Ramage and the Freebooters

CHAPTER TEN

Southwick's last sight put the Triton roughly three hundred miles north-north-east of Barbados and he was reporting the fact to Ramage when the lookout in the foremast hailed the quarter-deck to report a sail lifting up over the horizon fine on the starboard bow.

The young master's mate, sent aloft with a telescope, was soon shouting excitedly that the ship had a strange rig and seemed to be steering to the north-west. Southwick growled his doubt—that would be the course of a ship bound from West Africa to round the northern Leeward Islands and then square away for America.

Then Appleby reported hesitantly, his voice revealing doubt, that she'd lost her mainmast, and a few moments later, this time with more certainty, that she was fore-and-aft rigged; probably a schooner which had lost her mainmast, because the only mast standing was too far forward for her to be a cutter.

Ramage had already ordered the quartermaster to steer a converging course, and as Southwick sent hands to sheets and braces, he called Jackson, ordering him aloft. Handing the American his telescope, he said: 'She might be a "black-birder".'

'Was thinking that m'self, sir: position's about right if she's staying outside the islands and bound for America.'

With that he ran forward and climbed the shrouds.

Southwick bent over the compass for the third time, grunting as he stood up.

'If she's making more than a couple of knots I'd be very surprised; her bearing's hardly changed.'

Bowen, who was standing near Southwick, said almost to himself, 'If she lost her mast some days ago she'll be in trouble.'

'Aye,' Southwick said heavily. 'Losing a mast is always trouble. Especially in these seas. She'll be rolling like a barrel—wind on the beam.'

'No, I meant provisions,' Bowen said. 'A few hundred slaves ... I don't imagine they carry more than the bare minimum of provisions based on a fast passage.'

And Ramage found himself nodding as he listened: he'd been thinking that as he warned Jackson. The schooners in the West African slave trade usually made a fast passage from the Gulf of Guinea across the Atlantic to the West Indies and America. An extra week meant tons of extra food and water.

'Deck there!'

'Well, Jackson?'

'She's a "blackbirder" all right, sir. Lost her mainmast all right, but the foremast's standing and she's carrying a foresail, topsail and headsails.'

Bowen was enjoying himself for the first time in his two years at sea: previously he'd been too besotted to care that each successive ship to which he'd been transferred had been smaller; to him the Triton had been just another small cabin in which he could stretch himself out with a bottle and glass. Rarely in those two years had he ever gone on deck, and then only if he had to make a report to the captain.

Now, beginning with the enforced walks on deck with Southwick, he was taking an interest in the handling of a ship. Most of it was still strange—such a mass of ropes, and he didn't understand many of the shouted orders or the reasons for them. But he saw now that what always seemed confusion was in fact highly organized movement by the men.

And with his mind now dear for the first time in years— he'd been four days without touching liquor—Bowen tried to analyse' why the Triton's captain was such a remarkable young man.

Watching him talking to Southwick, Bowen realized for the first time that they were an oddly assorted pair. Apart from anything else the Master was more than old enough to be his captain's father yet was clearly devoted to him. And Bowen saw that such devotion came as much from a professional respect as a personal regard.

The lieutenant wasn't as tall as he looked—it was the wide shoulders set on a slim body, and the narrow face, that gave the impression of height. Yet there was something more— was it poise? Bowen knew it was an odd word to use about a naval officer standing on the quarterdeck of one of the King's ships rolling along in the Trades, but it was the right one, because he bom belonged there and commanded it. Uniforms apart, anyone suddenly arriving on board would never have to ask who was the captain.

Nor was it just his physical appearance. No, more that one sensed his power rather than saw it. Like a clock! Bowen grinned happily at the aptness of the simile. Yes, a clock in an elegant case. It looked well whether in a drawing-room or the cabin of a ship; and it regulated all their lives without fuss and without them realizing it. And since the clock kept accurate time and was so perfectly controlled one forgot mere was more to it than the face and the case; forgot that inside was a powerful mainspring controlling a complicated mechanism, and from that mainspring everything else about it derived. True, there were escapements and other pieces of finely-engineered machinery to control the mainspring, but without it all the rest was useless.

