Ramage and the drum beat

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Convent was a five-minute walk from the Commissioner's office. Ramage raised a hand to hail a passing carriage, realized he had no money and began striding up the steep cobbled slope of Convent Lane. With an irritation verging on petulance he reviewed his meeting with the Commissioner. It had begun with almost effusive congratulations, but the old fool ended up being damned stuffy. After implying that delaying sailing for even half an hour to visit The Convent would certainly let Cordoba's Fleet escape through the Strait, and probably allow Napoleon to cross the Channel as well, he'd even hinted that young officers only visited Gibraltar's Convent, to keep up with the right people'.

A mixture of excitement and nervousness made Ramage begin a laugh which he only managed to choke when he saw the frightened look on the hideously wrinkled face of an old woman in a doorway. She was offering him a penn'orth of sticky dates from a greasy wicker basket that looked like an asylum for every fly on the Barbary Coast, but snatched it away when she looked into his eyes and hurriedly crossed herself with her free hand.

At the top of the lane Ramage turned left into Main Street and was promptly surrounded by a crowd of ragged higglers who with strident Spanish voices and clutching hands were peddling everything from corn cures and Crucifixes to demijohns of arracks, their fervour and glittering eyes reminding Ramage of what it must have been like to face the Inquisition.

As he walked through the Convent's big double doors the two sentries rattled their muskets in faultless salutes which nevertheless subtly conveyed that soldiers cared little for naval officers and hardly at all for young lieutenants.

Inside the hall a wizened little man whose ancient wig had for years been a martyr to incipient moulting stood up and cautiously inquired the purpose of the young lieutenant's visit. A lifetime at the job had obviously taught him to take nothing for granted: one elegantly dressed gentleman with languid voice and gold-topped cane might demand an audience with the Governor only to pass a forged letter of credit, while the next could be the Governor's long-awaited cousin. The poor fellow had his carefully enunciated motto written all over him: You Cannot Be Too Careful.

Reluctantly Ramage had to give his name while explaining his business but emphasized it did not matter since he was only a messenger. The old man kept nodding like a pigeon gleaning a newly cut cornfield then, after motioning Ramage to a chair, hurried off down an apparently endless corridor. Ramage deliberately made his thoughts wander to ease the tension. Why was the Governor's residence called The Convent? He'd always intended to ask someone. The chapel next door was originally a Franciscan friary ... In Spanish a monastery usually meant the home of a religious order whose members never went outside, while those free to travel - like the Francisans - lived in a convent. How many governors had bored their guests at dinner with weary jokes about nuns and—

The little man was beckoning him from the far end of the corridor with the nearest he dare get to a show of impatience and Ramage managed to stop himself leaping up like an eager schoolboy. Instead he rose with carefully controlled movements, composed his face in a frown he knew would make his cheek muscles ache within a couple of minutes and walked along the corridor, hat tucked under the left arm, his hand holding the scabbard of his sword. Plonk, plonk, plonk: he walked heavily, hoping the jarring of his heels on the mosaic floor would stifle the inane giggle lurking just under his Adam's Apple.

From the moment the Commissioner had told him, Ramage had deliberately shut the picture from his mind; all the way up Convent Lane he'd forced himself to think of something else. Even waiting there in the chair he'd conjectured about The Convent. And now ... The little man scurrying along ahead stopped every few paces and peered back to make sure he was following, as though scared he'd bolt through a door. Ramage wanted to give him a hearty pat on the back but instead mustered an even fiercer frown and snarled: 'Don't walk so damned fast, I've only got two legs.'

'Oh, quite, quite sir, I'm very sorry,' the little man said sympathetically as if it was the result of battle wounds.

Up a pair of stairs and the corridor was narrower, the closely spaced doors indicating the rooms were smaller, and he guessed they were now in the private part of the residence. The little man paused at a door, knocked and before Ramage could stop him walked into the room and announced in a neutral voice that showed he had not bothered to mention the name earlier:

'Lieutenant Ramage.'

After the gloomy corridors the room was almost dazzlingly bright and for a moment Ramage stood blinking as the door closed softly behind him.

'You look like an owl who's just woken up,' she said and ran over to fling herself into his arms. His hat went flying, the scabbard dropped with a clang, and they clung to each other with that desperate urgency reserved for lovers and those who are drowning.

It seemed hours later - hours during which he wanted to tear off the clothes separating their bodies, hours after scores of kisses on her eyes, mouth and brow, hours after he'd wiped tears surreptitiously from his eyes and openly from hers, hours after the waves of exhilarating dizziness had gone, that she looked up at him and whispered.

'My dearest, I thought you were dead - and then that silly man ...' she sobbed but there were no tears or sadness now, only wonder, almost unbelief, '... that silly man tells me there's a naval officer to see me and I...'

'You what?'

‘I had a terrible premonition he was going to tell me they'd heard you were dead.'

'And when you saw it was me, all you could say was I looked like an owl!'

'An owl?'

He pushed her away and held her at arm's length. There was no mistaking the puzzled expression. Could it...?

'What did you say when I came in?' he asked gently.

