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 flowing 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 carrying 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, then, 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 the 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 the 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 close 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 the 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 close 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 nearby… 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!’