And so many men, Bowen reflected, were born without the equivalent of that mainspring. Perhaps only one in a thousand had it; less than one in ten thousand had one that never faltered.

Curious the way he occasionally rubs the older scar over his right brow—never the newer one. Even more curious how he snatches away his hand the moment he realizes he's doing it, as though ashamed of the habit. There, he did it again— and Bowen saw it was instinctive: he rubbed it when he was thinking hard, and probably when nervous, though the youngster seemed to have nerves of steel. And now he's snatched the hand away again and clasped both hands behind his back.

A fine profile. Face on the thin side, half-starved aristocratic, and it made the jawline seem harder than it was. But the eyes—Bowen almost shivered. Dark brown, deep-set beneath thick black eyebrows, they mirrored his moods. They'd laughed when he'd checkmated him for the fifth time, Bowen recalled, but by God a few days earlier they'd bored into him like a pair of augers when Ramage tried to discover what had started the drinking. And they'd been cold and hard when giving the order to stop the drink.

And Bowen realized that until this moment he'd never fully accepted that the captain was barely twenty-one. Yes, he'd hated the probing questions; he'd hated the order depriving Him of his liquor. He'd hated Ramage, too, but the hatred had been aimed against his authority, against a person with the power to stop me liquor. Never for a moment had he even resented that the man giving the orders was only a youth.

Bowen then thought carefully why he'd just accepted it. Well, it seemed appropriate: the man had a natural air of authority—and it was natural, not just because Ramage had a legal authority backed up by the Articles of War. This much Bowen had learned only in the last few days, because for the first weeks after Ramage had taken over command Bowen had been too drunk to realize there was even a risk of mutiny, let alone that the ship's company had refused to weigh anchor at Spithead.

In fact, Bowen admitted, he was now both resentful and ashamed that drink had made him miss the battle of wills: it would have been fascinating to see how one man could by sheer strength of character—since the Articles of War were useless in such circumstances—force sixty men to carry out his orders, sail the ship clear of the Channel, and by the time she was off Cadiz have spliced the two separate sections of the crew, the original Tritons and the twenty-five men from the Lively, into one and have them working cheerfully together, proud of their ship and proud of their captain. It was a feat of leadership that interested him both as a man and a doctor.

Southwick had clearly been a great help. Watching the stockily-built Master, his white hair Sowing out from under his hat, his face as chubby and red as a farmer's, it was obvious he and the Captain formed a remarkable partnership.

Although Southwick obviously wasn't overburdened with brains he had a generous nature, was a fine seaman, and from all accounts was a demon for battle and quite fearless. Bowen had yet to see him lose his temper: if a seaman was hesitant about the way something should be done, Southwick made sure the proper way was explained to him. That, too, was true leadership and rare since in most ships a hesitant seaman caught a bosun's mate's 'starter' across his shoulders.

And he knew enough of the Service to realize that years ago Southwick had failed to get that essential 'interest' on the part of a captain or admiral to become the master of a ship of the line. Instead, he had always remained in fourth- and fifth-rate ships—cutters, brigs and suchlike.

Yet in one way this was probably a good thing—in the Triton, with a ship's company of sixty or so, Southwick's cheerful personality and superb seamanship was a powerful influence: probably the most powerful single influence, in the hour-to-hour running of the brig. He'd be wasted in a ship of the line, where three or four lieutenants between him and the captain would swamp his merits.

Anyway, the important thing was that Southwick was happy to serve under a captain who must be a third of his age. An elderly master with a young captain could, through jealousy (or more likely, a justifiable contempt for the young captain's abilities) make everyone's life a misery by just carry-out his duties to the letter—but no more—and tripping up the captain.

It was easy enough with an inexperienced young captain who owed rapid promotion to his father's influence with an admiral or in politics.

Here, men, was a remarkable combination: an old master wise enough to know when to give advice; and a young captain with enough confidence in himself to listen to it.

Yet Bowen also saw how lonely was the Captain's life. By tradition he lived on board in isolation; he had all his meals alone—unless he invited one of the officers, which in the Triton meant Southwick or himself; and on his shoulders rested me safety of the ship and the safety and welfare of the crew.

