"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.
He had relieved Southwick, stood an uneventful night watch and slept again before he was woken with hot coffee before dawn next morning. As the steward began methodically setting out washing and shaving gear round the washbasin, Ramage discovered that by some magic process he had reached a decision while he slept. He would report the Peacock episode to the Admiral in writing, and risk being sneered at as an alarmist. It was just a tiny episode and probably either or both captains had a perfectly satisfactory explanation. But the Triton could not go back and find out without orders from the Admiral, and no such orders could be given until the Admiral received a report.
As soon as he'd drunk his coffee, washed and shaved and dressed, Ramage picked up his hat and telescope and went up on deck for the dawn ritual of general quarters. In time of war every one of the King's ships at sea met the new day with her men at the guns ready for action. No one knew what daylight would bring - a clear horizon, or an enemy ship, or even a squadron - lurking a mile or so to windward. Even as he reached the top of the companionway the bosun's mates were running through the ship, calling men to quarters.
Southwick was on watch, having just relieved Appleby, the young master's mate, and greeted Ramage cheerfully. For Southwick every dawn had the attraction of a bottle of rum for an alcoholic. Ramage almost shuddered; he needed at least an hour after quitting his cot before he felt cheerful.
"No more nonsense over there," Southwick said, gesturing towards the tail of the convoy. "Have you decided whether... ?"
"Yes," Ramage said shortly, "I shall."
"I'm glad, sir, but it's going to be hard to put in writing what's really just a - a sort of feeling, like a twinge in your back when you know it's going to rain."
Men were gliding to the guns. Thanks to many hours of training and constant exercises there was no shouting and no fuss; .a landsman would have no idea that the movement of those shadowy figures now meant the Triton could open fire within a few seconds.
It was chilly on deck now but within an hour or two of the sun rising the wooden planks would be uncomfortably hot to stand on and the air warm to breathe. Now there was a delicious chill and more than a hint of dampness which brought out the smell of things, whether stinking or mildewy clothes, the sickly-sweet of the bilges or the clean tang of fresh, hot coffee.
As the black of night turned to grey, Ramage could distinguish the binnacle box, quite apart from the faint light inside illuminating the compass. In a few minutes, he'd be able to identify the two men at the wheel and the quartermaster standing near them. He could see the outline of the capstan just forward of the companionway and the gilding on the top of it would be noticeable soon. The mainmast seemed curiously big in the half light.