Governor Ramage RN

Chapter Eight

As the grey dawn pushed the darkness westward away from the convoy, Ramage looked round the horizon anxiously until he sighted both the Greyhound and the Peacock over on the lee side of the convoy. It was still not light enough to distinguish detail, but since the Peacock had sail set, the Greyhounds must have had a busy night.

Ramage was weary. As soon as he could leave the ship to Southwick he had gone below to talk to the wounded, while on deck the dead were being sewn into hammocks ready for burial. After that he had gone to his cabin to write his report to Admiral Goddard - potentially the most dangerous part of the night's activities.

At daylight, with a clear horizon, the guns were secured and head-pumps rigged to scrub and holystone the deck. Large patches which had shown up black in the early light had finally revealed themselves as dried blood.

As they scrubbed, Stafford asked Jackson: "Will they take 'er into Antigua?"

The American shrugged his shoulders. "If she isn't damaged too much ... otherwise Jamaica, I should think. Better off in Jamaica - big dockyard at Kingston."

"Better price in the prize court there, too," Stafford commented.

"Hmm, I hadn't thought of that. Still, we won't get much."

"Why?" Rossi demanded angrily. "We did all the fighting! But for us they lose the Topaz. The Greyhound - she is very late."

"All ships of war in sight at the time get a share," Jackson said.

"Dio mio, is not fair!" Rossi exclaimed, his accent thickening the more angry he became. "The Lion and the frigates - the lugger, too - why, is so dark they see nozzing! The Grey'ound - 'e only come after the flashes. Next time we write 'im a letter of the invitation!"

"Easy now," Stafford said mildly. "Listen, Jacko, I know that's the law, but why?"

"If another warship's in sight, it might affect what the prize did."

"Cor, wot a lot o' nonsense!"

"No it isn't. Could be you one day. Say the Lark lugger found a big merchantman and chased her. Not a hope of catching up, and precious little of capturing her if she did. Then we come over the horizon ahead of the merchantman and capture her. The Lark has a right to a share - after all, she found and chased the prize: but for her she might have gone in a different direction. And we'd deserve a share, because without us she couldn't have been captured. And if there was a third warship they'd probably deserve a share because that's another direction the merchantman couldn't have escaped."

"Yus, well that makes sense, Jacko; but this was in the dark."

"Dark or not," Jackson explained patiently, "the Peacock knew the rest of them were there. She wouldn't have tried to bolt across the bows of the convoy - she knew the Lion and Antelope were there. Nor astern, because of the Greyhound and Lark."

A few yards aft of the three men, Ramage and Southwick were also discussing the night's events, the Master saying vehemently: "I don't care what you say, I'm damned certain that the Greyhound was there only because she was trying to keep station on us; she wasn't bothering to watch the convoy. We could have gone ten miles ahead of the convoy towing a seine net and the Lord Mayor's carriage, and come dawn we'd have found the Greyhound six cables astern of us."

Ramage laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Doesn't matter, really; the main thing is she was there when needed."

"If you'll excuse me, sir, you're generous to a fault. She was there all right, but by accident."

Ramage grinned. "I'll be more interested to hear how the Peacock talked her way into the convoy in the first place..."

"Haa!" Southwick snorted and waved towards the Lion. "Belike they'll have a good tale ready. And it wouldn't surprise me if we don't get involved in it; in return for saving his reputation, his High and Mightyship will somehow put the blame on us."

"Mr Southwick!" Ramage said reprovingly.

"Apologies, sir," the Master said hurriedly, realizing that Ramage wanted him to apologize because seamen nearby could have overheard his criticism of Admiral Goddard. "I'm sorry, that was a stupid remark."

An hour later, though, Southwick was more than ever convinced that the Admiral and his Flag Captain would make sure that none of the blame rested on their shoulders. He clattered down the companionway, acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute, and obeyed Ramage's invitation to come into the cabin.

"Flagship's just signalled, sir. You're wanted on board. The Captain of the Greyhound has just left the Lion."

Ramage patted the packet on the table. "I'm glad I stayed up late writing this. Have some coffee - there's some in that pot."

When Southwick shook his head, he added: "You ought to make the best of it while we are in the Caribbean: not often we get the real stuff!"

"Afraid I prefer my tea, sir; seems Frenchified, coffee."

Ramage looked up at him with pretended disapproval. "That sort of attitude won't make these planters rich - " he waved towards the chain of islands. "They depend on coffee, sugar and rum."

"The Navy's Board's a good customer for rum, anyway."

"It's just as well they are: I doubt the planters will ever lure the English away from their gin."

"The Admiral..." Southwick reminded him.

"Ah yes," Ramage said, with a flippancy he did not feel, "obviously a social invitation. He breakfasts later than I do."

He picked up the packet and reached for his hat and sword. "Well, Mr Southwick, if you'll heave-to the ship to windward of the flagship, I'll climb into my carriage and Jackson can drive me over to see the Admiral."

Rear-Admiral Goddard had been badly frightened and now he was furious. By contrast Croucher's thin face gave nothing away. Both men were trying to hide from Ramage that the attack on the Topaz was their main concern.

