, sir, and I hope you won’t ask for them.’
Ramage shook his head.
CHAPTER TEN
Southwick’s last sight put the Triton roughly three hundred miles north-north-east of Barbados and he was reporting the fact to Ramage when the lookout in the foremast hailed the quarter-deck to report a sail lifting up over the horizon fine on the starboard bow.
The young master’s mate, sent aloft with a telescope, was soon shouting excitedly that the ship had a strange rig and seemed to be steering to the north-west. Southwick growled his doubt – that would be the course of a ship bound from West Africa to round the northern Leeward Islands and then square away for America.
Then Appleby reported hesitantly, his voice revealing doubt, that she’d lost her mainmast, and a few moments later, this time with more certainty, that she was fore-and-aft rigged; probably a schooner which had lost her mainmast, because the only mast standing was too far forward for her to be a cutter.
Ramage had already ordered the quartermaster to steer a converging course, and as Southwick sent hands to sheets and braces, he called Jackson, ordering him aloft. Handing the American his telescope, he said: ‘She might be a “blackbirder”.’
‘Was thinking that m’self, sir: position’s about right if she’s staying outside the islands and bound for America.’
With that he ran forward and climbed the shrouds.
Southwick bent over the compass for the third time, grunting as he stood up.
‘If she’s making more than a couple of knots I’d be very surprised; her bearing’s hardly changed.’
Bowen, who was standing near Southwick, said almost to himself, ‘If she lost her mast some days ago she’ll be in trouble.’
‘Aye,’ Southwick said heavily. ‘Losing a mast is always trouble. Especially in these seas. She’ll be rolling like a barrel – wind on the beam.’
‘No, I meant provisions,’ Bowen said. ‘A few hundred slaves… I don’t imagine they carry more than the bare minimum of provisions based on a fast passage.’
And Ramage found himself nodding as he listened: he’d been thinking that as he warned Jackson. The schooners in the West African slave trade usually made a fast passage from the Gulf of Guinea across the Atlantic to the West Indies and America. An extra week meant tons of extra food and water.
‘Deck there!’
‘Well, Jackson?’
‘She’s a “blackbirder” all right, sir. Lost her mainmast all right, but the foremast’s standing and she’s carrying a foresail, topsail and headsails.’
Bowen was enjoying himself for the first time in his two years at sea: previously he’d been too besotted to care that each successive ship to which he’d been transferred had been smaller; to him the Triton had been just another small cabin in which he could stretch himself out with a bottle and glass. Rarely in those two years had he ever gone on deck, and then only if he had to make a report to the captain.
Now, beginning with the enforced walks on deck with Southwick, he was taking an interest in the handling of a ship. Most of it was still strange – such a mass of ropes, and he didn’t understand many of the shouted orders or the reasons for them. But he saw now that what always seemed confusion was in fact highly organized movement by the men.
And with his mind now clear for the first time in years – he’d been four days without touching liquor – Bowen tried to analyse why the Triton’s captain was such a remarkable young man.
Watching him talking to Southwick, Bowen realized for the first time that they were an oddly assorted pair. Apart from anything else the Master was more than old enough to be his captain’s father yet was clearly devoted to him. And Bowen saw that such devotion came as much from a professional respect as a personal regard.
The lieutenant wasn’t as tall as he looked – it was the wide shoulders set on a slim body, and the narrow face, that gave the impression of height. Yet there was something more – was it poise? Bowen knew it was an odd word to use about a naval officer standing on the quarterdeck of one of the King’s ships rolling along in the Trades, but it was the right one, because he both belonged there and commanded it. Uniforms apart, anyone suddenly arriving on board would never have to ask who was the captain.
Nor was it just his physical appearance. No, more that one sensed his power rather than saw it. Like a clock! Bowen grinned happily at the aptness of the simile. Yes, a clock in an elegant case. It looked well whether in a drawing-room or the cabin of a ship; and it regulated all their lives without fuss and without them realizing it. And since the clock kept accurate time and was so perfectly controlled one forgot there was more to it than the face and the case; forgot that inside was a powerful mainspring controlling a c
omplicated mechanism, and from that mainspring everything else about it derived. True, there were escapements and other pieces of finely engineered machinery to control the mainspring, but without it all the rest was useless.