'I said nothing. I was so shocked, so - well, I couldn't believe—'

'You don't remember saying, "You look like an owl who's just woken up"?'

'Of course I didn't say that!'

Again the picture came back to him: a picture of battle when a Marine was spun round by a shot which slashed off his hand at the wrist, and as he staggered across the deck holding the stump from which the blood spurted he said to Ramage in a conversational tone, 'I was born out of wedlock, you see, sir; they never knew for certain who me father was ...'

The irrelevant remarks of someone experiencing a severe shock. At this revelation of the intensity of her love for him he suddenly felt frightened and inadequate and unworthy, forgetting it equalled his own for her.

'But you look like an owl now!'

He looked down at her smile which was also an impudent grin: happiness sparkled in the large brown eyes and showed in the delicate flush over the high cheekbones. The impudence was in the arch of the eyebrows and the curve of her lips. He held her tightly and at that instant there was a harsh metallic boom above and a ripping noise at his back. Giving her a violent push out of danger's way he spun round, his hand going instinctively to the hilt of his sword. But even before he could draw it she was standing four paces away clapping her hands and laughing until tears ran down her cheeks. 'It's one o'clock, my love!' she gasped. 'The chapel bell!'

'And I think I've split my new coat,' he said ruefully.

She danced round behind him, 'And you have! The stitching of the seam!'

Even as he joined in her laughter he realized within an hour he must sail. Within ten minutes he must say good-bye.

'My lovely little Tuscan czarina, when you've stopped examining the proof of my passion, can you get someone to mend it?'

She eyed him with feigned doubt, hand to her chin, and secretly marvelling that every time she looked at him - a man she loved so desperately and pictured almost every waking moment - his face or body revealed something new - often startling, always thrilling and sometimes frightening. His eyes, set deep under the brow, sometimes let her see into his soul; at other times they were a barrier which shut her out. The scar on his brow was a weathercock to his mood - anger tautened the skin, driving out the blood, making it a hard white line. His mouth - did he realize a slight movement of his lips made him as remote and forbidding as the moon - or so close she felt they were one? A thin face - yes, but the jawbone, like the scar, became a hard, bloodless line when anger tightened the muscles and sharpened the angles so it seemed cast in steel. It was a face a woman could only love or hate with a great passion; the face of a man to whom no one could be indifferent.

She saw he was puzzled, waiting for an answer.

'No, I like your passion as it is, even if it tears easily. But when it does want mending, I'll do it.'

'Gianna—'

'Nee-co-lass,' she mimicked the serious note, 'let's join the Governor: he insists on punctuality at meals. I'll be your seamstress this afternoon. Oh, don't look so worried - it's only the stitching!'

He grinned nervously as he sought a way to explain and then blurted out: 'No, it's not that. I can't stay.'

'Never mind, we'll do it this evening then.'

'I'll be away some time...'

She took his hand, made him sit in an armchair and curled up at his feet, her head resting against his knees.

'Tell me what happened,' she said quietly, 'and why you have to leave so soon.'

He traced with his finger the line of her eyebrows, the tiny Roman nose, the soft and moist lips and the high cheekbones, and then she reached up to take his hand and press it to her breast, as if to comfort him.

'Was it too awful, caro mio?'

'No,' he said quickly, realizing she'd misunderstood his silence. 'No, it was perfectly simple.' Briefly he described the Kathleen's capture, the way Jackson had helped him pose as an American, and their release in Cartagena. He omitted the raid on Cordoba's house and the information he discovered, and told her how they had stolen La Providenciaand sailed to Gibraltar.

'But why stay so long in Cartagena? Weeks and weeks. Surely you could have stolen a ship earlier?'

'The Spanish Fleet was there: I wanted to find out when they'd sail and where they were bound?'

She spotted the flaw before he did.

'But how could you do that without waiting for them to sail and see which way they went? They haven't sailed, have they?'

Ramage cursed his wayward tongue which was talking him into a dangerous situation: the only other person in Gibraltar who knew of Cordoba's orders was the Commissioner, who'd been emphatic that the knowledge must be kept absolutely secret. The whole of Gibraltar, he'd said bitterly, was swarming with spies and the Governor's circle of friends talked too freely.

'Well,' he said lamely, 'I found out something which will interest Sir John, but you mustn't mention it. Now - and this is absolutely secret too - I must find Sir John and tell him.'

'But, my love,' she said with quiet irony, 'all you've told me so far is that I've got to keep secret the fact you know a secret!'

'And that's quite enough for now!'

She looked up with eyes unnaturally bright with tears, but in them he saw anger as well as unhappiness.

'So even though I am the ruler of a state which has joined England as an ally, I can't be trusted with some silly little secret?'

Anger, bitterness, hurt - yes, and a touch of patrician arrogance. A few moments ago they had been as one person; now a stranger sat at his feet.

'I - well, the Commissioner gave me strict orders. Not even the Governor knows.'

