by Dudley Pope
“Get the mails on deck, Mr Much!” Stevens ordered, ignoring Ramage. “And look lively about it.”
Ramage turned away, noting that Farrell had joined them but not said a word so far. As he walked to the mainmast he saw that the men at the wheel were still letting the ship sag off to leeward, and Stevens had given them no fresh orders, nor sent men to the sheets and braces. Yet perhaps he was pressing Stevens too much—or causing the pressure, anyway. The man was getting even more nervous, but left in peace for a few minutes he might possibly start making the right decisions. He might yet decide to fight.
Jackson and Stafford, as if anticipating the approaching climax, were standing where they could see any gesture Ramage made—even a raised eyebrow. Yorke and Southwick, moving a few feet away from Stevens, were watching the seamen hauling bags of mail on deck and placing them just abaft the aftermost gun on the lee side. From there it would be easy to pitch the bags out through the port.
Three men came up with several pigs of iron, and Much took the neck of the nearest bag, cut off the lead seal and untied the knot of the line holding the bag closed. He put in two of the iron weights and retied the line, then took the next bag. There were 23 bags, Ramage noticed, and painted on the canvas were the large numbers that Smith had so carefully checked in Kingston. Finally all the bags were weighted with iron bars and, after ordering a seaman to guard them, Much walked over to Stevens and said loudly, “Your mails are ready to go!”
Stevens ignored the emphasis on “Your” and said quietly, “Thank you, Mr Much, and I see you’ve put a sentry over them. Excellent!”
Yorke caught Ramage’s eye and joined him by the mainmast. “What’s he going to do? Fight or surrender?”
“Who knows?” Ramage said. “It’s like trying to shovel smoke. I wish we knew more about the mate.”
“A very religious man, obviously,” Yorke said. “Probably one of Mr Wesley’s followers—they’re pretty numerous in Falmouth. He might regard Stevens as a sinful man.”
“Or a villain,” Ramage said.
“And all the time he might be just a fool. But”—Yorke looked round, and lowered his voice—”I think he’s mightily influenced by that crafty Surgeon.”
“Yes, it’s a pity Bowen hasn’t been able to get much out of the fellow.”
“Chess isn’t a talkative game.”
Ramage pointed over the starboard quarter. The privateer, well heeled under a press of canvas, was now almost bows-on, her hull gently seesawing as she drove up and over the swell waves in a graceful but powerful movement. With sheets eased and a flowing white moustache of bubbling water at her bow, she must be near her maximum speed.
Half an hour ago the Arabella and the black-hulled privateer had been well separated, although steering courses that slowly converged. But now the privateer, racing along under a skilled captain, had seen the Arabella gradually sagging down to leeward so she would soon be in the privateer’s path and perhaps a mile ahead. After that, Ramage noted grimly, unless Stevens can be forced to act, it will be only a matter of minutes before she ranges up alongside to windward with the Arabella at her mercy.
“Come on,” he said to Yorke, “she looks very nice but she reminds me of the gates of Verdun prison. It’s time we gave Stevens some more encouragement.”
Stevens was watching the privateer with all the horrified fascination Ramage had once seen in a rabbit stalked by a weasel.
“She’ll soon be within gunshot,” Ramage said cheerfully.
“Ah, Mr Ramage. Gunshot eh? These guns won’t do any good. You’re thinking of those twelve-pounders you have in frigates.”
Ramage decided it was time for frankness.
“Mr Stevens, quite apart from the fact that none of your passengers wishes to be captured, are you going to continue disobeying your orders?”
“What orders, Mr Ramage?” Stevens said in the same doleful voice he used earlier.
“To fight when you can no longer run.”
“But we’re still running, Mr Ramage.”
“With your sails badly trimmed, Mr Stevens.”
“Oh, so the Royal Navy is teaching me my business, eh?”
“If you think the sails are trimmed properly, then you need some lessons,” Ramage said abruptly. “Now, can we be told why you haven’t sent the men to quarters?”
