With that Ramage went to his cabin (at the bottom of the companionway he almost walked forward to his former temporary berth) and slumped in the chair, staring at the dim lantern. Weariness numbed him; he seemed to exist only in his eyes while his body remained remote and detached. Yet with Appleby away in the prize, he and Southwick would have to stand watch and watch about.
As the cutter rolled, the cot slung from the beams overhead, swung from side to side and he saw something dark lying on the pillow. It was a long, narrow silk scarf in dark blue embroidered with gold thread. The tiny patterns were all the same, delicately sewn designs of a mailed fist holding a scimitar. Instinctively Ramage touched the heavy gold ring which – from the time the two frigates came in sight – he wore slung by a piece of ribbon round his neck, beneath his shirt. The same design was engraved on it, Gianna’s family crest. She had left him a memento – or, remembering her last remark and chilly farewell, had she just forgotten it? – and he wound it round his neck, half-ashamed of his sentimentality, and sat back and thought of her and fell asleep.
Ramage paced up and down the quarterdeck in the darkness: ten paces forward, turn about, ten paces aft and turn again. He had taken the first watch, from 8 p.m. until midnight, slept soundly until 4 a.m. while Southwick stood the middle, and now with dawn not far off he was shivering with cold an hour or so through the morning watch.
The wind had backed until it was on the beam and the down-draught from the mainsail was chilly. Ramage’s clothes felt damp and smelled musty – spray had so often soaked the material that it was impregnated with salt which absorbed the damp night air, and he made a mental note to get his steward to rinse them if there was enough fresh water.
He shook his head violently, banged his brow with his knuckles, but still sleepiness came in waves. Using the old trick of licking a finger and wetting his eyelids to refresh himself, he cursed as the salt in the spray which had dried on the skin made his eyes smart.
But with a tremendous effort he listened carefully because the distant shouts had finally penetrated his drowsiness. He heard them again: a series of calls, very faint and up to windward on the starboard beam. A seaman padded up to him in the darkness.
‘Captain, sir,’ the man whispered.
‘Yes – who is it?’
‘Casey, sir, lookout in the starboard chains. Reckon I just heard shouting to windward and some blocks squealing, like a ship was bracing up her yards. Thought I’d better come aft instead of hailing you, sir.’
‘Quite right. I’ve just heard it myself. Warn the other lookouts. And report anything else you hear – but keep your voices down.’
A ship close to windward – and the Kathleen advertising her presence by burning a lantern on either quarter and the prize three more.
Ramage turned to the quartermaster standing beside the two men at the tiller, ‘Douse the lanterns, pass the word for Mr Southwick, the bosun’s mate and my coxswain, and send the hands to quarters. But be sure no one makes a sound. There’s a ship close by up to windward. And sling a jacket over the binnacle to shield the light.’
He prayed the prize crew would hear the shouts and snuff out their lanterns as well.
It’d begin to get light in ten minutes or so. At that moment he heard another shout – to leeward this time, close on the larboard beam, and then a deep creak that could only be the rudder of a big ship working on its pintles. She must be very close for that to be audible. Southwick, Evans and Jackson arrived in quick succession and men were gliding past him bare-footed on their way to the carronades, which were still run out.
Southwick left and after a quick inspection of the men at the guns returned to report the ship ready for action. Once again he was rubbing his hands and Ramage guessed he had the usual expression on his face, like a butcher well-satisfied with the meat on a newly slaughtered carcase.
‘Just because we’re ready for ’em, they’ll probably turn out to be British. You think so, sir?’
‘No,’ Ramage said shortly. ‘I couldn’t make out what was being shouted but I’m sure it wasn’t English. Anyway they must have seen our lanterns and one of our own ships wouldn’t make such a noise if she was going to clap herself alongside as soon as it’s light.’
‘Hadn’t thought of that,’ Southwick admitted. ‘Which of ’em will you have a go at first, sir?’
‘Neither.’
‘Neither?’ Southwick could not keep the surprise out of his voice.
‘Mr Southwick,’ Ramage said sourly, ‘don’t let’s make a habit of attacking frigates with a small cutter. We’ve been lucky so far, not clever.’
‘Quite, sir. Then why don’t we–?’
Ramage snapped, ‘Think man! If we cut the tow and drop astern or draw ahead we lose the prize to them. If they’re British we won’t get a penny. If they’re Spanish – which is more likely – it’ll be light enough for ’em to see us in’ – he glanced eastward – ‘four or five minutes, and with this breeze they’d soon catch us. And anyway, I doubt if they’re alone.’