Whether the ship was in storm or sunshine, the crew sick, healthy, happy or mutinous, if she was well sailed or badly navigated... all was the Captain's responsibility. One mistake on his part could sink the ship, kill a man—or kill the whole ship's company. Bowen shivered at me thought and was thankful the responsibility for the men's medical welfare was the only one that sat on his own shoulders—and one, come to think of it, which also ultimately rested on the Captain's.

Bowen had been so absorbed that he was surprised to see how dose the Triton now was to the other ship. She looked deuced odd with just the one mast instead of two, but her hull was shapely: none of the boxiness of a ship o' war. Seeing Jackson swinging off the lower ratlines to the deck and walking aft to report, Bowen edged over to listen.

'She's not American, sir: I'll take an oath on that.'

'But she's hoisted the American flag,' Ramage said mildly.

'Aye, sir, and she's not Spanish even though she hoisted the Spanish flag for a couple of minutes before she ran up the American. She's just not built right, sir.'

Bowen listened more attentively, realizing he'd not heard hails about the flags.

Southwick said: 'From the course she's steering I think she's bound for one of the Carolina ports: she's staying so far to seaward. I'll take a bet she plans to round Antigua and Barbuda and then square away for somewhere like Charleston.'

'She may be bound there, sir,' Jackson said respectfully, 'but she's not American built.'

Ramage was puzzled, because she looked American to him: beamy, low freeboard, a sweeping sheer—really a beautiful sheer—and schooner-rigged. Obviously very fast, and specially built for the slave trade.

'What makes you so certain, Jackson?'

'Hard to say, sir. Nothing particular, just that she doesn't look right for an American-built ship.'

'Not having a mainmast alters her appearance,' Southwick pointed out. 'And her bulwarks are all smashed up amidships. That gives her an odd look.'

Over the past few months he'd grown to like me American and respected him; otherwise the idea of actually discussing such a thing with a seaman would have been unthinkable.

'Well, we'll soon know,' Ramage said. 'Juggling with flags makes me wonder.'

'Could have been a mistake,' Southwick said. The Spanish flag wasn't up long.'

Ramage nodded, rubbing his brow.

'That's true, and they've obviously had to rig signal halyards. Nevertheless, Mr Southwick, give the gunner's mate the key to the magazine and beat to quarters if you please. Some of her bulwark may be stove in, but she carries five guns a side, and that's all we have.'

With only the foremast standing the ship certainly looked odd, but to Bowen's eyes there was something else: the way she was painted. Although the lower part of the hull was black, the upper part, including her bulwarks, was green. But the foremast was white and by contrast almost invisible against the glaring blue of the sky.

The green strake on her hull was dark: not the green of the sea in northern waters, more the green of Tropical vegetation. And with most ships' masts painted black or a buff colour, one's eye was always surprised at seeing any variation.

He commented on it to Ramage, who nodded.

'The hallmark of a "blackbirder",' he explained. 'Like the rest of them she has to go up the big rivers in the Gulf of Guinea to load the slaves, and our ships are watching for her. But it's almost impossible to spot a black hull with that wide strake of dark green hiding in a river dose up against the mangroves. Because they're painted white the masts don't show against the sky-line. You'd expect light blue to be more effective, but somehow it isn't Vaguely Bowen remembered the violent Abolitionist rows there'd been in London a year or so ago, but he'd been drinking too heavily at the time to be able to recall the details.

'Where do we stand on slavery now?'

Ramage laughed bitterly.

'Somewhere in the middle. The House of Commons agreed to Wilberforce's bill for Abolition in '91—that's six years ago. That said the slave trade would gradually slow down and then stop altogether in January last year.'

'So we've forbidden it?'

'No—when the bill went to the House of Lords they sat on it. Wilberforce has tried to push it through, but the Revolution in France frightened a lot of his supporters. Then when Wilberforce reminded the Commons in January last year that the date on which they'd already agreed slavery should stop had just passed and the House of Lords still hadn't moved on the Bill, you can guess what happened: being politicians they voted to postpone consideration for six months, since it was highly controversial. That's the last I heard of it But of course there's the Act of 1788.'

Bowen, who'd taken little interest in either politics or Abolition, shook his head.

