Ramage And The Rebels

CHAPTER TWO

The kneeling seaman carefully removed his plaited straw hat and took a soggy, stringy piece of tobacco from the lining, but before he put it in his mouth and began chewing he commented: 'My jaws are getting tired of overhauling this piece: it's the second day, and there ain't much taste left You 'aven't got the lend of a piece, 'ave you, Jacko?' 'Since when have I ever chewed bacca?' 'I know, but you might've 'ad a bit tucked away.' 'Oh yes, as a charm against rheumatism and snake bites.' 'Oh, you're a Yankee misery. Now, 'old the doth still. Cor, the sun's bright You ready with those scissors, Rossi? Wait, let me flatten out that crease. Now, snip away!'

The three men were crouching down on deck, cutting out the pattern of a pair of trousers drawn on a piece of white duck. Alberto Rossi, the Italian seaman from Genoa, snipped carefully, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips revealing his concentration.

The man in the straw hat Stafford, was a young Cockney for whom the trousers were intended, and who scorned 'slops', the clothing sold by the purser, all of it made to standard patterns. One of the more crushing judgements mat a self - respecting seaman could make of another man was: 'He's the sort o' feller who'd wear pusser's trousers.'

Rossi paused a moment with the scissors and inspected the doth. 'Staff, I think you draw the line too tight here - ' he gestured with the scissors - 'and you might damage yourself. Shall I leave extra cloth?'

Stafford looked at it doubtfully, certain that his pencilled line had been accurate, but Jackson nudged him. 'You pencilled round the outline of the trousers you're wearing but you forgot to allow for the seams.'

The Cockney's face fell. 'So I did; I was concentrating on holding the cloth still - in this wind. All right then; give us an extra 'alf an inch all round, Rosey.'

All three men stopped and looked round as another group of men kneeling nearby started a violent argument and one of them suddenly stood up, waving a ragged piece of doth.

'You bluddy idjit!' he screamed. 'Look wotcher dun I Yer've cut froo two ficknesses, not one, an' took off the other leg! I sedjer coodn't be trusted wiv them bluddy scissors. Ten bob's worth o' cloft, that's whatcher've ruined. Why'ncher go'n sit on the jibboom tossing guineas over the side, heh?'

'As long as they're your guineas it's all the same to me,' the other man answered calmly. 'But you marked it and you held it, and I just cut where you said.'

With another scream of rage the first man flung the piece of cloth down on the deck and jumped up and down on it, shaking his fist. 'You rusty cuttle - bung; oooh you milk - livered jakes-scourer, why—'

"Ere, 'old 'ard,' the man with the scissors interrupted mildly, 'if you go on like that, I shan't 'elp you no more.'

Stafford prodded Rossi. 'Come on, snip away; don't pay no attention to them or you'll be doing the same. Don't forget, arf an inch outside the line.'

Stafford watched carefully and then muttered: ' 'Ere, Jacko, ain't there someone around what'll lend me a chaw of bacca?'

'Pay attention to your trousers, otherwise you'll end up with four legs and no seat, like a broken chair.'

Finally the trousers were cut out and the front section was held up against Stafford, who looked down at it critically. 'Seems all right,' he said doubtfully. 'Wotcher fink, Rosey?'

'Is all right,' the Italian said. 'Sta attenti with the stitches. Not those great big ones you put in a sail.'

' Taint often the bosun catches me for sail mending,' Stafford boasted. 'I volunteered when the foretopsail split yesterday, but that was so's I could get my fingers on a sail needle.'

'I hope you picked a sharp one. Most of 'em are rusty,' Jackson said. They're the ones left on board by the French - poor quality they are. No guts in the metal; they won't hold a point'

'I did get a nice sharp one, but I can't find it now,' Stafford admitted. ' 'Aven't got one I could borrow, 'ave you, Jacko?'

'Bacca, needle - I suppose you've got a reel of thread?'

'Well, not reely; I know Rosey's got some good fred, and I was 'oping . . .'

The Italian glared at him. This cloth we just make the cut. Staff; you buy him from the purser? I wonder. The purser not sell any slops since we leave Antigua, and I don't remember . . .