'Very well,' she said coldly. 'You found out this information, so let's not talk any more of that. But why are you the messenger boy running off to find Sir John? Make the Commissioner send someone else. You deserve a rest: for months you've been risking your life - first rescuing me, then capturing La Sabina, then playing the spy at Cartagena. Why,' she added with a shiver, 'if the Spaniards had discovered you weren't an American—'

'I'd have been shot, but I wasn't. And I arrive here to find you waitiag for me! Incidentally, young lady' - he snatched the chance of changing the subject - 'why are you here and not in England?'

She shrugged her shoulders gracefully - and coldly and remotely. Her voice was flat and neutral. She was a stranger, the ruler of Volterra and, he thought, no longer a woman.

'Very well, you may change the subject. When the Apollo arrived here she had to wait two weeks. By then we heard the Kathleen had been captured. I wasn't in a hurry to go to England so I decided to stay - I was curious to know whether you were alive or dead.'

'Curious'. The word stabbed where he had no protection. Now did it help that he knew she was deeply hurt; unable to understand the demands of the service. And her pose of indifference was truly regal: even though she was sitting at his feet he felt for a moment as though their positions were reversed and he was a humble (and errant) subject kneeling before the ruler of the state of Volterra.

'And Antonio?' he asked, numbed and hardly thinking what he was saying.

'He went in the Apollo. He wanted to stay but I told him to go to London as my Minister Plenipotentiary to your King, so that he can draw up the draft for the alliance.'

It was a proud little speech but the ruler became a girl once again when he pictured Antonio as the Minister of an already enemy-occupied state of 20,000 people arguing the terms and wording of Volterra's treaty with a Britain which was already fighting the combined strength of France and Spain and for whom Volterra was simply another debit entry in an already overloaded budget.

'How could you persuade the Spanish you were an American when you were wearing that uniform?'

She was holding out a very small and rapidly withering olive branch but he reached for it eagerly.

'I was wearing a seaman's rig. I've just bought this one. A lieutenant about my size - a bit narrower across the shoulders, rather! - just had it delivered from the tailor.'

'He was kind to let you have it.'

'He wasn't really; in fact he refused, but the Commissioner ordered him to sell it to me.'

'Your Commissioner is fond of giving unpleasant orders ...'

'I'm afraid so,' Ramage said hypocritically. 'But - well, when you had to give unpleasant orders to anyone in Volterra it didn't occur to you they wouldn't be obeyed, although probably you didn't enjoy giving them ...'

'That's true, I suppose it's the same thing, really,' she admitted.

'Absolutely the same. The foundations of a navy or a state - or even a family - rests on discipline,' he said pompously.

'Except that I love you.'

There was defiance in her voice and he knew that single fact meant she'd accept neither rules nor obstacles. Fearing she'd make the Governor use his influence to have another lieutenant sent to Sir John, Ramage kissed her and bruised both their lips as the clock struck again and made them jump.

Nearly an hour gone: the Commissioner would be watching the anchorage. He stood up, helping her to her feet, and before she could say anything, kissed her hard again, then gripped her tightly so she could not look into his eyes and began talking quickly in a low, urgent voice, as though he had to compress a lifetime into the remaining minutes.

As he walked down the worn and slimy steps of Ragged Staff Wharf Ramage felt the same emptiness that almost every man experienced when going back to sea in wartime: he was leaving someone he loved, drawn away by some inner compulsion towards - well, duty was a pompous sort of word and only a tenth of it. That there'd be weeks, perhaps months, of discomfort and monotony was so certain that brief moments of danger would come as a relief, like the sharp taste in the mouth after the long diet of dreary, barely eatable salt food that drove seamen to chew tobacco. But no man had ever found anything to shew, drink, do or say that eased the ache of knowing the farewell might also be the final one. It was probably worse for the women who were left behind, never knowing whether, even as they sat with their memories, their men had been left unscathed by battle, disease or accident.

So what was he really looking for out on the ocean? Honour and glory, the power over men that came with command, the almost erotic thrill of fear in battle? He was concentrating so hard on giving himself an honest answer that his heel slipped off the edge of a step and he nearly fell, yet even while regaining his balance he knew the answer was 'No' in each case.

What stopped him from asking to go on to half pay (or resigning his commission) and returning to England, to the life of a gentleman, helping Father run the estates and perhaps dabbling in politics? There'd be no discredit in that (except dabbling in politics, and he rejected the idea) nor difficulty in arranging it. The Navy had far too many young lieutenants - at least a quarter of them were always unemployed, haunting the Admiralty or badgering friends with 'interest' to write to the First Lord to get them a berth. He shrugged his shoulders and felt a few more stitches spliting in his coat. Blast the fool who'd sold it him and triple blast his tailor, and whoever made the thread could rot in hell.

He suddenly realized that for some seconds he'd been standing and staring at a dead cat floating in the water, and glanced up to see Maxton holding the boat alongside, his glistening brown face split with a grin of pleasure. Jackson, watching him curiously and probably trying to fathom his thoughts, was at the tiller and the rest of the men who had been with him at Cartagena were manning the oars. All of them were rigged out in new blue shirts and white duck trousers, and were freshly shaven. He climbed in, nodded, and a few moments later the boat was being rowed briskly across the anchorage.