'I don't recall the details. What did that do?'

'Not much—it set out minimum standards for British slavers. Not less than five feet headroom between decks for example, and a slaver of less than 160 tons burthen can carry only five slaves for every three tons; and three for every two tons if she's less than 150 tons...'

'How strictly does the Navy enforce the law?'

'Oh, very strictly—when a ship's found breaking it. That's not very often and they pay a small fine. Means nothing to these fellows.'

Just as Bowen was about to ask another question, Ramage ordered Southwick to get a boat ready for hoisting out, with an armed boarding party.

Bowen then saw a skilful display of near insubordination by Southwick, realizing half-way through that there must have been many similar arguments in the past on the same subject.

After Southwick had given the order which set men preparing the boat and sent boarders to collect cutlasses and pistols, he said casually to Ramage that he was going below to change his uniform.

When the Captain raised his eyebrows questioningly, Southwick explained, as though stating the obvious, that the uniform he was wearing was shabby. The Captain, equally innocently, replied that since he'd worn it on board for several weeks, it hardly mattered now since no one would be seeing him, but would Mr Southwick please take the conn for a few minutes while he himself went down to change.

It had been Southwick's turn to raise his eyebrows, and Bowen was quite surprised how high they went: they seemed to slide half-way up his forehead.

'But surely, sir, you'd prefer me to board her.'

Bowen knew he'd burst out laughing if he continued watching the exchange and turned away. If the pair of them played chess as skilfully as they politely battled with words... Southwick was patient and polite; so was the Captain. Finally Ramage said flatly he was going and that was that. Southwick merely replied, 'Aye aye, sir,' and turned away with a sigh.

By now the brig's carronades were loaded and run out; the decks were wetted and sand spread—though just as Bowen noticed the water was drying quickly on the hot planks, Southwick called for the men to carry on wetting, so they continued walking back and forth, splashing liberally from leather buckets.

And Bowen was thoroughly enjoying himself. The sky more blue than ever he remembered it; the sea more vivid and sparkling. The squat carronades now became menacing weapons of war; boys, hitherto noisy wretches always up to mischief, now sat on their cartridge boxes along the centreline, one between each gun on either side, and their nickname, 'powder monkeys', for once was appropriate.

Then behind him he heard Ramage talking to Southwick.

'Looks as though she's going to need a shot across her bow.'

'No, sir,' Southwick grunted and Bowen turned to see him watching the schooner through the telescope. 'No, there's a group of men round the mast—reckon the halyards are in a fair tangle with all the jury rigging they've had to set up to hold the mast.'

Even as he spoke the flying jib began to drop and flap, men out on the bowsprit stifling it as it came down. The peak of the foresail gaff dipped slightly, then dropped a few more feet. Suddenly the schooner turned to starboard, heading up into the wind, and the gaff dropped quickly, the big sail bellying before being swiftly sheeted in. Within a couple of minutes the schooner was wallowing in the swell waves, every sail furled.

'He wants some help from us all right,' Southwick commented.

Bowen saw his chance and seized it.

That falling mast must have injured a lot of men, sir,' he said to Ramage, who eyed him thoughtfully, then smiled and nodded.

'Yes—I'll take your mate with me.'

Bowen's disappointment showed in his face and Ramage laughed.

'All right, Bowen: stow your butcher's tools in a bag!'

Five minutes after the Triton had hove-to four hundred yards to windward of the schooner, the jolly boat, with Jackson at the tiller and Bowen and Ramage sitting in the sternsheets, was pulling down towards her. With her sails furled and so much windage on the foremast and bowsprit, she had paid off to lie with her starboard quarter towards the approaching boat.

Bowen was surprised how high the seas were. From the deck of the Triton he had, for many days, seen them roll up astern, sweep under her and go on ahead; but against an empty horizon there was nothing to measure them. The Triton had hove-to only a couple of cables to windward but the jolly boat was barely half-way between before both were hidden from view each time it dropped into the troughs.

Jackson eased over the tiller so the boat passed across the schooner's stern, and as Ramage turned slightly to look at her he grunted. Bowen looked questioningly.

'Don't point and don't stare at it as we get closer; but her name's been changed recently.'