'Well, I didn't steal it from any of me shipmates,' Stafford declared hotly, 'you know me well enough for that Why, I'm - '

'Accidente! Rossi said sharply. 'I was only going to ask why you didn't take the thread from the purser at the same time, and you need two buttons.'

'I got the buttons all right' Stafford admitted, 'but old Nipcheese didn't get the fred out'

'Old Nipcheese saw you coming,' Jackson commented. 'Not all pursers are daft!'

Homage paused at the forward end of the quarterdeck and looked across the ship. It was a scene being repeated on board every one of the King's ships at sea: Sunday afternoon and 'make and mend', with the men off watch doing just what they wanted. Some dozed in the sun, others mended clothes, while yet more were cutting cloth and stitching, making new trousers and shirts and repairing old ones.

It was curious how fussy the average seaman was about his clothes, Ramage reflected. Expect him to wear slop clothes and he would be outraged; unless he was lazy or particularly unskilled with needle and thread he did not want to wear a purser's shirt of the same cut and cloth as his shipmate; he wanted a wider or narrower collar, or he sewed the whole shirt with French seams so he could also wear it inside out His hat would be different; some preferred the natural straw colour of the Bennett while others tarred it Some liked a large hat almost resting on their ears with a wide brim which shaded their eyes and the back of their head; others wanted a narrow brim with a small bat worn high on the head and tilted rakishly forward.

Some captains tried to force the men to wear the same kind of clothes of the same colour and cut, a sort of ship's uniform, as though they were Marines or soldiers, but Ramage disagreed with them. His only rule was that his boat's crew should wear white shirts and trousers and black hats when they rowed him away from the ship on official business, but they were all volunteers and if they did not want to make themselves white trousers they could step down. In fact Aitken reported more than a hundred men clamouring for the dozen places . . . Eccentric captains (and he admitted there were a few of them) dressed their boats' crews in absurd rigs - Wilson had made a fool of himself when commanding the Harlequin and the story went that his admiral, taking one look at the men in the boat, asked him if he was commanding a ship or a circus. Wilson was such a fool that most people would have been unsure.

Ramage glanced at the dogvanes - corks strung on a line with feathers stuck in them-on top of the bulwark nettings, then up at the scattering of white clouds drifting westward in neat lines. The weather was holding and the wind had backed to the east. Sailing in the north-east Trade winds meant that one could be sure that they rarely if ever blew from the north-east. Today the wind had been mostly between east and south-east, so that he could short-tack along the Hispaniola coast and have something of a lee from the short, sharp seas rippling across the top of these larger swell waves which the Calypso did not like: they were just the wrong length, and each time she dug her bow into the bigger ones she came almost to a stop, the wind not strong enough to thrust her through.

Another few miles, though, and he would be able to turn south, direct for Curacao. Almost direct, anyway, a course which counteracted a knot of westgoing current. With this wind a knot seemed about right. A week or two of strong easterlies always increased the current, but crossing the Caribbean from the Greater Antilles to the Spanish Main reduced navigation (the setting of an exact course, anyway) to inspired guesswork. You hoped for luck and nodded your head knowingly if you made a good landfall.

The approach to Curacao from the north was clear of outlying reefs and rocks, and with luck and careful navigation the first the privateers knew that a British frigate and a schooner was after them would be when the island's lookouts sighted them coming over the horizon. Even then, there might be a few hours of uncertainty because both the Calypso and La Creole were French built and still used French - cut sails which were distinctive with their deep roaches, and with the ships too far off for their ensigns to be distinguished the worthy burgomasters of Curacao might be forgiven for thinking their French allies were sending reinforcements or calling in for water and provisions, for which no doubt they would have to pay cash in advance.

Southwick, who had just been supervising the casting of the log, came up to report the ship was making a little less than six knots. There was land along the north horizon which ended to the eastward as Hispaniola gave way to the Mona Passage, one of the Caribbean's main gateways into the Atlantic. Just off the south - eastern tip of Hispaniola was the island of Saona, and Ramage pointed to it. 'As soon as the eastern end of Saona is in line with the Punta Espada well bear away for Curacao.'

'Aye aye, sir. With this light wind it's going to be a long 330 miles.'