"Tell me again, Ramage: how did this begin?" Goddard said, tapping his knee with Ramage's report, which he had not yet opened.

"The ship's company had stood down from general quarters, sir," Ramage said. "I was on deck and looking casually round at the convoy with my night glass. I happened to glance at the Peacock just as she let fall her fore course."

"A great pity you hadn't seen her main course let fall," Goddard snapped.

"I did, sir; that was the movement that first attracted my attention. They were still bracing the yard round and sheeting home when I saw them set the fore course."

"We have only your word for that."

"Of course, sir," Ramage said, but couldn't resist adding quietly, "It's a pity we have no corroboration from the Greyhound ..."

Croucher glanced at him quickly and Goddard looked away, saying, "Then what did you do?"

"Sent a man aloft with a glass. He reported she was hauling her wind. She then came onto a course parallel with the convoy's and about fifty yards to windward."

"But you didn't see fit to inform me," Goddard said.

"No, sir," Ramage said flatly.

"Note that, Mr Croucher. The Admiral's not important enough, eh Ramage?"

"I didn't mean that, sir. If you were informed every time a ship of the convoy was out of position, you'd receive a hundred signals a day."

"But this was an unusual circumstance."

"It didn't seem so unusual at the time: no one knew she was anything but an ordinary merchantman."

"If there was nothing unusual, why did you send a lookout aloft?"

A good question, Ramage thought to himself.

"I did say 'so unusual' sir. I sent a man aloft because I saw she'd set her courses, but -"

"Why had she set her courses?" Croucher interrupted.

"To attack the Topaz, sir," Ramage said evenly. "I know that now, but I could hardly be expected to know that at the time."

"Why not? She was the obvious target!"

"Indeed?" Ramage pretended surprise and could not resist adding: "I had no idea, sir, and as far as I knew the Peacock was an ordinary merchantman the Admiral had allowed to join the convoy."

Goddard waved a hand at Croucher, as if telling him to be quiet.

"You couldn't know," he said. "It wouldn't have mattered if the Peacock's next ahead" - he broke off, realizing that was a bad example - "or any other ship for that matter - had been the target: you should have warned me."

Ramage could see the way that Goddard was shaping his defence. He would tell the Admiralty that Lieutenant Ramage had known all about the attack but had not told him. Very well, he thought, you have a fight on your hands, and here goes the first broadside: "I had already warned you, sir: I'd told you all I knew."

"You did what?" Goddard exclaimed.

"I warned you, sir."

"D'you hear that, Croucher?" he asked sarcastically. "Lieutenant Ramage had already warned me!"

Croucher knew what Ramage meant, and tried to tell the Admiral - "I think I underst -"

"But he says he warned me, my dear Croucher: have you ever heard such impudence?"

"The letter, sir," Croucher said lamely

"The letter?"

Ramage said, "My written report, sir: the one I delivered yesterday morning."

"Oh that," Goddard said, dismissing it with a shrug. "You could hardly expect me to pay any attention to that, could you?"

"Yes, sir," Ramage said, his voice toneless, but rubbing the scar over his brow. "That's why I made it in writing and had it delivered on board..."

"Rubbish, pure rubbish; I don't even know where it is, now." 1 have a copy on board, sir," Ramage said unambiguously.

“You're not telling me your report said the Peacock would attack the Topaz, are you?"

Goddard bellowed with laughter, but Croucher's expression was wooden. Ramage had the feeling Croucher did not like the way the interview was going.

"No, sir, I merely reported all I knew. That was all anyone could know until the Peacock went alongside the Topaz."

"Balderdash, my boy; sheer balderdash. What the devil did you think the Peacock was going to do when she hauled her wind?"

"Possibly leave the convoy, sir. After all, she was supposed to be a runner from England to Barbados. She might have got impatient at the slow speed; she might have started to worry over this increasing swell and wanted to get into Jamaica quickly for fear of a hurricane."

"But she came right down the column."

"Yes, sir, and as soon as I couldn't find a reasonable explanation for her conduct, and when we sighted the second ship also coming up the inside of the column, we went into action."

"Much, much too late to do any good."

"Hardly, sir," Ramage reminded him politely. "We saved the Topaz."

"You were lucky, Ramage, and don't you damn well forget it."

"If you think-"

A knock on the door saved Ramage from an angry and insolent reply. Croucher called and a lieutenant came in to report to him.

"The Topaz left her position, and now she's close to windward, sir. She's not flying any signals but they're getting ready to hoist out a boat. I think..."

"Very well," Croucher said. "I'll be on deck in a minute or two."

As soon as the lieutenant had left Croucher looked at the Admiral questioningly, and he and Goddard walked out of the cabin, leaving Ramage standing by the desk.

Ramage was angry about the tone of Goddard's questioning - although it had been predictable - but, alone in the cabin, he found he had a vague feeling of uncertainty. Had he really been slow to guess the Peacock's, intentions? Should he have ignored the need for surprise and set off a few false fires to raise an alarm, or fired some rockets or a couple of guns?

