As the Triton passed the last ship in the windward column led by the Topaz, Ramage automatically began counting and inspecting them with his night glass which, with its inverted image, showed them as if they were sailing upside down.
Soon the count of ships they had passed reached eight, and they were abreast their original position; back where they should be in the convoy screen. The lights on the flagship seemed brighter against the darker western horizon and were just forward of the larboard beam.
Ramage swung the glass the length of the column before going below, leaving the conn to Southwick, and unconcernedly counted the ships again. Seven?
Puzzled, he began again at the head of the column and counted carefully. Still only seven. Since the Peacock had joined the convoy that column should have held eight. And anyway he had counted eight as the Triton sailed past to get back into position. It must be the angle ... He counted a third time but there were still only seven.
He called to Southwick, who picked up the other night glass.
"I can make out only seven, sir. That's odd - we passed eight just now because I counted 'em. That's the Topaz just abaft the beam - yes, I can see right across the front of the convoy: the leading ships of all the columns are just open now. Aye, and that's the Topaz there, all right. But why only seven?"
Ramage rubbed the scar over his brow and leaned against the breech of the nearest carronade. This was absurd; there must be a logical explanation.
"We passed eight - you're sure of that?"
"Counted 'em off on my fingers."
"I counted them too, and had a good look at each one as we went by. But now I can see only seven with the glass. So one has vanished."
"But it can't just vanish!" exclaimed Southwick. "Not in a matter of minutes!"
"It can't," Ramage said dryly, "but it has. Check with the lookouts: one of them may have kept a tally."
Muttering to himself, the Master began walking down the larboard side, pausing beside each of the three lookouts.
A ship missing ... it was absurd. The Lark had been out there since long before darkness fell and she would not have missed a laggard. He swung the glass up to windward - yes, the Greyhound was in position. It didn't really matter all that much if a ship was missing - there would be plenty more out of position by dawn - it was just absurd that they'd sailed past eight ships in a column and a few minutes later he could only see seven. In that few minutes no ship afloat could have sailed out of sight...
"Eight, sir," Southwick said. "All three of the lookouts on the larboard side confirm eight, and the starboard for'ard lookout, too. He could see quite well. Apparently he was helping the man on the larboard side."
"Eight - and yet one has vanished like a puff of smoke. Pass the word for my coxswain."
Three minutes later Jackson was standing in front of him.
"Believe in ghosts, Jackson?"
"Not when I'm sober, sir."
Ramage laughed, knowing that Jackson rarely drank.
"Very well then, take the night glass and get up the mast. There should be eight ships in the nearest column-"
"But there are, sir, beggin' your pardon: I counted them as we passed."
"So did I and so did Mr Southwick and the lookouts. Now get up the mast and count again."
"How many d'you expect me to see, sir?" Jackson asked warily.
"You count 'em and report."
Jackson took the glass and ran to the main shrouds; a moment later Ramage saw him jump lightly into the ratlines and disappear upwards into the darkness.
Every bloody thing seems to be disappearing upwards into the darkness, Ramage grumbled to himself and almost giggled as he pictured Admiral Goddard reading: "Sir, I have the honour to report that on the night of July 17th one of the merchantmen in the seventh column of the convoy under your command disappeared upwards into the darkness..." It'd make a change from sinking and disappearing downward, anyway.
"Deck there! Eight ships, but..."
"Belay it!" Ramage interrupted. "Come down and report - unless there's any reason why you've got to stay up there."
"None, sir; coming down."
Ramage muttered to Southwick: "No need for everyone in the ship..."
"Quite, sir. But the scuttlebutt..."
Southwick was right. The day that the ships of a fleet could pass messages to each other as quickly as gossip passed round a vessel, an admiral's task would be easy.
Jackson was standing there and as he went to speak Southwick suddenly snapped at the men at the wheel and the quartermaster near them: "Watch your luff, blast you!"
There wasn't an ear in the ship that wasn't trying to listen to Jackson's report.
"Eight ships, sir; but from on deck it must look like seven."
"Explain, Jackson; explain for people with little intelligence, like Mr Southwick and myself."
Ramage regretted the sarcasm as soon as he'd spoken; Jackson had a difficult report to make.
"Sorry, sir, I was going to. From aloft I can see that the seventh and eighth ships are alongside each other. That's the one that joined us last, the Peacock, and her next ahead."
"How do you know it's the eighth ship?"
"I can make out the seventh ship in each of the next two columns. This column's the only one with an eighth ship. Seems to me she's got out of position and gone aboard her next ahead, sir."
"Are they still under way or dropping back?"
"Under way, sir: the seventh one is in position."
"No lights showing from the seventh ship? No sign of distress?"
"Nothing, sir. Everything looks normal - except they're alongside each other!"
"Very well; get aloft again and give a hail when you sight anything more. Particularly if they drop astern."
Again Jackson disappeared quickly and quietly.
"Mightn't have actually been in collision, sir," Southwick said doubtfully. "Their yards would lock ... At that distance and from this angle ... might just look as though one's aboard the other."
"That's why I sent Jackson up again with the glass," Ramage said pointedly.
"I know, sir." Southwick was reproachful. "I was just trying to understand why two ships running aboard each other don't do something about it. Flash lanterns, fire a gun, light a false fire ... Not reasonable for them to carry on on the same course with sails set, as though nothing had happened."
"Never trust mules..."
"Quite, sir," Southwick said. "And never assume any of the other escorts will spot something."
Southwick was right: the Greyhound or the Lark, both of which were much closer, should have spotted something amiss. Still, both were used to convoy work and wearily resigned to half the convoy dropping astern in the darkness...
"Deck there!"
"Captain here."
"Last ship's dropped back now, sir. Both of 'em in their rightful positions again, and both under reefed topsails."
"Very well, down from aloft."
"Just mules," Southwick said sourly. "The Peacock's mate dozed off, I expect. I'll bet he's getting a brisk rub from her captain."
Ramage paced back and forth along the starboard side of the quarterdeck for ten minutes, trying to decide why such a tiny episode seemed important. Was he getting things out of proportion? He would have asked Southwick if he could only think of a way of phrasing the question.
"I'm going below: you have the night orders."
"Aye aye, sir."
Down in his cabin Ramage bent over his desk, trying to write up his journal by the dim light of the lanthorn. Little of the guttering candle's light penetrated the horn shield, but anything stronger would show through the skylight. He began writing a three-line record of the day's events, occasionally referring to the Master's rough log.