Ramage pointed at La Creole astern, her great fore and aft tails hardened in, spray flying up from her stem, the ship rising and falling on the swell waves with the easy grace of the flying fish which every now and then flashed up to skim the surface. 'Once she gets the wind on the beam you'll be hard put to hold her: she reaches like a bird, and these conditions suit her.'

'I know,' Southwick said ruefully, that's why I had the men overhauling the stunsails yesterday. Well look silly if die has to reduce sail for us to catch up.'

'If I was young Lacey I'd be making my plans,' Ramage said. 'I'd have my best quartermaster chosen, staysails overhauled, largest flying jib bent on ready - and then I'd wait for the Calypso's signal to alter course south, and I'd pass her before Captain Ramage had time to get another signal hoisted!"

Southwick was chuckling and rubbing his hands together.

'Reminds me of the time we were in the Kathleen cutter, sir. Pity we never had a schooner; then we'd know some o' the tricks.'

'If you haven't learned enough tricks in - what is it, forty years? - to beat young Lacey, who has been at sea perhaps eight years, and in command of the Creole for less than eight weeks, it's time you went back to England and cultivated cabbages. Forty rows of eight cabbages each.'

'She's French built, sir,' Southwick pointed out 'So is this ship,' Ramage teased.

'Let's have a trial of sailing to windward in a blow, or running with the wind free. That'd show the whippersnapper. But reaching - that's what schooners are built for.'

The trouble is the course is south, so the "whippersnapper" will probably show us,' Ramage said. 'And most of the privateers we chase will be schooners, too.' He looked towards the land again. Saona and Punta Espada were almost in line as the Calypso sailed along to the north - east, close - hauled on the starboard tack, as though straggling to stay up to windward and sail through the Mona Passage and into the Atlantic beyond.

'Well cheat a bit,' Ramage said. 'Seniority must have its privileges. Well go about now. That's an hour earlier than Lacey expects.'

Southwick gave an off - key sniff; one which neither acknowledged that he would have an advantage nor admitted that he needed it.

Ramage called to Wagstaffe, who was officer of the deck, and gave him his orders. A few moments later Orsini, the young midshipman, was busy with a seaman, bending signal flags to a halyard.

Southwick led the way to the binnacle and stared down at the compass card. 'We're heading nor - nor' east on this tack." He looked up at the luff of the main course and then at the dogvane. The wind's due east, so steering south we'll have the wind on the beam. If it'd pipe up a bit . . .'

By now Wagstaffe, speaking trumpet in his hand, was giving the first of the orders which would turn the frigate and bring the wind from the starboard side to the larboard. The men stitching and cutting or just lazing, enjoying their 'make and mend', moved themselves out of the way of the men on watch who, in a few moments, would be hauling on tacks and sheets and braces as the great yards swung over. The men at the wheel, one each side, watched the quartermaster who was standing to windward of them, alternately eyeing Wagstaffe and the luffs of the sails.

Ramage savoured the moment Tacking a well - designed frigate was a joy if properly done, the ship swinging (in this case) through fourteen points of the compass without losing way and then sailing in almost the opposite direction at the same speed. A joy to watch the men you've trained moving in apparent confusion, but every man following his own special track, as if the deck was marked out with separate but invisible paths. The sails slamming and napping, ropes squealing as they rendered through blocks - and then suddenly came peace and quiet as the last order was given with the sails trimmed on the new tack, and the quartermaster calling out the new course being steered. And the ship settled down to the ridge - and - furrow movement like the flight of a woodpecker. Some hours of peace before the next bout of war . . . the fascination of sea life, he realized, was its strange variety.

Wagstaffe glanced across at Ramage who, seeing all was ready, nodded and wondered wryly as he looked astern at La Creole whether post captains had played similar tricks on him when he was a nervous young lieutenant commanding the Kathleen cutter. Small and at the time inexplicable episodes now took on meaning; sudden alterations of course, sudden and odd orders hoisted by signal flags when the wind direction meant the flags streamed out end - on and indistinguishable - yes, other post captains had done it. Now, years later, he could admit they were quite right, too: it had kept him on his toes. Even today, when he could rely on his men and had no need personally to watch a horizon for a strange sail or keep an eye on a flagship in anticipation of a hoist of signal flags suddenly appearing, it was rare for anyone on deck to spot them before him. Lookouts up at the masthead would sight a distant ship first because their height of eye gave them a longer range, but . . .

