Ramage felt it verged on melodrama to be so gloomy when the sun was bright and the sea such a sparkling blue, the wind steady and the sky clear. Yet the very clearness of the sky could indicate a change, since the clouds should have started forming by now.
As if reading his thoughts, Southwick said, "Swell's more noticeable now we're out of the lee of the island."
Ramage nodded. "I've noted it in the.log. About three feet high."
"Probably nothing to worry about. Not for a few days, anyway."
Ramage was fascinated by the swell waves. The short seas knocked up by the wind were streaming in from the eastward, and would disappear as the breeze died in the evening. The swell waves were much lower and less frequent and were coming in from the south-east so that their crests moved diagonally under the others, making a herringbone pattern.
Ramage could not resist the temptation to ask Southwick: "There's no rigging that should be changed, is there?"
"No, sir; everything at all doubtful was replaced the minute I clapped eyes on the first of the swell in Carlisle Bay. While you were on board the Topaz" he added, and Ramage knew the old man intended only to indicate the precise time, not make an oblique criticism of his captain's absence from the ship.
The sun was behind a small cloud but still above the western horizon, deep red, its rays already a peacock's tail of alternate stripes of orange, yellow and blue. In an hour it would be dark and the wind was becoming fitful as the clouds began dissolving.
Already the convoy was beginning to straggle. The seven leading ships were in position, and so were the next one or two in each column; but after that no telescope was needed to see men out on the yards of many ships, reefing topsails and furling topgallants.
"Look at the mules!" Southwick fumed. "They'd be slow enough if they were setting stun'sails; but they're actually furling their t'gallants..."
Ramage shrugged his shoulders, and imagined daybreak next morning when he would stand at the main shrouds and stare at the convoy with a telescope, counting the number of ships as soon as it was light enough to discern them, and then search the horizon astern for the missing ones.
Suddenly Jackson called: "Captain, sir, the flagship's signalling: our pendant, To pass within hail."
"Very well, acknowledge."
The response was mechanical, Ramage realized, but his reaction was not, and he glanced across at Southwick and told him to carry on. As the Master began bellowing the orders which sent the men running to the braces to haul round the yards and to the sheets to trim the sails as the Triton's wheel was put over, and the brig turned on to a course which would take her diagonally across the corner of the convoy, Ramage tried to guess the orders waiting for him on board the Lion.
Routine, or something to catch him out? Since they'd be shouted to him as the Triton came close alongside, there'd probably be only a few seconds for him to react: a few seconds in which to haul in what had been shouted and give the requisite orders to Southwick. But, Ramage told himself, there's one sure way of making a mess of it, and that's to start fretting ...
It was curious that the Admiral had left him alone since the convoy sailed. Perhaps he was going to send him beating all the way back to Barbados on some footling errand, with orders to rejoin the convoy by noon tomorrow. A small and unimportant task to make sure Ramage had no sleep.
Glancing at the flagship way over on the larboard bow as he went down to his cabin to rinse his face - the scorching, bright sun of the afternoon had left him sticky and slightly dazed - he knew he must beware of getting obsessed with the idea that Goddard was persecuting him. He was, but it didn't do any good to think about it; on the contrary...
He clattered down the companionway, acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute and went into his cabin, ducking his head under the low beams. It was dark down here, and everywhere he saw red orbs - the result of staring at the sun as he paused for a moment before coming below. He squeezed his eyes shut a few times and the orbs vanished. He took the deep metal jug from the rack, pulled out the wooden bung and poured water into the equally battered metal handbasin. One thing about the Caribbean, the torrential rain so frequent in late-afternoon thunderstorms, often without a lot of wind, meant that they could catch rainwater and not worry about spray making it brackish.
As Southwick brought the Triton round to larboard Ramage felt her motion change; the combined roll and pitch on her original course, with the wind on the quarter, changed to sluggish pitching as she ran almost dead before the wind to pass across the corner of the convoy. He reached for a towel, wiped his face briskly, crammed on his hat again and ducked out of the cabin.
He paused at the top of the companionway and looked astern: the swell waves were longer than he'd thought as they ran up under the wind waves. He counted to himself and saw that the interval between the crests was still the same. It must be an optical illusion; just a trick of the light that made them look longer and larger. Probably because the sun dropping had lengthened the shadows. And he was getting jumpy, too...
In a few minutes the Triton would be passing across the Topaz's, bow. Would Maxine be on deck? He walked aft to join Southwick, and took his telescope from the rack by the binnacle box.
The Topaz was a smart ship and Yorke a lucky man to own five more like her. Lucky and obviously shrewd, and one of the few men he knew that deserved the legacy he'd received from his grandfather. A group of people ... he put the telescope to his eye. Yes - there was Maxine, looking through a telescope held by Yorke. Her mother and father were laughing and St Cast was struggling with another telescope. Ramage waved and she waved back - and from Yorke's gesture and her wriggling he guessed she had accidentally moved the telescope and they could not train it back on the Triton's quarterdeck.
The brig was moving fast now as she headed for a point just ahead of the Lion: a point chosen by Southwick as being the place where the two ships, travelling on different courses and at different speeds, would converge after covering the minimum distance. In a few minutes Ramage could distinguish the Lion's rigging as made up of individual ropes, so she was a mile away. He took the convoy plan from his pocket, unfolded the page and glanced through the names to refresh his memory. Looking up again, he could recognize men on the Lion's decks - a third of a mile to go. Now he could pick out the gilding on her name carved across her transom. And the inside of the transom, behind the stern-lights which now reflected the evening light like dulled mirrors, the cabin in which the convoy conference had been held, and where Goddard and Croucher had clumsily revealed that they were watching - and waiting.
The Lion was pitching too, in response to this low swell; pitching more than Ramage expected. It was emphasized by her slow speed - she was already down to double-reefed topsails so that she did not outsail the convoy.
Ramage knew - for he was clasping and unclasping his hands like a nervous curate - that it was as much as he could do to leave the conn with Southwick. The old Master was more than competent to take the Triton close alongside the flagship; it was simply jumpiness on Ramage's part; as though everything would go wrong if he was not doing something active. Then he remembered a comment of his father's - true leadership is being able to sit at the back, watch everything, give the minimum of orders and yet remain in complete control.
"To windward, sir?"
Officially, Southwick was asking his captain a question. In fact he was making a statement. And as he spoke, Southwick knew the answer was equally predictable.