by Dudley Pope
“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 …”
“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.”
“Are they still under way or dropping back?”
“Under way, sir: the seventh one is in position.”
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“No lights showing from the seventh ship? No sign of distress?”
“Nothing, sir. Everything looks normal—except they’re alongside each other!”
“Very well; get aloft again and give a hail when you sight anything more. Particularly if they drop astern.”
Again Jackson disappeared quickly and quietly.
“Mightn’t have actually been in collision, sir,” Southwick said doubtfully. “Their yards would lock … at that distance and from this angle … might just look as though one’s aboard the other.”
“That’s why I sent Jackson up again with the glass,” Ramage said pointedly.
“I know, sir.” Southwick was reproachful. “I was just trying to understand why two ships running aboard each other don’t do something about it. Flash lanterns, fire a gun, light a false fire … Not reasonable for them to carry on on the same course with sails set, as though nothing had happened.”
“Never trust mules …”
“Quite, sir,” Southwick said. “And never assume any of the other escorts will spot something.”
Southwick was right: the Greyhound or the Lark, both of which were much closer, should have spotted something amiss. Still, both were used to convoy work and wearily resigned to half the convoy dropping astern in the darkness …
“Deck there!”
“Captain here.”
“Last ship’s dropped back now, sir. Both of ‘em in their rightful positions again, and both under reefed topsails.”
“Very well, down from aloft.”
“Just mules,” Southwick said sourly. “The Peacock’s mate dozed off, I expect. I’ll bet he’s getting a brisk rub from her Captain.”
Ramage paced back and forth along the starboard side of the quarterdeck for ten minutes, trying to decide why such a tiny episode seemed important. Was he getting things out of proportion? He would have asked Southwick if he could only think of a way of phrasing the question.
“I’m going below: you have the night orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Down in his cabin Ramage bent over his desk, trying to write up his journal by the dim light of the lanthorn. Little of the guttering candle’s light penetrated the horn shield, but anything stronger would show through the skylight. He began writing a three-line record of the day’s events, occasionally referring to the Master’s rough log.
He had relieved Southwick, stood an uneventful night watch and slept again before he was woken with hot coffee before dawn next morning. As the steward began methodically setting out washing and shaving gear round the washbasin, Ramage discovered that by some magic process he had reached a decision while he slept. He would report the Peacock episode to the Admiral in writing, and risk being sneered at as an alarmist. It was just a tiny episode and probably either or both captains had a perfectly satisfactory explanation. But the Triton could not go back and find out without orders from the Admiral, and no such orders could be given until the Admiral received a report.
As soon as he’d drunk his coffee, washed and shaved and dressed, Ramage picked up his hat and telescope and went up on deck for the dawn ritual of general quarters. In time of war every one of the King’s ships at sea met the new day with her men at the guns ready for action. No one knew what daylight would bring—a clear horizon, or an enemy ship, or even a squadron—lurking a mile or so to windward. Even as he reached the top of the companion-way the bosun’s mates were running through the ship, calling men to quarters.
Southwick was on watch, having just relieved Appleby, the young master’s mate, and greeted Ramage cheerfully. For Southwick every dawn had the attraction of a bottle of rum for an alcoholic. Ramage almost shuddered; he needed at least an hour after quitting his cot before he felt cheerful.
“No more nonsense over there,” Southwick said, gesturing towards the tail of the convoy. “Have you decided whether …?”
“Yes,” Ramage said shortly, “I shall.”
“I’m glad, sir, but it’s going to be hard to put in writing what’s really just a—a sort of feeling, like a twinge in your back when you know it’s going to rain.”
Men were gliding to the guns. Thanks to many hours of training and constant exercises there was no shouting and no fuss; a landsman would have no idea that the movement of those shadowy figures now meant the Triton could open fire within a few seconds.
It was chilly on deck now but within an hour or two of the sun rising the wooden planks would be uncomfortably hot to stand on and the air warm to breathe. Now there was a delicious chill and more than a hint of dampness which brought out the smell of things, whether stinking or mildewy clothes, the sickly-sweet of the bilges or the clean tang of fresh, hot coffee.
As the black of night turned to grey, Ramage could distinguish the binnacle box, quite apart from the faint light inside illuminating the compass. In a few minutes, he’d be able to identify the two men at the wheel and the quartermaster standing near them. He could see the outline of the capstan just forward of the companion-way and the gilding on the top of it would be noticeable soon. The mainmast seemed curiously big in the half light.