Perhaps if he knew the answer he could leave the sea. But would finding the answer be like finding the Golden Fleece - the very fact of succeeding meant there was nothing more to do with your life: no spur, no goal, no purpose ...?

He turned for one last unhurried look at Gibraltar, and for a moment he was a child again, lying flat on his stomach on a Cornish beach staring up at a great boulder only a few feet away. The houses clustered on the steep sides were tiny limpets; the grey defensive walls studded with embrasures just cracks in the rock lined with sea snails. Was Gianna watching from a balcony of The Convent? He wasn't too sure - they'd parted as both lovers and strangers; there'd been no time for the tranquil minutes which—

He glanced up to see La Providenciaat anchor a hundred yards away. He hoped Sir John would buy her into the service. Even without him forgoing his share of the prize money, the six men now in the boat would each get a few hundred pounds; more than they'd ever earn in a lifetime as seamen.

'She served us well.'

'Aye, sir,' Jackson said wistfully. 'I wouldn't mind having her as a privateer!'

In taking only three days and four nights from Cartagena La Providenciahad made a fast passage in such light winds and Ramage, like the Commissioner, could only pray the Spanish Fleet had been delayed in leaving, then met the same humbugging winds, and found the convoy of seventy transports - if they sailed at the same time - as slow, mulish and stupid as convoys of transports usually were.

But the chances that they'd have a slow passage were slight - the wind had now gone east and was becoming squally, and the wispy clouds beginning to stream westward from the peaks of Gibraltar, like steam from a boiling kettle, were a warning that a strong easterly wind, the Levanter, was already on its way across the Mediterranean. Bringing heavy rain and poor visibility, it was just the wind to let Cordoba's Fleet scurry through the Strait.

As he'd brought La Providenciaround the great craggy Europa Point, close in along Dead Man's Beach and up to Rosia Bay, he'd been startled to see that, with one exception, there wasn't a ship o' war at anchor in the Bay: obviously every available vessel was at sea, either helping Commodore Nelson evacuate the Mediterranean or with Sir John Jervis.

The boat came alongside and the men's grins were wider than ever as Ramage scrambled up the side battens to the trilling of bosun's calls. It was childish, but one of the best things about commanding a ship was being piped on board ...

A few moments later he was returning Southwick's salute and shaking him by the hand while the ship's company, drawn up on deck in two ranks, began a wild, spontaneous cheering that Southwick did nothing to stop.

'Welcome back on board, sir: the Kathleen hasn't been the same without you!'

Ramage blinked and thought irrelevantly of the split seam in his coat. Jackson had been the first to spot the Kathleen at anchor as La Providenciarounded Europa Point, and Ramage had been both delighted and nervous until he'd reached the Commissioner's office and been told the frigate Hotspur had recaptured both the Kathleen and the Spanish frigate towing her into Barcelona, and freed all her crew, who were prisoners in the frigate. His nervousness vanished completely when the Commissioner, after hearing about Cordoba's instructions, had ordered him to resume command and find Sir John 'with all despatch'.

But he hadn't anticipated such a home-coming, for his return to the cutter was just that, and stood open-mouthed at the gangway as the men cheered again and again. By now Jackson and the gig's crew had come on board and were standing to one side, and as Ramage waved to include them the ship's company roared their approval.

Southwick said above the din, 'I think they'd appreciate a few words, sir!'

Ramage jumped up on top of a carronade and held up his hand for silence. He tried to look grim and succeeded: the lean face, hard eyes, the diagonal slash of the scar light against the tan, lips compressed and muscles of the jaw taut, made him look both ruthless and determined.

He held up his hand for silence.

'You must be the most stupid ship's company it’s ever been the misfortune of any man to command,' he said harshly.

The smiles vanished. Every man looked crestfallen, like an errant schoolboy.

'I've tried to kill you with La Sabinaand failed. I thought I'd get a second chance with the two frigates but they turned out to be British. I couldn't be bothered the third time when we met the Spanish Fleet. Now you are so dam' stupid you cheer me when I come back again.'

With that the men began roaring with laughter and, breaking ranks, surged round him, several of them shouting ' 'Ave another go, sir!'

'I'm going to! But this time - and I'm not joking now -we'll probably be playing chase with the Santisima Trinidad.' He paused to let it sink in. 'In case you've forgotten, she carries 130 guns. Once we've dealt with her there'll be six more each of 112 guns, and two with eighty. Then if you've still got any fire left in your bellies, there'll be eighteen more seventy-fours. But don't think there'll be any time for grog after that because you'll still have a few dozen frigates left to bring into Gibraltar or the Tagus!'

If he thought the list would have a sobering effect he was mistaken: the men promptly began cheering again and he glimpsed Southwick rubbing his hands in a familiar way. If every Spanish ship's company had even half their spirit, he reflected, Cordoba's great fleet would be invincible. Even as the men cheered Ramage pictured Cordoba's Fleet leaving Cadiz and joining the French Fleet at Brest for an attempted invasion of England. French troops marching through Cornwall, looting and burning St. Kew Hall, and probably guillotining his father for being both an earl and an admiral. The men fell silent and he realized his thoughts showed in his face. Well, despite the need for secrecy on shore, there was no harm in telling them what it was all about, since they'd be at sea in fifteen minutes.