'How do you know, sir?'

'Just look at the reflection from the paint on the transom.'

Bowen read the schooner's name—The Two Brothers— painted on a strip of paint that was not only fresher than the rest but a couple of feet wider than the name: there was a good foot to spare before 'The' and after 'Brothers'.

'You mean the new paint's covering another name!' he exclaimed excitedly. 'Why, yes! The original letters—oh, blast it, I can't see them now—but they're raised up a bit and I spotted them in the reflection.'

Ramage nodded. 'But her captain will tell us she's The Two Brothers of Charleston... and have papers to prove it.'

His voice was flat and Bowen wasn't sure he'd understood; but he saw Ramage had again turned slightly to keep the schooner in view without being too obvious about it. They were close now—forty or fifty feet. Bowen could hear the heavy splash as the schooner's counter plunged down each time she pitched.

Ramage, his lips hardly moving, was saying something to Jackson.

'In addition to the broadside guns she has ten one-pounder swivels on the bulwarks, set well inboard. Easy to squat on the bulwarks and fire them across the decks. Useful if the slaves make trouble, and notice each of 'em has a couple of men lounging near-by ... Barking dogs—they'll be big, savage brutes, trained to attack anyone with a dark skin ... There! Through the entry port, did you see that flash of brass? A nasty big brass blunderbuss. There'll be plenty of those on board... Phew!'

As he spoke the rest of the men in the boat, both oarsmen and boarders, groaned in protest and Bowen felt sick. They were now just to the leeward of the schooner and thirty feet off, and the wind brought down a stink which made the Fleet Ditch smell as fresh as a pomander full of new lavender.

The surgeon realized the men were not just groaning; they were protesting. And well they might. The schooner smelled like a gigantic midden, and though accustomed to the stench of hospitals and narrow streets piled with muck which was cleared away only by the rains and scavenging dogs and rats, he found this was worse because it was caused by two or three hundred human beings chained below in the schooner.

No seaman could bear the sight of a 'blackbirder'—he'd just realized that. And it was a curious thing, Bowen reflected, since a seaman's life on board a ship o' war of any nation seemed, to a landman, little removed from slavery.

Suddenly Jackson was singing out a string of orders, oars were being tossed, the boat was alongside and the bowman hooked on. Ramage, already standing, waited as the boat rose on a crest and jumped for the wooden rungs of the rope ladder hanging over the bulwark. A moment later he was climbing up it and Bowen was praying he'd even be able to grab the ladder, let alone do it as lightly and easily. The boat dropped in the crest and Jackson said quietly, 'If you'll excuse me, sir—just in case there's any trouble up there...'

With that he squeezed in front of Bowen, jumped and in a moment or two was out of sight over the bulwark. Feeling particularly clumsy, Bowen waited as the boat rose on the next crest, jumped and dung desperately to the ladder. As he climbed laboriously he remembered his bag of instruments and turned to see a seaman holding it and waving him on. He just had time to note ruefully that being a seaman involved having a mind that grasped everything like a fifty-tentacled octopus before he reached the deck.

As he looked round he was immediately reminded of standing back-stage at a theatre watching a dress rehearsal before the opening night, when everyone was in the right costume and speaking the right words, but the stage was littered with carpenters finishing off the scenery. The remains of the mainmast were lying along the deck surrounded by wood shavings and carpenters' tools: the bulwark opposite was broken down; the deck gouged and dirty.

Ramage was standing stiffly in from of a very tall, very thin man, who was completely bald, and Bowen realized his captain had just ignored the hand proffered to be shaken.

The tall man, wearing a faded red woollen shirt, grubby, once-white cotton trousers, and a red band round his forehead to stop perspiration running into his eyes, let his hand drop to his side again. He spoke with an American accent.

Ramage had already introduced himself and now asked:

'What ship is this?'

'Well, now 'tenant, you saw the name dear enough didn't you?'

'That doesn't answer my question.'

'I guess it'll have to, 'tenant, because that's us—The Two Brothers' 'It won't, though,' Ramage said flatly. 'I'd like to see the ship's papers.'

'Gladly, 'tenant, gladly. Perhaps you'd step below.'

'Are you the captain?'