His thoughts were interrupted as Wagstaffe snapped orders at the quartermaster, and the men began to spin the wheel. Tacking or wearing off a coastline always gave this curious effect that the ship was still heading in the same direction and it was the land that was sliding one way or the other. Now the whole coastline of Hispaniola seemed to be sliding to the west, as though someone was pulling a rumpled green baize doth across a table.

He still found it hard to leave an evolution entirely to the officer of the deck. He had enough self - control to keep his mourn shut, and thus give the impression of not interfering; of treating the whole evolution with lofty disdain as though merely tacking the ship was beneath the interest of the captain, apart from giving the initial order. Yes, he managed to keep his mouth shut, but sometimes it was difficult - like now, when the wind is out of the after sails and Wagstaffe is going to be several seconds late in ordering: 'Raise tacks and sheets!'

Then he saw that as Wagstaffe put the speaking trumpet to his mouth and bellowed the order the lieutenant's eyes were in fact on Southwick, who was glaring at him. Southwick knew it was late and now Wagstaffe knew, so why, Ramage asked himself, don't I just admire the view?

The canvas of the sails was flogging with a noise like great wet slaps. Wagstaffe was bellowing: 'Mainsail haul!' - and what the devil were Jackson and his crowd doing? They had suddenly begun pointing upwards after making sure he could see them.

Up aloft the lookouts at the foremast and mainmast were gesticulating wildly, their hails lost in the slamming of yards and flapping of sails. Quickly Ramage ran to the larboard side as the Calypso's bow swung. Is that a fleck on the horizon? Perhaps two? Specks that are the sun making light and shadow of the sails of one or more distant ships? He could not be sure.

Finally Wagstaffe gave the last order: 'Haul off all!' and with the quartermaster watching the compass and the luff of the mainsail and cursing the men at the wheel, Ramage heard the excited hails from aloft: 'Deck there!'

For a moment he nearly cupped his hands to reply, but Wagstaffe had the speaking trumpet and shouted aloft 'Mainmast - head,' came the faint shout 'One sail, probably two, fine on the larboard bow, sir!'

Wagstaffe glanced round and saw Orsini, who was waiting for the order to hoist La Creole's signal. 'Quick, boy, take the bring - 'em - near and get aloft. What ships and what courses are they steering!'

The young midshipman snatched the proffered telescope and raced to the main shrouds. Wagstaffe looked at Ramage, obviously worried about the signal, still bent on the halyard, a heap of coloured cloth, but a glance told Ramage that Lacey was already tacking La Creole without orders: he had probably seen the flags being bent on and saw Orsini suddenly scrambling aloft, and there was now only one order that mattered.

'Beat to quarters, Mr Wagstaffe.'

Already the deck was clearing of men: they had heard the lookouts' hail and were snatching up their pieces of cloth and rousing their sleeping mates and making their way to their quarters for action. The gunner was running up from below to ask for the key to the magazine and Bowen, the surgeon, who had apparently been dozing on the fo'c'sle, was hurrying below to set out his instruments.

Ramage looked out over the larboard bow, balancing himself on the breech of the aftermost 12 - pounder gun. It took a few moments to spot the fleck again. Flecks, rather, because there were definitely two ships, though they'd seemed closer together when first he saw them.

And whatever they were, it was important to keep up to windward.

'Mr Wagstaffe, steer hard on the wind; man the lee braces and tend the weather ones ... get those fore - tacks close down . . . Let's have those yards braced sharp up!'

Ramage stopped himself: there were plenty more instructions for getting the Calypso steering as fast and as close to the wind as possible, to cut off the distant ships' escape if they were enemy, but Wagstaffe knew them all, and any moment Aitken would be on deck.

Ah, there was the Marine drummer striding up and down, whirling his drumsticks with a flourish that sent men to quarters, and already several had anticipated the order and were rigging head pumps and running up on deck with buckets of sand while others were casting loose the guns.