'Now listen carefully. I've told you the size of the Spanish Fleet, and Jackson and the others have probably described what it looked like at anchor in Cartagena. What Jackson and the others don't know is the whole Fleet was under orders to sail the day before yesterday. The Spanish Admiral has orders to make for Cadiz, so any minute you're likely to see 'em pass Europa Point and out through The Gut.'

He gestured towards the grey mountains of Africa, less than a dozen miles across the Strait. 'If they pass through there before we can get out, find Sir John and warn him, then only the Spanish and French know what the consequences will be. If a Spanish Fleet that size picks up troops at Cadiz and sails north to raise the blockade of Brest and let the French Fleet join them, then there's very little to stop them invading England: they'd total more than fifty sail of the line. To stop Cordoba's twenty-seven sail of the line getting to Cadiz Sir John has only eleven, as far as we know.' There you are, men: our job is to warn Sir John, but since we don't even know where he is, we haven't a moment to waste ... Mr. Southwick! Let's get under way!'

With that he jumped down from the bulwark feeling as melodramatic as an actor who'd just recited Henry V's speech on the eve of St. Crispin's Day - though omitting the beginning, 'He which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart...'

As he walked to the companionway, the men still cheering, he thought wryly of an earlier phrase in the play, 'I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.' His fame was such that he'd need only a small pot of very poor ale.

Ramage took off his sword in the tiny cabin and when Jackson brought down a large leather pouch, he unlocked it and transferred the books and documents it contained to his desk. The key was still in the lock of the drawer - only the little lead-lined box usually kept beneath the desk and now sunk in about a thousand fathoms was missing. He'd have to get another made.

He sat down heavily. It was not just physical weariness: his brain was tired. He longed for a week's rest with no decisions to be made, no need to be constantly goading himself, and free from the constant fear that a moment's relaxation would let the enemy - either Spaniards or weather - get one move ahead. To go to sleep without the fear that he'd be wakened only to deal with yet another emergency.

The Commissioner's words still rang in his ears. 'Yours is the only vessel we can send after Sir John ... If I had three frigates, I'd use 'em all: but there's only your cutter. Make no mistake, Ramage, find Sir John you must. You know what's at stake. Drive the ship and drive the men as you've never driven 'em before, even if you get a gale a day. If you see a frigate, give her captain one of the sets of orders I'm having drawn up. Go from one rendezvous to the next. If you find a neutral ship, wring the master's neck if that's the only way to make him say whether or not he's seen Sir John's squadron. And,' he'd added grimly, 'if you fail, don't offer any excuses.'

Find Sir John's squadron ... Ramage reached out for the chart. Precious little he had to go on. Sir John had sailed from Lisbon, leaving the Tagus on 18th January with eleven sail of the line to escort some Portuguese men o' war and a Brazil convoy southwards to a safe latitude. (How far south was 'safe'?)

Having done that, Sir John intended to work his way back to the rendezvous off Cape St. Vincent to meet any reinforcements the Admiralty had been able to send from England. He certainly needed them. The Commissioner - who was in a difficult position since officially he had no executive authority over Ramage - did not expect Sir John to be back at the rendezvous before about 12th February.

Once through the Strait and out into the Atlantic, the rendezvous off Cape St. Vincent (the south-western tip of Portugal and one of the most forbidding headlands on the Atlantic coast) was 170 miles away to the north-west. With an easterly wind, the Kathleen could be there in about thirty-four hours, assuming an average of five knots.

If Sir John, the reinforcements or a frigate were not there, Ramage decided he would head down towards the Canaries - that would be the route Sir John would take with the Brazil ships - for three days, and then return to the rendezvous. That increased the chances of finding Sir John farther to the south, so the Fleet would have less distance to cover to intercept the Spaniards before they reached Cadiz.

Jackson appeared at the companionway. 'Mr. Southwick's respects, sir: the cable's up and down.'

The Master was waiting by the taffrail. 'Very well, Mr. Southwick, let's get under way. And remember,' he added quietly, 'with no other ship here, every telescope on shore is going to be trained on us ... Jackson, I want you at the helm.'

Southwick nodded, picked up his speaking trumpet and began bellowing orders. Soon the two headsails and the great mainsail were hoisted, the gaff and boom swinging lazily from one side to the other and the canvas of the headsails rippling as the wind blew down both sides of them, finding nothing to exert its force on.

Once again the windlass creaked as men heaved down on the bars (Why, Ramage thought idly, don't they fit cutters with capstans?) and slowly the heavy cable came home, water squeezing out of the strands and streaming back down the deck. A seaman watching over the bow signalled to Southwick - the anchor stock was in sight.

'I'll take the conn, Mr. Southwick.'

The Kathleen had a little sternway which Ramage used to pay off the bow to starboard. He gave an order to the men at the helm, another to the men at the sheets, and the wind filled the great mainsail with a bang. Slowly she began forging ahead.

Ramage was just going to tell Southwick to set the gafftopsail when he saw a dark shadow moving fast across the water between the cutter and shore, a shadow rapidly becoming dappled with white-capped wavelets: one of the sudden white squalls for which Gibraltar was notorious.