If he had done so, and then found the Peacock was simply leaving the convoy, he'd have looked foolish, and Goddard could rightly have blamed him for giving the convoy's position away to the enemy. As he thought about it, he realized that his present uncertainty was not entirely due to the Admiral. He wanted to know what Yorke thought about it. Was he angry about the Triton's, late arrival? He might be. Yorke knew, as the Admiral did not, that Ramage was aware that the Topaz carried the "valuable cargo".

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Yorke - and the St Brieucs - must think he'd let them down. Originally they had been pleased to hear that the Triton was to be close to them, yet they'd been attacked from that very direction. Out of the darkness a ship full of privateersmen had appeared and as far as they knew Ramage had seen nothing until the last moment. To them it must have seemed lamentably late.

Perhaps Yorke was coming on board to make an official complaint. As the minutes passed, Ramage became more and more certain of it. He imagined a written complaint to the Admiral, signed by St Brieuc: Goddard would find that invaluable in hammering nails into Ramage's coffin.

Ramage suddenly sat down in the nearest chair: his knees no longer had any strength. The skin of his face was cold and covered in perspiration; his stomach felt as if cold water was swilling around inside it. The sun streaming in through the stern lights was now just a harsh glare; there was no joy or beauty in the blue of the sea or the sky: it was all without purpose. Doubts, questions, half answers and more doubts chased through his mind like mice in a treadmill; his hands were clenched as if to let go meant he'd fall into limbo. He had no idea whether time was passing quickly or slowly until he heard loud voices.

Suddenly the door was flung open by Croucher and Goddard strode in past him, looking back over his shoulder and saying angrily, "I resent the implication, sir; I resent it, I say."

"I've no doubt you do, Admiral; I think I'd resent it if you didn't."

Yorke's voice was calm but cold and Ramage realized the Lion must have luffed up, backed a topsail, let Yorke get on board, and got under way again without him noticing. He stood up but Goddard, whose face was swollen with rage and shiny with perspiration, did not notice him.

"Dammit, Mr Yorke; how was I to know the Peacock was French?"

"It wasn't hard to guess: every man in my ship was suspicious of her. She's obviously foreign built; those sails were never stitched in an English loft, and Lieutenant Ramage had warned you that she was behaving oddly the night before."

Ramage glanced up in surprise: how on earth had Yorke guessed that?

Goddard was equally startled. "Mr Yorke, you can't possibly know anything about Mr Ramage's activities!"

"But he did warn you, didn't he, Admiral? I heard his lookout hailing the deck the night before and I presume the Triton's boat delivered his report yesterday morning. But why don't we ask him, since he's here?" Yorke's voice was mocking.

Goddard glanced round in surprise and Ramage realized that he was so disturbed by Yorke that he had forgotten his cabin was not empty.

"By all means. He did make some sort of report, but it was only vague suspicions."

"I fail to see how his suspicions could have been anything but vague, since he and the Peacock were at opposite ends of the convoy. But you failed to act on the report and you yourself had no suspicions at all. After all, it was you who let the Peacock join the convoy."

"Come now, Mr Yorke; how could you possibly know what action I took?"

"Come now, Admiral, I saw you signal to the nearest frigate to ask the Peacock if all was well on board. The master of the Peacock answered - quite truthfully, I am sure - that it was. My officers and I were expecting you to order the frigate to send a boarding party to investigate both the ships involved."

Ramage felt like singing: the sea was blue and so was the sky. Yorke might not be able to save him from Goddard in the long run. The Admiralty, Sir Pilcher Skinner, the Articles of War and tradition were agreed that, no matter what had happened, no admiral could be in the wrong if it meant putting a young lieutenant in the right. But Ramage valued Yorke's and the St Brieucs' verdict more than Goddard's or Croucher's.

Goddard sank into the chair Ramage had just vacated. He looked as though he had flinched from a blow, and the movement had toppled him over.

Yorke took a couple of steps towards him, holding out a white envelope with a heavy seal on it.

"This is addressed to you; it's from ... It concerns my freight."

Goddard snatched it, broke the seal and started reading. Slowly his heavy jowls sagged; slowly the redness in his face turned to white. At last he seemed to realize that he was in for a terrible beating.

"This is ridiculous. Most unfair. Please, Mr Yorke, I'm sure that when you explain everything to M. St Brieuc he will see fit to withdraw this complaint and decide not to deliver the other letter he mentions."

"Which letter?" Yorke asked, and Ramage guessed that the question was put only so that he could hear the reply.

"The ... the letter he has written to Lord Grenville. After all, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs is hardly concerned ..."

"On the contrary, Admiral; when you think about it you'll realize that Lord Grenville is his only official channel of communication and is most concerned about his safety."

"I quite see that, Mr Yorke. My point is rather that I'm hoping you'll be able to persuade M'sieur - the writer of this letter - that there is no cause for complaint."

"With respect, Admiral," Yorke said, his voice still deceptively quiet, but choosing his words with care, "not only can I hold out no hope of so persuading him, but I'd be misleading you if I didn't warn you that I shall not attempt to do so since I fully agree with him."