'Mr Wagstaffe, make to the Creole "Sail in sight" and give the bearing.'

Southwick gestured astern, and Ramage saw La Creole was already hauling her wind to get into the Calypso's wake, and at that moment three hoists of signal flags broke out.

'Should never trust young lieutenants with the signal book,' Southwick muttered, 'and Lacey must have seen Orsini going aloft!'

Wagstaffe had his telescope to his eye and began reading off the signals. '350 - I have discovered a strange fleet. . . 366 - The strange ships lye - by, and 115 - The ship is ready for action.' 'Acknowledge,' Ramage said, and winked at Southwick. 'He trumped our ace, don't you think?'

Southwick grinned ruefully. 'It's the way you've trained him, sir. He's picked up some of your habits. A rod for your own back!'

By now the lookout at die mainmast - head was hailing again, passing on Orsini's reports. 'Deck there . . . two ships, sir, both lying - to. One - the nearest, Mr Orsini says - is a merchant ship. The other is smaller . . . fore and aft rigged ... much less freeboard, big sweep to her sheer . . .'

Wagstaffe acknowledged, but a few moments later the lookout was hailing again. 'Deck there ... the smaller ship's a schooner and she's getting under way. The merchant ship's backing and filling as though there's no one at the helm, so Mr Orsini says, sir.'

From the moment the lookout had shouted down, '. . . both lying - to . . .' Ramage had known what was going to follow, and he turned to Aitken, who had just hurried up, buckling on his sword, and told him: 'Fine on the larboard bow, a privateer schooner has caught a merchant ship. She sighted us just as we saw her, and now she's getting under way.'

The masthead lookout hailed again: 'Deck there! Schooner's steering a couple of points to starboard of our course, sir, but the merchant ship's swung so everything's aback.'

Ramage saw Baker and Kenton hurry up to the quarterdeck and report to Aitken, who came up and said formally: The ship's company at quarters, sir: do you want the guns loaded and run out?'

'Not for the time being.'

And here was Jackson with his sword and a pistol. Ramage turned while Jackson clipped on the slings of the scabbard, and then took the pistol and clipped it into his waistbelt Now Southwick was reporting the wind freshening, and yet another glance showed La Creole was in the same position in the frigate's wake, heeling more now. There was no chance, Ramage realized bitterly, of her overhauling that privateer schooner out ahead of them. It would be dark in six hours.

and the old saying that 'a stem chase is a long chase' was very true. And he was not going to risk splitting his tiny force at this stage.

Yet such was the contradictory nature of men, if he had told them that they would soon be going into action, with the inevitable corollary that some of them would be killed and others would be badly wounded and maimed for life, so that Bowen would have to saw off limbs with the patients biting a piece of wood and befuddled with rum to help them bear the pain, they would have cheered him. Instead he would soon be telling them that unless something entirely unforeseen happened, there would be no action today, and they would groan with genuine disappointment.

'Deck there I The schooner has tacked up to the nor' east, sir.'

And in half an hour, Ramage thought bitterly, she'll tack again, gradually working herself well up to windward, knowing no square - rigged ship like a frigate could get near her and sure that no schooner so far to leeward would ever catch her up. By nightfall she'll be out of sight, and the Calypso's log will note that she was 'last seen in the south - east quadrant'.

By now, as the Calypso worked her way to windward, occasional spray flying over the fo'c'sle like a heavy shower of rain, the merchant ship's hull was beginning to lift over the curvature of the earth, the line of her deck just now visible in the telescope but the rest of her hull still below the horizon. Ramage saw that she was heading eastward, all her sails aback, and even as he watched she began to pay off and swing round, the wind pressing on backed jibs.

Had the schooner taken everyone on board prisoner? Was the ship abandoned? Curious that no one was attempting to trim her sails or furl them. Now she was making a stem board, one which risked wrenching off her rudder if the men at the wheel did not stop it spinning. There was, of course, another explanation, and he tried to avoid thinking about it; he would soon know.

'Mr Aitken, we'll need one boat, possibly two, so have them ready for hoisting out. Six Marines for each boat and a dozen extra seamen. And tell Mr Bowen to be ready with a bag of instruments, because he'll be going over.'