'Ease sheets, Mr. Southwick: smartly now!'

Turning to Jackson and the man with him, he yelled, 'Meet this squall! Here - you two men: stand by the helm!'

Then it was on them: although invisible it seemed solid, snatching their breath and screaming shrill in the rigging, slashing off the wave tops and driving them to leeward like heavy rain. Under the wind's enormous pressure the Kathleen heeled over until the water swirled in at the gunports. Ramage saw that although the helm was hard over in an attempt to keep the cutter on course, she was being forced to round up into the wind and head for the shore. The headsails were beginning to flog: in a few moments they'd probably explode into a dozen strips of torn canvas.

'Let the mainsheet run, Mr. Southwick!'

The waves slicing up solid over the weather bow were blowing into spray, sparkling briefly in a few moments of weak sun. Then, after what seemed like hours, with Ramage waiting for the sails to blow out or the mast to go by the board, the big boom moved over to leeward as the men slacked the sheet, easing the pressure on the mainsail, which had been forcing the cutter's bow up into the wind. Almost immediately her angle of heel lessened and as the men eased the helm to bring the Kathleen back on course the headsails stopped their insensate flogging.

Algeçiras, on the Spanish mainland, was five miles away across Gibraltar Bay on the starboard beam; Europa Point was almost on the larboard beam and he could see past it into the Mediterranean beyond. Ahead on the African coast, eleven miles across the Strait, low cloud streaming in fast from the east now hid the great peaks of Renegado and Sid Musa which ranged parallel with the coast like teeth in a petrified jawbone. For a brief moment he glimpsed the isolated summit of Haffe del Benatz, climbing almost sheer to fifteen hundred feet, and then Marsa farther west.

Soon the cutter turned to head out towards the Atlantic and with the wind aft she rolled violently, the end of the main boom occasionally dipping in the water. Ramage could see the tiny island of Tarifa ahead, with the Moorish town of Tarifa on the mainland, high-walled with several towers sticking up like enormous tree stumps.

The current was west-going at the moment and stronger close inshore, and because he was anxious to gain every yard to the westward Ramage kept as near the mainland as he dared. The Kathleen was at that moment in sight of at least half a dozen Spanish watchtowers and a couple of castles. If they knew of the scrap of paper locked in his desk, horsemen would already be on their way to Madrid. The tiny ship they were mercifully ignoring - too lazy, perhaps even too contemptuous, to fire at - had the potential to defeat the objective of the combined Fleets of France and Spain ...

On the south side of the Strait the African coast was trending south-west, but it would be dark before they passed Tangier. Now Tarifa was near - he guessed Admiral Cordoba would also be glad to get it abeam. From there, Cordoba would have a short run of about forty miles north-westward along the coast to Cadiz, passing only two capes, de Gracia and Trafalgar with its off-lying shoals.

The Kathleen, however, had 170 miles to sail before reaching the rendezvous off Cape St Vincent, crossing a gulf notorious for its sudden south-easterly gales which could trap ships so they could neither weather Cape St Vincent at one end nor round Cape Trafalgar to run into the Strait of Gibraltar at the other.

By the time Tarifa was abeam and with darkness falling, Ramage saw the weather was rapidly deteriorating so that only a miracle could save them from an easterly gale by dawn, and he had to decide within the next hour whether to get some shelter by following the Spanish coast as it trended round northward to Cape Trafalgar and Cadiz, or steer direct for Cape St. Vincent and risk eventually being forced to run westward before the full force of it, a course which would take him well out into the Atlantic, leaving Cape St. Vincent forty or fifty miles to the north.

Prudent seamanship indicated keeping in the lee of the Spanish coast, but the scrap of paper locked in his drawer; not to mention the Commissioner who'd emphasized every word by thumping his fist on the deck as he said, 'Drive the ship and drive the men as you've never driven 'em before, even if you get a gale a day ...' left him with no choice: he must sail direct and risk the gale. There was some consolation that even if the same gale brought Cordoba's Fleet scudding through the Strait, the Spaniards with their great three-deckers and clumsy transports would have a much harder fight to claw up to Cadiz without getting driven far out into the Atlantic.

The full force of the gale - which was bad even for a Levanter - caught the Kathleen just as she cleared the Strait and entered the Atlantic, with Cape Spartel on her larboard quarter showing where the African coast suddenly swept sharply southward to begin the curve which ended in the Gulf of Guinea, almost on the Equator, while on her starboard beam the mountains of Spain disappeared as they trended north towards Cadiz.

Southwick swore the gale was the worst Levanter he'd ever seen but Ramage, although fearful and yet awed by its majestic, and apparently effortless power, reckoned the Kathleen's smallness exaggerated it. But it could not have caught them at a worse time: the east wind howling uninterrupted for perhaps a thousand miles across the Mediterranean, was now being funnelled through the narrow Strait by the high mountains of Spain and Africa, compressing and increasing its frenetic power just as it met the full strength of the Atlantic current which was flowing into the Mediterranean. Wind against current; the worst combination of all.