"Come, come, Mr Yorke," Goddard said, his voice wheedling. "You know well enough that in battle chance plays a major part and ..."

"In battle, yes," Yorke said, like a relentless prosecutor setting out an unbeatable case. "But you were not in battle. The battle is separate and there is no complaint about how it was fought, thanks to Mr Ramage here. It was the whole sequence of events from Carlisle Bay, when you took this French privateer - pirate is a more accurate description - under your wing and assigned him the most perfect position in the convoy for carrying out his plan."

A few minutes ago Ramage had listened to Goddard distorting everything so that the blame fell on the Triton; now Yorke was outlining the same facts so that all the blame was back on Goddard's shoulders, and with it the implication that there might be treachery involved in the Peacock's presence in the convoy.

Goddard waved a helpless hand, physically as well as mentally beaten. Croucher looked away and Ramage wondered whether the wretched man was finally disgusted by his patron. With exquisite politeness, giving the impression that he had no idea the effect his words had already had on Goddard, Yorke said: "However, Admiral, there is one piece of good news that it will be an honour to give you."

Goddard's eyes lifted hopefully and Croucher turned back to look at Yorke.

"There is a second letter for Lord Grenville."

"Indeed, and what does that one say?" Goddard was trying to hide the hopeful note in his voice by being jocular.

"It will recommend to the Secretary of State that Lieutenant Lord Ramage be given 'signal recognition of his valour and alertness' - I am quoting the exact phrase in the letter - and asking Lord Grenville that the King should be informed. Our own King, I mean, of course."

Goddard glanced sourly at Ramage. "I am very flattered that this should happen to one of my young officers," he said heavily. "Naturally such recognition reflects on all the King's ships. May I be the first to congratulate you, Ramage? We are all very proud."

As Ramage clattered down the companionway to his cabin on board the Triton, acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute and ducked his head to avoid the low deck beams, he felt almost hysterically cheerful. He flung his hat on to the swinging cot and unbuckled his sword. Southwick followed him into the cabin and was waved to a chair as Ramage loosened his stock, sat at the desk and turned to the Master.

"Unbelievable, quite unbelievable."

Southwick grinned. "I thought as much, sir; I hadn't expected to see you quite as cheerful."

Ramage gave him an edited account of what had happened in the Admiral's cabin.

"Saw the Topaz go down to the flagship," Southwick said. "Must admit I thought the same as you: that Mr Yorke might try to lodge a complaint."

"Apart from us, the only one that comes out fairly well is the Raisonnable. The Admiral gave us the details of how she captured the second ship. I think what happened was that months ago the French heard the Lion would be carrying some very important passengers - people the Directory would like to get their hands on and silence forever. Unexpectedly, the passengers transferred to the Topaz - much more vulnerable than the Lion - before the convoy left Cork, and the French managed to send the Peacock to catch up with the convoy in Barbados, and join it.

"She had a couple of hundred extra men on board. Being in ballast she could carry plenty of water and provisions and they reckoned two hundred men would be enough to board the Topaz in the darkness, murder the passengers and escape again.

"In Barbados they found that joining the convoy was easy. The Peacock's skipper is a renegade Englishman, by the way, and he called on the Admiral with false papers. Later he decided to improve on his orders and capture the Topaz as well, taking the prisoners into Guadeloupe alive as hostages. He'd have been richer by a good prize and seems to be a greedy man. He decided to change his tactics with the new plan. The night before last he ranged up alongside the next ahead in the convoy and put a hundred men aboard her - that's when we saw the two ships alongside each other. There weren't six men on deck so he captured her without a shout, let alone a shot.

"Now he had half his men in this ship - the Harold and Marjorie - and half in the Peacock, ready to take the Topaz. He reckoned he'd come up the outside of the column with the Harold and Marjorie on the inside, so he could board the Topaz from both sides."

"How the devil did he expect to get away with it?"

"Come, come!" Ramage chided. "He nearly did, and if you'd been him you'd have expected to get away with it too. He probably decided he had to do it last night or tonight because Guadeloupe is so near. And I suspect he was worrying about this swell. So out of the column they come, and in a very short time they're alongside. Or should have been.

"I think he reckoned the only real risk was the Greyhound. He didn't think we'd spot him against the masts and sails of the rest of the convoy, and even if we did he knew he could board us. Don't forget, he was counting on a hundred men and surprise: if we did go down to investigate, his men could suddenly leap up from behind the bulwarks and swarm on board - as indeed they did."

"But the Greyhound..."

"Say the Greyhound spotted him as soon as he let fall his courses and hauled his wind out of the column, he could claim to have seen a French privateer astern. A ship out of position in a convoy is irritating - but not usually a cause for suspicion ... Once he knew the Greyhound hadn't spotted him, the Harold and Marjorie also left the convoy."

Southwick slapped his knee and said cheerfully: "But the Peacock didn't reckon on us pulling his tail feathers."

"The rest of the Peacock story is as we guessed it. The Greyhound seems to have been keeping station on us, instead of watching the convoy, so she wasn't too far away when we suddenly went down to the Peacock. The firing woke her up and she came down to help."