The first lieutenant stared at him, and then realized the significance of the reference to Bowen, because it was unlikely the merchant ship had been in action against the privateer. As he gave the orders he watched the distant merchant ship slowly turning, like a swan's feather on a pond, turning and drifting in the breeze.

Now Rennick was giving orders to his Marines while men ran to prepare the boats for hoisting out, and Jackson said to Ramage: 'Shall I get your boat cloak, sir?'

He had a light cloak, intended only for use in the Tropics, to keep the spray off his uniform, and there was enough of a sea to ensure a wet row to the merchant ship. He shook his head. 'I shan't be going over.'

The American coxswain's face fell. A visit to a merchant ship just out from England usually meant the gift of newspapers and often some tasty snacks like cheeses. Ramage said: 'You had better take Mr Baker.'

Aitken, overhearing the conversation, turned expectantly, but Ramage said: 'Send Kenton with one boat and Baker with the other and Rennick had better divide his Marines. And make sure the surgeon's mate goes with Bowen.'

'You think it will be as bad as that, sir?'

Ramage watched the merchant ship's sails fill for a few moments as she turned slowly in the wind. 'Yes, it'll be as bad as that.'

It was, in fact, far worse. As the Calypso approached Ramage saw that the merchant ship was low in the water and obviously settling, and Ramage wasted no time in bringing the frigate up to windward, backing the foretopsail and hoisting out the two boats, giving Baker orders that he was to board first and give any necessary orders to Kenton in the second boat.

Ramage had watched through the telescope as Baker boarded with Jackson, swarming up a rope ladder hanging over the merchant ship's quarter. He had paused on the poop, then walked forward, finally going below. He had emerged briefly to signal Kenton to come on board, and Bowen had gone up the ladder as well as Rennick and his sergeant. Then, as far as Ramage could see, they bad systematically searched the ship's accommodation, although it was dear that the hatches were still battened down, the covers, battens and wedges still in place, showing that no one had been down into the cargo holds.

Half an hour later, with the ship settling so deeply that the was becoming unstable, liable to capsize unexpectedly, Ramage had fired a gun to signal the boats to return, and when they were back on board Baker, Kenton, Rennick and Bowen had come to the quarterdeck to report, all of them white - faced and obviously distressed at what they had seen.

'You saw the name on the stern, sir, the Tranquil of London, but there are no ship's papers on board. The captain's cabin, has been looted, his desk smashed up, every drawer emptied out,' Baker said.

He held up a bundle of papers. 'We shall be able to identify most of the bodies of the passengers from these letters, sir, and some of the crew too, I expect. There were some packages addressed to people in Jamaica. They're in the boat and I'll have them brought up.'

Ramage knew he was trying to avoid asking the question just as Baker was avoiding referring to it, but finally he said: 'How many?'

'Fifteen in the ship's company, sir, and nine passengers, five of them women."

'All dead?'

Three were still alive when I found them. One died before Bowen could get on board, and the others - both women - died before he could do anything. The women were raped and then shot or butchered. But the strange thing is none of them seem to have tried to run away.'

'Could they have been standing there, expecting to be taken over to the schooner as prisoners, but suddenly murdered by their guards?' Ramage asked.

Baker nodded miserably. 'I think that's what must have happened. When the privateer sighted us, sir?'

'Yes. The boarding party were probably about to secure the prisoners - or perhaps choosing those likely to be worth ransoming - and preparing to put a prize crew on board and get under way just as we came in sight.'