Its enormous strength was piling up great waves which rose and rolled and thrust up crests which the wind slashed off in sheets of spindrift and foam, driving it across crest and trough in long angry veins until the whole surface of the sea seemed a mottled, raging cataract of molten green and white marble.

Ramage, standing beside Southwick at the taffrail and looking aft as one wave after another surged up astern, mountains of water, each steeply sloping side threatening to scoop up the ship, each curling breaker atop it apparently intent on sweeping the decks bare of men and gear, was almost too numbed to wonder that a frail box of wood like the Kathleen could ever survive.

On and on came the seas, relentless, seemingly unending, and even more frightening since each contained its strength in itself, in its very vastness, in the smooth, purposeful and powerful way it surged inwards, rising higher and higher until Ramage, his imagination heightened by fear, tiredness and awe, felt he was looking up at the cataract destined to swamp the whole world. The crest of each wave was a curling, hissing jumble of frothing white water broken only by the Kathleen's wake which showed on the wave's face as an insignificant double line of inward-spinning whorls, like the hair springs of clocks.

The hours passed and Ramage was barely conscious of fresh men at the helm as the watches changed. He saw only wave after wave in a wild chase to overtake the cutter. Just as a roaring crest was about to crash down on the Kathleen's deck, the ship's stern began to lift (began, it always seemed, just a moment too late), and the bow dip slightly, as if the ship was starting a hesitant curtsy. Suddenly the crest was right under her counter, first lifting the stern even higher and burying the bow deeper on the forward face and then, as the crest slid forward, tipping the ship like a see-saw in a gigantic pitch which would let the stern sink back on the rear face, the bow lifting high in the air as the crest swept on.

As suddenly as it arrived, that wave would be gone: for a few moments the Kathleen would be almost dead in the water, sunk deep in a trough so her tiny spitfire jib was blanketed, starved of wind. Then once again the next wave would race up astern...

Suddenly Southwick pointed. A couple of hundred yards astern a freak wave was rushing down to them. The crest was solid water, still wedge-shaped and still thrusting itself higher.

Even as they watched the wind's pressure was working on it, and unable to resist its force the crest slowly turned and then toppled to break into a two-foot high rolling, swirling, roaring mass of water sweeping along on the forward side of the wave.

The next moment the cutter dropped into a trough and the wave disappeared from view. Ramage, noting it was the third, saw the first sweep down and pass, turning to make sure Southwick had warned the quartermaster and the men at the helm, banged Southwick on the shoulder and motioned him to grip something firmly, and himself seized an eyebolt beside the stern-chase port. The second wave lifted the cutter enough for Ramage to see the third had grown even larger, rearing up as high as a big house.

In one split second he guessed this time the little Kathleen's stern would never lift in time to avoid being pooped; that the whole wave would crash down on her and then sweep forward, washing away every man on deck, stoving in skylights and ripping open hatches to send tons of water cascading below, and, with no one at the helm, slew the whole ship round so that she broached, lying broadside on to the next wave and probably heeling over on her beam ends.

With the heavy carronades then hanging vertically and breaking loose from their slides and tackles, and bulky casks of provisions and dozens of round shot stowed below smashing their way through the hull planking, the Kathleen would founder.

In the instant before the wave reached the Kathleen, Ramage thought of the scrap of paper on which he'd hurriedly copied part of the order to Admiral Cordoba. Sir John would never see it; the great Spanish Fleet would pass the Strait and eventually link up with the French Fleet at Brest. Gianna would never know of the Kathleen's fate: all the risks of the past few days had been unnecessary: what a stupid, useless way to die...

A moment later there was nothing but sky: a grey, menacing sky across which thick cloud raced in untidy patterns. The Kathleen's stern rose so fast Ramage felt he was being shot up into the air and a moment later dropped just as quickly, and the wave was past.

He glanced round at Southwick and saw the old man, eyes shut, was muttering a prayer - or a stream of curses - and still hadn't realized the wave had gone. Then he looked round at Ramage and making no attempt to hide the relief he felt, shouted: 'I thought that one had our number painted on it!'

Ramage shook his head and grinned, showing a confidence he did not feel. He was thankful he'd reduced sail in time, and housed the topmast, run in the bowsprit and lowered the cro'jack yard - which carried the cutter's squaresail - down on deck to reduce the windage. It had been a slow and tiring business stretched over the past few hours: one reef in the mainsail and changing down to a smaller jib as the wind piped up just past Tarifa; another two reefs in the mainsail, handing the foresail and changing to an even smaller jib half an hour later; then furling the mainsail and hoisting the tiny storm trysail in its place, handing the small jib and hoisting the storm jib.

Still the Kathleen had raced on almost out of control. He and Southwick had watched astern, shouting orders to the four men at the helm and the eight others manning the relieving tackles hooked on either side of the tiller, making sure that each of the seas met the Kathleen exactly stern on. If any one of them had caught her on the quarter she would have been pooped.

Finally Ramage had admitted to himself what Southwick had been telling him for some time - he was driving the cutter beyond the limit of her endurance: sailing so fast that she was as wild and uncontrollable as a runaway horse.

