"I think he reckoned the only real risk was the Greyhound. He didn't think we'd spot him against the masts and sails of the rest of the convoy, and even if we did he knew he could board us. Don't forget, he was counting on a hundred men and surprise: if we did go down to investigate, his men could suddenly leap up from behind the bulwarks and swarm on board - as indeed they did."
"But the Greyhound..."
"Say the Greyhound spotted him as soon as he let fall his courses and hauled his wind out of the column, he could claim to have seen a French privateer astern. A ship out of position in a convoy is irritating - but not usually a cause for suspicion ... Once he knew the Greyhound hadn't spotted him, the Harold and Marjorie also left the convoy."
Southwick slapped his knee and said cheerfully: "But the Peacock didn't reckon on us pulling his tail feathers."
"The rest of the Peacock story is as we guessed it. The Greyhound seems to have been keeping station on us, instead of watching the convoy, so she wasn't too far away when we suddenly went down to the Peacock. The firing woke her up and she came down to help."
"What about the Harold and Marjorie?”
"The Raisonnable on the larboard quarter of the convoy saw the firing over this side and immediately cut diagonally across the convoy to get to it. Against the lighter northern sky she saw the Harold and Marjorie turning away southwards and obviously up to no good. The Raisonnable herself was against the dark cloud to the south - you remember how hard it was to see the convoy against it? Anyway, the Harold and Marjorie didn't see her until it was too late to dodge, and didn't realize she was a frigate. She opened fire - and that was all the Raisonnable wanted to know: no need for any more questions. She raked her a couple of times and the Frenchman had had enough."
"What about the renegade Englishman?"
"They can't find him on board the Peacock. He may have committed suicide - he must have known if he was captured he'd hang. But the French mate wanted someone to blame for the fiasco, so he has talked."
"D'you think the Admiral is going to leave us in peace now, sir?"
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows..."
Southwick stood up. "I'd best be getting on deck. This swell is increasing quickly now..."
"I'll come with you. I want to time it. The trip in the gig gave me a chance to measure the height."
"Doesn't look too good," Southwick said gloomily as he led the way out of the cabin. "This high, wispy cloud to the east, and no Trade wind clouds. If it falls calm this afternoon ..."
Ramage took out his watch and looked astern. The wind was light and made little more than wavelets; but beneath them, like large muscles rippling under the skin, were the swell waves. The crests were widely spaced and still fairly low; but they weren't as low as they had been yesterday. Whatever caused them was moving closer. Closer, but not necessarily towards them. It could move still closer without being a threat, just as one might pass a man on a road without bumping into him.
He looked down over the taffrail and the sun scorched through his clothes. The rudder post creaked gently as the man at the wheel kept the brig on course; the water was dark-blue and as he stared down at it, he had a feeling that it was bottomless: that it went down and down for scores of thousands of fathoms. Within a minute or two he had the rhythm of the swell waves, and he started to time the interval between each of a series of crests.
He shut the lid of the case and slipped the watch back into his pocket.
Southwick caught his eye and said quietly: "For what we are about to receive?"
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Keep your money in your pocket until you see if the wind drops later."
He went over to the binnacle box and picked up the biggest telescope, adjusted the eyepiece to a particular scratchmark that showed the correct focus for his eyes, and looked around the horizon.
Over on the starboard side, to the eastward, what were low dark smudges to the naked eye showed as high land with a few clouds. Guadeloupe and, on the quarter, Dominica. The small northern islands were still out of sight over the starboard bow -indication enough of the convoy's slow progress.
Light winds certainly made a convoy commander's task easier in one respect since it gave the masters of the merchantmen less reason for reducing sail; and there was nothing like an unexpected night attack for improving station-keeping! Southwick had already commented on the fact that by dawn several merchantmen had shaken out reefs during the night, a sure sign that the fireworks had bothered them. It's an ill wind, Ramage thought to himself.
He went down to his cabin again, found he'd forgotten to collect the master's log and sent his steward for it. Irritating how much paperwork was needed to keep a ship afloat, but at least the log served an obviously useful purpose. Every two months a parcel of documents had to be prepared for dispatch to the Admiralty and the Navy Board, and in every third parcel, among many other lists and reports, were the captain's journal and the master's log.
They were usually almost identical, which was hardly surprising since they were both based on the same source: the large slate kept in the binnacle box, and which was used to record wind direction, courses steered and speed and distances made good, either every hour or when any of them changed. An hourly diary of the ship's life, in fact.
Southwick took the slate down to his cabin every day, copied the details into his log and added other items of information concerning the ship and her crew, wiped the slate clean, and returned it to the binnacle box, where the quartermaster could reach it easily. Every day Ramage, like every other captain of a King's ship, took the Master's log as the basis for his journal entry, adding any other information likely to be needed for reference or required by regulations.
Since anything of major importance was the subject of a separate report, the entries tended to be brief. Ramage opened the drawer, took out his journal, glanced through Southwick's log, and then began writing, bringing the journal up to date from the last entry the previous afternoon.
"PM 3 wind SE by E, light, swell from E, ship's company employed a.t.s.r., convoy making 4 knots..." He hated abbreviations, but the phrase "as the service required" was used so often there was no choice. "Opened cask of salt beef, marked 54 pieces, contained 51," a common indication of the dishonesty of contractors. Then he settled down to the previous evening's events.
"7.45 sighted number 78 (Peacock) leave her position, subsequently opened fire on her to prevent attack on 71 (Topaz), 10.20 resumed original position, wind ESE, light..."
He read it over again. It was as brief as he dare make it, but there was almost bound to be a court-martial, and as far as he could see it would be a matter of luck who would be accused. If Goddard had his way, it would be Lieutenant Ramage: if Sir Pilcher Skinner was intelligent and impartial, it would be Rear-Admiral Goddard.
Ramage was beginning to realize that the Topaz carried one of the most powerful of the French families in exile. A wise commander-in-chief would sacrifice a rear-admiral to placate such influential people, but from all accounts Sir Pilcher was not intelligent; he would probably agree with Goddard that a lieutenant was a more suitable sacrifice.
Ramage shut the journal, screwed the cap on the ink bottle and wiped the nib of his pen. If there was a court-martial, his journal would be needed as evidence. All the previous entries were taciturn or lazily brief, depending on one's point of view. The words he had just written gave nothing away, but did not reveal too obviously that they'd been written with the possibility of a court-martial in mind.