“No point, Mr Ramage, our shot would never reach her!”
“We can but try.”
Stevens shrugged his shoulders and then said, as though placating a child who was scared of the dark, “Very well, I’ll send the men to quarters if it’ll make you feel any better Mr Ramage. Much”—he turned forward and shouted to the mate—”send the men to quarters!”
Ramage began rubbing one of the scars on his brow, struggling to control his anger, and a moment later felt Yorke’s hand on his other arm, gently pulling him away.
“Steady,” Yorke murmured when they were out of earshot. “Just listen a moment: this fellow’s acting out a play!”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Well, so far we’ve thought he hasn’t known what the devil to do next, but now I’m dam’ sure that not only has he done exactly what he wanted so far, but he knows exactly what else he wants to do.”
Ramage turned and stared at him. “You realize the significance of what you’re saying?”
“Yes,” Yorke said soberly, “and I’ve a fancy the same thought has crossed your mind, too.”
Ramage nodded as he looked around the Arabella’s deck. “They all seem to know the routine …”
The men were obeying Much’s order, but judging by the almost lethargic way they were moving about preparing for action, the prospect of a few score screaming French privateersmen leaping on board was not filling the packetsmen with the spirit of butchers; indeed, Ramage noted, they looked more like complacent grocers. But was he misjudging the men because he was more used to the cheerful bustle and controlled excitement of a man-o’-war preparing for battle?
Mr Much now had the men casting the lashings from the guns, overhauling train tackles, removing tompions and scattering sand on the deck to prevent men’s feet slipping. Just enough spray was coming over the weather bow and washing aft along the deck to make it unnecessary for men to sprinkle water on the planking to douse any stray grains of powder and to stop the sand blowing away. Other men were opening a large wooden chest and taking out heavy, bell-mouthed musketoons as well as regular muskets. An opened case of pistols stood near by and two seamen, each with an armful of cutlasses, were going round the guns, calling to the men to collect their weapons.
There was little disciplined movement about the men at the guns—obviously they were rarely if ever exercised at quarters. And while there was no sign of excitement, there was no sign of fear, either. Surely there should be one or the other?
Yorke nudged him. “Come on, let’s collect our musketoons, and a brace of pistols too!”
As they walked towards the arms chest Ramage once again looked at the privateer over on the starboard quarter, heeled over as her Captain tried every trick he knew to work his ship up to windward. He pictured him watching the luffs of the great fore and aft sails and keeping his men working at the sheets, taking advantage of every gust to steer a few degrees closer to the wind—the old trick of “luffing in the puffs”—like a conductor determined to get the best out of his orchestra. By contrast, the Arabella now seemed to have even less life in her. He glanced up at the set of the sails, and then at the helmsmen, who avoided his eyes.
“Stop daydreaming,” Yorke said. “Just look at our soldier friend!”
Wilson was standing at the arms chest with Bowen; busily loading musketoons. A dozen or more muskets, obviously already loaded, rested against the side of the chest.
Ramage said nothing. Instead he looked at the privateer for a good half a minute. Now he could make out the details of her rigging, which meant she was a mile away, perhaps less, and closing fast. The combination of the packet sagging
to leeward and the privateer working her way up to windward meant she was almost sailing in the Arabella’s wake. And at a guess she’s sailing a couple of knots faster. In half an hour or less, she’ll be alongside …
To carry out my orders, Ramage told himself once again, I should do nothing. The complete answer to the Admiralty’s question is hidden somewhere on board this damned packet. And I’m pretty sure I have half the answer already. Not neatly worked out, admittedly, because there’s no time to sort out the significance of everything that’s happened since the privateer lifted over the horizon. Between now and the time she catches us and makes us all prisoners, something must happen that provides me with the other half of the answer.
But what the devil can happen that I can’t predict now? She’ll range alongside, send over a swarm of boarders, and that will be that. As a prisoner, how can I get the information to the Admiralty? What about the next year or two—or three or four—in a French prison? I’ve gone over all this dozens of times since we left Jamaica, and I decided what to do. I decided I would let myself be taken prisoner if necessary. Lying comfortably in my bunk at night or sitting in an armchair talking with Yorke, the decision was easy and seemed to be the right one.