‘So what do we do, sir?’
‘We’ve no choice. We wait, Mr Southwick, and hope. Those who wish can pray as well.’
‘The prize has doused her lanterns, sir,’ Jackson reported. Ramage thought he could see a vague, blacker outline in the night, showing where the prize lay, but he was far from sure. ‘Very well. Keep a good lookout; I’m going below for a few moments.’
In his cabin, the sentry shielding the lantern with his hat, Ramage unlocked the drawer in his desk and once again put his secret papers in the lead-lined box. Suddenly he remembered a conversation with a midshipman who’d once been prisoner in France: it was essential to have strong boots and warm clothes – the French marched their prisoners hundreds of miles north to such camps as Verdun, and presumably the Spaniards did the same. And you needed money to buy food on the march.
Ramage was already wearing boots and breeches. He took some guineas from a drawer and tucked a few into the lining of his hat, dropping the rest down his breeches. He waved the sentry away and as the man left with the lantern he thought he could detect the night turning grey at the skylight overhead. As he took a last glance round the cabin he remembered the ring round his neck: that would be stolen from him. He knotted it into a corner of Gianna’s scarf and put them both in his pocket. He’d feel a damned fool if the ships turned out to be British, and they probably would, after all these precautions.
He took the weighted box up on deck and gave it to the quartermaster beside the binnacle, ‘You know what this is by now. Keep it beside you.’
As soon as Southwick saw him he reported: ‘Sound a rum lot, sir: make as much noise as if they was beating through a convoy anchored in a thick fog off Spithead.’
The cries from to starboard were musical. Even though the words were blurred, Ramage was sure he could detect a certain sibilance, an emphasis of certain vowels. The ship was a good deal closer now and from the shouting and subsequent noises, he was certain her sails were being trimmed constantly to edge her slowly down to leeward, to where they thought the Kathleen was. He walked over to the larboard side and could hear more voices from the second ship, even closer, and thought he could make out the hiss and bubble of the water being thrust aside by her stem.
The two ships obviously knew they were converging on the Kathleen but did each know the other was? Were they working to a pre-arranged plan or had they been sailing in company and both separately spotted the Kathleen in the darkness? Did they know their intended victim was only a small cutter? Unlikely. Was there a chance, therefore, of playing one off against the other?
For a wild, almost ecstatic moment he thought of manoeuvring the Kathleen until she was precisely midway between the two frigates and then, as they closed in on either side, drop all sail. The weight of the tow would act as an anchor and the Kathleen would stop as suddenly as if she’d run up on a sandbank.
Then, with a bit of luck, the two Spanish ships would crash alongside each other in the darkness, each thinking the other was the enemy. The chances were that each would have fired at least one broadside into her consort before realizing the mistake.
But a glance round the Kathleen’s deck and up at the sails showed him the attempt would be hopeless: it was too late.
The black of night had gone, the grey of dawn was already here. In a few minutes both Spaniards would be able to distinguish the outlines of the cutter. A pity; the prospect of provoking a brief outbreak of fraticidal warfare between two of His Most Catholic Majesty’s ships of war appealed to him. But he was wasting valuable time even thinking about it.
‘Evans.’
The bosun’s mate appeared beside him.
‘Send the ship’s company below – two at a time from each gun, and the rest take it in turns – to get shoes, a couple of shirts and any warm clothing they can sling round their neck. Don’t put the shoes on,’ he added hurriedly, ‘in case there’s any powder on deck.’
Evans paused a moment; although he had heard, he did not understand.
‘Prisoners have to march, Evans. Probably through thick snow over mountain passes…’
‘Oh – aye aye, sir!’
Jackson handed him his pair of pistols. ‘Sound like Dons for sure, don’t they, sir?’
Ramage grunted as he tucked them into the top of his breeches.
‘Their fleet’s at sea, isn’t it! sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hum, wouldn’t surprise me if–’
‘Nor me,’ snapped Ramage, who wanted time to think. ‘They’re probably about five miles astern, twenty sail of the line, and Admiral Don Juan de Langara sound asleep in one of them. Now, go below and get yourself shoes, warm clothes and money, in case we become prisoners.’