'Yes, the master under God, as they say: Ebenezer Wheeler, 'tenant, at your service.'

He gave a mocking bow and as his shirt front fell open Bowen realized he was not just bald but completely hairless. Common enough after some of these jungle fevers...

'Perhaps you'd introduce your officers.'

Wheeler refused the bait.

'That won't be necessary, 'tenant. Now you just come below and inspect my papers. I've a favour to ask, too.'

He pointed aft and Bowen saw that as Ramage turned he glanced at Jackson. To the American captain it would have been Imperceptible; but Bowen knew some order or idea had been passed. As Ramage walked to the companionway, followed by the .American captain, Bowen noticed that Jackson stood so that as the Triton's boarders came up over the bulwark they'd be bunched up. A whispered instruction could be heard by all of them.

As Ramage strode towards the companionway he hurriedly summed up what he had seen—his eyes had been noting facts which his brain could not attend to while he talked with the captain. The mainmast was broken off eight or ten feet above the deck and they'd managed to get it back on board, where it was now lying diagonally across the deck. The topmast wasn't in sight: that must have been lost, along with the gaff.

Enough wood chips and shavings to fill a dozen sacks were scattered around the deck where men had chopped off the jagged splinters and begun to shape the stump and the upper part ready to scarph the two pieces together. But the carpenters' tools were lying around as if no one had done any work for a day or so. The only adze in sight had bright red rust marks on the blade, and there were flecks of new rust on three saws. Why had work stopped? Scarphing was no problem.

It wouldn't be easy to get the mast up even though the foremast was standing. Not easy, but not impossible since they could rig shearlegs. They'd need to use a dozen or so pieces of two-by-four-inch planks to make the splints at the join— 'making a fish' as the carpenters called it. But he hadn't noticed a single plank on deck...

What else?

Four huge brindle-coloured hounds held by seamen on rope leashes; men standing around, apparently idling, but each with a brass musketoon by his side. And another smell—a curious, familiar odour which wasn't part of the stench of a slave ship, but which for the moment he couldn't recognize.

And from below the rhythmic moaning—like monks chanting in a distant hilltop monastery—of the slaves lamenting. A small pile of whips at the foot of the foremast—brutal affairs, handles eight feet long and tails as much again, knotted every few inches.

As he turned to go down the companionway Ramage was able to see Jackson had understood, and the ten men forming the boarding party also appeared to be standing about idly— but they were between the slave ship's crew and the ladder to the captain's cabin.

The cabin was the full width of the ship and surprisingly large, but the headroom was surprisingly low. Well furnished, too—a silver teapot and some good china in a rack at the end of a table made of fine-grained, highly-polished mahogany. A cavalry sword with a curious silver-thread pattern on the scabbard rested in a rack on the starboard side. Four or five cut-glass decanters, the many faceted stoppers winking as they reflected the light, sat elegantly in fitted racks on the side board. And a long bookcase with several books in it. Leather bindings worn and mottled in dark stains where the mildew had attacked. A doth flung over the books hung down just enough to hide the tides. Curious, for otherwise the cabin was very tidy. Ramage found it hard to think of the captain reading books. Again the curious odour.

The American followed him in and pointed to a chair as he went to a small desk beneath the large skylight. His head was small, the nose narrow but prominent, the ears large with pendulous lobes. Chin narrow and long. The baldness made the man's head in profile look like a vulture's.

He took a folder from a drawer in the desk and as he put it down he grinned, exposing teeth yellowed with decay and tobacco juice.

'First, 'tenant, what'll you drink?'

Ramage shook his head.

'Now, now,' the American chided, 'can't have the Royal Navy accusing us Jonathan of being inhospitable.'

'You've offered hospitality,' Ramage smiled frostily, 'but the sun's not over the foreyardarm yet.'

'True, true. Now, look'ee here'—he opened the folder and took out papers—'Certificate of registry, duly signed and sealed in Charleston... Bills of lading... Charter agreement with Benson and Company of Charleston, signatures duly witnessed__Everything's here and in regular form.'