If I'd waited another hour before tacking, Ramage told himself, the privateer would never have seen us. Working beyond the rim of the horizon, she would have sent her prize off, and those people would still be alive, even though prisoners. As it was, there had been a senseless massacre. The ship was sinking anyway, scuttled with her boats still secured, so why kill everyone? Why not let them take their chance in the boats? It would have cost the privateer nothing. "The quality of mercy . . .' 'Why was she sinking?' 'She carried two 6 - pounders,' Baker said. 'Little more than boat guns, but the privateersman trained one down the com - panionway and fired a shot through the bottom.' 'And there's no indication of the name of the privateer?' 'No, sir, but she was French,' Baker said, motioning to Kenton, who opened the drawstring of a canvas bag and pulled out a handful of blue, white and red cloth. They had this flag ready to bend on her, but they left it behind in the rush.' For a moment Ramage pictured the scene: women screaming as pistols and muskets fired, men begging for mercy as cutlasses slashed at them, and somewhere there, watching, the man who had ordered it all: the privateer captain who was not content with leaving all these people to take their chance in a sinking ship. No, he wanted the satisfaction of murdering them, twenty - four murders which did not put another penny in his pocket nor make his life any safer, because none of the victims could possibly have known his name. Kenton held the hoist of the flag so the doth unrolled like a sheet. He looked up at Ramage. 'It was a terrible sight, sir. Not like battle, where you expect to see bodies and men badly wounded. It was like a slaughterhouse.' Ramage took the bundle of papers from Baker, and knew that for the next few hours he would have to read through many private letters, so that he could identify as many victims as possible. It was nothing compared with what the young lieutenants had just gone through. As Kenton had said, it wasn't like battle. Yet war wasn't made up only of battles, which was why he had sent these youngsters over to the merchant ship. Southwick, Aitken, Wagstaffe . . . they might not have seen this sort of thing before although they expected it, but for Baker and Kenton and probably Rennick, it was a side of war of which they had not yet even dreamed. And Ramage knew that in future they would understand if the captain of the ship in which they were serving refused to show any mercy towards a privateer or privateersmen. 'Look,' Southwick suddenly called, there she goes.' Air trapped in the merchant ship's hull was bunting the hatches, hurling up the planks in showers of spray as canvas covers, battens and wedges tore free. Sacks and crates floated sway as the ship began to heel, yards slewing and dropping as the lifts broke. She heeled towards the Calypso and for a minute they were all looking down on her, a gull's eye view, and then she capsized, fat - bilged and ungainly. The bottom was greenish - brown from the copper sheathing, but here and there small, rectangular black patches showed where sheets of the copper had ripped off. There was a swirling in the water, as though a great whale was submerging, and then she was gone, a few air bubbles making the floating wreckage, planks and sacks, bob and twist Ramage looked towards the eastern horizon. The privateer was now a mere speck several miles to windward, an anonymous killer sneaking into the haze. Astern La Creole was lying hove - to and like the Calypso her gun ports were open. Chasing the privateer was a waste of time; she would vanish IB the night long before the Calypso or La Creole could ever get close.

Aitken looked questioningly at Ramage, who nodded, and a few moments later the men were bracing round the foretop - sail yard while others unscrewed the locks from the guns and coiled up the trigger lines. Cartridges were returned to the magazine, cutlasses and pistols put back in chests. The sand bad been washed from the decks and the hot sun had dried the wood in two or three minutes. Ten minutes later the Calypso's off - watch men were back doing whatever they had been doing when the privateer and her victim had been sighted.

Ramage took one last look round the horizon and went down to his cabin with the handful of papers. It was cool and dark, and he was thankful to be out of the glare of the sun. Watching the funeral of a ship and twenty - four innocent people left him feeling shaky. Should he have read a funeral service as the Tranquil sank? He had not thought of it, because he preferred to mourn in his own way, in a quiet and dark place. He hated the pomp and ritual of church funerals, but he knew the ship's company were great sticklers for ritual. Not for ritual, perhaps, but for 'doing the right thing'. They had a healthy attitude towards the death of one of their shipmates, and their wish to give him what they called a 'proper funeral' was perhaps more because they wanted to please him; to give him the kind of funeral they thought he would like which in turn, Ramage supposed, meant die kind of funeral each man wanted for himself: a time when everyone, from the youngest boy on board to the captain, paid their respects. The people represented by the handful of papers now on his desk had not been given a farewell wave. Yet he was sure that no one else had thought of it: Southwick would have been the first to whisper a hint; Jackson had heard Baker's report, and he had said nothing, and the American was not one for keeping his thoughts to himself if the captain's reputation was at stake. No, those who knew what that sinking ship contained had been too shocked to think of anything, and the Tranquil had gone down on her own with a quiet dignity and taken her people with her.