"What about the Harold and Marjorie?”

"The Raisonnable on the larboard quarter of the convoy saw the firing over this side and immediately cut diagonally across the convoy to get to it. Against the lighter northern sky she saw the Harold and Marjorie turning away southwards and obviously up to no good. The Raisonnable herself was against the dark cloud to the south - you remember how hard it was to see the convoy against it? Anyway, the Harold and Marjorie didn't see her until it was too late to dodge, and didn't realize she was a frigate. She opened fire - and that was all the Raisonnable wanted to know: no need for any more questions. She raked her a couple of times and the Frenchman had had enough."

"What about the renegade Englishman?"

"They can't find him on board the Peacock. He may have committed suicide - he must have known if he was captured he'd hang. But the French mate wanted someone to blame for the fiasco, so he has talked."

"D'you think the Admiral is going to leave us in peace now, sir?"

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows..."

Southwick stood up. "I'd best be getting on deck. This swell is increasing quickly now..."

"I'll come with you. I want to time it. The trip in the gig gave me a chance to measure the height."

"Doesn't look too good," Southwick said gloomily as he led the way out of the cabin. "This high, wispy cloud to the east, and no Trade wind clouds. If it falls calm this afternoon ..."

Ramage took out his watch and looked astern. The wind was light and made little more than wavelets; but beneath them, like large muscles rippling under the skin, were the swell waves. The crests were widely spaced and still fairly low; but they weren't as low as they had been yesterday. Whatever caused them was moving closer. Closer, but not necessarily towards them. It could move still closer without being a threat, just as one might pass a man on a road without bumping into him.

He looked down over the taffrail and the sun scorched through his clothes. The rudder post creaked gently as the man at the wheel kept the brig on course; the water was dark-blue and as he stared down at it, he had a feeling that it was bottomless: that it went down and down for scores of thousands of fathoms. Within a minute or two he had the rhythm of the swell waves, and he started to time the interval between each of a series of crests.

He shut the lid of the case and slipped the watch back into his pocket.

Southwick caught his eye and said quietly: "For what we are about to receive?"

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Keep your money in your pocket until you see if the wind drops later."

He went over to the binnacle box and picked up the biggest telescope, adjusted the eyepiece to a particular scratchmark that showed the correct focus for his eyes, and looked around the horizon.

Over on the starboard side, to the eastward, what were low dark smudges to the naked eye showed as high land with a few clouds. Guadeloupe and, on the quarter, Dominica. The small northern islands were still out of sight over the starboard bow -indication enough of the convoy's slow progress.

Light winds certainly made a convoy commander's task easier in one respect since it gave the masters of the merchantmen less reason for reducing sail; and there was nothing like an unexpected night attack for improving station-keeping! Southwick had already commented on the fact that by dawn several merchantmen had shaken out reefs during the night, a sure sign that the fireworks had bothered them. It's an ill wind, Ramage thought to himself.

He went down to his cabin again, found he'd forgotten to collect the master's log and sent his steward for it. Irritating how much paperwork was needed to keep a ship afloat, but at least the log served an obviously useful purpose. Every two months a parcel of documents had to be prepared for dispatch to the Admiralty and the Navy Board, and in every third parcel, among many other lists and reports, were the captain's journal and the master's log.

They were usually almost identical, which was hardly surprising since they were both based on the same source: the large slate kept in the binnacle box, and which was used to record wind direction, courses steered and speed and distances made good, either every hour or when any of them changed. An hourly diary of the ship's life, in fact.

Southwick took the slate down to his cabin every day, copied the details into his log and added other items of information concerning the ship and her crew, wiped the slate clean, and returned it to the binnacle box, where the quartermaster could reach it easily. Every day Ramage, like every other captain of a King's ship, took the Master's log as the basis for his journal entry, adding any other information likely to be needed for reference or required by regulations.

Since anything of major importance was the subject of a separate report, the entries tended to be brief. Ramage opened the drawer, took out his journal, glanced through Southwick's log, and then began writing, bringing the journal up to date from the last entry the previous afternoon.

"PM 3 wind SE by E, light, swell from E, ship's company employed a.t.s.r., convoy making 4 knots..." He hated abbreviations, but the phrase "as the service required" was used so often there was no choice. "Opened cask of salt beef, marked 54 pieces, contained 51," a common indication of the dishonesty of contractors. Then he settled down to the previous evening's events.

"7.45 sighted number 78 (Peacock) leave her position, subsequently opened fire on her to prevent attack on 71 (Topaz), 10.20 resumed original position, wind ESE, light..."

He read it over again. It was as brief as he dare make it, but there was almost bound to be a court-martial, and as far as he could see it would be a matter of luck who would be accused. If Goddard had his way, it would be Lieutenant Ramage: if Sir Pilcher Skinner was intelligent and impartial, it would be Rear-Admiral Goddard.

Ramage was beginning to realize that the Topaz carried one of the most powerful of the French families in exile. A wise commander-in-chief would sacrifice a rear-admiral to placate such influential people, but from all accounts Sir Pilcher was not intelligent; he would probably agree with Goddard that a lieutenant was a more suitable sacrifice.