Ramage took the certificate of registry and unfolded it. Glancing at Wheeler's hands he saw they were filthy and obviously always were, but the certificate was clean. The paper was thick and had been folded twice. Ramage inspected the document and then folded it once and put it back on the desk. The upper side lifted slightly. The certificate said the ship had been built at Charleston five years earlier, but the certificate—and the paper on which it was written—was at most a few months old.

'The muster book?'

Ramage watched Wheeler closely and the American's eyes glanced for a moment not at the desk but at the sideboard and then focused on the folder.

'Well, 'tenant, to be truthful I don't know where it is right now, and anyway I can't see it's any interest to the British Navy.'

'On the contrary, it's of great interest If you've any British seamen on board, I can press them------'

'Well, we don't have, so you can rest assured on that point.'

'I'd still like to see it. Perhaps you'd get it from the sideboard.'

Wheeler looked up, startled for a moment; then his eyes narrowed. His cranium had a ridge across the top that came down the brow to his nose.

'Now see here, 'tenant, I'm not used to being dictated to on board m' own ship. You go back and tell your captain that.'

'I am the captain,' Ramage said shortly. 'You had a favour to ask, I believe.'

'Oh yes,' Wheeler said with an easy grin. "You've seen the mainmast., or what's left of it. We lost it eight days ago—after being becalmed in the Middle Passage for thirteen days— thirteen days! Never been becalmed there for more than three. Then this squall caught us in the dark. Took us three days to get the mast back on board and the foremast jury rigged so we could set a stitch of canvas.'

'So you've used up more than three weeks' extra provisions. You're three weeks' short in other words.'

'That's about the size of it. Still several bags of yams and coconuts left. Short of rice and beans. Plenty of palm oil. And we catch fish—they love it, heads and all. Lucky we've plenty of brandy: they get two tots a day—keeps 'em happy so they don't notice they're hungry. But all that's not so important: we haven't the lumber to fish the mainmast—without tearing the ship apart—and make up a gaff. I need six ten-foot lengths of two by four and a spar for the gaff. I'll pay well for it—can you help?'

Suddenly Ramage recognized the odour. Garlic. The whole ship reeked of it This cabin reeked of it But there was none of it on Wheeler's breath.

'Six ten-foot pieces of two by four, you said?'

'That's right, 'tenant—Capting, rather—and then there's the gaff.'

'And an extra squaresail yard to make shearlegs?'

Wheeler looked embarrassed. 'Yes, I was just coming to that We've got the foretopsail yard, but like the foresail gaff, it's got a patch of rot in it. I doubt if either of 'em will see us into Charleston.'

'Spare yards are expensive—and difficult to come by in the Caribbean.'

Wheeler mustered a grin. 'Especially a few score miles east of Barbados.'

Ramage wanted a few more minutes before he fired his broadside; he wanted to be sure of the target, so there'd be no bloodshed.

'Well, is that all you want?'

'Water, Capting, if you've any to spare. An' bread—I'd be glad to buy a few sacks. We have a hungry cargo.'

'How hungry?'

'Pretty. We're so short of victuals they've been on quarter allowance for two weeks.'

Ramage nodded in feigned sympathy and Wheeler grumbled:

'This'll knock every bit o' profit out o' this voyage—an' more. How's the time we usually double the rations—fattens 'em up just right for when we get into port and they're put to auction.'

'Like cattle,' Ramage commented understandingly.

'That's right, Capting, just like cattle. No farmer likes to drive his herd to market and sell the same day: he wants them to spend a day or two on grass or hay to put the shine back on their coats. Same with slaves.'

'I imagine so.'

'Exactly the same. If they get sick or starved it shows on their skin, y'know. It goes dull; no gloss to it. Give 'em a few days on bread sopping with palm oil and they soon shine up.'

Suddenly Ramage snapped: 'Fetch m'sieur capitain.' Wheeler gave a start and automatically put his hands on the desk to stand up, before recovering and sitting back in the chair. There was a pallor now under the brown, leathery skin of his face; the eyes were shifty; the skin over the skull taut and bloodless under the tan.

'Sorry, Capting, I don't speak Spanish. Or was it French?'

The smell, the crude deception, the horror of what he knew was below deck, finally sickened Ramage: rubbing the scar over his brow, he could see Wheeler only in a red fog of anger. He knew he could shoot the man with no compunction and was glad he wore only a sword.