And so many men, Bowen reflected, were born without the equivalent of that mainspring. Perhaps only one in a thousand had it; less than one in ten thousand had one that never faltered.
Curious the way he occasionally rubs the older scar over his right brow – never the newer one. Even more curious how he snatches away his hand the moment he realizes he’s doing it, as though ashamed of the habit. There, he did it again – and Bowen saw it was instinctive: he rubbed it when he was thinking hard, and probably when nervous, though the youngster seemed to have nerves of steel. And now he’s snatched the hand away again and clasped both hands behind his back.
A fine profile. Face on the thin side, half-starved aristocratic, and it made the jawline seem harder than it was. But the eyes – Bowen almost shivered. Dark brown, deep-set beneath thick black eyebrows, they mirrored his moods. They’d laughed when he’d checkmated him for the fifth time, Bowen recalled, but by God a few days earlier they’d bored into him like a pair of augers when Ramage tried to discover what had started the drinking. And they’d been cold and hard when giving the order to stop the drink.
And Bowen realized that until this moment he’d never fully accepted that the captain was barely twenty-one. Yes, he’d hated the probing questions; he’d hated the order depriving him of his liquor. He’d hated Ramage, too, but the hatred had been aimed against his authority, against a person with the power to stop the liquor. Never for a moment had he even resented that the man giving the orders was only a youth.
Bowen then thought carefully why he’d just accepted it. Well, it seemed appropriate: the man had a natural air of authority – and it was natural, not just because Ramage had a legal authority backed up by the Articles of War. This much Bowen had learned only in the last few days, because for the first weeks after Ramage had taken over command Bowen had been too drunk to realize there was even a risk of mutiny, let alone that the ship’s company had refused to weigh anchor at Spithead.
In fact, Bowen admitted, he was now both resentful and ashamed that drink had made him miss the battle of wills: it would have been fascinating to see how one man could by sheer strength of character – since the Articles of War were useless in such circumstances – force sixty men to carry out his orders, sail the ship clear of the Channel, and by the time she was off Cadiz have spliced the two separate sections of the crew, the original Tritons and the twenty-five men from the Lively, into one and have them working cheerfully together, proud of their ship and proud of their captain. It was a feat of leadership that interested him both as a man and a doctor.
Southwick had clearly been a great help. Watching the stockily built Master, his white hair flowing out from under his hat, his face as chubby and red as a farmer’s, it was obvious he and the captain formed a remarkable partnership.
Although Southwick obviously wasn’t overburdened with brains he had a generous nature, was a fine seaman, and from all accounts was a demon for battle and quite fearless. Bowen had yet to see him lose his temper: if a seaman was hesitant about the way something should be done, Southwick made sure the proper way was explained to him. That, too, was true leadership and rare since in most ships a hesitant seaman caught a bosun’s mate’s ‘starter’ across his shoulders.
And he knew enough of the Service to realize that years ago Southwick had failed to get that essential ‘interest’ on the part of a captain or admiral to become the master of a ship of the line. Instead, he had always remained in fourth – and fifth-rate ships – cutters, brigs and suchlike.
Yet in one way this was probably a good thing – in the Triton, with a ship’s company of sixty or so, Southwick’s cheerful personality and superb seamanship was a powerful influence: probably the most powerful single influence in the hour-to-hour running of the brig. He’d be wasted in a ship of the line, where three or four lieutenants between him and the captain would swamp his merits.
Anyway, the important thing was that Southwick was happy to serve under a captain who must be a third of his age. An elderly master with a young captain could, through jealousy (or more likely, a justifiable contempt for the young captain’s abilities) make everyone’s life a misery by just carrying out his duties to the letter – but no more – and tripping up the captain.
It was easy enough with an inexperienced young captain who owed rapid promotion to his father’s influence with an admiral or in politics.
Here, then, was a remarkable combination: an old master wise enough to know when to give advice; and a young captain with enough confidence in himself to listen to it.
Yet Bowen also saw how lonely was the captain’s life. By tradition he lived on board in isolation; he had all his meals alone – unless he invited one of the officers, which in the Triton meant Southwick or himself; and on his shoulders rested the safety of the ship and the safety and welfare of the crew.