Ramage shut the journal, screwed the cap on the ink bottle and wiped the nib of his pen. If there was a court-martial, his journal would be needed as evidence. All the previous entries were taciturn or lazily brief, depending on one's point of view. The words he had just written gave nothing away, but did not reveal too obviously that they'd been written with the possibility of a court-martial in mind.

He found himself staring at the column of mercury in the weather glass. It had dropped slightly for the third day running. No longer was there the slight, twice daily rise and fall; now there was only the fall.

Within a few hours the whole sky was covered in a high haze which left the sun looking like a whorl of red paint made by the thumb of a violent and insane artist, and long high streaks of cloud started moving in from the east. The surface of the sea seemed oily and heavy with menace. The wind had died away fitfully until finally every ship in the convoy was lying lifeless, each ship's bow pointing in a different direction. Lifeless but not still: the swell waves persisted after the wind waves died away, still not high but long, measured from crest to crest. Ships lying west and east pitched heavily as the crests passed under them from stern to bow, or bow to stern; but ships lying north and south rolled violently without the wind pressing in the sails. In every master's mind was the danger of his ship rolling her masts out; the whiplash movement of a ship swinging violently like an inverted pendulum put an enormous strain not only on the masts but on the long yards. The thick rope of the rigging vibrated as the loading alternated with the rolling.

Ramage sent for Southwick to come to his cabin and, when the Master arrived, looked up from the seat at the desk.

"I was just setting the men to overhauling tackles," Southwick said. "I don't think we've a lot of time left."

"That's what I wanted to talk about. As we are part of the escort I can't do anything until the Admiral hoists a signal. The signal might be later than we'd like so we're likely to have a number of things to do in a hurry.

"First will be small sails out of the tops. Then down t'gallant yards and masts. I want them properly lashed down on deck: assume a sea might sweep us clean. Studding sail booms down off the yards ... spanker boom and gaff - down and well lashed below the bulwarks. Preventer braces on the yards ... relieving tackle on the tiller, and make sure the spare tiller is where we can get at it ... all the axes available. Issue tomahawks: they'll serve as small axes ... Can you think of anything else?"

Southwick had been counting off the items on his fingers and shook his head. "No, but I wish we'd worked out something for the boats."

The boats, stowed over the hatchways, were hoisted in and out by tackles on the main yard. Ramage and Southwick had tried to devise a safe way of dumping them over the side in an emergency, but had been unable to think of anything.

"It shouldn't be too difficult to relieve ourselves of the carronades."

Southwick grimaced. "Hope we don't get as far as doing that: I reckon that's about the last goodbye to mother."

"Our fore and main trysails - I hope they're not as mildewed as those in most ships."

"The bosun's mate is going over them now. Material is sound enough; he's checking over the stitching and reef points. He's strengthening wherever he can."

"It's not being left to him to decide?"

"No, sir - I've just gone over both sails with him. We're laying a few more cloths on the tabling. Doubtful whether it'll do any good: just making tack, clew and head stronger than the rest of the sail."

"Well, if the roping holds, it makes it easier to mend. Just panels going!"

"Just panels." Southwick sniffed. "Finest and heaviest flax there is!"

"It might never blow, Mr Southwick, in which case we'll never know."

"I'd be happy to die of old age completely ignorant of hurricanes."

"Me too, but the longer we stay at sea, the more the odds turn against us."

Ramage picked up his hat and the two men walked back up on deck.

The sky to the west was a cold, coppery colour - a colour so unlike anything normally occurring in nature that its very strangeness was frightening. The reflection of the sky gave everything a coppery hue: the flax sails, normally raw umber with a touch of burnt sienna, the bare wood of the decks, the brasswork of fittings. Even the bright red, royal blue and gilt of the small carved crown on top of the capstan was distorted by the sun's strange lacquering.

Southwick sucked his teeth and shuddered. "Horrible. You can almost taste it. Like sucking a penny."

That's about it, Ramage thought, a colour that gives the impression of taste; a physical presence, like cold, only instead of chilling it frightened. There was a curious tension on board the Triton - something he'd never really seen before in a ship of war - it was not the same when they went into action. There was a slight rounding of men's shoulders as they walked the deck doing various jobs. They hadn't the jauntiness that was normally so obvious. Each man seemed in the grip of a private fear.

Up on the fo'c'sle, Jackson was working with Rossi, Stafford and six other seamen, stitching reinforcing patches into the fore trysail. The men were sitting on the deck, their legs under the sail, looking like old women mending nets on a beach. Each had a heavy leather palm strapped to his right hand to help drive the needle through the cloth.

Jackson leaned back and groaned. "My back ... I feel like an old man."

"It's not me back; it's me 'and," Stafford grumbled. "This 'ere palm 'as blistered me 'and."

"Don't tell the bosun," Rossi said. "It is the proof you never do any work."

Stafford sniffed. "Ever been through an 'urricane, Jacko?"