Now, staring at the privateer—which previously was only an abstract idea—it’s damned obvious I’m wrong: utterly and completely wrong.
I am wrong for three reasons—all of them blindingly obvious now that black hull is slicing along in our wake. First even the most obsessive gambler would not bet tuppence that I’ll be alive a moment after those privateersmen swarm on board, so the chances are Their Lordships will never hear what I have found out so far—albeit a mixture of observation, conjecture and suspicion. Second, even if I am taken alive I will not be able to get the word to the Admiralty from a French prison. And third, what more can I find out in the time it will take that privateer to get alongside—half an hour, perhaps—that I don’t know now?
All that thinking while lying in my bunk did not allow for one thing. It was the only mistake I made—but it was enough. I never suspected Stevens would behave like this. He has, and so have the rest of the packetsmen. That is half of the answer to the Admiralty’s question. And half a loaf is better than no bread—providing the half gets to the Admiralty.
By the time he turned back to Yorke and Southwick his mind was made up. There was no time to get Sir Pilcher’s letter and wave it under Stevens’ nose: words weren’t going to help now, whether written by a commander-in-chief or the First Lord of the Admiralty. Speed was the only thing that might save the Arabella—speed and surprise.
“Keep close to me,” he told the two men, and walked over to the binnacle. He glanced down at the compass and then at the luffs of the sails. “Steer north,” he snapped at the helmsmen, “and God help you if you let her get half a point off course.”
Before the startled men could say a word he turned to Southwick. “You have pistols? Good—watch these men. If they don’t obey you, shoot them.”
He looked round for the mate and saw him standing by the mainmast.
“Mr Much,” he called, “As a King’s officer I’m relieving Captain Stevens of his command. Get those sails trimmed properly!”
Motioning Yorke to cover Stevens, he bellowed, “Tritons! Stand by Mr Much!”
As he turned to go to Stevens at the taffrail he saw the man glancing round wildly. Suddenly Stevens snatched the cutlass at his side and, holding it high over his shoulder, ran to the starboard main brace to try to slash through the heavy rope so that the main yard would swing round out of control.
Ramage leapt towards him and a moment before Stevens could wield the cutlass, managed to trip him. As the Captain toppled forward his head banged the bulwark and he crumpled to the deck.
Ramage tugged his sword from the scabbard and, not sure whether or not Stevens was still conscious, stood over him.
“Captain Stevens, you are charged with treason. I am assuming command of this—”
An urgent warning yell from Yorke made Ramage turn in time to see the bosun only a couple of yards away, eyes bulging, and leaping at him with a cutlass held high in the air and already beginning a great downward chopping movement aimed at Ramage’s head.
A blur of impressions: perspiration beading the man’s upper lip and forehead, knuckles white as he gripped the cutlass handle, the absolute silence except for the pad of his bare feet and hoarse breathing.
The parry of quinte, Ramage thought almost irrelevantly as automatically he swung his sword blade up almost horizontally just above the level of his head, bending his left knee slightly, and thanking God the man had never been to a fencing master.
A moment later the cutlass blade hit Ramage’s sword blade with an arm-jarring clang and slid sideways until it caught the guard and glanced off clear of his body.
The heavily built bosun had put all his strength into the blow and the cutlass, deflecting off Ramage’s sword like an axe blade glancing from a tree trunk, made him swing round to his left and stagger two or three paces.
It took him only a couple of seconds to recover. Ramage just had time to see Southwick and Yorke coming to his help and shout to them to keep clear before the bosun, with a bellow of rage, was coming at him again, cutlass upraised for another chopping attack.
Again Ramage’s blade flashed up almost horizontally, covering his head in the classic parry of quinte, but with the guard slightly lower than the point. Again the bosun’s cutlass clanged down, slid along the blade, hit the guard and glanced off. And yet again the bosun spun to his left, off balance from the force of the blow.