Whether the ship was in storm or sunshine, the crew sick, healthy, happy or mutinous, if she was well sailed or badly navigated…all was the captain’s responsibility. One mistake on his part could sink the ship, kill a man – or kill the whole ship’s company. Bowen shivered at the thought and was thankful the responsibility for the men’s medical welfare was the only one that sat on his own shoulders – and one, come to think of it, which also ultimately rested on the captain’s.
Bowen had been so absorbed that he was surprised to see how close the Triton now was to the other ship. She looked deuced odd with just the one mast instead of two, but her hull was shapely: none of the boxiness of a ship o’ war. Seeing Jackson swinging off the lower ratlines to the deck and walking aft to report, Bowen edged over to listen.
‘She’s not American, sir: I’ll take an oath on that.’
‘But she’s hoisted the American flag,’ Ramage said mildly.
‘Aye, sir, and she’s not Spanish even though she hoisted the Spanish flag for a couple of minutes before she ran up the American. She’s just not built right, sir.’
Bowen listened more attentively, realizing he’d not heard hails about the flags.
Southwick said: ‘From the course she’s steering I think she’s bound for one of the Carolina ports: she’s staying so far to seaward. I’ll take a bet she plans to round Antigua and Barbuda and then square away for somewhere like Charleston.’
‘She may be bound there, sir,’ Jackson said respectfully, ‘but she’s not American built.’
Ramage was puzzled, because she looked American to him: beamy, low freeboard, a sweeping sheer – really a beautiful sheer – and schooner-rigged. Obviously very fast, and specially built for the slave trade.
‘What makes you so certain, Jackson?’
‘Hard to say, sir. Nothing particular, just that she doesn’t look right for an American-built ship.’
‘Not having a mainmast alters her appearance,’ Southwick pointed out. ‘And her bulwarks are all smashed up amidships. That gives her an odd look.’
Over the past few months he’d grown to like the American and respected him; otherwise the idea of actually discussing such a thing with a seaman would have been unthinkable.
‘Well, we’ll soon know,’ Ramage said. ‘Juggling with flags makes me wonder.’
‘Could have been a mistake,’ Southwick said. ‘The Spanish flag wasn’t up long.’
Ramage nodded, rubbing his brow.
‘That’s true, and they’ve obviously had to rig signal halyards. Nevertheless, Mr Southwick, give the gunner’s mate the key to the magazine and beat to quarters if you please. Some of her bulwark may be stove in, but she carries five guns a side, and that’s all we have.’
With only the foremast standing the ship certainly looked odd, but to Bowen’s eyes there was something else: the way she was painted. Although the lower part of the hull was black, the upper part, including her bulwarks, w
as green. But the foremast was white and by contrast almost invisible against the glaring blue of the sky.
The green strake on her hull was dark: not the green of the sea in northern waters, more the green of tropical vegetation. And with most ships’ masts painted black or a buff colour, one’s eye was always surprised at seeing any variation.
He commented on it to Ramage, who nodded.
‘The hallmark of a “blackbirder”,’ he explained. ‘Like the rest of them she has to go up the big rivers in the Gulf of Guinea to load the slaves, and our ships are watching for her. But it’s almost impossible to spot a black hull with that wide strake of dark green hiding in a river close up against the mangroves. Because they’re painted white the masts don’t show against the sky-line. You’d expect light blue to be more effective, but somehow it isn’t.’
Vaguely Bowen remembered the violent Abolitionist rows there’d been in London a year or so ago, but he’d been drinking too heavily at the time to be able to recall the details.
‘Where do we stand on slavery now?’
Ramage laughed bitterly.
‘Somewhere in the middle. The House of Commons agreed to Wilberforce’s bill for Abolition in ’91 – that’s six years ago. That said the slave trade would gradually slow down and then stop altogether in January last year.’
‘So we’ve forbidden it?’
‘No – when the bill went to the House of Lords they sat on it. Wilberforce has tried to push it through, but the Revolution in France frightened a lot of his supporters. Then when Wilberforce reminded the Commons in January last year that the date on which they’d already agreed slavery should stop had just passed and the House of Lords still hadn’t moved on the bill, you can guess what happened: being politicians they voted to postpone consideration for six months, since it was highly controversial. That’s the last I heard of it. But of course there’s the Act of 1788.’
Bowen, who’d taken little interest in either politics or Abolition, shook his head.
‘I don’t recall the details. What did that do?’