When the American shook his head, another seaman said, "What d'you think it's like?"

"Windy," Stafford interrupted as he dug the sail needle into the material.

"Not in the middle," Jackson said. "They say it's flat calm in the eye and the sun shines."

"Ho yus," Stafford exclaimed. "An' all the women 'anging their washin' up ter dry, no doubt."

"Well, you'll soon meet one..."

" 'Ere, Jacko, you reckon - reely?"

Jackson nodded. "Yes - you'll see, it blows like the devil until you're in the middle; then the wind drops, it stops raining, the sun comes out and everything's lovely."

"You said the middle," Rossi said warily. "Then what happenings?"

"Well, just as soon as folk like Staff are out there hanging up their washing, it comes on to blow even harder from the opposite direction."

"Accidente! The opposite direction? But everything gets taken aback?"

"Precisely..."

All the men were silent for a few minutes, each alone with the mental picture of the wind suddenly gusting up and blowing on the forward side of the sail, instead of the after side, and pressing a sail and yard back against the mast.

As the pressure increased the ship would start going astern, starting a whole sequence of events: to steer the ship, the wheel would have to be spun the other way, and at the same time the pressure on the rudder would be enormous: pressure trying to wrench it off, pressure that kept on increasing. As it increased, so would the pressure on the sails and yards increase, and such pressure could be relieved only by the wind easing, the sail blowing out, the yard smashing in half or the mast breaking.

"She was caught aback and her masts went by the board."

It was a familiar description: each man could visualize the ship swept clean, her masts snapped off at deck level - by the board - and fallen over the side in a tangle of rigging, halyards, sheets, braces, yards ... and there'd probably be death in the wreckage for many of them.

Beside each mast were piles of heavy rope. When Admiral Goddard made the signal for the ships under his command to prepare for a hurricane, the men would rig additional shrouds to support the masts, using these lengths of hawser.

Southwick and a couple of bosun's mates were already carefully checking over the lanyards of each pair of deadeyes. A group of men working unostentatiously - Ramage had given instructions that their activities should not be obvious from the flagship - were putting storm lashings on the guns.

Southwick met him abreast the mainmast on the larboard side. "Everything satisfactory, sir?"

"As far as we can go, yes."

The Master glanced round to make sure no seamen were within earshot. "Can't think the Admiral's been on deck today, sir."

"Nor Captain Croucher!"

"I was looking at the mules with the glass. Most of them are busy."

"Wait until they start sending down topmasts and yards..."

"Several are getting ready to."

"I wonder if the Admiral will tell them to stop," Ramage said, half to himself.

"I hope not: it'll take them several hours to get squared away. Except for the Topaz they are probably all shorthanded."

"They'll manage," Ramage said, and wished he had not been reminded of the Topaz. She was his hostage to fortune at the moment. However competent Yorke was, he would still have preferred to have the St Brieucs on board the Triton...

The sun set in a wild, western sky. In the late afternoon the copper colour gave way to a dull and sickly yellow washed with an angry red as high clouds thickened and the wind came up, steadily freshening as the hours passed. The convoy soon got under way, but while all the escorts were busy trying to get the ships into their proper positions again the masters took little notice of orders or threats: most were already under double-reefed courses and their men were busy sending down topsail yards. The swell waves were slowly but inexorably increasing in height, like silent gestures of warning.

Slowly the wind backed from east to north-east, and then went north. Equally slowly Admiral Goddard was forced to keep edging the convoy's course round to the west as more and more merchantmen found it impossible to stay up to windward.

First one ship in the middle of a column would start sagging off to leeward, eventually sailing diagonally through the remaining columns. In turn one or two other ships, forced to bear away to avoid a collision, would be unable to get back into position and would themselves sag off.

Finally, to avert chaos, the Lion would bear away and hoist signal flags indicating the new course. The frigates, brig and lugger would repeat, then spend the next hour ensuring the merchantmen conformed, and just have the last one in position when the flagship would repeat the process.

Finally Southwick became exasperated. He took off his hat, ran his hands through his white hair and said to Ramage: "Never was an increment man, myself."

When Ramage looked puzzled, he explained: "The Admiral knows he's going to be steering south-west by midnight, so why doesn't he cut his losses and get on course now, instead of coming round by increments? And not only that, the sooner we get over to the westwards" - he gestured over the larboard beam, towards the middle of the Caribbean - "and give ourselves some sea room, the happier I'll be.

"Never liked the chance of a lee shore with this Caribbean weather," he continued. "That's one thing about European waters - may be cold and wet, but nine times out of ten, a gale or a storm comes from the south-west or west. Here it's any damned direction."

Ramage nodded but kept his fears to himself. His earlier suspicion that Goddard had lost his nerve was now confirmed. The Rear-Admiral was the kind of man who froze when he was frightened: instead of bolting or rushing around shouting, he withdrew into paralysed inactivity and indecision.

Southwick was right about the "increments" - but there was more to it than sea room. Nothing was really known about hurricanes, but men who had survived them talked and pooled their ideas, so that eventually an odd sort of pattern emerged.