As the man staggered Ramage put out his right foot and tripped him. The bosun fell on his face and a moment later Ramage slapped him across the buttocks with the flat of his sword.
“Let go of that cutlass and get up,” Ramage snapped. “This isn’t a nursery.”
With that he deliberately turned his back on the man. The packetsmen might put him down as a cool fellow; the former Tritons might think it bravado; but the fact was that slapping the fellow across the backside was so ludicrous he was afraid he would burst out laughing, and Southwick’s pistols covered him.
“Very neat,” Yorke said quietly. “I thought he’d got you.”
“He learned swordsmanship by chopping logs,” Ramage said. He looked round the ship. “The Captain and the bosun have had their turns with cutlasses. Anyone else?”
Southwick waved a pistol in each hand. “Let ‘em try,” he rumbled. “I’d have winged that fellow but you were both in line from where I stood.”
Ramage signalled to Jackson. “See to Captain Stevens. You’d better fetch the Surgeon—oh, there you are, Farrell. Why the devil aren’t you attending to Mr Stevens?”
He gestured to Jackson. “Leave the Captain: get these stern-chasers loaded and run out.”
“Boarding nets?” Yorke asked.
One look at the privateer provided the answer. “No time for that now. I want you to take charge of the mails. I don’t want to dump them unless I have to, but use your own judgement: don’t risk leaving it too late.”
By now Jackson had half a dozen Tritons casting off the lashings securing the stern-chase guns and he came up to Ramage.
“Magazine’s locked up, sir.”
“What?” Ramage exploded. “Are you sure?”
“Bosun’s just told me the Captain still has the key.”
“But Captain Wilson had powder for the muskets and pistols.”
“Aye, sir,” Jackson said patiently, “but the magazine was locked again. Captain’s orders.”
“Very well,” Ramage said, and looked round for the mate, noting the sails were now setting perfectly and Southwick had resumed his watch at the wheel. The mate was nowhere to be seen.
“Pass the word for Mr Much,” Ramage told Jackson, and walked to where Farrell was bending over Stevens, who had recovered consciousness and was sitting on the deck with his back against the carriage of a gun and clutching his black hat,
whose crushed brim revealed the force with which his head had hit the bulwark.
Stevens looked up and said weakly, “It’s mutiny; you’ve taken my ship. You’ll pay for today’s work, Mr Ramage.”
“Give me your word you’ll take the proper steps to avoid capture, Stevens, and you can have her back.”
Farrell straightened his back. His eyes were hard and full of hate; words came like the sharp strokes of a scalpel.
“A King’s officer, eh? A Frenchman’s bullet doesn’t care whether it lodges in the head of a King’s officer or a cabin boy.”
“Or a surgeon’s,” Ramage said coldly. “But attend to your bandages, Farrell. Get below to the saloon, where you belong. Take Stevens with you if he wants to go. But get below: if I see you on deck again I’ll have you put in irons.”
Ramage was still holding his sword in his right hand and tapping the deck with the point. Farrell held his eyes for a moment and quickly looked away. He glanced down at Stevens: “I’ll be at my post in the saloon if you want me.”
As soon as he left, Ramage said to Stevens, “Give me the key to the magazine.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Where is it, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s in one of your pockets,” Ramage said contemptuously. “I’ll have a couple of men tear every shred of clothing off you unless you hand it over now.”
Stevens knew he meant it and wriggled until he could get his hands into a coat pocket. He reached up with a heavy bronze key. Ramage took it and found Much waiting.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“Yes—I want a steady man for the magazine. Then stand by for some smart sail handling. I’m going to use the stern-chase guns until they try to range up alongside. Then we’ll give them a broadside and wear round smartly. After that we’ll see how things stand.”
Ramage saw tension in both Much and Stevens. Oh no, he thought, don’t say I’ve misjudged Much; don’t say he is one of Stevens’ creatures after all …