It would soon be time to order the lookouts aloft. It was a thankless job—yet one Ramage had always enjoyed in his midshipman days. In the Tropics it was hot up the mast and in a cold climate there was precious little shelter, but you were alone and you could see all that went on: the ships on the horizon and everything that happened on deck. And it was exciting, after days and weeks at sea, to spot another sail, or land, and to be the first to hail the deck and report it.
Suddenly Southwick was bellowing, “Lookouts away aloft!” and Ramage realized that he had been staring into space, oblivious of where he was. By the time he pulled himself back to the present, the lookouts were reporting.
“Deck there—horizon clear except for the convoy.”
“Search to the north-east again,” Southwick shouted.
“Horizon to the nor’-east clear, sir.”
That covered the arc for which the Triton was responsible. Ramage thought for a moment and remembered that Jackson would be on watch now: it was easier to send him than give instructions to the lookouts.
“Send Jackson aloft with a glass, Mr Southwick. See what he makes of those two mules now.”
Two minutes later Jackson hailed the deck.
“Both ships look normal. No damage showing. The whole tail of the convoy has straggled. Several ships on the horizon from the middle of the convoy. The Lark’s out there chasing ‘em up.”
Southwick looked questioningly at Ramage, who shook his head: there was nothing more for Jackson to do so Southwick ordered him down and, at a further word from Ramage, gave the orders that set the men securing the carronades. Dawn had not revealed any enemies, and down below the cook was rattling his coppers and lighting the galley fire—a new day had begun.
Sitting at his tiny desk as soon as it was light enough to see, Ramage drafted his report to the Admiral. His pen spattered ink as he crossed out words and phrases and wrote in new ones. Finally, with the page looking like a schoolboy’s exercise book, he took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote the corrected draft so that he could read it through without pausing to decipher his own handwriting.
It still read oddly, but he decided that this was because the subject was odd rather than because of his wording. He folded the paper, took the stub of candle from the lanthorn, heated some wax, then pressed his seal into the red blob. He blew out the candle, pushed it back into the holder in the lanthorn and called on his steward to serve him breakfast.
Late that afternoon Ramage sat in his cabin with Southwick and the ship’s Surgeon, Bowen. All three were drinking the fresh lemonade which Ramage’s steward made from a stock of lemons and limes which he kept to himself.
Southwick sipped his drink and said amiably to the doctor: “How long is it now?”
The doctor frowned as he thought. “Five months or more.”
“Do you ever feel you want a glass of rum?” Ra
mage asked.
Bowen shook his head. “Not spirits, nor wine. It’s curious—I never even think about them now. It’s not that the idea nauseates me, or that I’m fighting myself not to have them: I’m just not interested.”
“You’re lucky,” Southwick said bluntly. “When I think of all those games of chess …”
He sounded so mournful that both Ramage and Bowen burst out laughing.
“It improved your game, anyway!” Bowen said. “You’re a passable player, now.”
“Southwick regarded the chess as the hardest part of your cure,” Ramage said.
“It was—for him,” Bowen said. “And a miracle for me. My wife will know by now,” he said with obvious pride. “I wrote to her from Barbados.”
Ramage nodded because there was nothing to say. When he had first joined the ship, Bowen, who had once been one of the finest surgeons in London, was a besotted wreck, unfit to practise medicine and unable to open his eyes in the morning without a stiff drink. Ramage could hardly believe that the cure had worked. It had been hard for him and Southwick—and in the later stages had involved playing interminable games of chess with Bowen to take his mind off drink—but it had been unbelievably hard for Bowen. Ramage could still remember watching him in the grip of delirium tremens, screaming as imaginary monsters swooped down to attack him.
“You’ll soon be reopening your surgery in Wimpole Street,” Ramage said. “Do you look forward to London again?”
Bowen shook his head. “No. I want to see my wife again, of course, but I’d like to serve with you for as long as …”
“But in London you were …” Ramage broke off, unsure if he understood the look in Bowen’s eyes.
“In London, sir,” Bowen said softly, “I spent most of my time treating imaginary ailments with useless nostrums. My patients were rich and I presented them with large bills. They judged the success of the cure by the size of the bill. There’s more to the practice of medicine than that.”
“But you could be a rich man,” protested Southwick.
“I could, I was and I probably still am. My wife is not without means, anyway.”