'This ship is a prize to His Majesty's brig Triton, Wheeler.

She's French. You're probably the mate, or possibly the bo'sun. As far as I'm concerned you're French too, though for all that Yankee accent I suspect you're English, which would make you a traitor instead. Anyway, you- haven't missed my point, I trust------'

'Don't move, your life ain't worth a candle!' Wheeler snarled, and his right hand came up with a pistol. The thumb moved forward and as it went back there was a click as he cocked the pistol. 'Nor the puff to blow it out.'

Ramage shook his head. 'I'm sorry. Wheeler, it won't do. Don't be a fool------'

'I've nuthin' to lose,' Wheeler almost shouted, revealing an accent Ramage couldn't place more specifically than Midland, 'the Royal Navy's been looking for me for years!'

Ramage spoke loudly and deliberately.

'You won't gain anything by threatening me with a pistol.'

'No?' jeered Wheeler. 'Well, I ain't threatening, I'm promising! Correct Mr Lieutenant, I'm not the Captain of this ship; I'm the mate, but I have a share in her. Correct, she's really French; those papers are forged. Correct she's now a prize to His Royal Majesty King George the Second------'

' "The Third",' Ramage corrected mildly, glancing up at the skylight, trying to gain time.

' "The Third", then, not that it's going to make any difference to you. Correct, I'm as good as your prisoner. And I'll go further—if I was ever brought to trial I'd swing from the foreyardarm, so I've nothing to lose; but so help me God, I'm not going to quit this world alone, Mr Lieutenant. I'm taking you with me.

'If it hadn't been for you I'd have retired rich in my old age. I've a house in Charleston—and every brick of it paid for. Not bad for a man who had "Run" put against his name in the muster book of a British ship o' war only six years ago, eh?

'So say your prayers, Mr Ramage. Your old father's going to mourn you. Yes, I remember him; even served in his ship once. Five, Mr Ramage, start saying your prayers, Mr Ramage, 'cos when I've counted five you're going to be dead, and it's only fitting to give a man time to make his peace.'

He raised the pistol and Ramage was looking straight into the muzzle, which seemed to grow in size as he watched. Wheeler was holding it canted slightly to his left, to be certain the priming powder in the pan covered the touch-hole and there'd be no chance of a miss-fire.

'One, Mr Ramage,' he said, and the first joint of his index finger whitened as it tightened slightly round the trigger. 'Two... I don't see those eyes dosed in prayer ...'

And suddenly Ramage was very frightened and oddly resentful: it was a waste—he was going to the, and so stupidly, at the hands of a trapped deserter.

'Three

After all that... rescuing Gianna, the Belette affair, capturing the Spanish frigate, ramming the enormous San Nicolas at Cape St Vincent----- 'Four...'

Only a few seconds. Gianna would----- A sharp, ear-shattering explosion, a faint crash of broken glass, but mercifully no pain.

Wheeler's hand fell to the table still clutching the pistol and he leaned forward, his head dropping on to his arms as though he was tired.

Ramage, suddenly realizing the pistol had not fired, saw half the man's face was torn away. A moment later more glass fell from the skylight overhead; two feet and then the legs came into sight through the hole, and Jackson dropped on to the desk.

'You all right, sir?'

Ramage swore violently.

'You left that damned late, Jackson!'

The American looked crestfallen. 'Didn't think he'd go through with it, sir. I reckoned he'd stop at three and try to strike a bargain. I had to back and fill round the skylight so my shadow didn't show.'

'Bargain! Bargain—what, with his pistol aimed------'

Ramage shouted, breaking off as he realized the shock was making him lose control of himself, 'Had a bit of trouble on deck, too, sir,' Jackson said laconically, jumping off the desk. 'As soon as I heard him say who he was I had to signal the Tritons to cover the Frenchies —and I was scared stiff there'd be a shot fired. If there had been...'

Wheeler would have shot him straight away, Ramage realized.

'Very well, Jackson, let's get on with it. I want those papers collected and taken over to the Triton—don't let the blood soak them. The real ones are in the sideboard, but clear the desk as well.'