Reluctantly he'd told Southwick to hand both storm trysail and storm jib and set the storm foresail in their place. That had no sooner been hoisted and sheeted home than there was an immediate improvement in the handling of the ship - she was sailing more slowly with less tendency to broach. But it was a short-lived respite: with a bang liked a 32-pounder being fired, the sail blew out, scraps of flax flying off to leeward and a few strips still attached to the bolt rope streaming out like tattered banners.

For several minutes it had been touch and go whether they could keep control of the cutter while men scrambled along the deck to bend on and hoist the spitfire jib - a few score square feet of tremendously strong but stiff and intractable flax.

Every time the ship pitched she dug her sharp bow deep into the sea and flung up sheets of spray which hid the men from sight, and as she rose again the water raced aft along the deck in small tidal waves while Ramage counted the men to make sure no one was missing - not that anything could be done for anyone who went overboard. The wind snatched contemptuously at the sail as they hoisted, flogging it with no more effort than a washerwoman shaking a shirt. Finally the men were safely back aft and although the sail once hoisted and sheeted home seemed ridiculously small, the weight of the wind bellied it out as hard as a board and drove the cutter on again, and Ramage expected any moment to see the material tear out of the thick roping rounds its edges.

All that was - well, about five hours ago, just after dawn. And now the really great seas were coming: seas that made the earlier ones seem like wavelets. Facing into the wind, he found it difficult to breathe, and the shrill howling in the mast and rigging combined with the actual buffeting of his face and ears left his mind numbed.

Normal thought was becoming impossible; the only way he could keep any control over die situation was to talk to himself - asking a series of questions to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Navigation - no need to worry about that now with four thousand miles of open Atlantic ahead and the wind and seas forcing the Kathleen to steer west. Sails - well, the spitfire jib was holding. Leaks - the carpenter's mate had sounded the well fifteen minutes ago and reported only the usual amount of water. Food - the cook and cook's mate were at this moment doing their best to produce something. Sheets checked over for chafe - Southwick had done that, but he must remind him again in half an hour. Was there anything else? God, he was cold and wet and tired - so tired he knew he was on the verge of having hallucinations. Always, beyond every one of those seas piling up one after the other astern, he could imagine the enormous blunt bow of the Santisima Trinidad, the red hull scudding along under just a close-reefed fore-topsail, unable to get round to make Cadiz and with the rest of the Spanish Fleet streamed out astern.

By noon two days later the gale had eased slightly but gave no sign of a break. Ramage and Southwick estimated the Kathleen had run more than two hundred miles, which put the rendezvous off Cape St. Vincent nearly a hundred miles away to the north-eastward. And, more important, the cutter was probably astride the western-most route by which Sir John would return (even allowing for the gale) to the rendezvous from whatever position he'd left the Brazil ships. Ramage knew that if he could stay in this position there was a chance he'd meet the Fleet on its way back. And that meant heaving-to - if possible.

The only way of knowing for certain was to try it, which meant risking being pooped as the Kathleen rounded up. It also meant risking blowing out the spitfire jib, and also the storm trysail that he'd have to hoist.

Ramage gave his orders to Southwick and then looked aft, waiting several minutes until two large waves were followed by a smaller one. The instant the second wave had passed he yelled, 'Down with the helm!'

The bow began to swing so slowly it seemed impossible the cutter would turn before another huge wave built up astern, and although she was swinging faster than Ramage realized - the horizon was just a featureless line of grey and green - he looked round just in time to notice a large sea coming up on the quarter. The Kathleen caught it just abaft the beam and gave such a tremendous roll that for a moment the four men at the helm could only hold on to the tiller to prevent themselves falling over, but the men at the relieving tackles, bracing themselves against the bulwarks, managed to stand firm. Water spurted in waist high at the gun ports, raced across the deck and sluiced out through the ports on the other side. Then the Kathleen was round, with the wind on the starboard bow.

Ramage pointed up in the air and he could see Southwick's mouth working as he hurried the men at the trysail halyards. The sail crawled up the mast, slatting with a noise like musket shots and the tiny gaff swinging crazily. Southwick was keeping an eye on Ramage, who pointed at the spitfire jib sheets. By brute force a dozen men hauled on the tiny sail and as soon as it was backed Ramage shouted at Jackson to put the helm down.

How was she going to ride? A glance over the starboard bow showed that there were no particularly large seas coming up for a minute or two. It was a juggling act - the wind on the backed jib was trying to push the bow round one way and the trysail abaft the mast was trying to thrust it the other. Although the trysail was larger, the jib was set farther from the mast and exerted more leverage - sufficient for the cutter to need some helm to balance her.

It took three or four minutes for Ramage to find the right amount of helm, then the Kathleen was lying with the seas rolling in on her starboard bow, lifting to them comfortably although occasionally slicing off crests which drove up over the bulwarks.

'She's snug enough now,' Southwick bellowed in his ear. 'It'll give the cook a chance to get something hot in the coppers!'

Ramage nodded, but he knew the sight of Sir John's flagship would put more warmth in his belly than anything even the most expert and patient of cooks could produce.