In a lifetime at sea, Ramage's father had gone through two hurricanes, and Ramage could remember the old Earl's two pieces of advice. One was to prepare the ship early, so that men did not have to work aloft with the ship rolling heavily in a strong wind, which doubled and quadrupled the amount of effort needed. But the second point was the really important one; if the wind veered, steer to keep it on the starboard bow. The hurricane would probably pass southwards and the ship, altering course as required to keep the wind on the bow, would cover a semi-circular course to the north of it. But if the wind remained steady or backed - which it was doing now - it was vital to get the wind on to the starboard quarter, and keep it there, altering course as necessary. Then the hurricane would probably pass northwards. If you ran before the wind, the chances were that the middle of the hurricane would pass right over you.

Goddard's "increment" course meant that he was slowly doing just that. By trying to hold on to a predetermined course that would keep him as near to Antigua as possible, and being forced to bear away as the merchantmen sagged off, he would end up running before the hurricane ... and running slowly before a massive hurricane meant that it was only a matter of time before it caught up.

If Goddard turned the whole convoy boldly on to a course of say - Ramage walked over and glanced at the compass - south-south-west, all the merchantmen would have the wind on their starboard quarters, and they would probably be able to keep it there even under storm canvas...

Every time a signal hoist was reported from the flagship, he looked expectantly at Jackson, and each time the American reported a course change of one point to larboard. One point! Eleven degrees fifteen minutes, or one thirty-second part of the circumference of a circle ... It was like giving a starving man a single slice of bread: instead of saving his life, it merely emphasized how hungry he was and postponed the inevitable end. Altering course one point to larboard stressed the need for an immediate eight-point alteration.

"The wind will eventually do it for him," Southwick said bitterly, echoing Ramage's thoughts. "But we lose that much time - and mileage. And maybe our necks."

"Since we can't do anything about it, let's make the best of it."

He was startled by the harshness of his voice, and Southwick stared fixedly at the convoy. Ramage knew he was feeling the strain, but taking it out on Southwick was contemptible.

"It'll be dark in an hour," Ramage said.

"Aye, there's just about enough time to execute it if he makes a signal now."

Half an hour later the signals came in a series. Perhaps Goddard had been stirred into action as the sun sank below the western horizon - though it had been hidden before this by the ever-lowering cloud streaming in from the north, each layer a darker and more menacing grey.

Jackson called out the signals as they were made on board the Lion while Stafford and Rossi bent the flags on to the halyards and hoisted them, both in acknowledgement and also repeating them.

"Convoy flag and frigates' flag: Strike yards and topmasts ... Observe the Admiral's motions carefully during the night as he will probably alter course or tack without signal ... Frigates' flag: Shorten sail and carry as little as possible without breaking the order of the fleet... Every ship to carry a light and repeat the signals made by the Admiral during the ensuing night..."

Ramage picked up the speaking trumpet and, as Jackson called out the first signal, bellowed the order that sent the topmen running up the ratlines, not pausing until they were in the tops, where they scrambled into position to begin clearing away and lowering gear.

Ramage glanced at his watch, noted the time, and swore to himself he wouldn't look at it again until he heard Southwick give the order "Sway away."

He looked round the ship knowing that all the work to be done was going to take two or three times as long because of the darkness. The lateness of the signal made it obvious that the men were going to meet the coming dawn with precious little sleep.

"Mr Southwick - the hands will eat in two shifts, perhaps three, and pass the word that the tot will be issued late and may be poured with a heavy hand."

"Good idea, sir," the Master said. He lowered his voice, "The way things look, we may not have to account for any 'spillage and seepage'."

Ramage nodded and turned to Jackson. "Have you logged those signals, and the times?"

"Aye aye, sir. Specially the times."

Jackson's voice was expressionless; Ramage was probably the only man in the ship who could detect the judgment of the Admiral contained in the American's last three words.

Picking up the telescope and balancing himself, Ramage looked round at the convoy. The merchantmen appeared to be taking very little notice of the flurry of signals: each one had a cluster of men working aloft. Four had topsail yards upended and being lowered to the deck; a dozen would be lowering them any moment.

"They look odd now, don't they," Southwick said. "Like men with their heads shaved."

"They work fast enough at a time like this," Ramage commented. "Surprising how slow they can be with routine things like keeping their position."

"Yes, I'll be damned if I can understand it. After all, we're protecting 'em. We don't like escorting 'em any more than they like having us chase 'em up."

"Surely that's it," Ramage said. "Sending down masts and yards because bad weather's coming on - well, that's a natural piece of seamanship: they'd be doing that pretty smartly even sailing alone in peacetime. But cramming on sail to obey an order from an escort - that's not seamanship: that's being chased about by the Navy."

"Hadn't thought of that. Excuse me a moment, sir," he said hurriedly and lifted the speaking trumpet. "Aloft there, mainmast: Jenkins, unreeve that signal halyard. You'll have it a'foul o' everything in a moment!"

The fact is, Ramage told himself, the Master will make a better job of all this if I'm not on deck. As Southwick turned back, Ramage said: "I've some work to do below. Call me if..."