‘Prisoners, sir?’ Jackson exclaimed involuntarily. ‘Aren’t we–’
‘Get below, Jackson. This isn’t a debating society.’ He felt ashamed at the snub; but all the Kathleens seemed to be off their heads, unable to distinguish between capturing a dismasted frigate and engaging a pair of them. He pictured himself and his Kathleens trudging first under a blazing sun along a track shimmering with heat, trying to breathe while the stifling air was thick with white dust thrown up by dozens of other prisoners being herded along by dull-brained shuffling, Spanish soldiers. And then dragging one foot after the other across mountain passes almost blocked by snowdrifts, the wind so cold that every indrawn breath was like a knife in the chest and against which no clothes could protect them.
The shouts this time were unmistakable: they were Spanish and he almost sighed with relief. Fear was not knowing. Once you knew, you weren’t frightened – or at least there was a limit to it. It was not knowing that made fear depthless.
‘Dons, sir; I can hear ’em clearly,’ said Southwick.
‘I know.’
‘The prize, sir?’
‘Keep her in tow: there’s no point in letting her drift and Appleby hasn’t time to scuttle her.’
‘Shall we give each of ’em “one for the flag”, sir?’
‘No,’ Ramage said sharply. ‘Leave that sort of thing to the French.’
Pour l’honneur de pavillion: the French ritual of firing a single broadside and then hurriedly hauling down their colours, so they couldn’t be accused of surrendering without firing a shot. Who cared? If the odds were that great no one blamed you anyway; if they weren’t one broadside was not enough. Why for the sake of vulgar pride risk a return broadside which would kill your men unnecessarily?
When would he see Gianna again? Years rotting in some Spanish prison, and she in England, fêted by all the dandies of London Society. After a few gala balls at St James’s, at the Duchess of This’ and Lady That’s, she’d forget (gladly, probably) the brief days in the smelly and uncomfortable little wooden box that was the Kathleen. Yet oddly enough he didn’t feel bitter: indignant because it was his own bad luck, but not bitter. Perhaps a sign of old age, he thought wrily; perhaps even maturity. Attempt the impossible but accept the inevitable – if you can’t work miracles. Thank God she wasn’t with him now: in his imagination he saw them being parted outside some reeking Spanish prison, watched by the bloodshot eyes of Spanish guards and of lethargic disease-ridden dogs slowly dying in the sun. Surrender. He felt sick. It seemed that for the last few days everything he’d done had been without a thought of the consequences. Without any damned thought at all.
Just before the boat pulled away from the Spanish frigate lying hove-to to windward, Jackson came up to Ramage and said excitedly: ‘Sir – change into seamen’s clothes quickly!’ Ramage looked so startled that Jackson added: ‘I’ve a plan, sir: no time to explain now, but you must pretend to be a seaman. I’ve explained to Mr Southwick and he’ll say the captain died some days ago and he’s been left in command. Please go and change sir–’ he held out some clothes ‘–I’ll tell the men you are just a seaman.’
The boat, full of Spanish seamen, and some soldiers too, was ready to cast off. Ramage hesitated, unable to guess what Jackson was planning.
‘Oh, sir,’ Jackson exclaimed impatiently, ‘you’ve got to say you’re an American pressed into the Navy, if anyone asks. They won’t for a few hours. Think of a name for yourself so’s I can tell the crew and add it to the muster book. And I’ve got to enter your death, too.’
When Ramage did not move Jackson realized he would have to explain. ‘I’ve got a blank Protection, sir. I’ll fill it in so you can prove you’re an American. But what name? Think, sir – what about that artist chap that draws the cartoons? You know – the one who always has sailors in his pictures, and the women always have a bosom hanging out of their dresses.’
‘Gilray,’ Ramage said automatically, still looking for any hidden snags in Jackson’s scheme.
‘That’s him. “Nichlas Gilray” – how about that, sir?’
‘Not “sir”, Jackson, “Nicholas Gilray, able seaman”,’ Ramage said, finally grasping the full significance of Jackson’s scheme and realizing it might remove the threat of a Spanish prison.
‘Well, hurry up, Gilray,’ Jackson said with a grin.
Ramage grabbed the proffered clothes and ran to his cabin, calling to the quartermaster to throw the lead-lined box of papers over the side. He slipped off his clothes, guineas cascading from his breeches, and pulled on the trousers and shirt Jackson had given him. Then, taking Gianna’s silk scarf with the ring knotted into one corner, he tied in the sovereigns and secured the scarf round his waist, beneath the shirt. He decided to risk keeping his boots, which were partly hidden by his trousers, but pushed his uniform into a locker. Then wrenching open the door of the lantern, he smeared some of the soot on to his face. He put the pistols in their box, opened the little hatch leading to the bread-room, and pushed the box down on top of the bags, securing the hatch again.